The scent of brewing coffee and griddled pancakes hung heavy in the air. Arthur slid into a booth at Clara’s Diner, the morning sun streaming through the windows, trying to shake off the unease from Julian Croft’s threats.
Clara, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, set a mug of black coffee in front of him.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Arthur,” she said, her voice gruff but kind.
He just sighed, tracing the rim of his mug.
“Morning, Clara,” a new voice chirped from the counter. “Any chance for another slice of that apple pie?”
Clara gestured towards the woman. “Arthur, this is Dr. Evelyn Marsh. She’s with the state historical board, doing some survey work. Evelyn, this is Arthur Pendelton, Oakhaven’s finest craftsman.”
Dr. Marsh, a woman with keen eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, offered a friendly nod. She was poring over a stack of old maps and documents spread across the counter.
“Pleasure to meet you, Arthur,” she said. “Clara’s told me a lot about the millhouse. Fascinating property.”
Arthur nodded, a flicker of pride showing through his worry. “It’s home.”
“Home is right,” Clara interjected, refilling Arthur’s coffee. “This corporate takeover business Julian Croft is pushing… it just don’t sit right.”
Dr. Marsh looked up, her gaze sharpening. “Croft, you say? Croft Heritage Properties?”
Arthur pulled out a crumpled tax receipt from his wallet, something he’d kept for years from the workshop. “He’s claiming everything, says he owns the land outright.”
Dr. Marsh took the receipt, her fingers delicate as she compared it to one of her maps. Her brow furrowed.
“Arthur, can I see your original deed paperwork, if you have it?” she asked, her voice low.
He didn’t have a deed, not for the entire estate. He had his original 1982 agreement, but it felt private.
“Just old tax receipts, mostly for the workshop itself,” he admitted. “From when the original company started.”
She nodded, understanding. Her finger traced a line on a topographical survey map, then moved to the digital rendering displayed on her tablet. A slight tremor ran through her hand.
“This is… odd,” she murmured, more to herself than to them.
Clara leaned in, curious. “What is it, dear?”
Dr. Marsh pointed to a discrepancy. “According to the official state survey records I’m cross-referencing right now, Croft’s digital title filing has a significant boundary error.”
Arthur leaned forward, his coffee forgotten. “An error?”
“Yes,” Dr. Marsh confirmed. “A critical ten-foot variance along the northern perimeter, right where your workshop sits. His modern registration claims land that isn’t accurately described in the historical county archives.”
She tapped her tablet screen. “This means Croft’s digital land registration lacks a valid foundation under Vermont property law. It’s like building a house on a shifting sand dune.”
The air went still. Arthur felt a jolt of hope mixed with dread.
“So, he doesn’t actually own it?” Arthur asked.
Dr. Marsh shook her head slowly. “Not legally, at least not this specific parcel. It suggests either a deeply flawed survey, or… a deliberate misrepresentation of the property lines.”
Clara put her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “That man always cuts corners.”
Dr. Marsh looked at Arthur, her expression grave. “If he proceeds with demolition, it would be based on a flawed premise. His entire claim could be invalid.”
She slid the tax receipt back across the table. “You might be holding more than just a receipt, Arthur. You might be holding the key to his undoing.”
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