Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6)

by Vikki Kestell

  “Mr. Michael had blue eyes—extraordinary eyes, I might add. You have those same extraordinary eyes, Miss Kari. You have his eyes, his curling golden-brown hair, and many of his facial expressions. You are tall and slender like him, too. The resemblance is quite uncanny.”

  Daddy’s blue eyes! Yes, I remember! Kari looked Clover in the face and unconsciously slid her hand across the table toward him. “Clover, would you be able to tell me more about him . . . later?”

  “It would be my honor, Miss Kari.” Clover patted her hand and squeezed it gently.

  “But . . . but then what happened?” Kari had been drawn into the drama to the exclusion of the others in the room.

  Clover again looked down. “What happened? Well, after much soul searching, Mr. Michael decided to strike out on his own, Miss Kari. He did not return to university. Instead, he set out to make his own way, and . . . he never returned. He was, I believe, about twenty-two years old when he left.”

  The large clock in the corner of the conference room ticked away steadily as Kari digested this information.

  All because of his ‘faith’? Kari felt resentment rising. He cut ties with his only family for his ‘faith’? I grew up entirely without family because of that?

  Washington took up the narration. “Miss Kari, you already know where you were born—Las Cruces, New Mexico. What you perhaps do not know is how your parents were occupied in Las Cruces at the time you were born.”

  “You know?” Kari perked up. “Can you tell me? Can you tell me what my father did for a living? Where we lived?”

  Washington looked to Clover before going on. “We know a little, Miss Kari. The little we learned was enough to help us form a timeline from when he left New Orleans until about 1951. Two years ago we finally located the Bible school from which he graduated in 1936. By digging in some very old school records, we were able to trace him to a small church where he interned after graduation and became the church’s youth leader.

  “Later he pastored a little church in South Carolina where, apparently, he met and married your mother, Bethany. We even have a copy of their marriage license, but the only information we have about her was that . . . she was an orphan.”

  Kari squeezed her eyes closed. It was too much—and not enough!

  Daddy! You were a minister? It’s not bad enough you were a Christian that you had to also throw your life away as a minister? And not a scrap of information about Mommy?

  Washington, unaware of Kari’s distress, kept speaking. “Michael Granger pastored three churches in the following years. When we traced him to Las Cruces—where you were born—we found that he had been the associate pastor of a small Spanish-speaking church. The aging widow of one of the church’s deacons remembered your parents and told us that he and your mother came to their church to learn Spanish and prepare to be missionaries in a Spanish-speaking country.”

  “Missionaries!” Kari was astounded—and appalled.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Washington nodded and removed a letter from his folder. “I have a letter from that church’s denominational headquarters. It tells us that in 1953 Michael and Bethany Granger were commissioned to teach and assist pastors in the nations of Nicaragua and Honduras. They and their little daughter, KariAnn, age one, left for the mission field in early fall.”

  “Nicaragua and Honduras . . .” Then it’s no fluke, no special aptitude, that I learned Spanish so easily . . .

  “They remained in Central America for five years, but in 1958 they were required to return to America for a sabbatical . . .”

  “That’s when they died.” Kari was surprised that she had spoken aloud. “October. The fall of 1958.”

  “Yes. We believe they had not been back in the country for more than a week when they perished.”

  The many possibilities that could have been rained down in Kari’s imagination. The life that might have been and should have been had her father not insisted on his own way, insisted on being a Christian—

  Quite suddenly the air in the conference room was too thin, and Kari felt she could not catch her breath. “Excuse me,” She pushed the chair back and got to her feet. “I need . . . some air, please.”

  She bolted toward the door, holding the wall as she escaped, the edges of her vision dimming. She drew deep, choking breaths as she raced through the hallway, flying past Miss Dawes’ office, stumbling through the foyer and open work area with all its watching eyes, and out the front door.

  The air outside was heavy with moisture and the scent of flowering trees and shrubs. Her chest heaved as she tried to pull deep breaths into her lungs. Kari dropped onto the steps and sat with her head down. All she could think of was what Clover had just told her.

  Daddy was a Christian.

  A stupid, stupid Christian!

  How could you, Daddy?

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 5

  “Miss Kari?”

  Kari had half expected Miss Dawes to come find her and drag her back, sniffing and tsking over her appearance. But it was Owen Washington who squatted at the bottom of the steps below Kari and peered up at her with concern.

  “I’ll be all right,” Kari muttered. “Just give me a minute.” She was still lightheaded, but she knew it would pass soon.

  Washington nodded and said nothing. He stood and went to the other side of the wide steps leading up to the entrance and leaned against the railing, soundlessly whistling.

  When Kari got to her feet, Washington took a few steps in her direction. “Still dizzy?” he asked, ready to steady her.

  “A little. Thank you.” Kari sighed. “How much longer will this take, do you think?”

  “Depends on how you feel,” he answered. “The partners cleared their entire morning but we still have a lot to cover.”

  “And I’m wasting their time, is that it?”

  “I’d hardly call it a waste of time. The Seniors, as we call the three senior partners, only work part-time these days, mostly guiding the direction of the firm. They don’t keep office hours and rarely do any of the work. However, the chance to close the Granger estate lit a fire under all three of them. They’ve been in the office all week, barking orders and getting ready for today’s meeting.”

  He chuckled. “Besides, Mr. Clive requires frequent restroom breaks these days. Your timing was perfect. I think he’s good for another hour now.”

  “He is, is he?” Kari grumbled. Under her breath she muttered, “Old geezer.”

  Washington’s laugh was loud and spontaneous. “He’s a cool old guy, but ‘old geezer’ about sums him up. How about you? Are you good for another hour?”

  She sighed. “I think so. I’m just . . . this wears me out when it happens. But I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so. But, if I may suggest something? Please remember that you are the client, and we are here to serve you—not the other way around, yes?”

  Kari nodded, looking dubious.

  “When we go back in that room, I recommend that you enter it boldly with no more than a, ‘Thank you for your indulgence.’ Sit right down, look Clover in the eye, and say, ‘Please continue.’ Nothing else. Think you can do that?”

  Kari laughed and shook her head. “Like I own the place, huh?”

  “Exactly. Can you do that? You’re here to receive an inheritance, remember?”

  “An inheritance. Ha! Well, I’ll give it a try. What do I have to lose other than my dignity? Oh, wait. I’ve already lost that.”

  Washington grinned. He opened the front entrance doors and Kari marched inside, her chin up, looking straight ahead. By the time he opened the door to the conference room, Kari was able to do just as Washington had suggested.

  She stared at the wall while Washington held her seat and slid it up to the table. She murmured a “Thank you for your indulgence” and “Please continue, Mr. Brunell” using the same words Washington had suggested.

  Why, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, she sneered. Scarlett O’Hara could not have do
ne it better.

  Clover responded with a courtly nod and Kari thought she glimpsed something like approval in his eyes. “Certainly, Miss Kari. Gentlemen, are we ready to proceed?”

  Clover addressed her again. “Miss Kari, I would be delighted to tell you much more about your father in private at a later time. Now, if it suits you, we will read your great-uncle’s will and give an accounting of his estate.”

  “Yes, that would be fine.” Kari was grateful for Clover’s offer.

  She tipped her chin up until it was level with the table and again fixed her eyes on the back wall. She focused all of her energy on keeping her body composed and her chin up.

  “Very good,” Clover responded. He gestured across the table. “Mr. Jeffers, would you please read the will?”

  “Why, I certainly will, Clover. It would be my pleasure. And Miss Kari, if at any time a point is unclear, please just wave your little hand and ask your question.” Jeffers’ personality was sweet and homey, his voice crackling with age.

  Kari, whose work had often involved complex documents, nodded and said nothing. I know how to read, she bristled, keeping her face impassive.

  Jeffers lifted some papers, held them about ten inches from his face, and began to read. Kari, with her eyes on the ivory watered-silk wallpaper across the room, zoned out as he read the date of the will—June of 1957—and the usual “being of sound mind and body” and other introductory legalese.

  She began paying attention when he intoned, “I am an unmarried man, having never married, and I have no children, living or dead. My only living relative is Michael Daniel Granger, born February 2, 1911, the only child of my late brother, Willis Granger, deceased prior to Michael’s birth.

  “I hereby bequeath the entirety of my estate to Michael D. Granger. Should his death precede mine or, should his death occur before my executors locate him, I bequeath the entirety of my estate to his offspring.”

  Kari swallowed but kept her gaze fixed on the back wall. She clamped her teeth together to keep her expression neutral.

  “I have had no communication with my nephew for many years now, a situation for which I assume all responsibility. If, at the time of this reading, Michael is present, I wish him to know how deeply I regret our estrangement. It is my hope that he will find it in his heart to forgive me and my unwillingness to allow him to choose his own path.”

  Tears pricked the backs of Kari’s eyes and her clamped jaw was no longer working to keep her emotions under control.

  Great-uncle Peter forgave her father? Forgave him for becoming a Christian?

  The pricking in her eyes threatened to overflow and spill out; Kari’s jaw, clenched as tightly as she could manage, was trembling.

  Daddy could have gone home? Oh, Daddy!

  Jeffers droned on, and Kari heard, “If at the time of this reading, however, Michael is not present, it is only because the many investigators I have hired over the years have been unable to find him. I say this because I have been searching diligently for him these past twenty-four years.

  “I have lived through many troubling times, including two terrible wars. The world we live in has, in many ways, been turned upside down, making it even more difficult to find Michael, and I am now eighty-five years old. I don’t know how much longer I will be around, for, to my everlasting surprise and displeasure, I confess that I am growing feeble.

  “I am therefore making it the responsibility of the firm charged with executing this will to continue the search for my nephew and heir. I have made adequate financial provision for this responsibility, and I charge my executors with the following instructions and requirements:

  “One: They are to maintain my home and properties in the manner and style I have maintained them, keeping them ready for Michael’s return.

  “Two: They are to manage the finances and holdings of my estate in the manner in which I direct in the attached codicil.

  “Three: My estate shall not, under any circumstances, be subject to sale or probate until it has been bequeathed upon Michael or his direct descendants, except as directed below.

  “Four: If, after fifty years of following these directives, Michael or his descendants have not been located, the entirety of my estate will fall to my executors.

  “I am depending upon Brunell & Brunell to execute my requirements faithfully. Leonard Brunell, his sons, his brother, and his nephew profess to serve a God who is faithful. By that same God I charge him, his family, and his firm to be equally faithful to the responsibilities and duties which they have willingly undertaken and for which they will be generously compensated.”

  Jeffers looked up then. “That concludes the reading of the will.”

  Tears were streaming down Kari’s face although she stared steadfastly through them toward the back wall. Why? Why am I so emotional; why is this affecting me so?

  “Perhaps another brief recess?” It was Clover’s voice. Murmurs of assent followed him. The room emptied.

  A gentle hand rested on her shoulder for the briefest moment. “We know you’re hurting, Miss Kari. You have had considerable turmoil in your life lately. It’s all right to cry. You go right ahead now, hear?”

  She heard Clover shuffle through the door. When it clicked shut she leaned her forehead on the hard surface of the venerable conference room table and wept. She wept harder than she had in a very long time.

  Kari knew that her sobs had to have been heard by those outside the door—heard for quite a while. Clover had placed a box of tissues near her elbow before he left her alone to cry. She had finished a few minutes ago and was now sopping up her tears with handfuls of the tissues.

  “Miss Kari?” Owen Washington peeked into the conference room. “May I come in?”

  “Yes.” Kari wiped her nose a last time.

  “Would you care to use the ladies’ powder room to wash and cool your face?”

  “Yes, that would be good.” Out in the hallway he directed her to a ladies’ room close by. She bathed her face in cold water and felt better immediately. When she returned to the conference room, they were waiting for her again.

  This time Kari took her seat without a word and nodded to Clover.

  “This last portion of our meeting today should be easier, Miss Kari. Clive has prepared a detailed rendering of the estate, which he will read aloud. You may follow along with your own copy.”

  Clive passed around bound copies of the document and Clover placed one in front of her. Kari’s eyes were red and tired; she did not open it, deciding to just listen.

  “The details in the document are quite specific and complete—exhaustive, I should say,” Clive opened. “I will read the simplified listing on pages twenty-three through twenty-six. Please do stop me if you have a question.”

  Clive donned a pair of half-spectacles, peering over them at her and then through them at the list. He reminded Kari of Santa Claus perusing his Christmas toy list.

  “Well, then, shall we begin?” He cleared his throat one last time. “Item one, the house and its furnishings on Marlow Avenue. Item two—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Kari hadn’t realized she was going to speak.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “A house? Is it empty, then? I mean, unoccupied? Is that what he meant in the will by ‘maintain my home’?”

  “Yes, miss. No one has lived in it since Mr. Peter’s passing. Brunell & Brunell keeps the house, its furnishings, and the grounds in well-serviced order—the roof, the furnace, the plumbing. In short, everything. The furnishings are protected, of course, but the covers are shaken and the house dusted and swept weekly.”

  “It would take a few days to ready it for you to occupy,” Jeffers inserted, “but not long.”

  Kari paused and frowned. “But are the, er, taxes paid up?”

  “Of course, Miss Kari.” Clive looked at her expectantly, as though waiting for a real question, something of any depth or difficulty.

  “And the mortgage?”

  “I b
elieve . . .” Mr. Clive consulted his notes, “Yes. Mr. Granger paid cash for the house when he bought it. The house has never been mortgaged and is completely unencumbered.”

  Kari was stunned. I own a house? A paid-off house of my own?

  Clive continued. “Item two, commercial properties—” Clive read off a long list of legal descriptions and physical addresses. “Item three . . .

  Kari tried to follow what he said but with each “item” he listed, the words flew from his mouth and stuck to her brain, kicking and screaming for attention—like a fly stuck to flypaper struggles to free itself.

  Rental properties scattered throughout New Orleans.

  A hotel named “The Grand Marquis.”

  Wait—that’s the hotel where I’m staying . . . Kari heard but could not process the list as Clive droned on.

  Holdings in stocks, bonds, and municipal funds.

  Precious metals.

  Utilities and commodities.

  Oil and natural gas wells.

  And bank accounts.

  All eyes at the table were staring at her. “I’m sorry. Did I miss something?”

  “Yes, my dear. I requested that you open your packet to page thirty-three.”

  Kari stared at the copy in front of her before slowly turning through until she arrived at page thirty-three.

  “As you can see from the note at the top, the value of the estate’s various assets are enumerated and calculated from close of business one week ago. The estimated total value of the estate is the figure” (he pronounced it, ‘figger’) “at the bottom.”

  The page swam before her eyes but when she could make out the numbers set in bold font at the page bottom her heart lurched.

  “This can’t be right,” she stammered. “This can’t be right. It’s—it’s too much.” She used her fingernail to count the number of numerals and commas: Two commas. Nine numbers.

  Millions.

  No. Hundreds of millions.

  She looked to Clover for help, imploring his assurance that it was a mistake. He stared back, his eyes steady. Understanding. Sympathetic.

  “I believe I mentioned that Mr. Peter was quite good with his money,” Clover murmured. “We’ve followed his practices and much of the detailed advice he left for managing his holdings. And my son Oskar has done well since he was placed in charge of the assets ten years ago.”