Chapter 3 - The Man in the Gray Suit
The man reached the landing before I could move away from the bedroom door.
He was middle-aged, neatly dressed, and holding a leather briefcase that looked too expensive for a mover.
"Mrs. Lawson," he said, "I'm Benjamin Price."
"Then you can speak through the door."
He gave a rehearsed little laugh.
"I'm representing the purchaser."
"Who is the purchaser?"
"I'm afraid the agreement is confidential."
Ruth, still on my phone, interrupted.
"No legitimate closing representative would refuse to identify his client to the recorded owner."
Price's smile vanished.
"Who is that?"
"Counsel for the recorded owner," Ruth said.
"State your bar number and your firm's name."
A long silence followed.
I heard Eric shift behind him.
"She's making everything harder than it needs to be," my husband said.
"Megan," Ruth whispered, "keep them outside the room until the deputies arrive."
Price tried another approach.
"No one wishes to upset a mother who has just given birth."
"Then stop climbing her stairs without permission," I replied.
He moved away, but not before he placed a thin envelope on the carpet.
When their footsteps retreated, I opened the door just enough to pull it inside.
Inside was a photocopy of a purchase agreement for $2.86 million.
The buyer was Palmetto Harbor Holdings LLC.
A section titled Seller Representation bore Eric's signature as my attorney-in-fact.
Attached was a durable power of attorney supposedly signed by me eleven days earlier.
Eleven days earlier, I had been admitted to the hospital for a pregnancy-related evaluation, with doctors limiting my activity and monitoring the baby.
I remembered the date because Eric had brought me terrible vending-machine coffee.
He had also asked for my phone to "update our insurance."
I read the witness names.
One was Diane Lawson.
The other was a woman named Cynthia Bell.
The notary seal belonged to someone I had never heard of.
"Ruth," I said, "I found their power of attorney."
Ruth asked for photographs of every page.
I sent them while my daughter slept a few feet away.
Then the deputy arrived and asked everyone to come downstairs.
I carried Emma carefully, taking each step with one hand on the rail.
Eric had recovered his composure.
He told the deputy this was a private marital dispute.
Diane nodded sympathetically.
"Our poor Megan has been under terrible strain," she said.
"We're concerned she isn't thinking clearly."
I showed the deputy the purported power of attorney.
He studied the date, then asked where it had been signed.
Eric answered immediately.
"At the hospital."
Diane answered at the same time.
"At our kitchen table."
The deputy looked up.
Neither of them spoke.
Then he asked for Cynthia Bell's telephone number.
Eric gave him one.
My phone rang almost at once.
An unknown caller left a voicemail containing just six words.
May you like
"Stop asking about Cynthia Bell. Now."
