Tyler slid the papers toward Grandma like he was doing her a favor. “Sign it over to me. I’ll sell the building to the developer, give you a little allowance, and you can finally rest. You’re seventy-eight, Grandma. Nobody expects you to keep playing baker.”
Grandma opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
So I spoke instead.
“Tyler,” I said, folding my napkin, “before she signs anything, you should probably know who the bakery’s accountant has been for the last four years.”
He rolled his eyes. “Some small-town CPA, who cares.”
“Me,” I said. “I’m a forensic accountant with Brennan & Yu in Asheville. I’ve been doing Grandma’s books pro bono since Grandpa died.”
The smirk slipped half an inch.
“Which means,” I continued, pulling my phone out, “I noticed in March that someone using Grandma’s old POA — the one she signed in 2019 when she had her knee surgery, the one she forgot to revoke — had been quietly draining the bakery’s secondary account. Forty-two thousand dollars across nine months. Routed to a shell LLC in Delaware called Hartwell Holdings.”
Tyler’s fork hit his plate.
“Hartwell,” I said, “is your mother’s maiden name, Tyler.”
Aunt Diane went the color of the cranberry sauce.
“I filed the report with the state attorney general’s office on Monday,” I added. “That’s actually why I drove up early. To warn Grandma. I didn’t realize you’d be brave enough to show your face.”
Tyler stood up so fast his chair tipped. “You can’t prove —”
“I have the wire confirmations, the IP logs, and a notarized statement from the bank manager who flagged it,” I said gently. “Sit down, Tyler. We haven’t had pie yet.”
Grandma reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her grip was stronger than it had been all night.
Then she looked at Tyler, and for the first time in forty-three years of feeding this town, Ruth Caldwell’s voice went cold as January.
“Get out of my house,” she said. “And leave the watch. I think the bakery’s earned it back.”
He left the watch.
