Chapter 21 - The Inspection Clara Never Saw
Marcus called his brother back three times.
On the fourth attempt, a recorded voice informed him that the number was no longer accepting calls.
Across the dock, Maya was teaching Lucy how to tighten a life jacket. Both girls were taking the task so seriously that they had forgotten to smile.
I watched them while Naomi photographed the delivery receipt Trent had brought.
AV-17.
A private marina outside Mobile.
And now an inspection Clara had requested before her death.
“What kind of inspection?” I asked Marcus.
He shook his head.
“Clara never mentioned one.”
“Was she involved in construction?”
“Preservation research. Property records. Things she thought would help us protect Harbor House.”
He looked toward our daughter.
For the first time since Vivian had arrived at our gate, I understood how frightened he was of discovering something he could no longer ask his first wife to explain.
Naomi closed her folder.
“We stop guessing. I’ll contact the attorney who advised her.”
“And Adrian?” Marcus asked.
“Send one message. Tell him to contact my office. No accusations. No promises.”
Marcus typed slowly.
I stepped away to call Daniel.
“Pause any excavation at Harbor House,” I said. “Interior work can continue where it’s already approved. Nobody disturbs the eastern yard.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know yet.”
It was becoming the hardest sentence to say.
People wanted certainty from me. Parents. Contractors. My husband.
I had built a career by looking at damaged buildings and explaining what could be saved.
Now the building seemed to be looking back.
After the children left, Lucy’s mother approached me carrying a pair of borrowed deck shoes.
“Do we return these every week?”
“You can keep them for the program.”
She ran her thumb along the sole.
“Lucy slept in her swimsuit last night. She was afraid we’d miss it.”
Something tightened behind my ribs.
“We’ll be here next Saturday.”
I meant it.
Whatever waited beneath Harbor House, it would not swallow every good thing we were trying to build.
That evening, Edwin Bell returned Naomi’s call.
The retired attorney remembered Clara immediately.
“She asked sharper questions than most developers,” he said over the speakerphone. “Usually because she actually read what I sent her.”
Marcus smiled faintly.
Then Bell’s voice changed.
“She was concerned about the old maintenance yard east of the house.”
“What concern?” Naomi asked.
“Historical disposal. Marine coatings. Solvents. Fuel. The kind of activities people called ordinary business before anyone started keeping proper records.”
I looked at my site plan.
The eastern yard was where we intended to build the outdoor teaching shelter.
“Did she commission testing?”
“She retained an environmental consultant. Owen Pike.”
“What did he find?”
“I never received the final report.”
“Why not?”
“His contract was terminated.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“By Clara?”
“No. Through your family office.”
The room seemed to contract around us.
My husband stared at the phone.
“I didn’t authorize that.”
“I’m not saying you did,” Bell replied. “But she came to me afterward because she couldn’t obtain the complete findings.”
“Did you help her?”
“I requested them. Then she became ill. After the funeral, the correspondence stopped.”
When the call ended, Marcus stood.
He crossed to the window and stayed there, one hand braced against the frame.
I gave him a moment before joining him.
“Someone used my office,” he said.
“Possibly.”
“My name.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“She was trying to do something good.”
“So are we.”
He turned toward me.
I touched his face.
“We can love her and investigate what happened. We don’t have to choose.”
His forehead rested against mine.
Upstairs, Maya dropped something, followed by a very small, very guilty silence.
The ordinary sound steadied us both.
Later, after we had persuaded our daughter that glitter did not belong in a bathroom sink, Naomi called again.
Owen Pike’s business had closed.
His professional license had expired.
His last listed address was a rented mailbox.
“But I found the original engagement letter,” she said.
“Where?” I asked.
“In an attachment to Bell’s correspondence.”
She sent it while we spoke.
I opened the document.
The inspection had covered Harbor House and three neighboring parcels.
The company paying for it was listed beneath the scope.
Vance Coastal Holdings.
Below that was a handwritten note from Clara.
Please send copies directly to me. Previous correspondence has not been reaching my desk.
Marcus read it over my shoulder.
Then another message appeared.
An email to Naomi from Adrian.
Tomorrow. Six a.m. Public ferry terminal. Come without company security.
Attached was a photograph of a rusted metal drum.
May you like
Across its side, beneath years of corrosion, I could still make out the Vance company emblem.
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