by Joanna Bell
"My word," the woman commented. "1939, that is a long time ago. But if it was never closed, and you have the full name of the account holder, it would still exist."
I spelled out Jack's grandmother's name and relayed the amount of the initial deposit and, once again, the year the account was created. The woman put me on hold and I sat back on the sofa, playing with Lulu's soft ears as fiddle music played. I wondered if they played fiddle music to actual Irish people on hold, or if it was just to foreigners, hoping we might be charmed.
"Uh, Ms. Wilson?"
The woman's voice sounded different. Or was I just imagining it?
"Yes?"
"I did manage to find an account under that name but we –"
"You did?!" I asked, surprised. Had Jack lied about calling them? Why would he have lied? Had he just spoken to a particularly incompetent bank assistant?
"Um, yes, I did. You said you represent Jack McMurtry III?"
"Yes," I lied, thinking I needed to contact Jack as soon as possible.
"Because that's the secondary name on this account – it looks like the account holder added it in 1999. But I'm going to need to speak to the current account holder – Jack McMurtry – in order to discuss this any further. Or you could provide us with a hard copy of your power of attorney –"
"Wait a second," I said, not wanting to get ahead of ourselves. "I don't mean to be rude, and I don't need details if the account exists, but would you mind double-checking? My client already called the Bank of Ireland about a week ago and was told there was no account under that name."
The sound of computer keys being tapped came down the phone and I waited. "No," the woman said a few seconds later. "The account exists. Dorothy O'Reilly, opened in 1939 with a two-thousand pound deposit. Secondary account holder named as Jack McMurtry III, all funds to be transferred to the secondary account holder upon Dorothy O'Reilly's death. If you have the record there of the other deposits that year, we could cross-check those. Is it possible your client forgot to use his grandmother's maiden name? That's a common mistake with these accounts opened by women before marriage and never closed."
"Huh," I said. "That's actually a good point. I'm not sure which name my client used."
After cross-checking the details of the other small deposits it was determined that the accounts were the same, but the woman couldn't give me any more information without proof of my legal role (which I didn't have) or speaking to Jack directly. I thanked her for her time and hung up.
Then I scrolled through my contacts to Jack's name and took a deep breath.
Chapter Seventeen
Jack
"We'll need someone for branding season – April, May, maybe March at the very earliest."
I was on the phone with a rancher a few towns south of Little Falls, cold-calling from Brandon Schneider's basement after DeeDee gave me the number. My heart sank a little – March was four months away and I needed work now.
Another call came in and I was surprised to see Blaze Wilson's name on my screen. I told the ranch owner to let me know as soon as he had any firm dates and hung up to take Blaze's call. There wasn't even time to remember that I was pissed off at her.
"Blaze," I said, as it came back to me. "Were you trapped in a ravine? Fell into a coma?" I was joking, but there was an edge to my jokes.
"I'm sorry, Jack," she said. "I really am sorry. But I need to talk to you about –"
"No," I said, cutting her off. She was speaking quickly, obviously excited about something. She wasn't getting off the hook that easily, as tempting as it was. "Don't you just call me up after spending the kind of time with me that we just spent together, and after ignoring my calls for almost a week, and act like nothing's nothing, Blaze. That's not going to fly."
She was quiet for a few seconds. Even the sound of her breathing was causing a stirring in my pants. Jesus.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"I know. I heard you the first time. As I said – were you in a coma? Trapped under a large rock? I'll take that, Blaze. I'll buy that. But it you were just ignoring –"
"I wasn't ignoring you, Jack!"
"Well you were doing a pretty damned good imitation of someone who was ignoring me, then."
"I wasn't ignoring you. I didn't take your calls, but I wasn't ignoring them. Or you. Quite the opposite. You're the only thing I've thought about since the moment I left Sweetgrass Ranch. That's why I didn't take your calls."
"Oh yeah?" I asked, pulling a blanket over me in Brandon's cold, depressing basement. "And how exactly does that make sense?"
"Jack! Can we talk about this afterwards? I really need to tell you –"
"No," I replied sternly. "No we cannot talk about this afterwards. I'm actually surprised you're trying to blow me off like this, Blaze. You didn't – I don't know, I guess a few days isn't really enough time to get to know someone, but you did not seem like the type."
"I'm not blowing you off!"
I looked around at the gloomy basement, at the lumpy old couch Brandon had given me to sleep on and the sad little collection of toiletries on the side table. "Do you have any goddamn idea how hard it's been for me this past week?" I asked. "I mean, I know you and I didn't make each other any promises, Blaze. And I'm not saying this because it's somehow your job to make me feel better – it isn't, even though you did make me feel better than anyone else ever has. But goddamn, would it kill you to show a little tact?"
She went quiet for a little while after I said that. And when she spoke again, her voice was soft. "You're right. If it helps, and I know it probably doesn't, I didn't take your calls because I want to forget you, or because spending that time with you meant nothing to me. Like I said, it's the opposite. It meant too much to me. And I can't forget you, Jack – I'm afraid I never will. I'm afraid my life is ruined now because nothing will ever make me feel the way you made me feel."
She was emotional, I could hear it in her voice. My anger dissipated in an instant, like a morning fog under a rising sun, replaced by that instinct I'd felt when she was at the Ranch with me – an instinct to comfort and protect, to make sure she never felt a moment's sadness or doubt.
"Is that true?" I asked, even though I knew it was.
"Yeah," Blaze replied. "Of course it is."
"I miss you," I told her, seeing no reason to hold back. "I miss you more than I thought I was going to. And I thought I was going to miss you a lot."
"Me too, Jack."
"So what is this thing you have to tell me?" I asked, feeling a little guilty for making her sad.
"OK," she started, like she was about to tell me a little story. "Remember your grandma's deposit book?"
"Yeah...?"
"Well I put it in my purse when I was there, because I was worried it might get misplaced. I was going to give it back before I left but then I forgot I had it."
"Oh. Well, I can give you the address here and you can –"
"I'm not finished yet, Jack. I hope you don't get mad at me for this, actually. I called the Bank. The Bank of Ireland."
"Did you? Why? I told you I already called them a few days –"
"The account still exists, Jack! Dorothy O'Reilly's bank account is still there! The woman on the phone told me –"
I wasn't sure what Blaze was up to, but it sounded like she'd gotten her wires crossed. That's what I was about to tell her when my brain finally registered the name she'd just mentioned. Dorothy O'Reilly. Not Dorothy McMurtry. Had I given the bank my grandmother's married name? I was almost certain I had.
"Wait," I said. "Dorothy O'Reilly? Is that the name you gave?"
"Yes – that's the name on the deposit book. The woman I spoke to said it was common for people to give a married name for women who had opened accounts before marriage. And your name is on the account, too – someone added it in 1999."
"Really? Wow. Nice catch – I definitely didn't even think about that whole maiden name married name thing. So how much was there? Can I afford
a set of new tires for my truck?"
"I don't know," Blaze replied. "They wouldn't tell me anything else. I told them I was your lawyer but they –"
"What?" I laughed. "My lawyer, really?"
"Yeah. I didn't think they'd give me any information otherwise. I still don't even know why I did it – I think I just had a feeling that there was something there. But either way, they'll only talk to you. So you should call them."
"Yeah –"
"Like, right now, Jack. The woman I spoke to sounded a little weird when she found the account."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know! She sounded normal at first, and then after she checked the details to see if the account existed she sounded weird."
It's not like I needed to be convinced. My Grandma Dottie's bank account still existed – and it looked like it was my bank account now. I was so low on money at that point I was using my already over-extended credit card to buy boxed mac-n-cheese and ramen noodles. Even five hundred dollars would have made a huge difference.
"And call me back after you talk to them, OK? It doesn't have to be tonight – just let me know."
"Are you going to pick up this time?" I asked drily.
"Yes, Jack. Yes I am."
The battery on my phone was about to run out so I plugged it into the wall before calling the Bank of Ireland. I also threw on another sweater. I was cold and hungry, and I needed to continue with the job search, but I had to know about that bank account. Besides, it wasn't going to take long to call them, was it? Better to find out as soon as possible so I could concentrate on all the other things that had to be done.
By the time I got through to a human being, my teeth were actually on the verge of chattering. I tensed my jaw and gave my details – and Grandma Dottie's. A few minutes later the customer service agent came back on the line and, just as Blaze had described, her voice sounded different. Quieter, maybe.
"Sir," she said, "I need to inform you right now that in order to access these funds or transfer them into another account, we are going to need to see you in person – with a death certificate for Dorothy O'Reilly and official I.D. for yourself."
My heart sank. "In person?" I asked. "I'm in Montana. In America. You're telling me I can't get any of this money without flying to Ireland?"
"I'm sorry Sir but yes, that's what I'm saying. It's for security –"
"Well how much is it?" I snapped, annoyed. "Is it enough to pay for a plane ticket to Ireland and still have anything left over?"
"It's eight million, eighty-six thousand, three-hundred and eighty-five Euros, Sir."
"I –" I started to talk and then an odd blankness came over my mind. "What?" I asked. "What did you say?"
"It's eight million, eighty-six –"
"Euros?" I babbled as my heart began to pound. I had no idea how much a Euro was worth. Was it one of those currencies that meant you ended up paying five trillion for a loaf of bread? I didn't think it was, but I couldn't be sure. "I don't know how much – I, uh, I don't know how much that –"
"It's just over nine and half million American dollars, Sir."
A wave of dizziness hit me and I went to sit down, only to discover I was already sitting down.
"No," I said, disbelieving. "No, the initial deposit was two thousand pounds or something like that. You've – you've got it wrong. I –"
Was Blaze playing some kind of cruel trick on me? She wasn't, because I'd Googled the bank's phone number myself. How could she set up a prank like that? She couldn't. It must be a simple mistake. The bank must have mixed something up.
The woman on the phone was quiet for a few seconds. "I understand, Sir, this is quite a large amount of money. Take your time to process it."
"But it can't be right," I told her. "The account was opened with two thousand pounds. Or one thousand, or three. I can't remember."
"Yes," came the reply, along with the sound of typing. "An initial two thousand pound deposit in 1939 – it looks like it was a promotion of some kind, a New Baby Bonus Savings Account. The interest rate was nine percent if the account wasn't touched before the account holder was 21. And there was no limit on yearly contributions, either – it looks like someone made fairly regular deposits throughout the lifetime of the account, fifty, sixty pounds a month on average. The deposits seem to have stopped in 2003."
"Yes," I said woozily. "Grandma Dottie died in 2003."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Sir. It looks like she left you quite a legacy, though."
"Can you just – can you check again?" I asked. "Did you say – almost ten million? Almost ten million? Dollars?"
"Of course, Sir. I understand this must be quite a shock – a happy shock. Yes, here it is, just over nine and half million US dollars.
I shook my head and looked around the room. Was I dreaming? Yes. It must be a dream. And soon I was going to wake up in Brandon Schneider's actual freezing basement, in the real world where I didn't suddenly have almost ten million dollars – and that was going to suck royally.
"Sir?"
How long had I gone silent for? I didn't know. "Uh – yes?"
"It might be a good idea to make note of what you need when you come to Ireland – your grandmother's death certificate and official I.D. for yourself."
"Yes," I babbled. "Yes, uh-huh. Yeah, I'll do that right now."
"Are you alright, Sir?"
For the first time, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that it wasn't a dream. That I did have ten million dollars – well, almost ten million – waiting in a bank account in Ireland for me. I smiled and put my head in my hands. "Yes, I'm alright. I'll – I just need some time to think, I –"
"Of course. Let me give you my extension number so you can call me direct when you're feeling a little calmer. My name is Eileen. Eileen Doyle. I'll be happy to help you with anything you need."
"Thank you," I said, writing down the number. "Thank you. I just need to – I just have to think about, uh –"
Eileen Doyle chuckled. "Yes, Sir. I'll speak to you soon."
I ended the call and sat there blinking for a few minutes. There had to be a mistake. There didn't seem to be any mistake. Ten million dollars? Ten million dollars?! I stood up and began to pace. I had to go to Ireland. I had to call the IRS. I had to get Sweetgrass Ranch back. Had they listed it for sale already? I had to call a local real estate agent. I grabbed my phone and scrolled to Blaze's number and then, just as I was about to call her, I changed my mind and put it back down. No, not yet. A plan. That's what I needed. And not an insane plan made on the spur of the moment by a man who still wasn't quite convinced he wasn't dreaming.
I needed to think. And I couldn't do that in Brandon Schneider's basement. What I really needed to do was go for a ride out into the foothills, alone with my horse and my thoughts and the cold winter air around me. The horses. The cattle. The Moileds. They'd all been sold to a livestock broker four days ago. My heart, not yet over the initial shock of the money, began to pound again. I scrolled through my contacts again, searching for the name of the broker. There it was. Shane Conway. I pressed the call button.
"Shane Conway."
"It's Jack McMurtry here – from Sweetgrass Ranch? You took my cattle and four horses less than a week ago."
A few moments of silence as Shane Conway tried to remember who I was. "Oh – yeah. You're the guy with that big old house on the hill, just outside Little Falls."
"Yeah, that's it."
"What can I do for you?"
"Well," I started, dreading the very real possibility that the animals had either been sold on or slaughtered already, "it's about the cattle – and the horses. I want them back. I can pay."
"Can you now?" Shane asked, sounding distinctly skeptical. "As I recall you were pretty eager to sell that herd, Mr. McMurtry, and you gave me a pretty good deal. If I'm going to go to the trouble and expense of transporting –"
"Triple," I said firmly. "I'll pay you triple their market price by weig
ht – you paid me less than market price. I'll pay for the transportation, too. And I want the steers, the Moileds and all four horses back."
"Have you been drinking, Mr. McMurtry?"
I laughed. "No. I just found out I have a significant amount of family money that I didn't know about until about ten minutes ago. I want the livestock back."
"Well I'm happy to sell them back to you for triple the market price. I don't consider myself a genius by any means but ain't no one turning down that deal. I'm going to need some kind of guarantee, though. I don't know you, and I don't know you're not a crazy person."
Damnit, of course he needed a guarantee. And I didn't have one.
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, you're right. I need – listen, Mr. Conway – I just found about this money. I'm only calling you in such a rush because I was worried you'd already sent them to slaughter or sold them on, and –"
"The horses are scheduled to go to the processor tomorrow," he cut in, using the usual euphemism for 'slaughterhouse.'
"Well please put that on hold!" I insisted. "They're part of the deal."
"Fine, I'll keep hold of 'em. Three days, how about that? You let me know within three days. After that, I'll assume you changed your mind."
"Three days. OK. I'll get back you as soon as possible. Thank you, Mr. Conway."
I think it's accurate to say I spent the next twenty-four hours running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I was on and off the phone to Eileen Doyle at the bank in Ireland, the Little Falls Bank, various financial advisors at both institutions and, finally, a lawyer in Billings – because I needed someone who knew what they were doing to make sure I wasn't doing everything wrong.
I focused on getting the animals back, because the larger truth was still somehow too much to take in, and the Little Falls Bank, after a brief conversation with Eileen Doyle and some coaxing from Sheriff Randall, agreed to loan me the money to pay Shane Conway. Which then left me with the conundrum of where to put them, because I technically did not own Sweetgrass Ranch anymore.
