Chapter 6 - THE BRACELET ON HER WRIST
“Pamela submitted the forged document?”
Caroline's voice came through the speaker.
“The recording history identifies her as the submitting party. That doesn't establish who created it, but it places her directly in the transaction.”
I stood beside the orchard fence, clutching my mother's yellow baby coat.
For years, Pamela had portrayed herself as the woman who rescued our family.
She said Dad was a grieving widower when they met.
She said she helped him rebuild his life.
Now I was discovering that she'd been involved in my mother's financial affairs before Mom died.
And that she had handled a document supposedly signed by a dead woman.
“Can I confront her?”
“I'd advise against doing it alone,” Caroline said. “But there's an estate inventory meeting tomorrow. Gregory and Pamela will be there.”
“Grandma's estate?”
“Yes. The family is reviewing her remaining household belongings. You have a right to attend.”
Dad had conveniently forgotten to mention that.
I looked down at the locket in my hand.
“Then I'll be there.”
The following afternoon, I entered Grandma's living room carrying a folder of copied documents.
Dad sat in her favorite armchair.
Pamela occupied the sofa.
Dustin lounged near the fireplace, scrolling through his phone.
Two uncles and three cousins sat around the dining table.
Nobody greeted me.
Dad looked up.
“Well. The bank account expert has arrived.”
I ignored him.
Pamela adjusted her sunglasses on top of her head.
“Samantha, this isn't the time for another scene.”
I looked at her wrist.
The silver bracelet.
Three blue stones.
My mother's wedding gift.
“I came for Grandma's belongings,” I said.
Dad smirked.
“She didn't have much. Unless you want her old sewing machine.”
“I do.”
He looked surprised.
“And her recipe box. And her photographs.”
Pamela sighed.
“We're trying to be reasonable.”
“Then let's be reasonable.”
I sat down.
Caroline had advised me not to reveal the entire investigation.
But I was finished allowing Dad to speak to me as though I were a foolish child.
“Before anything is distributed, I'd like an inventory.”
Dustin laughed.
“Of what? Used towels?”
I looked straight at him.
“Would you like someone to inventory your belongings while you're still grieving the person who raised you?”
His smile disappeared.
One of my uncles cleared his throat.
“She's right, Gregory. We can do this properly.”
Dad's jaw tightened.
For the next forty minutes, we went through Grandma's possessions.
Her sewing machine.
Her china.
Her collection of old cookbooks.
The little wooden cross that hung above her kitchen doorway.
When we reached the jewelry box, Pamela reached for a pearl necklace.
“Beatrice always said I had a graceful neck.”
I almost laughed.
Grandma had once told me Pamela could make a compliment sound like a demand.
“That necklace belonged to Grandma's sister,” I said. “Aunt Helen should decide where it goes.”
Pamela slowly put it down.
Then Dad picked up a small photograph of my mother.
He frowned.
“Why is this still here?”
He moved toward the trash bag.
“Don't.”
My voice came out louder than I intended.
Dad stopped.
“Excuse me?”
“Put it down.”
“She's been gone for twenty-seven years.”
“She's still my mother.”
Silence settled across the room.
For a moment, something uncertain passed over Dad's face.
Then Pamela stood.
“Gregory, please. Just give Samantha the picture.”
He tossed it onto the table.
“There. Happy?”
I picked it up carefully.
It showed Mom standing beside Grandma, both laughing.
I realized I had never seen my father preserve a photograph of her.
Only Grandma had.
I turned toward Pamela.
“Where did you get that bracelet?”
She stiffened.
“What?”
“The silver one. With the blue stones.”
She glanced down.
“Gregory gave it to me years ago.”
“Was it Eleanor's?”
Dad stood abruptly.
“That's enough.”
Pamela's face went pale.
My cousins exchanged confused looks.
I didn't raise my voice.
“I found a picture of my mother wearing it.”
Pamela twisted the bracelet.
“Vintage jewelry often looks similar.”
“Then would you mind showing me the engraving?”
Her hand covered the clasp.
Dad stepped between us.
“This interrogation is over.”
One of my uncles spoke.
“Gregory, if it belonged to Eleanor, Samantha should have it.”
Dad turned angrily.
“Stay out of this.”
Pamela suddenly unclasped the bracelet.
She placed it on the table.
“Take it.”
I stared.
Her eyes were wet.
“I didn't know whose it was when Gregory gave it to me.”
Dad looked at her sharply.
“Pamela.”
She ignored him.
“I knew Eleanor owned a bracelet like it. I didn't know this was the same one until years later.”
My hands trembled as I picked it up.
Inside the clasp, tiny letters were engraved.
E.G.W. — WITH LOVE, MOM.
My mother's initials.
A gift from her mother.
I looked up.
“Why didn't you give it back?”
Pamela's lips parted.
For once, she didn't have a ready insult.
“Because by the time I knew, I'd already worn it for years.”
The honesty startled me.
Then she added quietly, “And Gregory told me you wouldn't appreciate it.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Dad looked furious.
“Pamela, we're leaving.”
But she didn't move.
Instead, she stared at the photograph in my hand.
“You look more like Eleanor every year.”
I swallowed.
“You knew her.”
“Yes.”
“Were you her friend?”
Pamela's face changed.
“No.”
At least she didn't lie.
“I worked for her company. She trusted me with financial records.”
“And you betrayed her.”
Pamela looked toward Dad.
He said nothing.
“I made decisions I regret,” she whispered.
Dad grabbed his coat.
“We're done here.”
Pamela rose.
But before she reached the doorway, I spoke again.
“Did you submit a property transfer dated November 18, 1999?”
She froze.
Dad turned around.
His expression was unlike anything I'd ever seen.
Pure alarm.
“Where did you get that date?”
I held his gaze.
“From a document supposedly signed by my mother six days after she died.”
My uncle stood.
“What?”
Dustin lowered his phone.
Dad's face drained.
Pamela looked as though she might be sick.
“I didn't know that was the date on the final version,” she said.
Nobody moved.
Then Dad snapped, “Stop talking.”
Pamela stared at him.
And for the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes.
Not fear of being exposed.
Fear of the man she'd married.
She walked out without another word.
Dad followed.
But Dustin remained behind.
I expected him to insult me again.
Instead, he looked at the photograph of my mother.
Then at the bracelet in my hand.
“Sam,” he said quietly, “can I ask you something?”
I nodded.
“Is it true the farmhouse was your mother's?”
“Yes.”
He stared at the floor.
“Dad told me Pamela owned it.”
“He told me the same thing.”
Dustin swallowed.
“He's been pushing me to sign papers for Northbridge. He said it was a tax arrangement.”
My heart began racing.
“Did you sign them?”
“Some.”
“What kind of papers?”
He rubbed his face.
“I don't know. I trusted him.”
Then he reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a folded sales agreement.
“Dad wanted me to sign the final page tonight.”
I took it.
The buyer was Northbridge Property Holdings.
The seller was Pamela Vance.
But attached to the agreement was a separate authorization.
It contained my name.
My address.
And a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
Dustin watched my face.
“That's your signature, right?”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“Then who's been signing your name?”
I looked toward the driveway where Dad's car had disappeared.
Before I could answer, Dustin pointed to a line near the bottom.
“Sam, look at the date.”
The authorization wasn't signed last week.
May you like
It was dated the day Grandma Beatrice died.
And listed the signing location as her hospital room.
