Chapter 2 - THE LOAN MY SON SAID DIDN’T EXIST
Nathan closed the note before Allison could read it.
Too late.
Graham had seen his face.
“What’s wrong?” Allison asked.
“Nothing.”
Owen frowned.
“It’s from Grandpa.”
“I know.”
“What does it say?”
“Nathan,” Graham said.
Not loudly.
That was worse.
Nathan looked at his boss.
Graham set down his knife.
“Study.”
One word.
Allison stared between them.
“What study?”
Nathan stood.
“Excuse us.”
Graham did not move.
“Nathan.”
“Now.”
The developer at the table shifted uncomfortably.
His wife studied her plate.
Graham finally rose.
They entered Nathan’s home office.
Nathan shut the door.
“What the hell did you do?”
Graham’s expression barely changed.
“That is an interesting way to open this conversation.”
“My father knows about the title work.”
“Title work is not confidential from the owner.”
“He wasn’t supposed to receive notice yet.”
Graham stared at him.
“Read that sentence back to yourself.”
Nathan paced.
“We were still evaluating.”
“You requested the evaluation.”
“Because you told me to.”
“I told you Prairie Crest required collateral analysis.”
“You told me Cedar Hollow could support it.”
“If authorized.”
Nathan stopped.
“You know what we submitted.”
Graham’s voice cooled.
“I know what you represented.”
Nathan stared.
There was the shift.
Small.
Dangerous.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“Reminding you that this project came through your family relationship.”
“You drafted the structure.”
“Our counsel drafted a structure based on information you provided.”
Nathan laughed.
“Of course.”
Graham stepped closer.
“Lower your voice.”
“You are in my house.”
“And your father is walking around Bellevue in the rain because you fed him deli turkey beside your laundry room.”
Nathan flinched.
“Don’t.”
“You wanted him out of that dining room.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
The admission came cleanly.
Nathan stared.
Graham continued:
“Because three people at that table have been told Walter Hayes has substantially retired from operational decision-making.”
“He has.”
“He took two trains to surprise you.”
“He takes medication.”
“So do I.”
“You know what I mean.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
“That is the problem.”
Outside the office, Allison stood frozen.
She had heard enough.
“What is Prairie Crest?”
Nathan opened the door.
“Not now.”
She pushed past him.
“What is it?”
Graham looked at Nathan.
Not helping.
Nathan said:
“A commercial agricultural facility.”
“That means nothing.”
“A financing vehicle.”
“For what?”
Nathan rubbed his face.
“Expansion.”
“Whose?”
Graham answered.
“Cedar Hollow Agriventures.”
Allison stared.
“Cedar Hollow is Walter’s orchard.”
Nathan said:
“Partly.”
She looked at him.
“What does partly mean?”
Nathan did not answer.
Across town, Walter sat beneath fluorescent lights at a bus terminal coffee counter.
His coat dripped onto the floor.
He ordered soup.
Hot this time.
Tomato.
He dipped crackers into it and called Miriam Chen.
Miriam had handled his and Elaine’s estate planning for twenty-two years.
She answered from home.
“Walter?”
“Sorry.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m in Seattle.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Walter smiled.
“I knew Elaine liked you.”
“What happened?”
Walter told her.
Not the cold dinner.
Not at first.
The title search.
Miriam became quiet.
“Who ordered it?”
“Rainier Union.”
“Nathan’s bank.”
“Yes.”
“Did you authorize a refinance?”
“No.”
“Any line increase?”
“No.”
“Any land sale?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
“I signed a fertilizer purchase Monday.”
“That does not usually involve a title company.”
Walter stirred his soup.
“What do we do?”
“We request the file.”
“Tonight?”
“I know people who dislike sleeping.”
“Elaine definitely liked you.”
Miriam did not laugh.
“Walter.”
“Yes?”
“Did Nathan ever have power of attorney?”
Walter’s hand stopped.
“For a few months.”
“When?”
“After Elaine died.”
He had undergone hip surgery seven weeks after her funeral.
For three months, he barely left the house.
Nathan handled bills.
Bank deposits.
Insurance.
Walter trusted him.
“Do you still have the document?”
“In the office safe.”
“Was it revoked?”
“I thought it expired.”
“Thought?”
“It was limited.”
“Walter.”
“Yes.”
“I need the document.”
His soup no longer tasted warm.
Miriam sent an associate to Cedar Hollow that night.
Walter’s ranch foreman opened the office safe.
They photographed the power of attorney.
Limited Durable Financial Power of Attorney.
Nathan Hayes.
Effective only during incapacity certified by physician or for specified transactions during Walter’s recovery period.
Real property section:
Agent may pay taxes, insurance, utilities, and maintenance.
Then, in bold:
AGENT MAY NOT SELL, TRANSFER, PLEDGE, ENCUMBER, OR MORTGAGE ANY INTEREST IN CEDAR HOLLOW ORCHARD LLC OR ITS REAL PROPERTY.
Miriam called back.
“Good.”
Walter breathed.
“So it can’t be used.”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound worried?”
“Because Rainier Union sent us the document they have.”
Walter waited.
“They have a different version.”
His chest tightened.
“How?”
“The first four pages match.”
“And?”
“The limitation language is gone.”
Walter stared at his soup.
Miriam continued:
“They also have a signature page acknowledging authority to pledge business property.”
“I never signed that.”
“The signature resembles yours.”
“It isn’t.”
“Possibly.”
Walter’s jaw tightened.
“Who notarized it?”
“Sharon Pike.”
Walter closed his eyes.
Sharon had done farm taxes for fifteen years.
Friend of Elaine.
Came to the funeral.
“Call her.”
“I already did.”
“And?”
“She says she notarized your limited power of attorney four years ago.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
“So somebody changed the pages.”
“Possibly.”
Walter almost corrected her.
Then stopped.
Lawyers had their own religion.
Evidence first.
“What does Rainier think the collateral supports?”
Miriam turned pages.
“Five-point-six-million-dollar credit facility.”
Walter nearly dropped the phone.
“For what?”
“Borrower is Cedar Hollow Agriventures LLC.”
“That is not my company.”
“Manager listed as Nathan Hayes.”
Walter closed his eyes.
His son had created a company wearing the orchard’s name.
“What does it do?”
“According to the application, land redevelopment, controlled-atmosphere storage, packing expansion, and commercial-residential conversion of nonproductive acreage.”
“Residential.”
“Yes.”
Walter thought of the developer at dinner.
Water rights.
Land assemblage.
“Who else is involved?”
“Rainier Union.”
“Obviously.”
“Prairie Crest Development Partners.”
“Who?”
“The man at Nathan’s dinner tonight is one of their principals.”
Walter sat very still.
Then Miriam said:
“There’s another attachment.”
“What?”
“Physician certification.”
Walter’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Certification of what?”
“That you suffer intermittent confusion and progressive memory impairment affecting complex financial decisions.”
Walter said nothing.
His soup cooled.
Miriam’s voice softened.
“Walter?”
“Whose doctor?”
“Dr. Priya Shah.”
Walter knew the name.
His primary care physician.
The woman who had told him last month he needed to stop pretending ice cream was calcium.
“Miriam.”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Shah has never told me I have memory impairment.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I called her.”
Walter stopped.
“And?”
May you like
“She says she never wrote this letter.”
The document Rainier Union was using to justify Nathan’s expanded authority had been altered too.
