Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6)

by Vikki Kestell

  “Yeah. I, um, don’t recall the exact number. I have a report with it somewhere here in my room. I just counted commas and . . . numbers.”

  “Commas and numbers.”

  Kari exhaled once more. “Two commas and nine digits.”

  Sitting up straight on her bed in Albuquerque, Ruth blinked and her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She reached for her Bible, pulled a recent church bulletin from it, and in its margin scribbled a dollar sign and the number “1” followed by eight zeros. She slowly penciled in two commas.

  Two commas, nine digits.

  $100,000,000.

  The lowest amount it could be.

  “No way,” she breathed.

  As low as Ruth’s words were whispered, Kari caught them. “That’s why I’m scared, Ruth. It’s too much. It’s . . . blowing my mind.”

  In Albuquerque Ruth was still staring at the scribbled number.

  Kari was scheduled to meet with Clover and Oskar in the morning. She slept fitfully and woke before dawn. She showered, dressed, and went down for an early breakfast. When Oskar called for her at 9 a.m. she was waiting.

  “Good morning, Miss Kari. Sleep well?” Oskar Brunell was perhaps in his late forties. He had the same lean and lanky build as Clover and silver was already streaking his hair, but he also possessed Lorene’s amazing gift of making comforting small talk. As their driver wound his way through morning traffic toward Brunell & Brunell, Kari relaxed.

  If I can trust anyone, I can trust Clover and Oskar, her heart assured her.

  Oh? Don’t forget, a strident voice inside cautioned, Clover and Oskar are just two more Christians, bent on converting you—just like they got to Daddy.

  The thought disturbed her. Will I have to weigh every suggestion and every thoughtful gesture against a hidden agenda?

  She shook her head and frowned. That just doesn’t add up, she admitted, checking her interactions with them against the suspicious suggestion.

  Kari realized that Oskar had witnessed her little internal tête-à-tête as it played out across her face. He was watching her, concerned.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I guess I have a lot on my mind.”

  “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t,” he replied in his quiet way.

  Miss Dawes was not waiting for them this morning. Oskar led her straight back, through the gauntlet of inquiring, appraising looks, stopping at his father’s office. “We’ll be in the conference room when you are ready, Father,” he murmured.

  Oskar held out the same seat Kari had sat in yesterday and poured her a glass of water. Clover joined them immediately.

  “Miss Kari. Good morning. How are you today?”

  “I didn’t sleep as well as I would have liked,” Kari admitted.

  “I’m sorry. I hope you will become more comfortable in the next few days. Shall we begin?”

  Clover outlined the services Oskar had been performing on behalf of Peter Granger’s estate. Kari nodded at all the right times, feeling the weight of each task as he listed it. Then Clover surprised her.

  “Miss Kari, if I may be so bold, Brunell & Brunell has been handling your properties and accounts for many years. We can continue to perform these same services until such a time as you wish to make a change.

  “Admittedly, we draw fees for overseeing your home and other properties and for managing your financial holdings. As you become more familiar with your inheritance you may wish to take personal oversight of aspects of them—such as, initially, oversight of the Granger home—your home. We can advise you in any matter or—” Clover leaned closer, “you are perfectly free to take your business elsewhere.

  “What I am hoping to assure you of is that you need not fret or be anxious. Brunell & Brunell will not be legally released from our obligations as executors until probate closes. Afterwards, when we have been released, you may continue to use our firm as long as you wish. Is this clarification at all helpful?”

  Kari released a long sigh. So much you cannot know, she thought. “Yes. Thank you. I appreciate your candor.”

  “Very good, then,” Clover smiled. “Brunell & Brunell is legally still employed by the estate until probate ends, at which time we can sit down again and make any changes you wish. We hope you will remain with us in New Orleans until then.”

  Kari frowned. “What? I mean, I don’t know how I can do that, Clover. Back in Albuquerque I had just moved out of my house and I don’t have an apartment yet. I’m staying with some friends but I can’t impose upon them for long. I don’t yet have a job, I won’t receive my share in the equity of my ex-husband’s and my house for a few more weeks, and I have bills coming due.”

  Oskar and Clover stared at Kari and then exchanged mildly confused looks.

  “What I mean is that I’m proverbially ‘cash-strapped’ right now,” she was quick to add. Kari’s cheeks and neck grew red. “I can’t afford to continue staying at the hotel—or anywhere else in New Orleans for that matter.”

  Clover, after another unspoken exchange with Oskar, cleared his throat. “Miss Kari, Brunell & Brunell as the estate executor has discretion with regards to disbursements from the estate. We would be pleased to help you set up a personal bank account here in New Orleans and deposit an amount in it that should suffice for the next few months. We can arrange for the bank to issue you a credit card at the same time.”

  He searched for the right words. “My dear lady, you really do not need to be concerned about finances anymore. You have, er, plenty of money—more than enough—to remain in New Orleans, at The Grand Marquis—it will soon be your hotel, after all—or, if you care to, you may move into the Granger house as soon as it can be readied for you.”

  Frowning, Kari answered. “I am only one person and I don’t need much. I’m not a spendthrift, and I don’t want to be one. Ever.”

  She looked up and Clover smiled with something like respect. “I am certain you are in no danger of becoming a spendthrift, Miss Kari,” he murmured.

  He turned to Oskar. “Will you arrange your time today to take Miss Kari to the bank?”

  “Certainly.” Oskar inclined his head toward Kari. “Are you available following this meeting?”

  Kari leaned her forehead on her hand and stared at the table. My whole life is changing, she realized. My whole life. Will I even need an apartment in Albuquerque . . . afterwards?

  “Miss Kari?” Oskar was waiting for her answer.

  “Yes. I’m quite available,” she murmured. “And would it be possible for me to spend some time in the house again today? No one need accompany me—if you feel that’s all right. I just want to . . . get better acquainted with it. Where Daddy lived.”

  “I think that is a splendid idea,” Clover responded with enthusiasm. He turned to Oskar again. “Will you also provide her with keys to the house?

  “Of course.”

  Clover transitioned to another topic. “So. That is settled. Now . . .” as Clover opened a file in front of him his demeanor shifted subtly. He reached for the telephone on the conference room table and pressed a button. “Miss Dawes? Please send him in.”

  A moment later the door opened and Washington entered, tipping his head toward Kari. “Miss Kari.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Washington.” Kari smiled a genuine welcome and he took a seat next to Oskar, placing a thick folder on the table.

  “You know, Miss Kari, that Mr. Washington is the investigator we charged with finding Mr. Peter’s heirs?” Clover asked.

  “Yes. You said so.”

  “Quite right. And I did promise to tell you everything of your father that I could?”

  Kari grew excited. “Oh, yes! I so wish to know more of him.”

  “Perhaps I may take you to lunch soon and share some of my memories of our youth together,” Clover suggested. “But we should first hear from Mr. Washington and what his investigation uncovered. I should warn you that in the course of Mr. Washington’s investigation, a few . . . curious facts came to light.
In the spirit of complete transparency, we wish to apprise you of these curious, er, inconsistencies, although we do not yet know what they mean. Mr. Washington?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brunell. Miss Kari, after Mr. Peter’s passing, Brunell & Brunell took possession of all the personal papers found in his house.” Washington opened the folder before him. “Among those possessions were found Mr. Peter’s birth certificate and those of his sister-in-law and your father, Michael Granger.” He was fingering the documents.

  “Oh, may I see them, please?” Kari reached her hand for them. I just want to hold them! she rejoiced.

  “Certainly, Miss Kari.” Washington handed them to Kari who received them with itching fingers. Kari spent a few moments perusing them, noting that her father had been born in Atlanta, Georgia. Atlanta!

  She didn’t notice the uncomfortable quiet in the room for several moments. “What is it?” She looked from Washington to Clover and back.

  “I was not hired by Brunell & Brunell until late 1987—three years ago—to locate Mr. Michael or his heir and . . . the prior investigator apparently did not verify the birth certificates.”

  “What do you mean by ‘verify’?” Kari asked, confused. “Why would that be necessary?”

  “I’m certain the prior investigator thought the same thing, but I prefer a more, shall we say, exhaustive approach. I telephoned each of the offices of the county clerks that issued the certificates where the originals should have resided.”

  “Should have resided?”

  “Um, yes. In each instance, the clerk could not locate the original record. After consulting the senior partners, I personally visited each of the county offices and made a more thorough search for the originals,” he explained. “To our surprise and chagrin, no original documents could be found.”

  “No original documents?”

  “Miss Kari, no records of these births exist except on the papers you hold. I also looked for the parents listed on the certificates. I could find no trace of them either—no birth or death certificates, no marriage licenses, no records at all of the parents listed.

  “We also had the death certificate of Michael’s father, your grandfather, and traced it back to the city that issued it. Like the three counties of origin for the birth certificates, the city of your grandfather’s death had no record of his decease.”

  Kari’s jaw hung slack. “But . . . what does that mean?”

  “We’re not sure it means anything at this date,” Clover inserted in a calming voice. “It may mean nothing at all. The chain of inheritance from Peter Granger to you is unbroken and we certainly will not challenge it, nor will we . . . muddy the water by publicly making the uncertain nature of these certificates known as they do not bear on your right to inherit, but . . . well, we felt you had a right to know.”

  “But know what? What can this mean? Are you saying these papers are not real?” She held the certificates in her hands as she turned to Washington. “What do you think?”

  He nodded. “It is my considered opinion that these are forgeries—very clever, very professional, but forgeries nonetheless.”

  Kari slumped back in her chair. “But if they are forgeries, then . . . then who is Peter Granger? Who is Michael Granger? And for that matter, who am I?”

  “That is a question that, in the almost four years I have been on this case, I still cannot answer,” Washington managed. “As far as the world knows, Peter, Alicia, and Michael Granger are just who those certificates say they are—and you are undeniably Michael’s daughter. We know that your birth certificate is legitimate. I have verified it so.”

  Clover stepped in, his calm voice soothing Kari’s nerves. “Miss, Kari, do you recall how we told you that when Mr. Peter passed away we took all personal papers from the house?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oskar, do you have that box we spoke of?”

  Oskar replied in the affirmative and produced a small cardboard box that had been out of sight on the chair beside him. He stood and placed it in front of Kari.

  “What is this?”

  “It contains all the photographs we found in the house. Pictures of your father as an infant, growing up, and as a young man. Your grandmother and uncle.”

  Kari found herself clutching the box as if it would vanish. “Pictures . . . of Daddy?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You take them back to the hotel with you, hear? They are yours now.”

  Kari could not fall asleep that night. She had gorged on the photographs, had feasted on each one until she was almost ill. The pictures of her father as a young man meant the most to her—she knew this man even if in the images he appeared younger than she’d remembered him. She could almost hear his voice and feel his arms wrapped about her.

  She studied his likeness and compared herself to him—same light brown hair shot with gold. Same eyes. Same nose. Kari was even tall like he was—shorter than him, of course, but tall for a woman.

  But when she looked at the few photos of Alicia, Kari no longer saw a resemblance—not between her and her son; not between her and Kari.

  He must resemble his father, Willis Granger, Kari decided. Willis Granger—my grandfather. She spoke the name aloud: “Willis Granger—my grandfather.” She had so much more family today than she’d had just days ago before arriving in New Orleans!

  Then Kari studied the single family portrait in the box: A sepia-toned image set in a folding cardstock frame. According to the stamp on the back, it had been taken in 1925.

  Kari did the math. Daddy was fourteen.

  She examined the three members of her family together: Alicia seated in the middle, Peter Granger to one side and Michael to the other. Michael’s hand was placed on his mother’s shoulder, a gesture of affection. Peter Granger’s hands were clasped behind him. He seemed a little disconnected from Alicia and Michael. It was the only image of Peter Granger in the box. Curious.

  When she could look at them no more, the images danced in her head. Kari frowned a little and studied the family portrait again. Daddy doesn’t really favor his uncle, either, she realized. And what about the birth certificates? What is that about?

  In some ways, coming to New Orleans had created more questions than answers. And instead of feeling filled and satisfied, all her staring at the photographs had left her empty.

  I still feel alone, she confessed. Even with all this “stuff,” I still have no one and I don’t know who I am.

  She pondered her feelings objectively for a change. All my life I have been by myself. No family. No one. I thought I might be coming home, but that sense of connection I had hoped for isn’t here. Instead, I feel even farther from the truth.

  Sure, she was going to inherit Peter Granger’s fortune—but who was this man? The secrets Clover had confided to her—the birth certificates that attested to Peter Granger, Alicia Granger, and Michael Granger’s identities but, when traced back to the hospitals and county records of origin, did not exist?—troubled her more deeply than she had allowed Clover or Oskar to know.

  Kari lay awake until near dawn, her thoughts swirling around in her head until the knots they had twisted into brought on a pounding headache. She arose around four, took two aspirin, and crawled back under the covers. The air conditioning kept her room at a pleasant temperature, neither too hot nor too cold, and yet she shivered and rubbed the back of her neck where the knotty pain was worst.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 8

  The aspirin must have worked, because Kari at last fell into an exhausted sleep. When she awoke the clock on the stand next to the bed read half past ten.

  At least that blasted headache is gone, Kari sighed. She showered, dressed in jeans and her favorite boots, and made her way, bleary-eyed, to the little café down the street from the hotel.

  “Coffee, please. Café au lait,” she begged when the waitress passed by. Clover had given her ample cash with which to buy her meals in the hotel’s classy restaurant, but Kari felt more comfortable in t
his mom and pop café.

  “Long night?” the waitress asked. “Ya look wrung out, hon.”

  “Long night but short sleep,” Kari replied, scrubbing at her eyes. I need to start jogging or hiking again. I’m getting stiff and lazy.

  “I’ll get y’all’s coffee right away, hon. And y’all need our fresh beignets, too. I’ll jest bring a plate.”

  Kari brightened at the prospect of one of the piping hot confections. While Kari was sipping her first cup and licking powdered sugar from her fingers, she scanned through the list of furnishings from the house she’d compiled, the pieces she thought she might like to keep. Other items there called to her, but she doubted they would “fit” in any home she might rent—or even buy—in Albuquerque.

  I won’t have the class of home these furnishings deserve, she fussed inwardly, but I hate to think of selling any of these precious things. I don’t know if I should sell the house, for that matter! After all, it’s paid for; I could just . . . move in, I suppose. For a while.

  The idea of truly living in such a house tantalized. On the other hand rattling around in the large house by herself in a strange neighborhood—in a strange city!—also gave her a mild case of the creeps. And, after all, did she even want to live in New Orleans?

  Like, who do I know in New Orleans? she asked herself. Not one person other than Clover and his family! And what about Albuquerque? Would I up and leave my friends there?

  Then she had to ask herself the real question, the one she had been avoiding. Just who do I have to go back to in Albuquerque?

  Only Ruth, the Esquibels, and a few old co-workers. The truth was distressing and, before she could catch her thoughts, the same old tune started up: I’m alone. I have no one—

  “Stop it!” Kari spoke the words aloud, snapping herself out of her reverie and out of her spiraling thoughts. She was sitting in the coffee shop and her outburst had drawn curious looks.

  She took a sip of coffee and made herself “try on” the idea of staying in the house—just until I figure out what I want, what I should do. As she turned the idea over in her mind, it surprised her to discover that it seemed right.