Those cards might help establish his handwriting, but she refused to send originals to anyone without a signed receipt.
Arthur agreed.
Mason studied the beneficiary list again.
One entry was marked deceased two years before Elliot actually died.
Another belonged to a woman who still worked at a nearby bakery.
Several addresses had been changed to the same post office box.
“Does the name Northport mean anything?” Mason asked.
Miriam hesitated.
“The current owner of The Mariner’s lease pays an administrative fee to Northport every month.”
“Victor’s manager?”
“Victor may not even know why,” she said.
Arthur turned to Denise.
“Your husband believed someone was diverting payments meant for people who helped create the original cooperative.”
“Elliot believed a lot of things,” Denise said.
“The question is whether we can prove this one.”
Miriam separated the documents into sleeves.
“If a court agrees the schedule was altered, there may be claims from dozens of families.”
“Claims for money?”
“Money, documents, and an accurate account of who signed what.”
Mason saw a different possibility.
If his father had been telling the truth, the name Clark had been marked by a lie for almost two decades.
He was willing to lose a job to feed one hungry man.
He did not know if he was willing to lose whatever remained of his quiet life to chase the truth about a building.
Chapter 8: The Woman at the Bakery
The next afternoon, Mason visited a bakery three streets from The Mariner.
A handwritten sign offered day-old rolls at half price, and a woman behind the counter was arguing with a delivery driver over missing flour.
She introduced herself as Pearl Mendoza and recognized Elliot’s name immediately.
“Your father fixed my father’s furnace in the middle of a blizzard,” she said.
“He refused to take money until Dad was back on his feet.”
Mason showed her the beneficiary page with her name beside an unfamiliar mailing address.
Pearl’s smile vanished.
“I never lived there.”
“Did anybody tell you the cooperative sold the warehouse?”
“They told us there was a vote.”
“My father was already in the hospital when that meeting supposedly happened.”
She took her glasses from a cord around her neck and read the page again.
“That’s my father’s signature, but he’s dated it a day after he was discharged to hospice.”
Mason felt a cold pressure beneath his ribs.
“Would you tell Miriam?”
“I’ll tell anyone who will listen,” Pearl said.
She stopped speaking when a delivery truck backed toward the curb.
