Relatively Dead Page 2

  “Yes, I remember that. Michael was trying to get control of your parents’ estate and cut you out.”

  I was impressed with Johansson’s memory. She was a good detective. She asked how much money was involved and raised her eyebrows when I told her the amount.

  “Usually, they only get away with a couple of thousand at the most.”

  “We got the phone number of the caller.” I handed Johansson a piece of paper with the number on it, as well as other information about the transfers.

  “We’ll try to trace it.”

  “We also recorded the call. I copied it on my cell phone.”

  “You can email it to me, but I don’t know how much good it will do unless we come up with a suspect.”

  Johansson asked more questions. I had to supply most of the answers because Grandma wasn’t very coherent. The detective excused herself and went out of the room. She returned shortly with a uniformed officer.

  Johansson smiled at Grandma. “Would you like to go with Officer Jones and get a cup of coffee or tea? I’d like to chat with Cynthia for a moment.”

  “I’d love a cup of tea.” Mrs. Horton rose slowly from the chair and, using her cane, went with Officer Jones. She still had the dignified manner I remembered from our first meeting when I was searching for my identity.

  Johansson shut the door behind them and turned to me. “Does Mrs. Horton have dementia?”

  I winced. “I wouldn’t have thought so two weeks ago, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention. I’m going to take her to the doctor.”

  The detective got out a phone of her own and punched in the number of the scammer. She listened for a while and then disconnected.

  “The recorded message is what the phone company supplies, not that of the perp. And he’s obviously not about to answer the phone, himself.”

  I nodded. “I tried the number too, with the same result. I called from Grandma’s phone so he’d think she was giving him information about a new transfer. I didn’t leave a message. He didn’t answer or call back. He knows we’re on to him.”

  “This doesn’t fit the pattern of any of the other scams we’ve seen lately. We haven’t had any callers from California. They’re more likely to come from the United Kingdom. Also, the amount he got away with is a lot more than any we’ve seen. The caller obviously knew Michael’s name, since he pretended to be him. He may have found out about him because you and he were national news a few months ago, and Mrs. Horton was part of the story. He knows Michael is dead. It’s interesting he thought he could convince her he’s alive.”

  “The whole thing doesn’t make any sense to me. She certainly wouldn’t have fallen for this if she were in her right mind. There have been signs. I didn’t want to see them because she’s the only close relative I have.” I was on the verge of tears.

  Johansson put her hand around my shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. You’ve gone through a difficult time. But I agree you should take her to a doctor. How do you feel about his death threat?”

  I shrugged. “As long as he’s in California and I’m here, I can’t get too excited about it. Remember, the real Michael tried to kill me four times. I doubt that this guy is suddenly going to show up and invade the farm.”

  ***

  “I’m sorry. We can’t give out information about our customers’ accounts.”

  The man wearing the white shirt and tie and the holier-than-thou expression was too glib, too smooth. He’d probably said the same thing a thousand times—nay, ten thousand times. I could see his desk from the counter where we were speaking. His nameplate said John Fernandez and his title was Assistant Vice President. I suspected, partly from his graying hair, he’d been with the bank since Grandma started banking there thirty-five years ago. He’d worked his way all the way up from teller to Assistant Vice President in that time. Whew. Since banks distributed titles like planting machines distributed grain seeds on a farm, he should be an executive VP by now.

  I resolved to keep my temper. “You don’t have to tell me anything about Elizabeth Horton’s account. I’m going to tell you what happened. She came in here—twice—within the past few days and cashed checks for over ten thousand dollars. Your teller—Amanda, I believe it was—gave her the money both times. She lost all of the money in a scam. All ten thousand dollars. I want to know what your policy is in regard to these situations to protect the customer and make sure she isn’t being taken advantage of.”

  From the look on his face, I was sure I’d penetrated his armor, at least slightly. I would bet he remembered the transactions. He must have approved them. I doubted that a single teller had custody of so much cash. He glided—moving as if he didn’t actually have to use his legs—over to the teller named Amanda and spoke in her ear. Then he returned to me and motioned toward a cubicle.

  “Have a seat. Amanda will join us in a minute.”

  Amanda finished with her customer and came into the cubicle. She was young, younger than I was, probably, and somewhat overweight. She wore her brown hair shoulder-length and her red fingernails longer than I would have thought practical for operating her computer.

  John Fernandez asked Amanda if she remembered serving Elizabeth Horton.

  “Mrs. Horton? Sure. She’s a very nice lady. She comes in here all the time.”

  Her face clouded. Was she remembering?

  Fernandez cut in before she could say any more. “She made two large cash withdrawals recently. What did she say they were for?”

  “She said they were for her grandson. He was in trouble—in California, I believe. Something about an auto accident.”

  My turn. “Were you suspicious at all? Did you question her?”

  “I asked if anybody was waiting for her outside the bank, but she said no and she didn’t look nervous or anything.”

  Fernandez said, “While we were getting the money together, I had the guard check. There weren’t any suspicious people outside or in the parking lot.”

  Aha. So he was involved in the transactions. Guilty by his own testimony.

  Amanda continued, speaking by rote. “We’ve had training in scams. There’s the one where they get a person to withdraw money by promising her more and have her put it in a bag and then switch the bags—”

  “This wasn’t that kind of a scam.” I had difficulty keeping my voice down. As if Grandma would participate in something like that. “But it was a scam, nevertheless.” Amanda’s face registered shock. I pressed my advantage. “Do you remember a few months ago in the newspapers and on TV, the story about Mrs. Horton’s only grandson? That he was killed?”

  “I…oh my God. You’re the granddaughter, aren’t you? You’re the girl who had amnesia. I saw your picture.

  ”I nodded. I was a local celebrity in Chapel Hill. “I am. But that doesn’t answer the question as to why you believed Mrs. Horton’s grandson was in trouble when you knew he was in fact dead.” Now I was sounding like a prosecuting attorney.

  “I forgot.” She looked miserable.

  Fernandez came to her rescue, mostly, I suspected because he wanted to cover his own ass. “None of this is relevant. We took proper precautions. You have no right to berate the poor girl.”

  “Maybe I should be berating you.” I turned to face him. “You’re her boss. You knew what was going on. Why didn’t you question it?”

  “We followed bank procedure. We have no further responsibility in the matter.”

  “No further customer, either. Because Elizabeth Horton will be closing her account with you.”

  ***

  After three rings the phone was answered by a woman whose voice I recognized as that of the cook and housekeeper. “Good morning. Ault residence.”

  Morning? Of course. It was three hours earlier in California. “Hello. This is Carol Golden. May I speak to Kyle?” I hoped my name would register.

  “Let me see if he’s available.”

  Meaning she would see if he wanted to talk to me. I dr
ummed my fingers impatiently on my desk while I was on hold. At least they should play some bouncy music like the airlines did when customers were waiting on the phone.

  “Carol.” It was Kyle’s energetic voice.

  “Hi, Kyle, how are you?”

  “Great, now that I’m speaking to you. I thought you’d dropped off the end of the earth.”

  I laughed. “Not quite. But I did recover my identity.”

  “I heard. Actually, I know more than I’m letting on. I called Tina Ramirez when you were in England because Mr. Ault wanted to see you. Then I read about a firefight with you, your brother, and an attorney, if I recall correctly, somewhere on the East Coast. And that you found out who you are.”

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Attorneys. They have their feet in everything. If I sound bitter, it’s because I’m working on the boss’s income tax. His empire is so big it involves both accountants and attorneys. I’m neither an accountant nor an attorney, although I’ve had classes in both accounting and law, but my primary job is to make sure they don’t suck him dry.”

  Kyle had an MBA from UCLA. I laughed again and then repented. “Sorry. I guess that’s not funny.” The headaches of being a billionaire. I was glad I was merely a multi-millionaire.

  Kyle spoke again. “But enough about my problems. Where are you? Should I be calling you by a different name? I can’t remember your real name.”

  “Cynthia. But I’m still Carol in California. I’m in North Carolina at the moment. However, I have only one close relative, my grandmother. My parents and my brother are dead.”

  “I read all the stories. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “I have very little memory of my parents, and my brother was trying to kill me, so he’s no loss. But I’m sort of clinging to my grandmother. I’m worried about her. There were some incidents I won’t bore you with, but, for example, she doesn’t always remember my name or that of her caretaker. I went to the doctor with her. He thinks she may have Alzheimer’s. I’d like to ask you about Mr. Ault. His mind seemed to be…slipping last time I saw him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother. You’re right about Mr. Ault. He has dementia. It was caused by several strokes he had a few years ago. It isn’t Alzheimer’s, but the symptoms are very similar. He forgets names and his short-term memory is shot. If he goes out into the yard in his electric wheelchair, we have to have someone watch him to make sure he finds his way back inside and doesn’t run into trees. He does remember some things. One of them is you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Or at least his perception of you. He loves to watch the video I made of you twirling a baton. Sometimes he knows it’s you and other times he thinks you’re his first wife. She was a majorette, as I assume you were.”

  “I remember him talking about her. I…that’s very sad. From what he told me, he really loved her. She died so young. I’m glad the video is doing him some good, but it wasn’t my finest hour.” I’d fallen on my butt trying to catch a baton. “May I pick your brain about financial stuff for a minute?”

  “Pick away. Just don’t take it all.”

  “I’ve been told I should get a financial power of attorney for my grandmother. I have a lawyer—not the one who tried to kill me—”

  “That’s very discriminating of you—”

  “He says that’s what I should do, but because of my recent history I don’t have a lot of trust in lawyers. I was wondering how you have it set up with Mr. Ault—if I’m not prying.”

  “Not at all. His case is more complex because he’s involved in several corporations, among other things. But for his personal estate, yes, I have financial power of attorney. You should get one for your grandmother. It’s not difficult to do. It will relieve her of the responsibility of paying her bills and worrying about investments. The sooner the better, because you want to get it done while she still understands what’s going on. You should probably get a healthcare power of attorney, too.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look into both of them. I owe you one.”

  “I’ll be sure to collect.”

  We chatted for a few minutes about the symptoms of dementia. As I feared, they became progressively worse over time. I was going to lose the one relative I’d found.

  Before we ended the call, Kyle said, “Next time you’re in California please come and visit us. Mr. Ault would love to see you. So would I.”

  I promised. I felt guilty about not having contacted Kyle the only time I’d been in California since I recovered my identity. I wouldn’t let that happen again.

  CHAPTER 4

  Grandma was lucid. She was reminiscing about when I was young. We were sitting on the couch in the family room. I riveted my attention on Grandma’s voice, soaking up every word. I had to appropriate Grandma’s memory for my own, because I remembered almost nothing about my childhood. I had to do it before she lost her memory.

  I’d found some photo albums while I was cleaning out my parents’ house, in preparation for selling it. Some of them depicted me as a majorette in various uniforms. Because I could twirl a baton I was sure I’d been a majorette. Grandma confirmed this.

  I was turning the pages of one of the albums, hoping they would jog Grandma’s memory some more. Here was a shot of a very young Cynthia wearing a uniform, complete with a fancy hat, and holding a baton. Grandma smiled when she saw it.

  “You started taking baton lessons when you were seven. I bought you your first uniforms because your parents were still struggling, financially. You were a majorette for about fifteen years.”

  Here was a photo of me in a prom dress, looking young and gorgeous, as only a seventeen-year-old can. I wished I still looked like that. I was on the arm of a boy dressed in a tux, who was handsome but appeared to be somewhat awkward and uncomfortable. The caption read “Cynthia and Ted at the Senior Prom.” I wondered whether I’d liked him. I pointed to the picture.

  “Do you remember this boy?”

  Grandma laughed. “Oh, Lord, I couldn’t keep track of all your boyfriends. You were a holy terror in high school. They were attracted to you because of your looks but put off by your brains. You played them like a banjo.”

  “I wish I could remember those days.” I liked the idea of being a holy terror. A few times my lack of memory had embarrassed me. Since I was living in the city where I’d gone to high school, I was occasionally accosted on the street by former classmates, although of course I didn’t remember them. After giving a stumbling explanation of my problem, we’d reunited and chatted about the good old days that never happened as far as I was concerned.

  Grandma was looking at a picture of my parents. “I must tell you that I opposed the marriage between your mother and your father. They were from different worlds. A white girl and a Jap—excuse me, Japanese boy. We can’t say Jap anymore. But in your case it turned out very well. You got the best of both of them.”

  “Thank you.” Grandma was doing so well, mentally, I decided to ask her a question that had been bothering me. “Did Michael—I mean the man who was impersonating Michael—call you at all before he asked for money?”

  Grandma looked confused. Perhaps the question was too difficult for her. I tried again. “After Michael was killed, when was the first time someone called claiming to be Michael?”

  Grandma was silent so long I thought she didn’t understand the question. Finally, she started to speak, hesitantly. “It was…a couple of weeks ago. At first he didn’t give a name. I was about to hang up when he said he’d met my first cousin, Jason Boyd. Jason and I knew each other when we were young, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. It was a strange conversation. At one point I think he said Jason’s descendants were the only surviving male relatives of my grandfather. I said…”

  She stopped talking and seemed to be in a daze. I remained silent, hoping she’d remember what she was going to say. An agonizing thirty seconds passed. Then another. I was about to break the silence when
Grandma did.

  “I said, ‘My grandson, Michael, is alive.’” She looked horrified. “How could I have said that?”

  I put my arm around her. She spoke again.

  “That’s when he said, ‘Grandma, I’m Michael.’ I believed him. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “He told you not to tell anybody?”

  “Yes. Especially you. He said you’d had enough shocks, already, without knowing he was still alive.”

  “And the next time he called—”

  “He asked for money. Oh what an idiot I am.”

  She burst into tears. I held her, wanting to say everything was okay, but everything wasn’t okay.

  ***

  I waited until noon to make the call. It was 9 a.m. in California on a Tuesday morning. All Californians should be out of bed. The phone was answered almost immediately. The man who said hello sounded loud and confident. I couldn’t tell his age from his voice.

  “Hello, I’d like to speak to Jason Boyd.”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Cynthia Sakai. I’m Elizabeth Horton’s granddaughter.”

  Grandma had mentioned Jason Boyd once or twice during the months since we were reunited. I hadn’t picked up on it, having other things to think about. Her speaking of Jason last night impelled me to action. It was suddenly important I connect with another living relative.

  “Well, hello, Cynthia. I know all about you. How is Elizabeth?”

  “She’s fine.” I spoke automatically. Of course, she wasn’t fine but before I could think of how to amend that statement, Boyd continued.

  “That’s good. When you get a call about us old folks, you never know when it might be bad news. So you’re the missing granddaughter. The one with amnesia.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been avidly following your story. I’m glad you’re back in the fold.”

  “I am too. It’s nice to speak to a cousin. Grandma—Elizabeth—is the only relative I’ve seen since I recovered my identity.” Other than Michael—dead Michael.

  “Let’s see. Elizabeth and I are first cousins. That would make you and me first cousins, twice removed.”