“So Brandon has disappeared?”
“Without a trace. There’s been no activity on his cell phone, his ATM card, or his credit cards. Apparently, he’d gone to a lot of trouble to establish his identity as Les Wakefield. Must have taken months to build.”
She sipped her coffee before asking another question. “What happens now?”
“I’m not sure of all the legal wrangling, but Moreau says the parish sheriff in St. Denis is putting things in motion to seize the Wakefield assets from Brandon Wakefield and return them to the trust. Sheriff Soileau thinks they’ve located the legitimate heir in South Carolina. This time the bank is requiring a lot more proof of identity before turning over the assets. I called Royce at the bank this morning. He’s talking about exhuming old man Wakefield and doing some DNA testing.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“In limbo. We probably shouldn’t do any work on the place until the ownership is cleared up. That could take months or years. These things can get bogged down in legal stuff for a long time.”
Sadness swelled inside her. Many of the older estates became mired in legal limbo. That was the reason so many antebellum homes fell into such disrepair. Saving Wakefield Manor from that fate had become her passion over the last few months.
She ran her fingers through her still wet hair. “I’m out of a job and out of my apartment. I don’t know what I’m going to do. This was such a big project… I have nothing else coming up.”
“Well, there is something we could do…”
She raised her eyes to meet Dylan’s.
“Royce suggested that it might be a good idea if someone stayed on the place until things were settled.”
“That could be a long, long time.”
He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, his elbows planted on the tabletop. “He said that if I went ahead and did the work I’d already been paid for, he didn’t think anyone would object.”
He shouldn’t do the work, but Royce thought he should anyway. Someone was being a little contradictory.
Sophia wrapped her fingers around her mug, but didn’t lift it to her lips. The warmth penetrated her skin and warmed her cold hands. “That seems a little like he’s bending some rules.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But more importantly, he still wants me to snoop around out there.”
A surge of electrical excitement shot through her. “Why would he want you to do that?”
“Just a feeling he has. A feeling that there’s a secret surrounding the place that’s bigger than the identity of the Wakefield heir.”
“Then let’s find out what it is.”
A moment of understanding passed between them. It seemed as if an unshakable union had been created between them, an unbreakable bond. Whatever it was they had just agreed to do, their decision reeked of danger, a threat that she couldn’t identify but felt down to the marrow inside her bones.
****
The inevitable moment had come when Charlotte would have to interview the former manager of St. Denis First National Bank and Trust. She had dreaded the encounter because Drew was known about the town of Wakefield as a cantankerous old fart. Considering his reputation, Charlotte had decided a face-to-face interview would probably gain her more information.
Charlotte stayed back a step or two and let Royce take the lead. He pounded his fist on Drew Hennigan’s front door. His violent attack on the door was probably unnecessary. It wasn’t like Charlotte was going to arrest the guy. She was well aware, however, of Royce’s harsh estimation of Drew and his competence as bank manager. In her opinion, Drew had done an adequate job preserving the bank’s assets. Royce was being a snot.
Drew opened the door while slicking back his scraggily tuft over a receding hairline. “Royce. Charlotte. What a surprise.”
Surprise? He sounded more like he was being interrupted or inconvenienced.
Charlotte stared into the dark behind him and wondered if he had a friend lurking in the shadows or hiding in the bedroom. He’d cycled through a series of women after his wife had packed her bags and left Drew with all of her credit card debt. It was a wonder the man had been financially able to retire. It wouldn’t have surprised Charlotte to learn Drew had been forced into retirement by a young, progressive-thinking board of directors.
Royce straightened his posture. “Drew, we need to talk.”
Drew’s thick brows drew together. He rubbed the spot where his nose had been broken by a hard-thrown baseball when he was coaching his son’s Little League team fifty years ago.
“What’s she doing here?” Drew nodded toward Charlotte.
“She has some questions she wants to ask you.”
“What about?” Drew glanced at Charlotte over Royce’s shoulder. Curiosity danced in his muddy brown eyes.
She did her best to keep her expression uninformative. If Royce wanted to go after Drew like an angry bull, she’d step back and watch Drew play matador. After all, he appeared ready to wave a red flag in Royce’s face.
“Can we come in?” Royce’s stern question rang with authority, sounding more like a command than a request.
“Not until you tell me what you want to talk about.”
Charlotte intervened before the tense confrontation turned into an altercation. “Drew, some odd things have happened recently out at the old manor house, and I have some questions about the Wakefield Trust. I know you’re the expert on that subject, so I was hoping you could help refresh my memory on some of the history.”
Drew’s angry countenance relaxed. A slight smile creased his lips. “Why didn’t you just say so? I’ll tell you what I can. Come on in.” He glared at Royce while holding the door open wider for them to pass.
After all three of them were seated in the living room, Drew cleared his throat and settled into his worn easy chair. “So whatcha wanna know?”
“I know it was a bit before you were born, but do you remember what happened to Les Wakefield’s wife way back in 1937?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Lot of talk about that, even thirty-five years later when I first started working at the bank.”
“What kind of talk?” Charlotte pressed forward. Drew often needed to be encouraged to keep going.
“Rumor was that he caught his wife with another man. She disappeared and everyone thought Wakefield had murdered her. They never could find her body. That’s what started all those ghost stories. They say the woman can’t rest out there.” Drew pointed toward the swamp.
“So it was assumed he’d dumped his wife somewhere in the swamp and failed to mention her death to the proper authorities?” Charlotte restated the obvious and filled in a few blanks, allowing a bit of humor to creep into her question.
“Lots of folk around here thought he hung himself out of guilt over killing her.” He chuckled. “You know, nobody ever could say for sure who her lover was. Old man Wakefield could’ve killed her over nothing. My momma always said he was mean as a snake anyway.”
“Is it possible she left town without telling anyone?”
Drew lifted his head and stared across the room at the open window. The curtains billowed in a slight breeze.
“Well, I don’t know. I guess it’s possible. Nobody knows for sure cause no one ever found her. You know, things were different back then.”
Yeah, they were.
“And no one in all this time has ever come forward and claimed to be an heir?”
Drew shot Royce a withering glare. “Funny you should ask that… A man came around in the 1960’s, claiming to be Les’s long lost son, so the bank gave over the property to him. Dobie was bank president at the time. Sure did hurt him to give up the trust to an heir. He probably should have done more investigating into the man’s claim because it turned out the man was a fake. Forget which county it was, but a deputy sheriff from up in Tennessee showed up here just about a day too late. As it turned out, the woman was a missing person from Nashville.”
“What was the woman�
�s name?”
A surge of anxiety raced through Charlotte, as if she’d asked the question that was the key to opening up the gates to the deepest, darkest bowels of the underworld. She clenched her fists and tried to shake the feeling away.
Drew leaned forward. “Celia.”
Charlotte’s whole body stiffened.
Royce, who had remained as mute as a stone statue, spluttered and coughed. “Celia? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. That particular Les disappeared along with his wife and was never seen again. Stayed about six months and probably did more work on the old place than any of them.”
“Any of them?”
“Sure. I don’t know where these guys come from. Every fifteen or twenty years or so, someone will show up at the bank and claim to be the rightful heir. Their paperwork will be in order and they’ll take possession. Do some work on the place and then disappear. Odd. Real odd.”
Apparently, Royce could contain himself no longer. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when I took over the manager’s position, Drew? There should have been notes in the Trust files. That’s important information. I would have been a lot more careful to investigate the man’s claim if I’d known all this.”
Drew grinned. “You told me it wasn’t my job to tell you your job, Royce. You remember that?”
Charlotte drew in a deep breath, tired of the pissing match. “How many men have claimed to be heirs over the years, Drew?”
“Let’s see… three, I think. And you know the odd thing about them all?”
Chill bumps formed on Charlotte’s skin.
“All of ‘em named Les with a wife named Celia.”
Royce jumped to his feet. “And you didn’t think that was odd?”
Drew laughed and his derision fell all over Royce. “Of course, I did. I just said so. Every time a new one showed up, I tried a little harder to disprove their claim. Wasn’t until they disappeared that the truth came out about any of them. Why do you think I worked so hard to keep control of the trust?”
Charlotte caught Royce’s gaze and the unspoken dialogue that passed between them made her stomach jerk. It was happening all over again; only this time the truth had been revealed before the current claimant disappeared… Actually, no. According to Nick Moreau, Brandon Wakefield, who had claimed to be Les Wakefield, was missing. History was indeed repeating itself.
****
It had taken all afternoon to set up the conference call at the First National Bank, but Charlotte had managed to get Dylan Hunter and Royce Robichaux in the same room with a speakerphone. On the other end of the line was Leslie Wakefield IV of Columbia, South Carolina. They’d all agreed to leave the lawyers out of it, at least for the time being. Lawyers could complicate even the most straightforward of agreements.
They’d made their introductions, and Charlotte had given the real Les Wakefield a very brief summary of what was happening in St. Denis Parish, keeping a few details to herself for the time being.
“My great-grandmother didn’t want to talk about her childhood in Louisiana. She always said she left in the broad daylight with nothing but the child she carried and the clothes on her back.”
Royce nudged the yellow legal pad in front of him with the eraserless end of a chewed-up yellow pencil. He probably didn’t like where the interview was headed. It appeared Leslie Wakefield IV was a strong contender for heir apparent.
Old man Wakefield’s will had clearly stated his possessions passed from oldest son to oldest son. Strange. Why would he name a son as heir if he didn’t know he had a son? Had Wakefield been aware his wife was pregnant when she disappeared? Perhaps so. Maybe the child wasn’t really a Wakefield. Maybe old man Les’s wife had gotten pregnant by another man, which would mean the man they were conversing with might not really be a true descendant of Les Wakefield. DNA testing would sort out the truth.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Brandon Wakefield?” Royce’s voice shook a bit as he asked. Was he angry or scared?
Charlotte studied Royce, trying to gauge the emotions underlying his seemingly intense reactions to everything concerning the Wakefield Trust.
A long pause followed Royce’s question, and Charlotte had begun to believe the call had dropped. Then, the man in South Carolina spoke again, a hard edge entering his tone. “No, I’ve never heard of him.
His answer didn’t quite ring true.
Les Wakefield cleared his throat. “Why do you ask?”
“Brandon Wakefield stole your identity and tried to claim the Wakefield property.”
A deep sigh traveled all the way from South Carolina across the landline. “So what’s going to happen now?”
It was odd that Wakefield didn’t ask for details. He seemed to want to move away from the topic of the identity theft as quickly as possible.
Charlotte dropped back into the conversation. “I’ve asked the local coroner to get a court order to exhume Wakefield’s bones. Before the local bank signs over the property to you, we’d like to verify by DNA testing that you are the rightful heir. We’ve had too many imposters try to claim the property over the years. Brandon Wakefield opened our eyes to the necessity of doing everything we can to verify heirship this time.”
“I understand. So I guess you’ll want me to come to Louisiana?”
“We can work with your local sheriff’s office to collect a DNA sample from you so you don’t have to travel all the way down here.”
Firm resolve seemed to emanate from the voice coming at them from across half the continent. “No, I want to see the Wakefield estate for myself.” His jerky laughter vibrated over the phone line. “For all I know, you could be conning me. How do I know who you really are?”
Charlotte licked her lips and measured her words carefully. “Of course. Check us out. That would be wise.”
Dylan Hunter finally pushed his soda can away from him, leaned forward toward the phone, and entered the conversation. “There’s one other matter, Mr. Wakefield.”
“What’s that?”
“I believe all the interested parties are present, so what I’d like to propose… Since I’ve already been given a sizable advance to begin Phase I of the renovation project on the manor house, I propose that I finish the work I’ve already begun.”
Royce twisted in his seat and stared at Hunter, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. Royce jumped right in with his opinion. “Should you fail to prove your claim, the bank as trustee of the estate would have no objection to Mr. Hunter finishing the work he’s already been paid for.”
“And if I am indeed the heir to the Wakefield estate then I would not find fault with Mr. Hunter for completing the work he’s been paid for, but I’d like to see the place before I agree to further work.” Wakefield talked as if his inheritance was a done deal.
Charlotte tossed an inquisitive glance at first Royce and then Hunter. They both nodded their heads. Everything on their agenda had been discussed. “Then we have an agreement amongst all the interested parties. Phase I of the renovation will proceed.”
Three voices uttered agreement.
Charlotte turned her attention to the recording device in front of her. “Then let it be known that all three interested parties have agreed to proceed with Phase I of the renovation.” Once she had made the pronouncement, she waited a moment and then tapped the stop button. “Thank you for speaking with us today, Mr. Wakefield.”
“Thank you for contacting me. I’ll probably come for a visit late next week.”
The call ended and Charlotte glanced around the conference table. “So Royce what do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Royce’s response held none of his usual confidence.
Hunter voiced his doubts. “Was it just my imagination? Or did something seem not quite right about the guy?”
“When you told him about the Wakefield Trust, he said he had no idea it existed. His words said one thing, but his tone of voice said another. To me, it sounded as if our news wasn’t a surpr
ise to him.”
Hunter tapped his fingertips on the wood tabletop. “He didn’t act like someone who’d just won the lottery.”
Charlotte snorted. “Not exactly the same thing.”
Royce pushed his chair back from the table. “Isn’t it? When a person finds out they’ve received a fortune through little or no effort of their own, that person tends to react a certain way. He didn’t react at all like I would have expected. Even if the DNA testing proves that he’s a Wakefield heir, I’m getting the bank’s lawyers involved. He’s not getting title to the property just because he comes here to check things out. I hope he knows that.”
Charlotte stood and stretched, hoping to relieve the kink that had settled between her shoulder blades. “Let him come to Louisiana. Once he gets here, I’m keeping a close eye on him. I’m starting to think men named Wakefield are natural-born con artists. All of them.”
Royce rose to his full height, facing Charlotte across the table. “Even old man Les number one back in the 1930’s?”
Charlotte smiled. “Especially old man Les number one. He had something to hide, and even after all this time, I’d like to find out what.”
Royce continued his thoughts. “Don’t you think it’s strange that all of the wives are named Celia?”
“And all of the men are named Les?” Hunter seemed to be in sync with Royce.
Charlotte shook her head. “There’s a secret buried on that property somewhere. The Wakefield family secret. I feel it.”
Hunter studied Charlotte a moment. “You had a strange experience out there, didn’t you?”
She stepped back as if he’d popped her in the mouth. “I don’t believe that paranormal crap.”
“But you can’t explain what happened?”
Dylan Hunter was apparently gifted in pressing his point home in a way a person couldn’t easily dispute without making a scene.
“No. I can’t.”
“I’m going to start work next week.” Hunter’s tone let her know he wasn’t going to back down so there was no use in trying to dissuade him. He had permission to continue the work, which meant he had permission to be on the property.
The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Page 12