by Ron Schwab
“Is that the extent of it?”
“Quite enough I should say, although cash withdrawals from the personal account amounted to some $10,000 that can’t be accounted for.”
Gambling, booze, women and Celeste’s shopping sprees I surmised, although not necessarily in that order. “How much cash does the bank need, Mr. Tilson?”
Tilson didn’t hesitate. “Eighty-four thousand dollars. Fifty thousand dollars to restore the capital stock account. Thirty-four thousand paid into capital to cover the marginal and bad notes. I believe that would restore the soundness of the bank. I wouldn’t fear placing my own funds here under those circumstances, provided you had an audit completed annually by an independent accountant and published a summary report of the bank’s financial status each year for the benefit of the customers. Only a few banks are starting to do this, but they are finding, I believe, it is in their self-interest to do so. Sophisticated customers, who are, of course, often the largest depositors, are shifting their funds to these banks.”
I pondered Tilson’s recommendation. I could not dispute it. The bank could cripple along for a while if I could recover enough from Ralph's other assets to infuse cash to cover all of the questionable notes. But what other assets? I was coming face to face with the prospect that Ralph had died a pauper—and that a run on the bank was just a rumor away.
18
Casey
CASEY MCGLAUN OPENED the squeaky door and entered the front room of Ian Locke’s law offices. A golden-haired girl was leaning over a typewriter, plunking awkwardly at the keys under the apparent tutelage of a young man. The man turned and straightened upon hearing the door open. His black suit hung on him like rags draped on a scarecrow, Casey thought, but his smooth-cheeked handsomeness was striking, and his dark eyes were limpid pools of gentleness. It was fortunate for the ladies of Borderview this man evidently had no clue he had such charisma and charm. A true innocent.
“Ma’am, can I be of assistance?”
“Yes, I’m Casey McGlaun. I’d like to make an appointment to see Mr. Locke within the next day or so, if possible.”
“Miss McGlaun? Yes, of course.” The young man stepped toward her. “I’m Will Heasty, Ian’s clerk. My pleasure, ma’am. You are something of a celebrity in Cottonwood County.”
Casey extended her hand, and Will accepted it clumsily, his face blushing noticeably, but his warm smile extended a genuine welcome. She said, “And this must be Amanda.”
The blonde girl, who had been seemingly absorbed with the typewriter, betrayed that she had been more interested in the stranger than she let on, and turned her head toward the visitor. “Folks here call me Mandy. I’m ‘Amanda’ in Omaha. Should I know you?” Her voice was neutral. The girl was curious, but noncommittal.
“No, but I’ve heard about you from your father and a mutual friend, Emily Stanton.”
Mandy got up from her chair. “You’re Mrs. Wainwright’s lawyer, aren’t you? You’re the lady everybody’s talking . . . I’m sorry. I guess that’s not very polite.”
Casey smiled. “That’s quite alright, Mandy. I’m not so naïve as to think that a lady lawyer who’s defending another lady in a murder case isn’t going to be the topic of a few conversations. People have to talk about something, don’t they?” Casey deftly shifted the subject. “I see you’re becoming a typist.”
Mandy shrugged. “Will’s teaching me, but I’m not much good yet.”
“She’s a fast learner,” Will interjected. “Two sessions and she’s got the keyboard memorized. An unbelievably light touch. She plays piano. I think that has something to do with it.”
“I type,” Casey said, “but I’m slow as a turtle, and I get very impatient. It’s a valuable skill, though, in this age of machines, one that will be a useful tool no matter where life takes you.”
“I’d like to be a lawyer,” Mandy said. “And a concert violinist or pianist.”
“I have a hunch you can be anything you want to be,” Casey said.
Locke’s office door opened, and Locke stepped out. “Am I missing out on something?”
He saw Casey and she was aware of him appraising her with those smoky, gray eyes. She was slightly annoyed at herself, knowing that she had chosen her favorite cocoa-brown dress in anticipation of a possible meeting with Ian Locke. She did not see the man as a potential romantic interest—she had no time for such distractions—but he was one of the few men who had ever made her feel self-conscious about her attire.
“Hello, Ian,” Casey said. “I hope I’m not causing a disruption in your office.”
“Casey, this is a surprise.”
Locke glided across the room and accepted her proffered hand, holding it a bit longer than necessary, Casey thought. She was uncomfortably aware of his touch, and she shrugged off the feeling.
“I dropped by to make an appointment, Ian. There are a few things I need to discuss with you about my client. Would you have time to see me tomorrow?”
“No. I think not,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Then when?”
Locke responded, “How about now?”
“That would be wonderful. But I don’t want to impose.”
“No imposition. I’ve been anxious to talk with you as well . . . about Celeste. Why don’t you step into my office?”
“Certainly.” Casey turned to Mandy, who had been watching her father and the lady law wrangler with interest. “Mandy, if you don’t have other plans, I wonder if you might like to join me for lunch at the Fremont after I meet with your father?”
Mandy looked at her father. “Dad?”
“Sure, Princess. That would be fine. Just remember, afterwards we have to go see Mrs. Beard about piano lessons.”
Locke seated Casey next to his desk and then took his own chair. “I understand you’ve moved in for the duration.”
“Yes, I’ve taken a room at the Fremont. The trial’s to commence a week from today. Judge Hutchens will preside. I appreciate you may not be cheering for our success, but I’d welcome anything you can tell me about the judge.”
“I’d be glad to help, but first let me say I’m not cheering for anybody when it comes to Celeste’s trial. If she’s guilty, I hope she’s convicted. If she’s innocent, I want the jury to acquit. I proceed the same regardless of outcome. Someday, the county judge can decide which will prevails. My immediate concern is to preserve the estate. As to the honorable Conrad Hutchens, I’m glad to share what little I know. I do very little trial work, and, of course, the district court is essentially a trial court. Also, Judge Hutchens serves six counties and doesn’t live in Borderview, so we don’t see a lot of him.”
“I understand he’s an older man.”
“Mid-sixties. About the age of my father, I guess. Patience is not one of his virtues. His health isn’t all that good, and he’ll interrupt the trial frequently to make visits to the chamber pot he keeps in the judge’s office. I recommend brief opening and closing statements if you want to stay on his good side.”
“Brevity is my trademark.”
“Unnecessary objections annoy the hell out of him, too. He’s kind of a cantankerous old devil, but he has a reputation for fairness. He’s known for keeping control of the trial, but he might be a bit obsessed with moving the proceedings along.”
“Is he knowledgeable in the law?”
“By reputation, yes. He’s not a scholar, and like most lawyers in this part of the country, he clerked his way to the bar examination. He tried a lot of cases in Illinois, and, later, Iowa, before he came to Nebraska right after statehood and latched on to a judgeship. Cyrus Flowers, the county’s senior member of the bar, says Hutchens is a lawyer’s lawyer. I trust Cy’s opinion.”
“Your county attorney?”
“First murder case. But he knows his way around the courtroom. He’s no man’s fool. Very bright. He’s never given me cause to doubt his word. Ambitious. Winning this case would give the kind of attention that might get h
im to the state senate. After that, who knows? Maybe congress. Jess Cooper won’t live his life out in Borderview. Too bad. Sooner or later, he’ll be corrupted by power.”
“Lord Acton.”
“Yep. ‘Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I’m inclined to believe that.”
“I won’t argue the point. Anyway, I do appreciate your thoughts, Ian.”
“There are some other things you should be aware of.” Locke told her about the information he had received from Greta Klein, her affair with Ralph and its discovery by Celeste, and the visits by Karl Wainwright and Albert Sweeney to the Wainwright mansion. “I’ve shared this with the county attorney. I haven’t learned any of this information as the result of confidential communications, and I’m obligated, as an officer of the court, to disclose.”
Casey’s expression was intense. “Some of this comes as a surprise. Not all. I’m grateful for your candor. I don’t like being blindsided.”
“One other thing. I may be able to tell you more before trial, but for the moment, I can’t give you any facts to backup what I say. Just keep your eye on Sheriff Bell. He’s deeply entangled with the Wainwright family. I don’t know the extent of his involvement yet, but he’s a piece of the puzzle.”
“I’ll remember that. And now I’d better take my leave. I have a young lady waiting to join me for lunch.”
Locke arose to see Casey to the door. “I’m curious. You just met Mandy. I find it interesting you invited her to lunch. Any particular reason?”
Casey bristled and whirled to face him. “Do I need a reason?”
Locke raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now I know why curiosity killed a cat. Irish temper. No, you don’t need a reason. Peace offering. Emily’s coming out to my ranch for the day Saturday. I asked her if she thought you might be persuaded to accompany her. She said you might if I asked nicely. I’m asking nicely.”
Casey met his gaze evenly and saw the twinkle in his eyes. Her annoyance melted. “Okay . . . if I can take the time away from the case.”
19
Casey
CASEY AND MANDY sat at a small table in the Fremont Hotel’s dining room, as the waiter served each a large plate of roast beef and boiled potatoes smothered with rich gravy. “I’ll bring your apple pie later, ladies. Let me know if you need anything else in the meantime.”
Casey was delighted to note that Mandy shared her healthy appetite. Friends sometimes teased her about her eating capacity, and, while she took it good naturedly, she was occasionally self-conscious about the portions she consumed. Gratefully, she never gained a pound and was unencumbered by the confining corsets most of her contemporaries endured.
Mandy seemed remarkably at ease with this comparative stranger, Casey observed, her poise far greater than her own at eleven years. Of course, she had no doubt dined in many far more elegant places in the society she traveled with in the big city. Casey chided herself for her abrupt reaction to Ian’s query when she was departing his office. She supposed it was because her motives were not entirely noble. She had invited Mandy to lunch, not only because she seemed like such an interesting girl, but also for the reason she sensed a loneliness—no, it was more a fragile vulnerability—hidden beneath the polished veneer of her self-assurance and seeming placidity. She had impulsively decided this girl might need a friend, but she also had to admit Mandy had piqued her curiosity. It seemed the Lockes had a way of doing that.
“Are you enjoying your stay here, Mandy?” The first clumsy effort to ignite a conversation.
Mandy looked up. Such incredible blue eyes. Not her father’s color, but the look was there, like she saw things others did not. Mandy studied Casey for some moments, evidently sizing up her luncheon companion, deciding how much of herself she should expose to this stranger. “I like it here,” she said. “More than I ever dreamed. I gave Dad a terrible time about coming to Borderview . . . but that was mostly because I wasn’t given a choice. I always wanted to see where he lived. Don’t tell him, though.” She grinned conspiratorially.
“Do you spend a lot of time in his office?”
Mandy precisely and properly sliced her beef, took a bite, chewed and swallowed before she spoke. “Not a lot. I ride into town with Dad two days a week. I run errands. Do filing. And then, Will’s teaching me to type. I’ll be taking piano lessons, too, on the days I’m in town. Most other days I’m at my friend Rosemary’s. I stay there overnight if Dad has to be in town to work. Weekends we’re both usually home. George . . . he’s Dad’s best friend . . . says Dad wasn’t at the ranch much before I came to visit.”
“You said you’d like to be a concert pianist. Have you played for a long time?”
“I can’t remember when I didn’t. I play violin, too. I give Mother credit for my musical interests. She started me on lessons when I was very small, and it came pretty easy to me, I guess. But if you want to be good at it, there’s nothing easy about that. It’s practice, practice, practice. Sometimes at home I play for hours . . . Mozart, Chopin, Schubert . . . and I’m in a world of my own where there’s no pain and everybody’s happy. About being a concert pianist or violinist though—”
“Yes?”
“I fibbed. That’s what Mother wants . . . if I can’t find a rich husband. I really want to be a lawyer. It’s in the Locke blood, you know. The Lockes can’t help it. Dad says it’s like a disease. I think I caught it at Dad’s office. Don’t tell him, though. I don’t think he wants that for me. He’ll need time to get used to the idea.”
Casey laughed. “It’s not a terrible thing. I can’t imagine not being a lawyer. There’s a challenge waiting every waking moment. I get to surround myself with books. And nothing compares to the excitement of the courtroom. I think you’d be a great lawyer. But don’t tell your father I said so.”
“Dad likes you.”
Casey was taken aback. “Well, I hope so. I haven’t known him long, but I’d hate to think he dislikes me.”
“That’s not what I mean. He . . . he’s fascinated by you. I saw the way he looked at you this morning. I’ve never seen him look at anybody else like that. Actually, it seemed kind of rude to me, but he didn’t mean it that way.”
Casey changed the subject. “Your father’s invited me to spend the day at your ranch Saturday. Emily Stanton and I will rent a buggy at the livery and ride out together.”
“That’s wonderful. Dad and I are going to demonstrate our culinary skills. We’re going to make everything in Dutch ovens . . . beef stew, cobbler.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Do you ride horses?”
“I was born on a horse. My father was a cavalry sergeant. He had me riding before I was walking.”
“Maybe we could go riding Saturday.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard for a long time.”
Mandy wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “There’s a problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“We only have two saddle horses . . . my mare, Dancer, and old Hemlock.”
“Can’t I ride Hemlock?”
“You’d have to ask Dad. He won’t let me ride him, because he’s too mean and contrary.”
“I’ll deal with Hemlock . . . and your father.”
20
Ian
WE DID NOT have a directors’ room or conference table at the Wainwright Savings Bank, so the grim-faced men who ostensibly governed the bank and more or less controlled its destiny had to meet in the cramped space of the less than grandiose president’s office. Whatever extravagances Ralph might have engaged in, he had not showered them upon the bank facilities. Perhaps, he thought, trappings of prosperity would have been resented by the customers.
I waited silently while the four directors shuffled through Tilson’s financial reports. A few of the men might not fully understand, but they would grasp the stark realities of the bottom line. The Wainwright Savings Bank was teetering on the edge of an abyss that would financially destroy half
of Cottonwood County’s residents if it tipped the wrong way.
“Shit,” mumbled Amos Thornton, “how in the hell did this happen? I didn’t see anything like this coming. Ralph always said this place was going like a dancing devil. Said he was piling up money like corn after a banner harvest. ‘Course we never asked no questions. Directors’ checks kept getting bigger and figured that was a sure sign the bank was doing real good.”
I didn’t tell the old man that the hefty directors’ fees were subtle bribes to assure the directors asked no questions. The men had the best of intentions; they were just naïve. I had no reservations about the honesty of any of the directors, even those who resigned.
Thornton was a small, toothpick of a man in his seventies with crisscrosses of wrinkles etched deeply in his face. He was a tough old bird and I knew he had stayed on because it wasn’t in him to run from a fight. He shook his head. “Can’t let the bank go down.”
“Ja,” said Harm Junker, a husky farmer with a wind-burnt face. “It would not be my end, but my brothers and many of mein neighbors would not be able to stand up to this. What must we do?” Junker’s pale, blue eyes fixed on me. “Tell us about this trouble, Ian, in a way we can understand.”
I looked at George, whose stone face betrayed nothing, and then at Dr. Mason, a trim man with snow-white hair and moustache who was a few years shy of his fiftieth birthday. Mason nodded thoughtfully. “Spread the cards on the table, Ian.”
I briefly summarized Arnold Tilson’s financial reports and my evaluation of the bank’s note inventory. “The bottom line, gentlemen, is that the bank needs about $84,000 if we’re going to do more than just staunch the bleeding.”
A heavy silence settled on the room. Finally, Thornton spoke. “So Ralph sold his last saddle. Can’t the bank get some of the money back from his estate?