Chapter 7 - Frank's Last Warning
The note sat beneath the kitchen lamp while Beth and I stared at it.
It was written on the back of an old statement, and the ink had faded slightly at the edges.
I remembered Frank using those blue pens from the electrical supply shop.
He'd brought them home by the dozen because, he said, they never leaked into the pocket of his work shirt.
“What trust?” Beth asked.
I shook my head.
Frank and I had updated our estate plan after his diagnosis.
We established a revocable living trust to simplify administration of our assets, with me as surviving trustee and Beth named successor after my death.
Eric and Beth were both beneficiaries of what remained under the estate documents.
But Frank's note suggested he'd worried about something more specific.
I called Thomas and read it aloud.
He asked for a photograph.
A few minutes later he called back.
“I remember discussing a potential credit request with Frank before he became ill,” he said.
“Eric wanted an advance against an inheritance he hadn't received.”
I sat down.
“How could he borrow against an inheritance from somebody who was still alive?”
“He couldn't simply pledge assets he didn't own,” Thomas answered.
“But he asked whether his future interest could be assigned, and Frank refused to cooperate.”
I closed my eyes.
Frank had kept that conversation from me.
Not out of dishonesty, I thought, but because he had been trying to spare me another crisis while we faced a much larger one.
“He should have told me.”
“Yes,” Thomas said gently.
“He should have.”
It was comforting, in an odd way, to hear someone admit that Frank wasn't perfect either.
I didn't need a saint to love.
I needed the man who had bought a foolishly expensive cooking pot and stayed beside me for thirty-eight years.
Thomas explained that any account opened in Frank's name after his death would require investigation.
It could be an administrative mistake, identity misuse, or a misleading description from someone trying to frighten me.
We would not jump to conclusions.
He obtained permission to make targeted inquiries while I contacted the estate's financial institutions.
Beth checked my credit reports and helped me freeze my credit as a precaution.
By evening we had discovered no new account in my name.
That was a relief.
Then Thomas sent a file provided by a title officer.
It contained a copy of a loan application made to Broadleaf Capital.
In the section listing supporting assets, Eric had written a phrase that turned my skin cold.
EXPECTED DISTRIBUTION FROM FOSTER FAMILY TRUST.
The estimated value was $320,000.
I had never told him such an amount was available.
The trust did not give him immediate control of anything.
And the figure bore little resemblance to the distributions contemplated by our estate plan.
“Is that fraud?” Beth asked.
“It's at least a serious representation that needs explaining,” I said.
Thomas warned us that the document's meaning depended on the full loan file and the lender's reliance.
I appreciated his caution, even as I wanted someone to tell me the whole thing was criminal and finished.
That night Eric came to my door alone.
He stood beneath the porch light with wet hair and a face so tired that I almost reached for him before remembering Christmas.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
Beth watched from the hallway.
I let him into the sitting room but kept the conversation brief and told him I would not negotiate legal documents without counsel.
He saw Frank's blue Dutch oven on the stove and looked away.
“Mom, I'm losing control of everything.”
I waited.
“Broadleaf wants its money, the buyers are threatening to walk, and Rachel barely sleeps.”
“What did you tell Broadleaf about your father's trust?”
He looked at me sharply.
“Who told you about that?”
“It's in your loan application.”
He sat down heavily.
“Dana said it was only a projection.”
“Projection of what?”
“What I might inherit someday.”
“Your father wasn't even alive when you signed that application.”
He winced.
“I know.”
“And what account did you open in his name?”
Eric's face changed.
For the first time since Christmas, I saw fear that had nothing to do with losing my financial support.
“I didn't open an account,” he said.
May you like
Then he whispered, “Rachel did.”
