“Oh?”
“I’ll bring it with me tomorrow and let you read it.” Kari was immediately glad of the letter. It will give us something to talk about other than me, she thought, relieved.
Kari had grown to like Ruth—love her, even—but the woman was persistent in bringing all of their conversations back to two topics: God and the “roots” of Kari’s worsening depression. Ruth’s knack for asking penetrating questions regarding Kari’s past had made the sessions hard for Kari, and she was weary.
Maybe with this letter I can deflect some of Ruth’s probing attention elsewhere, Kari planned.
Ruth read the letter a second time, in much the same way Kari had done, her usually dimpled mouth pursed in consideration.
“And you don’t know who this Peter Granger is? Was?”
Kari shook her head. “I have a sort of hazy memory of my mother saying the words ‘Uncle Peter,’ but nothing more.”
Nothing more, that is, except my father’s reaction, she added silently. I would hardly know how to describe it. Troubled? Pained? Angry? I don’t know. It was a long time ago. And it hurts too much to talk about Daddy.
“And you answered this letter?”
“Yeah. Silly, huh? I mean, it’s got to be some sort of a scam, right? And if it isn’t and I’m actually who they’re looking for, then I’ve probably inherited a spoon collection—you know, one spoon for all fifty states plus Niagara Falls, Disney World, and Graceland? Or a ship in a bottle, right? I really need that.”
Kari chuckled and Ruth laughed with her, that carefree, open, and happy laugh that Kari liked so well. They both grinned and Kari was, after all, glad she had come today.
“Well, I just choose to believe that God has something wonderful for you in this. The Bible says that every good and perfect gift comes down from above,” Ruth smiled. “In some way, some how, this will be a good thing for you.”
There it is again—the God thing. The smile dropped from Kari’s mouth and she shook her head.
“If you say so.”
Undaunted, Ruth asked, “Will you call me the minute you get their response? I’m so curious! Aren’t you?”
The fact was, Kari was a tiny bit curious—but she was also defensive. “I guess so,” she shrugged. “Guess I’m more the ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’ sort of person. With my luck, I might have inherited a big old house but, guess what? The taxes haven’t been paid in thirty years! Like that.”
“Balderdash! Go ahead and have a little fun imagining something grand, why don’t you? Don’t be afraid to believe for something good.”
“Good?” Again Kari’s response was harsher than she’d intended. “Sorry, but ‘good’ isn’t what the universe usually doles out to me.”
As it turned out, Brunell & Brunell did not write in response to her letter: They telephoned.
On Monday, as Kari hauled her meager groceries for the next two weeks into the house, the phone was ringing. A little breathless, Kari answered. “Hello?”
“Ms. Hillyer?”
“Yes. Who’s calling, please?” Kari opened the fridge and started unloading her perishables.
“The law offices of Brunell & Brunell, Miss Dawes speaking. Please hold for Mr. Brunell.”
Kari stopped stuffing lettuce and apples into the refrigerator when a male voice came on the line. His deep, southern lilt resonated with Kari, and then she realized how near the man’s accent was to her father’s.
“Ms. Hillyer, C. Beauregard Brunell at your service. We are in receipt of your prompt response to our letter—for which we thank you. I apologize for imposing upon you, but would you have a few minutes to speak with me at this time?”
Kari shoved a half gallon of milk into the refrigerator, pulled on the hinged door, and used her hip to make sure it swung closed.
Kari scanned the remaining groceries—cans and dry goods sitting on the counter. She sank onto one of the kitchen bar stools. “Um, yes; I guess now would be fine.”
“Ms. Hillyer, I cannot tell you how delighted we are to have found you! After all this time, too. We are most anxious to close what is our longest standing estate probate—twenty-seven years.”
The kitchen clock ticked as Kari mulled over his words. “I would think that the courts would have ordered the estate sold off by now,” she thought aloud. “Isn’t that how it works?”
“Ah. In most cases, yes; however, the terms of Mr. Granger’s will were quite specific, and his estate such that it has sustained itself over the years. Mr. Granger was first my father’s client and then my client after Father passed until Mr. Granger himself passed in 1964.
“Mr. Granger was so insistent upon finding Mr. Michael Granger and bestowing this estate upon him, that he set the terms of his will in such a way that only Mr. Michael Granger or his heirs could inherit and the estate could not be disposed of otherwise for a lengthy period.”
Kari’s thoughts were whirling. “So . . . not just a spoon collection?”
“I beg pardon?” Brunell’s intonation reflected his confusion.
Kari laughed a little. “I’m sorry. I’ve been telling myself that the, ah, estate consists of a spoon collection. You know, Statue of Liberty, Seattle Space Needle, Mount Rushmore?”
Brunell laughed with her. “Ah, yes! I see your thinking—how very amusing!”
Then he was silent and Kari wondered if the long distance connection had been broken.
“Mr. Brunell? Are you still there?”
“Yes. I apologize.” His tone had softened and Kari strained to hear him. She waited another few seconds before he again spoke.
“Ms. Hillyer, are you able to get away at this time?”
Kari pulled the receiver from her ear and gawked at it. “What do you mean, ‘get away’”?
“My dear lady, the other senior partners and I feel that we should administer the details of Mr. Granger’s will to you in person. We would like to fly you to New Orleans at your earliest convenience to meet with us.”
Kari gaped again. “Is this a joke? Do you think I am so foolish as to go gallivanting across the country on the word of a stranger? And I can scarcely fill my gas tank let alone buy a plane ticket.”
Kari was about to slam the receiver onto the wall phone; instead she took a deep breath, her hand in midair. She decided to wait for the con artist on the other end to hang up.
Instead, the line came alive again as the attorney chose his words with care. “I assure you, most solemnly, Ms. Hillyer, that this is no prank, nor do we have any but the highest interests of you, our client, in mind. What I am proposing would be paid for entirely by our firm.”
Before Kari could offer another objection, he went on. “But recognizing your quite reasonable reluctance to take us in good faith—after all, from your perspective we are perfect strangers—I propose that Brunell & Brunell provide proper bona fides to you. I will direct the outside accounting firm we use to draw up a notarized letter attesting to our law practice’s reputation and send it to you by registered mail.”
Dazed, Kari hung up the phone. She was more confused than she had been before the call. Then she called Ruth and repeated the entire conversation.
The bona fides, as Brunell had termed them, arrived six days later by U.S. Post Office registered mail, signature required. Kari signed for and then opened and studied the notarized letter attesting that Hegelund and Cooperage, CPAs, had been the accounting firm of Brunell & Brunell for thirty-seven years. The letter declared Brunell & Brunell “a firm of the highest moral and ethical character” with “a reputation of unsullied excellence in the great state of Louisiana.”
“I think they went overboard, don’t you?” Kari queried Ruth.
“It’s a bit on the flowery side, I admit. But it certainly meshes up with the research you did.”
Kari hadn’t waited for Hegelund and Cooperage’s letter to arrive. She had gone directly to UNM’s law library and had sent out queries through the electronic database search tool, LexisNex
is, used primarily by journalists and lawyers.
It had taken but a few minutes to get her first return. Eventually Kari had printed full briefs written by Brunell & Brunell and rulings of cases in which they were cited.
Kari had shown them to Ruth with raised brows. “I guess they are on the level.”
“So you’ll go?” Ruth now asked.
“Why don’t you go? You’re more excited about this than me,” Kari groused.
“Oh, no, Kari. This will be your adventure,” Ruth grinned, “but I’ll tell you something. I have been praying for you over this whole inheritance thing and, like I told you before, truly believe that something good is going to come of all this. Something wonderful and good—from God himself.”
Kari glared at Ruth. “It’s always God with you, isn’t it, Ruth? Well, is this where I get to tell you to go fly a kite?”
Ruth’s impish grin only widened. “If you come back from New Orleans and something wonderful hasn’t happened, then I’ll treat you to lunch at Little Anita’s on Juan Tabo and afterwards we’ll go to Loma Del Rey Park where you can watch me fly that kite.”
“Little Anita’s, huh?” Kari pursed her lips trying to stay mad, but against Ruth’s infectious enthusiasm she couldn’t manage it. “I could use a little ‘green chile therapy.’ All right. Deal.”
She moistened her lips with her tongue. “I have a bigger problem if they really want me to come to New Orleans right away.”
“What’s that?”
“I need to get out of the house and then clean it from top to bottom, but . . . I don’t have enough money right now to get into an apartment—especially while I’m paying most of the mortgage.”
Ruth “hmmmed” and thought for a moment. “Do you have enough to rent a storage unit?”
Kari thought about it. “You mean, move out and put my furniture and stuff into a unit? I could do that . . . but then I wouldn’t have a place to stay. I’d need to stay somewhere for at least a few weeks. Maybe longer than a month.”
“I’m sure we could find somewhere for you until the court releases your money. In fact—” Ruth tapped her chin. “The Esquibels have a spare room, and you know they care about you.”
Kari shook her head. “Oh, Ruth. I wouldn’t feel comfortable—” The shadow of her unpaid bill to Esquibel Investigative Services loomed large over her—as did her unpaid counseling bills.
“It’s only a few weeks, Kari.”
Kari’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Ruth, I still owe Anthony money . . . and you, too.”
“Well, do you plan to pay your bills when the house money comes through?”
“Of course!”
“Then tell him that. I have a feeling Anthony knew you would be strapped for cash after you got your divorce. Just talk to him. Like you are talking to me right now.”
Kari nodded. “All right. I will. And thank you for being patient with me.”
Ruth patted her hand and then grinned. “Well, then! Will you call Mr. Brunell or wait for him to call you?”
Again, Kari did not need to make that decision. C. Beauregard Brunell called the following morning at 9:15 a.m. sharp. “Ms. Hillyer? A good day to you! Are you in possession of the bona fides from our accounting firm?”
Reluctantly, Kari allowed the word “yes” to slip out. When she hung up twenty minutes later, all the arrangements had been made: Mr. Brunell’s secretary would have Rio Grande Travel, an Albuquerque agency, deliver the tickets to Kari’s home. Kari would fly out of the Albuquerque Sunport a week from the coming Monday. Mr. Brunell himself would meet her when she landed at the New Orleans International Airport and personally escort her to her hotel.
“In the morning, after you have breakfasted and refreshed yourself, my son, Mr. Oskar Brunell, will call for you at the hotel and escort you to our offices to meet with our three senior partners.”
Kari’s head was whirling. Call for me? Escort me? Mr. Brunell’s Old South hospitality was charming—and overwhelming.
And why do I need to meet with three senior partners? she wondered. In the pit of Kari’s stomach, she was beginning to suspect that the inheritance left by Peter Granger to Michael Granger or his offspring could be no mean or common thing.
And Ruth’s words danced in her ears all day. I’ve been praying for you and I truly believe that something good is going to come of all this. Something wonderful and good from God himself.
“Not a spoon collection, then.”
Kari made herself breathe deeply as she reviewed the arrangements. “Definitely more than a spoon collection.”
Kari was caught up in a flurry of activity over the next week. She finished packing up the house and held her garage sale—adding a few welcome dollars to her account at the credit union. Still, she watched the balance in the account dip dangerously low after she paid the utilities and two months’ rent on a storage shed.
But how she would move everything to the storage unit was beyond her. I can take most of it a carload at a time, she figured. It might take twenty trips, but I can do it. The furniture, though, she would have to hire done and she had precious little left to pay for that.
To her amazed surprise, Anthony rounded up a few friends and, with two pickup trucks, moved everything she owned, except two packed suitcases and an overnight bag, into the storage unit. Kari was even more amazed—and deeply touched—when Ruth and Gloria showed up with buckets, supplies, and a rented carpet cleaner and began cleaning the house with her.
A few hours later Anthony handed Kari the key to the storage unit. “It all fit in the unit just fine, Kari, and we left everything nice and tidy. Your little file cabinet is right at the front. You can get into it without too much trouble if you need to.”
Kari thought briefly of what was in the cabinet: her birth certificate, adoption papers, employment and job search records, letters of recommendation, tax returns, her divorce papers, and a mostly empty scrapbook containing the paltry news clippings reporting her parents’ accident. Copies of her parents’ death certificates.
Anthony looked over the now-clean house and patted her on the arm. “We’ll go on home. You come and get settled in when you are ready, okay?”
Her friends left and Kari spent an hour walking around the house and around the yard, knowing she was saying goodbye. I will never come back here, she told herself, and she cried bitter tears over what was lost.
That night Kari slept in Anthony and Gloria’s spare bedroom. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, but she felt safe, even if she felt empty at the same time.
Tomorrow was Sunday; she would leave for New Orleans the following day. She would pack one suitcase and her overnight bag for the few days she expected to be there.
~~**~~
Chapter 4
Blinking in the bright afternoon light of the New Orleans arrivals terminal, Kari recognized C. Beauregard Brunell before he recognized her: He was tall, lean, silver-haired, and dressed impeccably in an “old southern gentleman” manner—just as she had imagined him. The silver in his hair extended to his impressive mustache and goatee. Drooping pale blue eyes twinkled from under white brows as he clasped Kari’s hand and bowed over it.
“Ms. Hillyer, ’tis a pure pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he drawled.
Kari’s heart swelled as his soft, soothing accent fell on her ears. Memories of her parents’ voices carried the same inflections.
How is it that all this time I hadn’t realized they were from Louisiana? she reproached herself. In almost the same thought she reminded herself, But, in truth, what do I know about them? So very little. So precious little.
Suddenly, whatever information the attorneys of Brunell & Brunell could give her about her father and his family loomed dearer and more desirable than any tangible inheritance.
C. Beauregard had taken her hand and kept hold of it, studying her for a long moment, a soft light glimmering in his drooping eyes. But all he said was, “Shall we see if your luggage has arrived, Ms. H
illyer?”
They waited in comfortable silence for the airline to offload the flight’s luggage. C. Beauregard collected her suitcase and tucked her arm into his, escorting her to a waiting vehicle. Kari’s mouth dropped open when she saw the sleek black town car, its tinted windows, and uniformed driver. She slid into the car’s cavernous back seat while the driver stowed her bags in the trunk.
“We’ll take Miss Kari to her hotel now, Rufus,” C. Beauregard instructed the driver.
As they pulled away from the curb, he inquired, “Ms. Hillyer, my wife and I would be delighted to have you join us for dinner this evening—may I collect you, say, at five-thirty? You have a busy schedule tomorrow so we won’t keep you late, but we don’t wish you to dine alone on your first evening in town.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind,” Kari answered, struck again by his sweet manner.
The car stopped under the tall portico of The Grand Marquis, a stately old hotel. C. Beauregard escorted her to the front desk while Rufus brought in her bags.
“Your reservation is in order,” the front desk man assured her. He issued her a heavy room key. “Room 690. Please call the front desk if you need anything. Anything at all. And we hope you enjoy your stay at The Grand Marquis, Ms. Hillyer.”
“Thank you; I’m sure I will.” Kari stared around the foyer and shivered with delight. Positively dripping with old-world elegance, she exulted.
After Rufus turned her bags over to a bellman, Kari and C. Beauregard stepped into an elevator reminiscent of a black-and-white Humphrey Bogart/Katherine Hepburn movie. The elevator may have retained its classic façade, yet it whisked her to the sixth floor with modern speed and efficiency.
The bellman led the way. At the door of her room, C. Beauregard bid her goodbye. “Until this evening.”
When C. Beauregard arrived to take her to dinner, they rode in his personal car, a silver Mercedes driven by a chauffeur who opened the rear door for Kari with a deferential tip of his charcoal grey hat. He offered the same tip of his hat when they disembarked in the curving drive of a white, three-story Colonial, complete with pillars and matching covered porches on the first and second floors spanning the front of the house.
Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6) Page 5
