Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

“I can pull the original filing card out of the basement vault, but legally the bank had no option except to cash it.”

“Who wrote my name on that notary page?”

“I can’t tell you that without an official audit request from the county commissioner,” Donald said.

“Under federal disclosure rules, my hands are tied until somebody opens a formal fraud complaint.”

I took the red-stamped receipt off his desk and folded it into my purse.

“Keep that basement vault locked, Donald,” I said.

“I’ll be back for that filing card.”