Chapter 4 - What Margarite Left Behind
The first root was less than half an inch long.
Josie stared at it as though it were a miracle.
Then she became frightened she would kill it.
She called three garden centers.
The first suggested rooting hormone.
The second suggested patience.
The third said not to overwater it.
Josie bought a clay pot she could not afford, filled it with soil, planted the cutting near the apartment window, and checked it approximately eleven times before going to bed.
By morning nothing had changed.
She checked again anyway.
While the fig tree began its quiet attempt to survive, the legal fight became louder.
Daniel discovered that the disputed 2015 transfer had been notarized by a man named Leon Voss.
Voss was eighty-three now and living in an assisted-care facility.
When Daniel interviewed him, the old man remembered Sylvia.
He did not remember Josie or Bethany.
“That helps,” Daniel said.
“How much?”
“Some.”
Josie hated the word some.
Every answer seemed to exist between certainty and nothing.
Enzo sent two accountants through old Ferrante files.
They found records showing Margarite’s building had no mortgage at the time of her death.
They also found payments from Hartley’s Corner to a company called North Quay Administrative Services.
The company had dissolved nine years earlier.
Its registered manager had been Sylvia Hartley.
Approximately sixty-two thousand dollars had passed through it.
Almost exactly the amount Margarite believed missing.
When Josie saw the spreadsheet, she felt something colder than anger.
“She stole from Mom.”
Daniel remained careful.
“The records show payments.”
“For what?”
“The invoices describe consulting, bookkeeping, and administrative work.”
“Sylvia never worked at the store.”
“We need to prove that.”
“I worked there.”
“You were a child.”
“I would remember sixty thousand dollars’ worth of consulting.”
Enzo stood near the window.
“Margarite knew.”
Josie looked at him.
“She knew enough to start asking.”
“And then she died.”
Again the terrible possibility entered the room.
Again Enzo stopped it.
“Don’t.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know there is no evidence connecting Sylvia to the crash.”
“What if Howard found something?”
“Then we find Howard’s records.”
But Howard Brennan’s office had been cleared after his death.
His former partner had retired.
His computer had been returned to his family.
His professional storage contained hundreds of boxes, none labeled Hartley.
The mysterious second copy mentioned on Margarite’s sign could have been anywhere.
Two weeks passed.
Hartley’s Corner began recovering.
Chef Rowan’s orders brought predictable income.
A video of Enzo picking oranges off the floor had spread online.
Ironically, the same internet that had helped destroy Josie’s reputation now began repairing it.
Some people came because they were curious.
Some came because they felt guilty.
Some came because standing beside the scarred produce seller photographed next to a feared mafia figure made for good social media.
Josie disliked all three groups equally.
She served them anyway.
One afternoon, a woman selected six apples and asked whether she could take a selfie with Josie.
“No.”
The woman blinked.
“But I drove from Massachusetts.”
“Apples are still six dollars.”
The woman bought them.
Enzo heard about it and laughed for almost a full minute.
Not everyone returned.
Some regulars stayed away.
Some people continued whispering.
One man deliberately asked whether married customers received a discount.
Josie refunded his purchase and told him to leave.
The man began shouting.
Before Enzo’s security could appear, Mr. Delgado stood from his bench.
“You heard her.”
The man looked at the elderly guard.
Mr. Delgado was thin, stooped, and seventy-four.
He was not intimidating.
But he stood there.
Then Mrs. Okonquo emerged from the neighboring aisle.
“So did you.”
Reyes came from the cooler.
Then Miss Bianke from the flower stall.
The customer looked around.
Nobody threatened him.
Nobody needed to.
He left.
Josie watched silently.
Afterward, Mr. Delgado approached the counter.
“I should have done that before.”
Josie knew exactly what he meant.
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
The old man looked ashamed.
“Because I was afraid of becoming part of it.”
Josie nodded slowly.
“That’s how crowds work.”
Mr. Delgado looked toward his bench.
“I’ve been eating those breakfasts for three years.”
Josie froze.
“What breakfasts?”
He looked at her.
She tried to keep her face neutral.
Mr. Delgado smiled sadly.
“I found out.”
“How?”
“Reyes saw you once.”
Josie glanced toward the cooler.
“Traitor.”
“I asked him.”
“You believed the market had a senior-food program.”
“I wanted to.”
Josie looked down.
Mr. Delgado placed four dollars on the counter.
“What’s this?”
“Yesterday’s bananas.”
“No.”
“Then put it toward tomorrow’s.”
“No.”
He pushed the money closer.
Josie pushed it back.
They repeated this twice.
Finally Mr. Delgado said, “Please let an old man recover a little dignity.”
Josie stopped.
Then she took one dollar.
“For tomorrow’s banana.”
He smiled.
“Deal.”
That evening, Bethany called.
Josie almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“What?”
“Aunt Sylvia knows I gave you Howard’s letter.”
Josie sat up.
“How?”
“She checked the copier log.”
“You copied it at her house?”
“I panicked.”
“What happened?”
“She threw me out.”
Josie was silent.
Bethany continued.
“I’m in my car.”
“Where?”
“Outside a hotel.”
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
The answer was too quick.
“Bethany.”
“I have some.”
Josie closed her eyes.
For eleven years she had imagined hundreds of things she might say if Bethany ever needed her.
Most were cruel.
None came out.
“Come here.”
Bethany did not answer.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Come to my apartment.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I’m still deciding.”
Forty minutes later, Bethany arrived carrying two suitcases.
For the first hour, the sisters spoke only about practical things.
The couch pulled out.
Towels were in the bathroom.
Do not turn the shower handle all the way left because the water became dangerously hot.
At midnight, Bethany stood near the potted fig cutting.
She touched one new leaf.
“You saved it.”
Josie looked up from the kitchen table.
“A piece.”
“Aunt Sylvia said you were being dramatic.”
“Of course she did.”
Bethany stared at the small plant.
“Mom planted the original the week after you were born.”
Josie frowned.
“She told me it was before the store opened.”
“It was.”
“That was almost a year later.”
Bethany smiled faintly.
“She said you screamed so much as a baby that she needed to grow something quiet.”
Josie laughed unexpectedly.
The sound hurt.
Bethany looked toward her.
“I remember more than you do.”
“You were four years older.”
“I remember Mom before everything became about money.”
Josie’s smile disappeared.
“Tell me.”
Bethany hesitated.
Then she sat across from her sister.
“The year before Mom died, she and Aunt Sylvia fought constantly.”
“About the store?”
“About us. Money. The building.”
“Why don’t I remember?”
“They usually waited until you were asleep.”
Josie leaned forward.
“What else?”
Bethany twisted her fingers.
“One night Mom told Sylvia she was changing everything.”
“Changing what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bethany.”
“I was fifteen. I wasn’t listening because I cared about property documents.”
“What did she say?”
Bethany closed her eyes, remembering.
“She said, ‘You will never control that building.’”
Josie’s heartbeat changed.
“And Sylvia?”
“She said Mom would regret humiliating her.”
“Anything else?”
Bethany opened her eyes.
“Mom said Howard already had copies.”
Silence.
Josie stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
“The sign.”
“What?”
She explained Margarite’s handwriting.
Howard has the second copy. Trust him.
Bethany stared.
“Then Mom knew before she died.”
“Knew what?”
“That something might happen.”
“Or that Sylvia might try to take the property.”
Bethany looked frightened.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“After Mom’s funeral, Sylvia went to the store at night.”
Josie stopped.
“How do you know?”
“I was with her.”
“Why?”
“She said we needed documents for probate.”
“What did she take?”
“I don’t know. Boxes.”
“How many?”
“Three or four.”
“Where did they go?”
Bethany looked toward the floor.
“There’s an old storage room beneath Sylvia’s house.”
Josie stared at her.
“She still has them?”
“I don’t know.”
The next morning, Daniel requested a court order preventing Sylvia from destroying or moving records related to the Hartley property.
At 4:20 that afternoon, a process server delivered the order.
At 5:03, Sylvia’s home security camera recorded a rental van entering the driveway.
At 5:17, Bethany received an automated alert because Sylvia had never removed her from the security account.
She showed Josie.
They called Daniel.
Daniel called the sheriff.
By the time officers arrived, Sylvia was standing in her driveway beside nine cardboard boxes.
She claimed she had been donating old clothing.
The boxes did not contain clothing.
They contained twenty years of Hartley’s Corner records.
Old invoices.
Bank statements.
Receipts.
Tax documents.
Photographs.
And one narrow green ledger with Margarite Hartley’s handwriting across every page.
The final entry was dated three weeks before her death.
Sylvia took 5,000 again.
Total now 61,840.
Howard says document is invalid.
Meeting Enzo tomorrow.
Must protect the girls’ shares.
Josie read the line in Daniel’s office.
Then turned the page.
The next page was blank.
There were no more entries.
At the bottom of the back cover, however, Margarite had written a single address.
Cranston.
Beneath it was a name.
May you like
Marianne Brennan.
Howard’s wife.
