Chapter 17 - The Unstamped Parcel on the Flagstones
The chime of the Óbidos chapel bells had scarcely faded across the sunlit valley when the heavy wrought-iron latch of my courtyard gate clattered against the limestone archway.
I paused with my brush an inch above the damp watercolor paper, cobalt blue pooling softly on the cotton fibers.
It was not the young courier on his yellow scooter.
Standing just inside the archway was a tall man in a tailored slate-gray linen suit, carrying an unbranded aluminum folio under his arm.
He took off his dark sunglasses, revealing sharp, sun-tanned features and cold, calculating hazel eyes that assessed my courtyard with the practiced appraisal of a forensic auditor.
"Mrs. Diane Overstreet?" he inquired, his accent crisp and undeniably American, clipped with the sterile efficiency of a corporate litigator.
"I am," I said, laying the brush flat across the ceramic rim of my water dish without rising. "This is private residential property, sir. Deliveries are left at the outer gate."
"This is not a postal parcel, Mrs. Overstreet," he replied, walking across the flagstones with measured, quiet steps that did not rush. "My name is Julian Sloane-Vance. I am senior managing counsel for the Sloane-Vance Asset Management Syndicate out of Wilmington, Delaware."
The name Vance caught in my ear, but not as Arthur’s warm, steady baritone.
It sounded like the strike of cold steel against an empty vault.
He did not place the aluminum folio on my cedar table; he held it aloft, pressing a small thumb latch that sprang the folder open with a muted mechanical snap.
"You and Arthur Vance conducted a very thorough liquidation in North Carolina, Mrs. Overstreet," Julian said, his voice smooth as chilled glass. "You broke Cassandra Hayes, you bankrupted Robert Hayes, and you forced First Piedmont to cancel a junior line of credit."
He pulled a three-page document printed on heavy ivory bond, sliding it toward my teacup.
"However, you operated under the mistaken assumption that Leonard's agricultural parcel in Chatham County was the only underlying asset of the Overstreet estate."
My spine remained straight against the wicker back of my chair, but a sharp chill stirred behind my ribs.
"My husband’s estate was closed and certified in Wake County four years ago, Mr. Sloane-Vance," I answered, keeping my gaze locked on his face. "The accounts are reconciled. The title is absolute."
"The North Carolina probate court reconciled the domestic civilian filings, Mrs. Overstreet," Julian countered, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips. "They never examined the 1986 Mid-Atlantic Timber and Drainage Debenture."
He tapped a dark blue notary seal stamped at the bottom of the vellum.
"In August of 1986, Leonard Overstreet and his brother Marcus entered into a multi-generational resource pooling agreement with our infrastructure trust to finance regional rail conduits between Raleigh and Norfolk."
Julian leaned forward slightly, resting two knuckles on the weathered wood of the cedar table.
"The principal loan of four hundred thousand dollars was never retired in cash. It was secured by a forty-year reversionary mineral and transit covenant encumbering the entire subsurface perimeter of the Chatham County tract."
The air in the courtyard seemed to drop ten degrees beneath the warm Portuguese sun.
"The debenture matured at midnight yesterday," Julian stated quietly. "With statutory compound penalty interest, the outstanding demand is four million, two hundred thousand dollars."
He pulled a gold fountain pen from his breast pocket and laid it across the paper.
May you like
"You have until five o'clock on Friday to execute a voluntary conveyance of the mineral deed, Mrs. Overstreet. If you refuse, our syndicate executes an immediate non-judicial commercial forfeiture on the county courthouse steps in Pittsboro."
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