Chapter 7 - THE EVICTION CLOCK & THE AUDIT
The forty-eight hours following Vanessa’s departure smelled of Pine-Sol and ammonia.
Margaret did not rest. At sixty-seven, her joints ached with the kind of deep, thrumming pain that usually warned of snow, but she moved through the north wing of the second floor with a white vinegar bucket and a stiff-bristled brush.
She stripped the guest bed where Vanessa had slept. She threw the sheets into the laundry chute, washed the mattress with eucalyptus water, and opened both windows to let the sharp, freezing wind blow through the room until the curtains billowed like flags.
Downstairs, Robert Vance sat at the kitchen table, which had become a temporary command post. With him was an auditor from the Ohio Department of Commerce, a thin man named Hendershot who wore a bow tie and had thirty years of Franklin County bank records memorized.
"It’s worse than Hayes let on," Hendershot said, tapping the screen of a heavy laptop that hummed like a refrigerator. "Vanessa had three different entities registered through a statutory agent in Cleveland. *Sullivan Holdings*, *Elmwood Asset Management*, and *Buckeye Land Trust Four*. She wasn't just trying to get three hundred thousand out of Marcus Hayes; she had already taken twenty-five thousand from an online private credit outfit in Utah."
Margaret came into the room carrying a pot of fresh coffee. Her hands were red from the bleach water, her sleeves rolled to the elbows.
"The Utah people?" she asked.
"They filed an automated UCC lien against the personal property in the house," Robert Vance said, shaking his head. "They think they own your dining room table, Maggie. They think they have a security interest in Arthur’s tool chest."
Margaret set the coffee down. "The dining room table was built by my great-uncle in 1912 out of walnut he felled in Coshocton County. There is no computer in Utah that owns that wood."
"Under the emergency order, we’ve stayed all executions," Vance said, his voice reassuring. "Hendershot is preparing the forensic report for the prosecutor. The notary, Proxmire, has already signed a cooperation agreement. She turned over three months of text messages. Vanessa promised her five percent of the Dublin equity flip if she stamped the deed without Margaret present."
Daniel was sitting in the corner, on his low stool. He was scraping the dried mud off his work boots with an old putty knife.
"What about the developer?" Daniel asked, his voice low. "The guy in New Albany?"
"The developer is running scared," Hendershot said, not looking up from his screen. "He received a target letter from the Attorney General’s Consumer Protection Section at noon. When an entity accepts seventy thousand dollars derived from forged real estate instruments, the state calls that receipt of stolen property. He’s already agreed to return fifty-five thousand into an escrow account held by the clerk of courts, provided he’s excluded from the criminal complaint."
"And the other fifteen?" Margaret asked.
"Spent on legal fees and architectural retainers," Vance said. "That’s gone, Maggie. You won't see that fifteen thousand again."
Margaret looked down at the maple wood of her table. There were three small scratches near the salt cellar, where Vanessa had slammed down her brushed-steel pen.
"Fifteen thousand dollars," Margaret said, "is a cheap price to pay for the return of my front door."
Daniel looked up. His face was gray, his hair unwashed, but for the first time in six months, his shoulders were not hunched up to his ears.
"Mom," he said. "I can get a job at the distribution center. Out by Rickenbacker. They’re hiring night-shift forklift operators. It’s twenty-two an hour. I can pay Robert back for the filing fees."
Margaret looked at him. The boy had blisters on his thumbs from the putty knife.
"The forklift job is twenty-two an hour," she said, "because it ruins your back by the time you're forty-five. Arthur’s cousin runs the machine shop at Buckeye Steel. They need someone who understands technical drawings and doesn't show up with a hangover. You’ll go down there on Monday morning at seven o'clock. You’ll wear Arthur’s old boots, and you’ll tell him you’re Margaret Sullivan’s son."
Daniel’s chin trembled. He looked down at the pile of dried mud between his feet. "Yes, ma'am."
"And Daniel?"
"Yes, Mom?"
"You will not call her."
Daniel reached into his pocket. He pulled out the iPhone—the expensive, black slate that Vanessa had insisted he carry so she could track his location through a shared application. He laid it on the butcher block.
"The account is in her name," Daniel said. "The service gets cut off on Friday anyway."
Margaret picked up the phone. She walked to the back door, opened it, and tossed the device into the forty-gallon galvanized steel trash can that sat beneath the downspout. The metal lid clattered as it fell back into place.
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"The wind is coming around from the north," she said, looking out at the bare branches of the maples. "We need to clear the leaves from the south gutter before the freeze tonight, Daniel. Go get the ladder."
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