Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6)

by Vikki Kestell

  A magnificent old magnolia overspread the lawn. Its deep-green, glossy leaves were the perfect backdrop for the masses of blooms perfuming the air. Kari drank deeply of their scent as C. Beauregard escorted her up the wide semicircular steps to the front door.

  “Ms. Hillyer, may I present my dear wife, Lorene? My darling, this is Ms. Hillyer.”

  Lorene surprised Kari when she embraced her and kissed first one cheek and then the other. Kari was left with the warm scent of powder and perfume and the caress of a softly wrinkled cheek.

  “So lovely to meet you, Ms. Hillyer. I have heard so much about you. We’re delighted to have you in our home.” Lorene took Kari by the arm and led her into a large sitting room. Kari could see, through open double doors, a dining table set for dinner.

  Dinner was pleasant, and Kari was completely charmed by Lorene Brunell, who, with few words, managed to make her guest feel important and valued. Lorene kept the conversation light, easy, and yet fun. Almost immediately, Kari was at her ease.

  How can she be so gracious and caring without being sickeningly sweet at the same time? What an art! Kari was sure Lorene embodied legendary Southern graciousness.

  “Do call me Lorene,” the woman requested with a smile.

  “And please call me Clover,” C. Beauregard asked, that twinkle in his rheumy eyes. “All my friends do.”

  “Clover!” Kari was astonished. And I wondered what kind of nut named their kid ‘C. Beauregard!’

  “It’s a Southern thing, my dear,” Lorene purred, perfectly understanding Kari’s bemusement. When she said “thing” it came out the softest, silkiest “thayng” Kari could conceive.

  “I confess that I have always been loath to place ‘Clover Brunell’ on my business cards or our letterhead,” Clover chuckled. “B’sides, when a caller asks to speak with C. Beauregard or Clover, my staff can tell immediately if the caller knows me personally or not.”

  The three of them laughed, and because Kari was having such a good time, she relaxed further. Tomorrow won’t be too bad, she assured herself.

  “I’m eighty-one years old and semi-retired now,” Clover mentioned during dinner. “But I still keep my oar in at Brunell & Brunell, make sure we’re staying the course, particularly as regards Peter Granger’s estate.”

  Kari was astonished. “Goodness! You certainly do not look to be eighty-one!”

  “Ah, but sometimes these bones will not let me forget it, Ms. Hillyer, I assure you.”

  “Nor will I allow you to forget it,” Lorene reminded him. She turned to Kari. “We just cannot seem to grasp that we can’t do any longer all we used to do with such ease. So we mind each other’s blind spots—he mine and I his.”

  Later that evening Kari explored the suite in which Clover had deposited her. The three rooms were sumptuous with that old-world ambiance—a sitting room, a large bathroom, and a separate bedroom, all appointed in fine, classic style: heavy furniture upholstered in costly fabrics; wall hangings, knick-knacks, and other objets d’art. The suite was pleasing in a manner Kari intuitively knew was only possible with impeccable taste coupled with significant expense.

  She wandered into the cavernous bathroom and eyed the sunken bathtub hungrily. Kari inserted the plug, turned the handles, and a stream of hot water began filling the tub. She studied the variety of bath salts arranged on the tub’s surround and poured a wealth of lavender under the tap, gratified by the soft scent that arose from the filling tub.

  Minutes later she eased herself into the steaming water and sank into its embrace with a sigh of pleasure. After soaking for half an hour, she dragged herself from the cooling bath water, wrapped her languid body in the largest bath towel she had ever seen, and stumbled into the bedroom.

  She had thought she would have difficulty sleeping in a strange bed, especially with the morning’s meeting on her mind. But when Kari slid between the silken sheets she fell at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The following morning, Kari was ready when the front desk rang her room. “Ms. Hillyer, your car is waiting,” the desk manager drawled before hanging up.

  “My car is waiting,” she muttered, sotto voce. “So hoity-toity, aren’t we?”

  She had wanted to don comfortable clothes—jeans, t-shirt, and boots. Instead, figuring the occasion called for a bit more formality, she slipped on a light dress, one of three her attorney had picked out for the divorce proceedings. She wound her long hair up into a reasonable facsimile of a French knot, added pale lip color, slipped on open-toed sandals, and called it good.

  Through the lobby windows Kari spied a long, sleek town car awaiting her at the curb, the same car that had picked her up from the airport. A much younger version of C. Beauregard Brunell greeted her as she approached the hotel doors.

  “Ms. Hillyer? Oskar Brunell at your service. May I escort you to our offices?”

  A woman with flawless caramel-colored skin and sleek black hair waited for her just inside the wide entrance doors. “Miss Hillyer? I am Miss Dawes, executive assistant to the senior partners. We have spoken on the phone.”

  Kari might have been imagining it, but it seemed that Miss Dawes ran a quick but appraising eye over her. Kari stared at the classic and tasteful lines of Miss Dawes’ suit and at her expensive shoes and stockings and realized that her own attire was far too informal by Miss Dawes’ standards.

  Oh, dear. What will Clover think of me? Kari wondered. I’m so underdressed!

  Sweeping another critical glance over Kari, Miss Dawes added in a soft voice, “You may take her back, Mr. Oskar. They are ready for her.”

  Miss Dawes went ahead of them through a large, open, rotunda-like work area. Not just Miss Dawes, but the receptionist and the many lawyers and assistants working within the rotunda all cast their curious, appraising eyes on Kari.

  When Miss Dawes reached her own office, she busied herself at her desk. Oskar turned right and led Kari down an impressive hallway beyond Miss Dawes’ office, past several empty offices, and opened the door to a conference room.

  Kari faltered. The room was impressive—a solid mahogany table stretched the length of the room—a room whose walls were papered in ivory watered silk and hung with the imposing portraits of (Kari presumed) former and current Brunell & Brunell partners. Kari was feeling more self-conscious with each step.

  As Oskar swept her into the room, the four men who had been seated at the table stood to their feet and nodded courteously. They, too, seemed to be evaluating her.

  “Ms. Hillyer! You are looking rested and fresh this morning.” Clover smiled, his drooping pale blue eyes welcoming. Kari looked into his honest face and was comforted. Oskar slipped out while she was not looking.

  “May I introduce you?” He waited for Kari to nod; she did, stealing glances at the other three individuals waiting beside their chairs. One man was silver-haired; the second may have been at one time, but he was now mostly bald. Clover and these two men were of a similar age.

  “Ms. Hillyer, may I present Mr. Jeffers Brunell, my brother, and Mr. Clive Brunell, my cousin? We three are the senior partners of Brunell & Brunell. Jeffers, Clive, this is Ms. Hillyer.”

  Kari shook the gentle hands of the two aged men and then cut her eyes toward the fourth person in the room. He was much younger, perhaps in his late forties. His skin and hair gleamed a deep ebony. He nodded and smiled as Kari’s eyes swept over him.

  “And Ms. Hillyer, last but certainly not least, may I present Mr. Owen Washington? He is our lead investigator.”

  Clover gestured with a pleased smile toward the black man, “Mr. Washington is to be credited with finding you—at last! Mr. Washington, Ms. Hillyer.”

  Owen Washington’s hand was warm and his clasp firm. “A pure pleasure, Ms. Hillyer,” he murmured in the melodic tones Kari was finding to be so universal of New Orleans.

  Clover held a chair for Kari at the head of the table and seated her. The four men took their seats, two on each side, and turned their attention toward
her. Kari swallowed—hard—and tried to remain calm.

  Clover was seated on Kari’s right. He poured a glass of water for her from a cut glass decanter sitting on a sparkling silver tray and placed it within her reach.

  “Now, Miss KariAnn—may we call you Miss KariAnn?”

  Kari nodded. “Just, er, Miss Kari, please. I . . . I’ve never used KariAnn.” Only Mommy and Daddy have ever called me KariAnn, she did not add. “I much prefer Miss Kari to Ms. Hillyer.”

  “Very well, then, Miss Kari, let us start with what we can tell you regarding Mr. Granger and his association with our family and our firm, shall we? The history of Mr. Granger’s estate will be of interest to you, I believe.”

  Clover shuffled a few papers before he began. “Our records indicate that Mr. Granger came to New Orleans a decade after the turn of the century—1911, to be exact. He immediately purchased a home for himself, his brother’s widow, Alicia, and her son, Michael. Your father was, at that time, a newborn.”

  Kari’s eyes widened. My middle name is Alicia! She willed herself not to become emotional. “I know so very little—nothing, really—about my father. Are you sure this is him? Are you sure this is my father?” Her voice squeaked at the end.

  With a genteel flourish of his hand, Clover deferred to Owen Washington, seated to his right.

  “We are quite confident that he is your father, Miss Kari,” Washington replied. He consulted his notes. “Michael and Bethany Granger passed away on October 8, 1958, as the result of a vehicular accident. The accident occurred on eastbound Route 66, about halfway between Gallup and Grants, New Mexico, while Mr. and Mrs. Granger were pulled off to the side of the road, presumably because of car difficulties.

  “We have obtained copies of the police report on the accident and the intake forms with New Mexico social services. They both clearly identify you, and we have determined that this is the same Michael Granger who was nephew to Peter Granger.”

  Kari nodded and stared at the table in front of her. After a moment Clover cleared his throat. “Miss Kari, may I continue?”

  “Yes,” Kari whispered.

  Clover cleared his throat again. “Mr. Peter Granger—I’ll refer to him as Mr. Peter as we go forward—established himself as a reputable financial advisor in our fair city. He did very well for himself, very well indeed, even through the market crash of 1929 and the turbulent decades following.

  “When he withdrew from the market prior to the crash, he recommended that his clients do likewise. He then advised them to eliminate all debt and to invest directly in real estate, gold, silver, and other precious metals. I won’t go into his other advice over the following difficult years, but the few of his clients who followed his direction survived and many did well.”

  Clover smiled. “Our father—that is, Mr. Jeffers’ and my father—and our father’s brother, Mr. Clive’s father, were clients of his. Because of Mr. Peter’s timely advice, our family survived the Great Depression and prospered in the years following. Mr. Peter later—much later—became a client of our law firm.”

  Clover spoke earnestly. “Our family could have lost everything when the markets crashed, Miss Kari. Our debt of gratitude to him is one of the reasons we, as a family, have taken such care with his estate. Another reason has to do with the nature of Mr. Peter’s will. I will cover that as we progress.”

  He consulted his notes. “Although Mr. Peter was known to be scrupulous in his business dealings, Father recounted that Mr. Peter was not an easy man to interact with other than on a business level. Oh, his manners were perfect and he mixed with the socially elite with ease, but it was all quite superficial.

  “He was aloof, perhaps even guarded, in his personal life. He grew a reputation in the city for being utterly cold-blooded in his dealings when the situation required.

  “His clients loved him for his accuracy in the markets and his ruthlessness when it came to protecting their accounts, but they took care to never ‘get on his bad side,’ was the term I believe Father used. It seems that he formed no personal connections or friendships of significance that we know of.

  “As far as our records show and family history tells us, Mr. Peter had a satisfactory home life. While he could be cold and impersonal, the singular exception to this regarded his nephew, your father.”

  Kari looked at Clover now and hung on his every word.

  “Father told us that Mr. Peter doted on Mr. Michael, and they were often seen together in public as the boy grew. When Mr. Michael was still in the stroller, Mr. Peter took to taking him for long walks through their neighborhood. Later, when Mr. Michael was in elementary school, Mr. Peter was known to drive him to classes and pick him up daily. The only affection Father ever observed in Mr. Peter was toward that child.”

  Clover made a note on his pad and nodded to himself. “Sadly, I must now speak of the estrangement that later occurred between Mr. Peter and Mr. Michael. But perhaps you would care for a short recess?”

  Kari blinked and looked at Clover. “Please don’t stop! I am learning so much about my . . . family.” She choked as she said the word and cut off a sob before it could escape.

  Clover nodded, his expression grave and considerate. “It is a great deal to take in, my dear. Please tell us if you need a moment to compose yourself at any time.”

  Kari nodded.

  “The Grangers’ home life continued in the fashion I described. Mr. Peter’s sister-in-law, Alicia, never remarried, and she seemed content to raise her son and care for Mr. Peter’s needs. However, in 1926, when Mr. Michael was about fifteen, Miss Alicia became ill. Cancer, I believe it was. She passed away in 1927 when Mr. Michael was sixteen.

  “It appears that Alicia Granger was the glue that held their little family together. When she passed away, Mr. Michael had a very difficult time. According to what has been passed down to us, Mr. Peter was not the most empathetic individual, even for a doting surrogate father. He was unable to sympathize with the boy on an emotional level or help him through his grief and loss.”

  Clover cleared his throat. “A short while before the illness of his mother was diagnosed, Mr. Michael made a new friend, a boy nearly a year older than him. He visited a church with this young friend of his and experienced a spiritual conversion. In short, he became a Christian.”

  Kari’s mouth dropped open. “A Christian?”

  Clover, something inscrutable flashing across his face, only responded, “Yes, ma’am, a Christian. A very devout follower of Christ.”

  My father was a Christian? One of those religious fanatics that I so despise? The few memories Kari had of her father—more impressions than concrete memories—tumbled about in her mind, in conflict with her aversion to all things “Christian.”

  Daddy! Kari’s whole sense of love, completeness, and security was tied to the memories of his embraces, to the peace she experienced when she remembered being held in his arms.

  Daddy was a Christian?

  Clover didn’t seem to notice her disconcerted manner. He looked down at his notes and frowned. “I regret to tell you this, Miss Kari, but Mr. Peter was something of an avowed atheist. While he took pains to conduct himself in the utmost respectable fashion, he held what might be described as a deep bitterness toward Christianity.”

  Kari’s mouth twisted. So I have something in common with Peter Granger, my great-uncle? How ironic.

  Clover was still talking. “When Mr. Michael professed his faith in Christ, Mr. Peter was . . . shall we say, displeased. Mr. Michael, however, held to his convictions. He began attending church regularly and became quite ardent in his beliefs.”

  Clover took a moment to wipe his brow. “This part of my narration may sound terribly incongruous, Miss Kari but, as it turns out, I was that new young friend who invited him to church. It was my father who took him under his wing and mentored him in his faith.”

  “You. And your father.” The words that fell from Kari’s mouth were flat. Cold.

  Clover cleared his
throat. “The fact that our family introduced Michael to Christ and encouraged him in his faith caused a sizeable rift between our father, Leonard Brunell, and Mr. Peter. Mr. Peter continued to act as our family’s financial advisor, but the two of them did not speak outside of his office for years.

  “In public, Mr. Peter was quite cold toward us. Unfortunately, Mr. Peter’s relationship with Mr. Michael also declined.

  “When Mr. Michael graduated with honors from college preparatory school at age eighteen, he was accepted into Washington and Lee University to study business. He attended there for three years. During that time, he grew in his faith and became active in many outreaches.

  “Just before his senior year, he felt that the Lord was calling him into ministry. After graduation, he wanted to go to Bible college. This, even though Mr. Peter had made no secret that he planned for Mr. Michael to work with him and succeed him in his business.

  “I remember well when Mr. Michael announced his plans to Mr. Peter. It was a dark day. Mr. Peter declared that he would not pay Mr. Michael’s senior year tuition if he persisted in his plans and if he continued his association with our family. He felt we were to blame for his ongoing estrangement from Michael, you see.”

  Clover met Kari’s gaze with sad eyes. “As a young man I was one of your father’s closest friends, Miss Kari. Mr. Peter’s declaration meant the end of our friendship. Mr. Peter was so incensed and intractable on this point that the relationship between Mr. Peter and Mr. Michael grew more and more tenuous.”

  “You knew my father that well?”

  “Oh, yes, my dear. Another reason I, personally, am so confident in proceeding with the probate of this estate is because, Miss Kari, you have the look of your father.