My Late Father's Protégé Slapped Me in Front of a Crowded Resort Lobby — Until a Stranded Lawyer Read a Forgotten Clause in the Town Charter
Dr. Finch’s words, though quietly spoken, seemed to carry an electric charge through the hushed room. A few heads turned in our direction. Marcus, who had been speaking in hushed tones with Sheriff Brody, froze mid-sentence, his eyes darting toward us.
I felt a surge of hope, fragile but real. “Yes,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. My father left me the trust. I’m the trustee.”
Dr. Finch carefully handed the waterlogged documents back to me. “This is quite significant, Miss Somor. I specialize in historical municipal land trusts. The Somor Heritage Charter is a fascinating piece of local history.” He paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Given your attire and the state of these papers, it seems you’ve been through a great deal to bring this to light.”
“A landslide,” I explained, gesturing vaguely toward my mud-caked boots. “On the upper trail, near the old switchbacks. Barely made it out.”
Dr. Finch’s eyes widened slightly. He looked around the room, then back at me. “A landslide, you say? Near the upper trail…”
He stood up, his academic curiosity seemingly outweighing the general fear of the storm. “If you’ll excuse me, I might be able to shed some more light on this situation.” He gestured toward the administrative office, which was slightly ajar. “If memory serves, the lodge’s main maintenance logs are usually kept in that open office over there.”
Marcus, realizing what Dr. Finch was suggesting, stiffened. He moved quickly, stepping away from the front desk and blocking the entrance to the office with his body.
“Dr. Finch,” Marcus said, his voice strained but firm. “I appreciate your… scholarly interest, but this is hardly the time for an audit. We have a crisis. The focus needs to be on guest safety and restoring power.”
Dr. Finch simply looked at him, his gaze unwavering. “Indeed, Mr. Halloway. And proper maintenance, or the lack thereof, can be a significant factor in guest safety. Especially in a mountain lodge prone to the very ‘landslides’ Miss Somor just mentioned.”
The quiet challenge in his voice was unmistakable. Brody shifted uncomfortably by the fire. Chief Danforth, who had been watching the exchange intently, took a small step closer to me.
“The logs are open to all board members and trustees, Marcus,” I stated, drawing on what my father had taught me about the trust’s transparency. “And I am the trustee.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Brody, who conspicuously looked away, pretending to be engrossed in the fire. With a frustrated sigh, Marcus stepped aside, grudgingly allowing Dr. Finch access to the office.
Dr. Finch walked calmly into the dimly lit space. I followed, along with Chief Danforth, who positioned himself subtly between Marcus and me. Inside, on a large oak desk, sat several thick ledgers. Dr. Finch, with practiced ease, flipped through the tabs.
“Ah, here we are,” he murmured, his finger tracing a line in a large, bound book labeled “Facilities Maintenance – 2023.” He quickly found the section for the upper trails and drainage.
“Interesting,” he said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Records indicate a scheduled complete overhaul of the upper drainage system for spring, costing eighty-two thousand dollars.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Marcus’s, who stood stiffly in the doorway. “Yet, here, under ‘Action Taken,’ it says ‘Deferred – Budgetary Constraints.’ Marked for mid-October.”
A collective gasp rippled through the few guests who had ventured closer, drawn by the unfolding drama.
“Deferred?” I repeated, a cold dread twisting in my gut. “That was the section of the trail where the landslide happened. Marcus, you knew those pipes needed fixing. My father always prioritized infrastructure and safety.”
Marcus’s face was pale. “It was a cost-saving measure, Elena. We had other unforeseen expenses. Sometimes cuts have to be made for the overall health of the lodge’s finances.” His voice had lost its earlier confidence, a hint of desperation creeping in.
“Eighty-two thousand dollars,” Dr. Finch interjected, looking at Marcus over his spectacles. “A significant sum, yes. But deferring critical drainage maintenance in a region known for heavy rainfall and potential ground instability… that’s a gamble, Mr. Halloway. A gamble that nearly cost Miss Somor her life.”
He closed the ledger with a soft thud. The secret was out: the landslide wasn’t just a natural disaster. It was a direct consequence of Marcus’s choices. And his budget cuts had endangered not only me, but the entire integrity of the lodge. The cracks in the foundation, both literal and metaphorical, were beginning to show.
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