Chapter 5: The Notary’s Script

Thomas’s threats still buzzed in my ears, but I refused to be intimidated. His fabricated debt was a blatant attempt to discredit me, and it only reinforced my conviction that he was desperate to keep his secrets buried. My next step was clear: visit Mr. Peterson, the notary.

The office was exactly as I’d pictured from the online search – small, nondescript, with frosted glass on the door that simply read “Peterson Notary Services.” Inside, a bell tinkled as I entered, revealing a cramped waiting area with a few worn chairs. The air smelled of old paper and something vaguely chemical, like copier toner.

Mr. Peterson himself emerged from a back office, a man of average height with thinning grey hair combed meticulously across his scalp. He wore a crisp, albeit slightly too-large, blue shirt and a polite, almost practiced smile. He seemed bland, forgettable, which, I realized, was probably by design.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice even, almost devoid of inflection. “How may I help you?”

“Mr. Peterson,” I began, extending my hand, “I’m Eleanor Finch. Arthur Finch’s daughter.”

His handshake was surprisingly firm, yet his eyes, a watery blue, seemed to dart away for a split second before settling back on my face with an expression of polite inquiry.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Finch,” he said, his smile unwavering. “A very distinguished gentleman. I hope he’s recovering well.”

“He’s stable,” I said, cutting to the chase. “I’m here to inquire about some documents he signed recently, specifically a Power of Attorney granted to my brother, Thomas Finch.”

Peterson’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “Certainly. We strive for transparency here. Which document specifically are you referring to?”

“The one dated three days after he began his Warfarin medication,” I specified, watching his face closely.

He turned and went to a filing cabinet, returning a moment later with a pristine folder. From it, he produced a perfectly legitimate-looking notarized copy of the POA, along with a few other minor documents, all dated within the same period. They were precisely as I had found in Arthur’s study.

“Here you are,” he said, presenting them across the small desk. “All in order, as you can see.”

I examined the papers. They looked impeccable. The signatures, though Arthur’s was shaky, were present. The notary seal was clear. There was nothing outwardly amiss.

“Mr. Peterson,” I said, “can you walk me through the circumstances of these signings? My father was quite ill at the time.”

He nodded, launching into an unusually detailed, almost rehearsed account. “Of course. Mr. Finch arrived with his son, Thomas. He was, naturally, a bit slower than usual, but entirely lucid. He clearly understood the nature of the Power of Attorney, its implications for his financial management, and his decision to grant these powers to his son.”

He paused, looking directly at me. “I always take great care to ensure the signatory fully comprehends the document. I specifically asked Mr. Finch if he was acting under any duress, if he felt pressured in any way. He assured me, quite firmly, that he was not. He stated that he trusted Thomas implicitly to manage his affairs.”

The precision of his recall, the specific phrases he used – “entirely lucid,” “clearly understood,” “assured me quite firmly” – felt too perfect, too crafted. It was a script, practiced and delivered with an unnerving smoothness. It lacked the natural pauses or hesitations of a genuine memory.

“Did he mention any concerns about ‘missing pages’?” I asked, throwing in the specific phrase from Arthur’s phone memos. “Or perhaps any documents he was trying to revoke, an older POA for instance, that Thomas might have been blocking?”

For a fleeting second, his composure cracked. His eyes, which had maintained unwavering contact throughout his practiced recitation, darted away, just a fraction of an inch, towards a stack of papers on his desk. It was barely perceptible, a flicker of discomfort, quickly suppressed.

He cleared his throat, regaining his neutral expression. “I’m afraid I don’t recall any such specifics, Ms. Finch. My role is strictly to verify identity and witness signatures. I only notarize what is presented to me and confirm the signatory’s understanding at that moment. Discussions about ‘missing pages’ or prior documents are outside my purview.”

The denial was swift, but the brief flicker in his eyes had been a tell. He knew. Or at least, he was aware of something related to “missing pages” and his role in it. His detailed, almost photographic memory for Arthur’s lucidity suddenly seemed selective.

“So, you’re saying Arthur Finch, despite being on powerful medication, was completely clear-headed and voluntarily signed over his entire investment portfolio to Thomas, without any reservations?” I pressed, my voice tinged with skepticism.

“That is precisely what I’m stating, Ms. Finch,” Peterson replied, his voice firm, his eyes now fixed on me with a renewed, almost challenging intensity. “I am bound by professional ethics. I would never notarize a document if I had any doubt about the signatory’s capacity or willingness.”

He tapped the documents with a manicured finger. “These are legal, binding documents. Your father was of sound mind, and he made his wishes clear.”

I knew he was lying, or at least withholding. His rigid adherence to his “script,” the fleeting eye dart, and the sudden defensiveness when pressed on the specific phrase “missing pages” were all indicators of complicity, not just negligence. He was covering for Thomas, perhaps because he was involved in more than just this one POA. The outline had suggested a pattern, and his behavior now solidified that suspicion.

I stood up, gathering the copies of the POA he’d provided. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Peterson.”

“You’re very welcome, Ms. Finch,” he said, rising with a polite, but now slightly colder, smile. “I trust this resolves your concerns.”

“Not entirely,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly. “But it certainly clarifies a few things.”

I turned and walked out, the tinkle of the bell announcing my departure. The crisp copies of the POA felt heavy in my hand. Peterson had provided legally sound documents and a perfectly rehearsed performance. He was a professional enabler, adept at maintaining an outward appearance of legitimacy while subtly facilitating dubious transactions. He had confirmed his complicity, but I still lacked the smoking gun, the tangible evidence that would prove he knew Arthur was compromised, or that Thomas had actively coerced him. The question of the “missing pages” remained, hanging heavy in the air, an unanswered riddle that Peterson had deliberately sidestepped.

His almost too-perfect account of Arthur’s lucidity, combined with his swift dismissal of the “missing pages” and his quick, averted gaze, cemented my certainty. Peterson was not merely an unwitting participant; he was a silent partner in Thomas’s scheme, carefully crafting his narrative to protect himself and his accomplice. I had the documents, I had his testimony, but I still didn’t have the proof of the manipulation.