Chapter 7 - The Audit of Bellweather Grove
On Tuesday morning, the state auditor from the Department of Health and Human Services arrived at Bellweather Grove.
His name was Marcus Vance—no relation to the bait shop owner, thankfully—and he was thirty-two, wore a rumpled gray suit that looked like it had spent the night in an economy sedan, and carried an iPad that he tapped with an aluminum stylus like a woodpecker searching for grubs in dry hemlock.
Karen Ashby and I sat across from him in the conference room beside the administrative offices. Through the glass wall, we could see the rain washing the last dirty remnants of snow from the dormant hydrangeas along the walkway.
"This is unusually clean for an elder diversion case," Vance said, his stylus hovering over a spreadsheet Karen had spent twenty hours constructing. "Most of the time, the family has dissipated the funds through cash withdrawals that can't be traced without three years of grand jury subpoenas."
"Vaughn Stark was an insurance agent," Karen said, her voice crisp and dry. "He was lazy, but he had an agent’s obsession with documentation. He kept carbon copies of every check he forged because he thought he was building an audit trail to protect himself from the IRS."
"The ninety-five thousand from the title company has already been deposited into the Barry County registry escrow," I added, sliding a certified receipt across the table. "That satisfies the facility’s lien in full."
Vance looked at the receipt, then at me.
"And the checks from the wedding?" he asked.
"Every guest who wrote a check to Vaughn Stark has been contacted by Aunt Loretta," I said. "Uncle Frank personally returned the eight checks that were still uncashed. The relatives have already re-issued them directly to Marin Stark’s care trust."
Vance tapped his stylus against his front teeth, his eyes scanning the final summary page.
"The father," Vance said. "Vaughn Stark. Is he going to contest the change of guardianship?"
"No," a voice said from the doorway.
Diane Miller stood there, holding a blue folder with a fresh county seal stamped on the front.
"Judge Kingsley signed the emergency order twenty minutes ago," Mrs. Miller said, stepping into the room and placing the folder on the table between Vance and me. "Esther Cole is now the sole legal and financial conservator for Marin Stark. Vaughn’s power of attorney has been vacated with prejudice."
Vance picked up the order, looked at the judge’s signature, and nodded once.
"That closes our file," Vance said, snapping his iPad shut with a decisive plastic click. "The state has no further interest in Bellweather Grove’s billing practices in this matter. Mrs. Miller, your facility is in full compliance."
When Vance left, the room fell into that quiet, clean stillness that comes after a long dental procedure—that moment when the drills are off, the suction is quiet, and the patient sits up to rinse the grit from their mouth.
Diane Miller sat down in the chair Vance had vacated.
She looked at me for a long time, her elbows on the armrests, her fingers steepled under her chin.
"Marin isn't staying here, is she, Esther?" Mrs. Miller asked.
I looked out the window at the gray hydrangeas.
"Ellis is building an apartment," I said. "Behind the furniture shop. It used to be his grandfather’s varnish room. It’s six hundred square feet, south-facing, with wide doors and a roll-in shower. He’s putting in three windows that overlook the garden by the canal."
Mrs. Miller smiled—a real smile that erased ten years of administrative weariness from her face.
"She’s been talking about that garden since Saturday," Mrs. Miller said. "She told the kitchen staff this morning that she expects to have fresh dill by June because she refuses to eat canned salmon with dried herbs."
"She’s eighty-four, Diane," I said softly.
May you like
"I know," Mrs. Miller replied. "And every day she spends looking at that canal is a day she isn't looking at my parking lot. You take her home, Esther. Sanford’s desk is already loaded on Ellis’s trailer."
***
