Chapter 4 - THE WALL THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN THERE
I hired a surveyor before I hired a lawyer.
That was Dad’s kind of decision.
Facts first.
Arguments second.
Carolina Piedmont Surveying refused the job because they had prepared Valerie’s survey.
So I called Piedmont Boundary & Land in Huntersville.
The surveyor, Nathan Ellis, arrived Monday morning wearing work boots and a faded UNC Charlotte cap.
He spent six hours on the property.
Olivia followed him until I made her come inside.
At four, Nathan knocked.
“You have a problem.”
I almost laughed.
“That narrows it down.”
He spread his field sketch across the kitchen table.
“The old monument at the road is intact.”
“Good.”
“The lake-side monument is missing.”
“Not good.”
“No.”
He pointed.
“Using the recorded subdivision plat, road monument, neighboring control points, and deed calls, your original eastern line is here.”
His pencil ran down the page.
It included all of my gravel driveway.
Then continued toward the lake.
Straight through the edge of Valerie’s landscaped slope.
Straight through a stone retaining wall.
And underneath a staircase descending from her pool terrace.
I stared.
“How much?”
“At the widest point, the wall encroaches about six and a half feet onto your deeded parcel.”
“And the stairs?”
“About four.”
“Their survey shows the line somewhere else.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Nathan tapped the sheet.
“The survey they recorded relies on a set monument that doesn’t correspond with the original subdivision control.”
“In English?”
“Someone treated a newer pin as if it were the historic boundary.”
“Could that be a mistake?”
“Yes.”
“Could someone intentionally place a pin in the wrong spot?”
He looked at me.
“That’s a different question.”
I showed him Olivia’s photographs.
He studied them carefully.
“That red-capped pin is exactly where the Kline survey appears to call the corner.”
“And Eric pulled it out.”
“That’s what the picture seems to show.”
“Why?”
Nathan shook his head.
“I don’t speculate.”
I was beginning to hate responsible adults.
“Can you prepare a certified survey?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three to five business days.”
“What happens to their wall?”
“That becomes a legal discussion.”
I called an attorney.
Her name was Denise Marshall.
She practiced property law in Davidson and had the tired patience of someone who had spent twenty years listening to neighbors threaten each other over three feet of grass.
I showed her everything.
The recorded boundary agreement.
Dad’s ICU records.
The Kline letters.
The $40,000 deposit.
Nathan’s preliminary survey.
Olivia’s photographs.
Denise leaned back.
“If Walter lacked capacity and did not sign this instrument, we challenge it.”
“What about the notary?”
“That may become important.”
“And the concrete?”
“Separate civil claim. Possibly criminal issues too.”
“Can I make them remove the wall?”
“Maybe.”
I hated maybe less when she said it.
“What do I do now?”
“Nothing impulsive.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Then you’re surrounded by useful people.”
That evening, my insurance adjuster confirmed what I already knew.
The Chevrolet was likely a total loss.
Concrete had cured around trim, glass, seams, and body panels.
Book value: $8,900.
My deductible: $1,000.
I stared at the number.
It was not a luxury car.
It was not “junk.”
It was the car I bought after Olivia’s father stopped paying child support and moved to Arizona.
It had carried groceries when I had fourteen dollars left until payday.
It had carried Dad home after cataract surgery.
It had carried Olivia from kindergarten to second grade.
Insurance valued metal.
I was allowed to value memories.
That night, a tow operator finally removed it.
Olivia watched from the porch.
“Are we getting it back?”
“No.”
Her chin tightened.
“I hate Mrs. Kline.”
I sat beside her.
“I understand.”
“Do you hate her?”
“Yes.”
She looked surprised.
I smiled slightly.
“I’m your mom, not a cartoon saint.”
That made her laugh.
Then she leaned against me.
“Grandpa hated her too.”
“How do you know?”
“He called her The Balcony.”
I laughed so loudly I startled myself.
Dad used to assign nicknames to people who irritated him.
Valerie stood on her balcony every morning policing the neighborhood with coffee.
Of course.
Olivia went quiet.
“He also said they built something where they shouldn’t.”
“What?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“Try.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“He said, ‘That damn Kline wall is hiding the old—’”
She stopped.
“The old what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dock?”
“No.”
“Pipe?”
Her eyes opened.
“Drain.”
My stomach tightened.
“What drain?”
“I don’t know.”
I opened Dad’s Kline folder again.
Near the bottom was a county environmental-health diagram from before the Kline mansion was built.
Their septic system.
A replacement drainfield reserve area.
I traced the marked zone.
Then compared it to Nathan’s sketch.
The Klines’ designated reserve drainfield extended across the disputed strip.
Onto my father’s property.
My phone rang.
Denise.
“I was about to call you.”
“Good. I found something you need to see.”
“What?”
“The Klines have a pending sale.”
I stood.
“What sale?”
“Their house is under contract.”
“For how much?”
“Just under three-point-eight million.”
I stared through the window toward Valerie’s mansion.
“When does it close?”
“Next Friday.”
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Then Denise added:
“And according to the preliminary title package, Valerie has represented that there are no known boundary disputes or encroachments.”
