Chapter 2 - VIVIENNE’S JEWELRY
The first thing Blythe asked after we left the club was:
“Can I keep Mommy’s necklace tonight?”
I looked at the chain.
Police had photographed it.
No one had claimed it needed to be seized.
“Yes.”
“Can I wear it?”
“Not to bed.”
“Why?”
“Because necklaces and sleeping are a bad combination.”
She thought.
“Rex sleeps with one.”
Rex was a stuffed dinosaur.
“Rex does not breathe.”
She accepted that.
At home, I placed the necklace inside a small dish beside my bed.
Blythe slept next to me.
Not because she was physically hurt.
Because she had spent an afternoon hearing adults say her dead mother’s belongings did not belong to her.
That night, I opened Vivienne’s estate file.
I had not looked at it in almost two years.
Most of the probate had been simple.
Household property.
Investment accounts.
Life insurance.
Vivienne had left me the marital assets we already shared.
She had left Blythe a child trust.
Jewelry instructions were less formal.
A schedule attached to her will listed certain personal items.
Silver oval necklace.
Pearl-and-gold necklace.
Emerald earrings.
Mother-of-pearl bracelet.
Two rings.
A vintage watch.
All to Blythe, held by me until reasonable age.
I stared.
Pearl-and-gold necklace.
The one Maris wore?
Maybe.
Description alone not enough.
Photographs would help.
Then the club.
No obvious Briarhaven asset appeared on the probate inventory.
Nothing remotely resembling a country club.
I called Naomi Price, my attorney.
She was not Vivienne’s probate lawyer originally, but she had helped me review the estate after closure.
I read her the document.
She stopped me twice.
“Exact language?”
I read it.
“Is there a signature?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“Vivienne’s.”
“Witnesses?”
“Two initials at bottom. Hard to read.”
“Notarized?”
“No obvious seal.”
“Title?”
“Transfer memorandum.”
Silence.
Then:
“Rafferty, do not start telling people Blythe owns the club.”
“I already asked Mother why the document says that.”
“That is different.”
“Does she?”
“I don’t know.”
Good.
No instant miracle.
Naomi continued:
“A handwritten transfer memorandum could be evidence of intent, a draft, a side letter, or part of a larger transaction. We need corporate records.”
“Why hide it in jewelry?”
“I cannot answer that.”
Neither could I.
Then:
“Who owns Briarhaven according to public records?”
I did not know.
That embarrassed me.
My family had belonged to the club for three generations.
I had attended board dinners.
Fundraisers.
Christmas parties.
I knew the head chef’s name.
I did not know who legally owned the place.
Naomi did preliminary research.
Operating company:
Briarhaven Country Club, Inc.
Property owner:
Briarhaven Grounds LLC.
Holding entity listed in some filings:
Briarhaven Holdings Partnership.
Ownership not fully public.
Private membership club.
Of course.
Then my mother called.
I did not answer.
She left voicemail.
“Rafferty, that paper has been misunderstood. Do not humiliate Vivienne by turning an old planning document into public scandal.”
Humiliate Vivienne.
Interesting.
Not:
It is forged.
Not:
I have never seen it.
Misunderstood.
I saved voicemail.
Then Maris texted.
THE NECKLACE WAS GIVEN TO ME BY MOM.
Which mom?
Ours.
Honora.
That did not establish Honora owned it.
I did not reply.
Then I searched photographs.
Vivienne.
Anniversary.
Lake.
Pearl-and-gold necklace.
Same.
Almost certainly.
Another photograph.
Christmas three years ago.
Same clasp.
Then one from after Vivienne’s diagnosis.
She was wearing the silver necklace Blythe recovered.
Blythe was on her lap.
Vivienne’s hand covered the child’s small fist.
I sat staring until my vision blurred.
I had spent two years believing the jewelry was safely stored in a bank box Mother helped manage after Vivienne died.
Why did Mother help?
Because I could barely function.
Blythe was three.
I had funerals.
Insurance.
Doctors’ final bills.
A child asking when Mommy came home.
Mother said:
“Let me handle the valuables.”
I said yes.
Convenience.
Trust.
Grief.
Now Blythe had found at least one piece in Maris’s possession and another being taken from a velvet box at the club.
I had not even known the box had been removed from storage.
Then Naomi called again.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“I found a historical reference.”
“To what?”
“Briarhaven Holdings Partnership issued a substantial block of units to a trust associated with Vivienne’s father eleven years ago.”
I stood.
“How substantial?”
“Not public.”
“Who was her father’s trustee?”
“Unknown yet.”
Vivienne’s father had died before we married.
She rarely discussed his estate.
Their relationship had been difficult.
Briarhaven had been his obsession.
I remembered her once saying:
“I’d sell that ridiculous club before I let it decide who my daughter becomes.”
At the time Blythe was still a baby.
May you like
I thought she was joking.
Now I wasn’t sure.
