Chapter 6 - The Appraisal and the Buried Secrets
Within forty-eight hours, Vance’s title search unearthed the smoking gun.
Recorded thirty-two months prior was a second-position deed of trust in favor of Buckeye State Credit Union in the amount of $185,000. Attached to the filing was an alleged “General Durable Power of Attorney” bearing what purported to be my signature and Andrew’s signature, authenticated by a notary public named Brenda Higgins—a woman who happened to be the head of Ruth’s Tuesday morning Bible study.
“This is blatant criminal forgery,” Vance told Marcus and me during an emergency conference call on Monday. “The notary committed an egregious statutory violation. The credit union’s underwriting department was extraordinarily negligent in accepting an unverified power of attorney for real property conveyance. In short: the mortgage is legally void against your and Andrew’s interests.”
“What does that mean for Mom?” I asked.
“It means if we report this to the prosecutor’s office, your mother and her notary friend are looking at felony indictments,” Vance said grimly. “And the credit union will immediately accelerate the loan, demanding full repayment of the hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars within thirty days. If not paid, they will pursue civil judgments against your mother personally.”
Marcus leaned toward the speakerphone. “And what happens to the partition sale?”
“The property will be appraised at its true market value,” Vance replied. “The house sits on a prime two-acre corner lot in a rapidly appreciating school district. I already ordered a preliminary comparative market analysis. Homes in that subdivision are selling for north of six hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
My breath caught. $650,000.
“If the court orders a sale,” Vance continued, “Laura and Andrew are entitled to their full, unencumbered one-third shares off the top—approximately two hundred and sixteen thousand dollars each. Ruth’s share, which would also be two hundred and sixteen thousand, would be entirely consumed by paying off the fraudulent credit union lien, closing costs, and back property taxes that she conveniently neglected to pay for the last eighteen months.”
Ruth would walk away with nothing. Zero dollars. No house, no savings, and a mountain of unpaid debt.
On Wednesday morning, the court-appointed appraiser, a tall, methodical man named Miller, arrived at the colonial home on Elmwood Avenue. Marcus and I were legally required to be present as co-owners.
When our car pulled up to the curb, Dad was standing by the mailbox.
He looked ten years older. His shoulders were slumped, his flannel shirt wrinkled and untucked. When he saw me step out of the car, he didn't yell. He just looked at the ground.
“Laura,” he muttered as I approached.
“Dad.”
“Did you really have to bring an appraiser here?” he asked, his voice cracking with exhaustion. “Your mother hasn't slept in four days. She’s throwing up bile.”
“Did you know about the credit union loan, Dad?” I asked directly.
Arthur blinked, looking genuinely bewildered. “What loan? What are you talking about?”
“The hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars Mom borrowed against the house to bail out Heather and Greg,” I said.
Dad’s knees visibly buckled. He reached out, steadying himself against the wooden post of the mailbox. “She... she told me Heather got a small grant from the government for small businesses.”
“She forged my name, Dad. She forged Andrew’s name. With Brenda Higgins from church.”
Dad stared at the front porch of the house he had lived in for nearly four decades. The screen door squeaked open, and Ruth stepped out, wearing an oversized bathrobe, glaring down at us with hollow, wild eyes.
“Tell them to leave, Arthur!” Ruth shrieked from the porch. “They have no right to walk around my yard with clipboards!”
Miller, the appraiser, walked past her without acknowledging her shouts, his laser measuring tool clicking steadily against the brick foundation.
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“It’s over, Ruth,” Dad whispered, loud enough for her to hear. His voice wasn't angry; it was entirely defeated. “It’s over.”
***
