I reached into the thick blue-vellum envelope Aunt Eleanor had handed me, pulling out the original 1944 Mercer Sovereign Warranty Deed:
*SLIP.*
I laid the heavy parchment flat across the chest of Julian Vance’s eight-thousand-dollar cashmere overcoat:
*TINK.*
“Look at line four of the deed, Julian,” Colonel Clara Mercer whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed four decades of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“Fee Simple Absolute.”
“Clara Eleanor Mercer.”
“This house never belonged to Mrs.
Whitaker.”
“It never belonged to your syndicate.”
“It belongs to the granddaughter of the man who bored the bedrock eighty feet beneath your boots.”
United States Attorney Marcus Cooper stepped forward, opening the four-hundred-page leather litigation brief:
*THUD.*
The heavy volume struck the entry console, pulverizing an antique crystal vase into fine powder:
