Scammed

by Ron Chudley

  Deliberately, he gazed at the spot where the sad pile of his mother’s clothes had lain, letting the memory act as a spur to the resolve that was hardening within. What action this would produce he did not know, but the stimulus was necessary. All his life had been spent gently, in mild pursuits, top priority going always to the avoidance of conflict. This had brought comfort and security, but also isolation and loneliness, alienation from the people who had given him being. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” The sentiment from the old song had an uncomfortably appropriate resonance right now. His family—all but his semi-stranger sister—was certainly gone, dispatched in little more than the blink of an eye. That he was not to blame didn’t matter. That nothing would ever change what had happened was not the point. If life was not to be completely meaningless, eventually he had to make some kind of response.

  With that understanding firmly in mind, Greg returned to the house, showered, made breakfast, then set about the obvious things that needed doing. He’d already decided to take some time off work; since he had vacation time accumulated and May was slack, this wouldn’t be a problem. But because it was Sunday, he couldn’t tell his employers till tomorrow. The rest of the day he spent tidying and sorting and exploring the “office.” Though it had once been his bedroom, he wasn’t sleeping there, using his sister’s room instead.

  As executor, it was his legal duty to sort out his parents’ affairs, no small task, but one for which training and temperament made him well qualified. The rolltop desk where he’d discovered the will was the obvious starting point. The chaotic jumble of its contents no longer bothered him; creating order from other people’s mess was, after all, what he did every day. By the end of the day, the first winnowing was done: bills, receipts, correspondence, bank statements were all organized into piles, ready to be gone through later in greater detail.

  In the process, Greg came across a brochure for the cancer clinic, two round-trip tickets to Los Angeles, and a schedule—but no tickets—for an airline offering connector flights to Mexico. So there it was: physical evidence of a dream that had been shattered. The final piece of the sad puzzle he found not in the desk, but in a nearby corner, as if it had been flung there: an old-style bank passbook, with the deposits and withdrawals neatly itemized. The final entries told the tale all too clearly. A month ago, there had been a deposit for twenty thousand dollars, proceeds from the securities that had been sold. Then later, four withdrawals were itemized in rapid succession, five thousand dollars each, with the closing balance—the discovery of which had set off the fateful plunge to catastrophe—zero.

  Greg took the passbook back to the kitchen. He got out the whisky and poured himself a shot, discovering with surprise that, since the night of the tragedy, he’d managed to go through most of a bottle. Well, who cared? His father wasn’t going to need it anymore. During his lifetime, he’d done little enough to promote his son’s peace of mind, so it was only fitting that he should provide some small comfort now, if only via the medium of his liquor supply. This, in fact, was substantial; Greg discovered half a case of Glenfiddich in the cupboard. The old man, at least in that regard, had evidently not felt the need to stint himself.

  Greg downed the first shot and poured another. While he ate supper, he examined the pathetic little passbook again. By that time, he had pretty much decided on the next thing he needed to do.

  • • •

  Next morning, when he phoned his parents’ bank in Duncan, he got an appointment for that afternoon. A hunt through the Yellow Pages then provided a local lawyer who could fit him in within a day: it had been in his mind to apply for probate of the will himself, but, uncharacteristically, he decided he wasn’t in the mood to tackle the minor legal formalities. Even his customary business suit felt oddly uncomfortable when he donned it to go into town; living at his parents’ place seemed to be having a strange effect on him.

  The fifteen-minute drive into Duncan, winding by the river, then through the woods and across the brief stretch of farmland that merged into the outskirts of the town, was an experience so anciently familiar that he hardly noticed. By then his mind was already at the bank, running through the confrontation to come. Of one thing at least he was certain: those people were going to be made to feel very bad for their part in what had happened to his parents.

  Downtown Duncan, however, did give him a surprise. It had changed from the sleepy village of his youth into quite a cool little metropolis, with cafés and boutiques, a new town square and some tasteful decoration. He parked near the bank and, realizing that he was ravenous and still had half an hour till his appointment, found a place to eat. At five minutes before one, with his belly full, the adrenalin running and spoiling for a confrontation, he was leaving the café when he suddenly thought, God, I’m actually pumped. Giving these people hell is going to feel good. Maybe I’m more like Dad than I knew.

  The bank manager had a corner office, pleasantly appointed, with—yet again—a Walter Lothian seascape prominently displayed. His name was Herb Wilshire, a round-faced forty-year-old with a confident handshake and an annoyingly sincere smile. Seeing Greg’s eyes on the painting, he nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, Mr. Lothian, I see you noticed. The bank was sensible enough to purchase that a few years back. At my suggestion, I might add. Not enough businesses support local artists, but it is our policy to try. So let me say, first off, how very sad we were to hear of your father’s passing. Also—er—so swiftly, your mother. You have my sincere condolences.”

  Greg wasn’t taken in for a moment. The guy obviously knew full well why he was here, and was trying to soften the ground in advance. That wasn’t going to work, and Greg was determined to waste no time with niceties. “Thank you,” he said coldly. “However, I think you should know that I hold this institution at least partly responsible for what happened to my parents.”

  Herb Wilshire’s smile vanished. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think that very probably you do, but I’ll spell it out, anyway. You must be aware that my parents were conned out of a large sum of money and that it was stolen from their account at this bank?”

  The manager looked at Greg speculatively. “Yes, I did know that.”

  “Some criminal phoned my mother, pretended to be what he called an ‘account inspector,’ tricked her into revealing her secret information and then looted the account of twenty thousand dollars.” Greg produced the passbook and tossed it across the manager’s desk.

  “It’s all documented there.”

  Wilshire flipped open the passbook with one finger, glanced at it briefly, then switched his attention to his computer, rapidly tapping at the keys. Greg could not see the result, but the other man studied the screen, chewed on his lip, then looked sharply at Greg. “Mr. Lothian, are you familiar with the term vishing?”

  “Vishing? What’s that?”

  “Well, you must know about phishing, where fraud artists set up a phony website to mimic the site of—say—this bank, and then, by e-mail, con their victims into logging onto that site and divulging their account information?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Vishing is the same thing, but it’s done over the phone. The word stands for voice phishing. Instead of using a bogus website, the crook pretends to personally represent the institution—the phony account inspector that you mentioned—and get the information that way. That’s likely how your parents were tricked, which is understandable.”

  Greg’s anger rose a notch. “Understandable?”

  Wilshire nodded, apparently oblivious to the effect of his cool appraisal. “Unfortunately, many people, especially those who are older and—how shall I say—less financially astute, are all too easily taken in by this modern brand of grifting. Of course, the bank continually cautions its customers against divulging any of their account and personal information. We post the warnings online and . . .” he slid a printed form in Greg’s direction, “mail them out regularly, along with
the bank statements. But our best efforts are sometimes ignored, so that all the safeguards the bank has taken such care to institute are useless.”

  “But why,” Greg interrupted, “would my parents have been targeted in the first place?”

  “That’s a mystery.” Wilshire frowned speculatively. “It’s possible that someone got hold of a bank statement, perhaps by going through their trash, or stealing their mail. That’d certainly give them all the information they needed to start a confidence trick. But, I’ll be frank, it wouldn’t have worked if your mother hadn’t been so trusting. And when folks are taken in this manner, I must tell you that some people believe that the bank would be justified in disclaiming responsibility.”

  “What kind of heartless crap is that?” Greg all but snarled. “You’ve no idea how important that money was to my parents. No damn notion at all.”

  “Mr. Lothian,” Wilshire said calmly. “It’s our assumption that all of our clients’ resources are vital: as important as our duty to protect them. That’s why, when ignorance, or even negligence, has enabled the committing of a crime, we still protect our customers.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that if we’re satisfied there has been no malfeasance on the account holder’s part, it is our policy to reimburse what has been stolen. The bank takes the loss, not the client.”

  Greg stared. “Are you saying you’re prepared to replace my parents’ money?”

  “I’m saying it’s already been done.”

  The manager turned his computer. With a hollow sensation, Greg peered at the screen. There it was, the current month of his parents’ savings account. The only difference from the passbook was the final entry—a credit of twenty thousand dollars. After his first shock, Greg pulled himself together enough to note the entry date, at last unable to avoid the awful truth: on that last night—perhaps even as early as when his father was still alive—the money that had caused all the trouble had already been restored.

  “Why?” he whispered at last.

  “Why replace the money?”

  “Why didn’t you let them know?”

  “I’m sure we did. The clerk would have made it clear that it was possible. Perhaps, at the time, your mother was too distraught to understand. Anyway, the next account statement would have shown . . . Mr. Lothian, are you all right?”

  Greg heard a buzzing in his ears. His vision blurred and for a moment he felt as though he might faint. Further anxious words from the bank manager seemed to be coming from some distance away. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and the shock symptoms receded. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This has been a—difficult time.”

  “Of course. I understand. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

  “No, no! I’m all right.” Greg swayed to his feet, resisting the urge to stare at the telltale figures on the computer screen. “I—should have known that this might happen. It’s just a pity that my parents . . . Never mind. I really came in to tell you that—er—I’m the executor of my father’s will. When probate is granted, I’ll come in again.”

  Herb Wilshire had risen too. He came around his desk, looking genuinely distressed. “Of course,” he said hastily. “But do you need any money now? If you let us make a copy of the will, I can authorize cash for expenses, even before probate.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s—fine. Thanks for your help. Goodbye.”

  Then, with very little memory of the journey between, Greg found himself in his car, driving back along Riverbottom Road.

  • • •

  When he got to the house, he did not turn in, but kept on going, driving absent-mindedly, until the road turned onto the Old Lake Cowichan Road, which in turn joined the new highway, eventually ending up at the lake itself. Beyond the village at the south end, there was a waterside park, which he arrived at by chance, ending his blind journey when the road stopped at the water.

  He sat in the car at the lakeside, facing a grand panorama of lake and forested mountains, seeing nothing, his mind still reeling at the implications of all that had happened. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the theft of the money, causing the chain of circumstances that had resulted in two deaths, or the sickening irony of the funds having been replaced, but too late. The bank—no doubt backed by insurance—had reimbursed the twenty grand with what amounted to alacrity, the tragedy being that somehow their intentions had not been understood. Yet they couldn’t have foreseen the repercussions. No one could. What had occurred was purely unpredictable, with no one directly to blame.

  Yet the sequence had required a specific trigger: not a real actor this time, but an anonymous cipher, a concocted persona whose very title was a brazen lie—the account inspector.

  As Greg sat in solitude, trying to wring some sense out of the confusion that had taken over his life, it began to appear that everything despicable had at its core the kind of heartless evil that had led to the conning and ultimate death of his parents.

  “One day!” Greg murmured, oblivious to everything but the rage that now seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his heart. “One day . . . !”

  NINE

  “Goodness, Greg,” his sister said. “Are you okay?” “What do you mean?”

  “You sound odd. Almost like you’ve been drinking.”

  Greg laughed dryly into the phone. “Very perceptive. I’ve been into Dad’s Scotch, if you must know. He left quite a supply.”

  “Well, good for you. Are you staying at the house?”

  “For a day or two, till I get stuff organized. I found Dad’s will, by the way.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s surprisingly clear and simple. Mum being gone, everything passes to us equally. I’m named as executor. Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course. Dad didn’t approve of either of us much, but at least he knew how painfully honest you are.”

  “Painful being the operative word, eh?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Look—I’m sorry I haven’t been over. After Mum—did what she did—there didn’t seem to be much point. That was shocking, but I guess I’m not completely surprised.”

  He hadn’t told Jill about his recent discoveries—not the cancer, not the bank fraud, not any of the tangled web that had led to their parents’ deaths. It was so sordid and sad, it was hard to imagine telling it to anyone. Perhaps Jill had a right to know, or maybe she’d be happier in the dark. He was still too disturbed and angry to decide about that. Her last words, however, made him wonder if perhaps she’d suspected more than he knew. “Oh?” he replied. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, we both know how they were—Dad wrapped up in his damn painting and Mum wrapped up in him. Let’s be honest, when we left home, they probably hardly even noticed. So, after Dad up and died unexpectedly, I can see Mum thinking she had nothing else to live for and—you know—just wanting to follow right along. Don’t you see that?”

  If only it had been so simple. Yet it was a perfectly plausible explanation, and perhaps better left that way. “I guess so,” he said. “Are you planning to come over sometime soon?”

  After a small pause, Jill said, “Greg, to tell the truth, I’ve been pretty snowed under here. And you certainly don’t need me to help with the organizing. You’re so good at that. So there’s just the question of a memorial. Do you think they’d have wanted one?”

  “I doubt it. I went out and picked up the ashes, but I’ve no idea what to do with them. Neither of them were religious, as you know very well. They kept so much to themselves, they hardly had any friends. I can’t think of anyone—except the neighbours, the Lynleys. The old guy’s dead and Mrs. Lynley’s pretty sick, so that just leaves Lucy. You remember Lucy Lynley?”

  “Yes. Is she still at home?”

  “Came back to look after her mum. She was taking painting lessons from Dad, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh. How interesting.”

>   Greg could tell by his sister’s tone just now uninterested she was, and that her mind was rapidly deploying elsewhere. “I’m going to be staying at the house for a while. I’ve already got a lawyer working on the probate. When that comes through, I’ll get busy on the division of assets. I’m going to make a full inventory. You can let me know if you want anything, and we can sell the rest. Am I right in thinking that you don’t want to live here at the house?”

  “God, no.”

  “Me neither. I’ll get it ready for putting on the market, then. I want everything settled properly. That’s the least I can do.” He heard his sister chuckle. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Jill said. “It’s just—Greg, you’re such an accountant.”

  “Uptight, you mean?”

  “Maybe, but don’t think I don’t appreciate it. In the business world, you meet so many shysters. It’s just good to know that my brother isn’t one of them.”

  After a few more words, his sister bade him farewell. Greg knew he shouldn’t be bothered by her description of him: in her Walter-like manner, she was only being frank, and not, in fact, inaccurate. An accountant, after all, was what he was, not just by trade, but in his heart. After he put down the phone, he poured some more whisky and took it into the office, now completely organized. Surveying his handiwork, the sense and good order painstakingly created from the confusion he’d found there, should have given him satisfaction, but he just felt bleak.

  The sour feeling, the annoyance and dull sense of injustice that now seemed to be his constant companions, did not divert him from the task at hand. Powerless to control the past, he blocked it out by grimly concentrating on endless detail. He’d told his sister that he was going to inventory their parents’ assets, and this he was determined to do, right down to the final paintbrush and the last loonie.