“We should have cited him,” David said, his voice loud in the cramped cabin. “The rules apply to everyone, Robert, even the retired ones.”
He bent down to adjust his boot lace and spotted a crumpled sheet of legal paper wedged between the passenger seat and the center console. It must have fallen from Arthur’s pocket when he leaned into the car earlier.
David smoothed the paper over his knee, his eyes scanning the typed lines. “What is this?”
I glanced over and saw the heading of a standard county land deed. It was a transfer of ownership for Arthur’s back pasture, the twenty-acre parcel that bordered the creek.
“Let me see that,” I said, reaching over to take the paper from his hand.
“Is he selling off his property?” David asked, his pen already hovering over his notepad.
I did not answer him, pocketing the document instead.
I walked into the town hall at half past four, the cool air inside smelling of lemon wax and old paper. Martha, the county clerk, sat behind the counter, her glasses hanging from a silver chain around her neck.
