The retired estate attorney set a heavy cardboard box on his desk.

He reached inside and pulled out the rusted butter cookie tin I remembered from the top shelf of Beatrice’s closet.

“I had the county clerk pull the original filings from the storage vaults,” Arthur said.

He took off his thick glasses and started polishing them with a gray microfiber cloth.

He squinted at the metal lid.

“Your grandmother kept pristine legal records in this old tin,” he said.

“Why did she need to file motions?” I asked.