The Notary
Chapter 04 - The Notary
Marilyn Voss lived in a beige ranch house behind the high school football field.
Wind chimes hung from the porch roof, though there was no wind. A plastic pumpkin remained beside the front door weeks after Halloween.
Grace parked at the curb.
“We’re asking, not accusing,” she said.
Hannah looked at the folder in her lap.
“What if she lies?”
“Then we let her lie in detail.”
The front door opened before they reached the porch.
Marilyn was short, silver-haired, and dressed in a quilted vest over a turtleneck. Her eyes went first to Grace’s briefcase, then to Hannah.
“I told you on the phone, I don’t discuss clients.”
Grace offered a business card.
“You’re free to decline an informal conversation.”
Marilyn did not take the card.
“Then I decline.”
“We’ll request your journal through formal process.”
The words stopped her.
Marilyn looked past them toward the street.
“My neighbors don’t need to see lawyers standing here.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” Hannah said.
Marilyn’s attention snapped back.
“I’m Margaret’s daughter.”
“I know who you are.”
“Then you know she was unconscious on October fourteenth.”
Marilyn’s lips parted.
Grace said nothing.
After several seconds, Marilyn opened the door wider.
“Five minutes.”
---
The living room smelled of cinnamon spray and old upholstery.
Marilyn sat in a recliner with a floral blanket folded over one arm. Grace and Hannah took the couch beneath a framed print of sailboats.
A notary seal sat on the coffee table beside a crossword puzzle.
Hannah noticed it had been placed there recently. The dust beneath it was cleaner than the surrounding wood.
Grace opened her folder.
“We need to discuss a power of attorney dated October fourteenth.”
Marilyn folded her arms.
“I notarize many documents.”
“This one was for Margaret Ellison.”
“I remember Margaret.”
“Do you remember notarizing this?”
Grace laid down the copy.
Marilyn looked at it without touching.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At her home.”
Hannah’s pulse changed.
“Mom wasn’t at home.”
Marilyn blinked.
“Then the hospital.”
Grace leaned forward slightly.
“Which hospital?”
“St. Joseph’s.”
Margaret had died at County Memorial.
Hannah touched the locketless hollow at the base of her throat, though she wore no necklace.
Grace’s voice stayed even.
“Margaret was never admitted to St. Joseph’s.”
Marilyn reached for the document.
“I may be mixing it up with another signing.”
“Take your time.”
The room’s wall clock clicked too loudly.
Marilyn studied the copy.
“County Memorial. Yes.”
“What room?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Who was present?”
“Margaret. Vanessa. Maybe a nurse.”
“What did Margaret say to you?”
Marilyn looked at Hannah.
“Your mother understood what she was signing.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Marilyn’s cheeks reddened.
“She said she wanted Vanessa to handle things.”
“Exact words?” Grace asked.
“I can’t remember exact words from every client.”
“Did Margaret sign in front of you?”
“Yes.”
“Which hand did she use?”
Marilyn looked down.
“Her right.”
Margaret’s right side had been paralyzed after the stroke.
Hannah felt the lie settle into place.
Not loud.
Not clever.
Just wrong.
Grace turned one page in her notes.
“Did you ask for identification?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Driver’s license.”
“Who handed it to you?”
“Margaret.”
Hannah spoke before Grace could.
“Her license was in my wallet.”
Marilyn stared.
“I kept it because admissions needed it when she arrived,” Hannah said. “I still have it.”
“Then Vanessa may have had another form.”
“You just said it was her license.”
“I said identification.”
“You said driver’s license.”
Marilyn stood.
“This is exactly why I don’t discuss old clients. People twist words.”
Grace remained seated.
“No one is twisting anything.”
“You came here to accuse me.”
“We came because a notarized document claims an unconscious woman signed away control of three businesses.”
Marilyn moved toward the window.
Children shouted on the football field beyond the backyard fence.
Practice whistles carried through the glass.
“I knew Margaret for twenty years.”
“Then help us protect what she built,” Hannah said.
Marilyn turned.
“You think Vanessa is some stranger. She was Margaret’s stepdaughter.”
“My half-sister.”
“Margaret worried about her.”
“She told you that?”
Marilyn did not answer.
“When?” Hannah asked.
“Years ago.”
“Or Vanessa told you she did?”
Marilyn pressed both palms against her vest.
“She said Margaret wanted to make things right.”
Grace removed a certified summary from her file.
“This confirms Margaret had no meaningful consciousness after October eleventh.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You’re a notary.”
“I verify identity, not medical capacity.”
“You also verify personal appearance.”
Marilyn’s eyes moved to the document.
Grace placed another paper beside it.
“This is a preservation notice. Do not alter or destroy your journal, seal records, messages, invoices, or appointment calendar related to Vanessa Cole or Margaret Ellison.”
Marilyn’s face changed.
The defensive polish thinned.
“I don’t keep messages forever.”
“Preserve what exists.”
“What happens if I can’t find the journal?”
“The court will ask why.”
Marilyn sat again.
Her hands shook once before she tucked them beneath the blanket.
Hannah saw it.
In hospice, people often hid tremors by gripping fabric.
“Did Vanessa pay you?” she asked.
Marilyn looked toward Grace.
“You can answer or decline,” Grace said.
“No.”
“Did Margaret pay you?”
“No.”
“Then who requested the service?”
Marilyn swallowed.
“Vanessa.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Before October fourteenth?”
“Yes.”
“How far before?”
“Maybe a week.”
Margaret had already suffered two smaller strokes by then.
Hannah pictured Vanessa in the shop office, asking where business papers were kept while pretending to sort sympathy cards.
“What did she tell you?” Hannah asked.
“That Margaret wanted the document prepared.”
“Did you speak to Margaret?”
Marilyn’s eyes filled, but no tears fell.
“She was ill.”
“That is not an answer.”
“She was tired.”
“Did you speak to her?”
Marilyn rubbed her thumb across the seam of the blanket.
“Vanessa said she had.”
Grace removed her glasses and set them beside the document.
The gesture made Marilyn flinch.
“Mrs. Voss, did Margaret Ellison personally appear before you on October fourteenth?”
Marilyn’s breathing became shallow.
“I was helping.”
“Whom?”
“A family.”
“Which person?”
“Vanessa was trying to keep the shops operating. Margaret had always been proud of them.”
“Margaret was dead before nine that morning,” Hannah said. “Vanessa did not arrive until after that.”
Marilyn closed her eyes.
A football whistle sounded beyond the curtains.
“When did you stamp it?” Grace asked.
Marilyn opened her eyes.
“That afternoon.”
“Where?”
“My kitchen.”
“Was Margaret present?”
“No.”
The answer came out like something dropped.
Hannah stared at her.
“Was the signature already on the page?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see who wrote it?”
“No.”
“Did Vanessa bring it?”
“Yes.”
Grace’s voice remained quiet.
“What did she say?”
“She said Margaret signed before losing consciousness. She said the date needed to match the day the authority took effect.”
“Did you understand that was not how notarization works?”
Marilyn looked away.
“She said there wasn’t time for probate. She said employees would lose jobs.”
“And you believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
Hannah pressed her teeth together.
She noticed Marilyn’s crossword pencil on the coffee table. The eraser had been rubbed flat.
“You put your seal on it without my mother there.”
Marilyn nodded once.
“You did not ask for her identification.”
“No.”
“You did not see her sign.”
“No.”
“You did not speak to her.”
“No.”
Hannah stood.
For the first time since the cemetery, her legs felt completely steady.
Marilyn looked up at her.
“I didn’t know she was already gone.”
“You knew she wasn’t in front of you.”
“I thought Vanessa was telling the truth.”
“You chose not to check.”
Marilyn covered her mouth.
Grace placed the preservation notice beside the seal.
“We will need a formal statement.”
“I could lose my commission.”
“Yes.”
“I could be charged.”
“That depends on the evidence and your cooperation.”
Marilyn’s shoulders dropped.
“I have grandchildren.”
Hannah looked at the family photographs on the mantel.
Two boys in baseball uniforms.
A girl holding a certificate.
Margaret had photographs too.
Customers, employees, Hannah behind the counter at eight, Vanessa at seventeen wearing a shop apron and pretending to hate it.
People were rarely only the worst thing they had done.
That did not undo what they had done.
“Write the truth,” Hannah said.
Marilyn lowered her hands.
“I’ll need a lawyer.”
“You should get one,” Grace said.
At the door, Marilyn called Hannah’s name.
Hannah turned.
“I am sorry about your mother.”
The words were careful.
Almost sincere.
Hannah touched the petals of the lilies printed on Marilyn’s throw pillow.
Synthetic. Smooth. Nothing alive in them.
“You weren’t there for her death,” Hannah said. “You were there for Vanessa’s document.”
Outside, Grace waited until they reached the car.
“You did well.”
“I wanted to ask her how much.”
“She says she wasn’t paid.”
“Do you believe her?”
“No.”
Hannah looked back at the beige house.
The notary seal still sat on the table near the window.
A small metal tool.
Enough to give a lie the appearance of law.
“She never saw Mom,” Hannah said.
“No.”
“She never even asked.”
“No.”
Hannah opened the passenger door.
Rainwater from the morning still darkened the floor mat.
The wrong date had led them to the wrong witness.
Now the witness had admitted the document was never witnessed at all.
May you like
Hannah looked toward the house one last time.
“You never actually saw my mother sign this,” she said under her breath. “You just took Vanessa’s word for it.”
