Chapter 32 - The Ledger on Mulberry Lane
The evening shadows lengthened across Elm Street, stretching long, indigo fingers over the blooming flowerbeds. After putting the girls down for their early nap, Emily sat at the heavy oak kitchen table with the Woodstock memorandum spread out before her. The lamp cast a warm, yellow pool of light over the faded typewritten pages, highlighting every handwritten annotation in Dr. Thomas Vance's jagged, hurried script.
"The Children’s Aid Society records from 1984 were supposed to be transferred to the state archives in Albany after the Kingston office closed," Richard said, sliding a printed database search across the table. He had spent the last two hours on his laptop cross-referencing corporate filings from the late eighties. "Most of them were digitized twenty years ago. But this specific file—File 44-B—was flagged under a permanent judicial gag order signed by Judge Arthur Pendelton’s predecessor."
Emily traced a finger over the margin notes. "Arthur Pendelton's father."
"Exactly," Richard nodded. "The Pendelton family has handled the legal bookkeeping for the Vance shipping interests since the nineteenth century. Arthur knew more than he let on when he dropped that iron key off at Sarah's office in December. He knew that Kingston Memorial was just the tip of the iceberg."
"So how do we get past the judicial gag order without alerting the state attorney general's office while they're still wrapping up Hannah's sentencing?" Emily asked, her eyes sharp with determination. She was no longer the defensive mother backed into a corner; she was an equal partner in unearthing the rot that had sustained the Vance name for generations.
"We don't go through Albany," Richard said with a faint, knowing smirk. "We go directly to the source. The old carriage house behind the abandoned Pendelton estate on Mulberry Lane. Arthur retired from the bench ten years ago, but he kept his private files in his personal library. If File 44-B exists anywhere outside the state archives, it's sitting in a filing cabinet three blocks from here."
Emily looked toward the hallway where the girls were sleeping soundly. She stood up, untied her apron, and tossed it over the back of the oak chair.
"Get your coat, Richard," Emily said. "We're going for a walk."
The air outside had turned crisp with the evening chill, carrying the sweet scent of damp earth and budding lilacs. The Mulberry Lane estate sat behind a crumbling fieldstone wall, consumed by wild ivy and overgrown boxwood hedges. The main house was dark, boarded up after Arthur Pendelton moved to the senior center, but the small brick carriage house at the rear showed a faint, yellow flicker of light through the dirty windowpanes.
They walked quietly along the gravel path, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves.
Emily stepped up to the heavy oak door of the carriage house and raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles could hit the wood, the heavy bolt inside slid back with a loud, metallic scrape.
The door creaked open. Arthur Pendelton stood in the threshold, leaning heavily on a carved mahogany cane. He wore a worn tweed cardigan, his white hair uncombed, his sharp eyes squinting through thick bifocals as he looked out at them in the moonlight.
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"I wondered how long it would take you to find the Woodstock papers," the old retired judge said, his voice dry and papery. He didn't look surprised; he simply stepped aside and gestured into the warm, book-lined clutter of the room. "Come in out of the draft, Emily. The fire’s nearly out, but the kettle's still hot."
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