My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(22)

“I’m great.” Kaufman introduced his wife. “We live over in Yakima,” he said, “but Tony Swanson called and told me about the service. We drove over this morning.”

“Thanks for coming all that way,” Tracy said. Yakima was a four-hour drive.

“Are you kidding? How could I not come? You know she used to ride out to the hospital every week and bring me candy and a coloring book or a book to read?”

“I remember. How are you?”

“Cancer free for thirty years. I’ve never forgotten what she did. I used to look forward to seeing her each week. She raised my spirits. She was like that. She was a special person.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I’m glad they found her, Tracy, and I’m glad you gave us all this chance to say good-bye.”

They spoke for another minute; Tracy was in need of another Kleenex by the time Peter Kaufman departed. Dan, who had stood back a respectful distance while she had greeted those who’d come, stepped forward and handed her a handkerchief.

Tracy gathered her emotions and blotted her eyes. When she’d regained some semblance of composure, she said, “So I don’t understand; I thought you lived back east. How’d you find out?”

“I did live back east, just outside of Boston. But I’ve moved back. I live here now—again.”

“In Cedar Grove?”

“It’s a bit of a story, and you look like you could use a break from the past.” Dan slipped her a business card and gave her a hug. “I’d like to catch up when you feel up to it. Just know how sorry I am, Tracy. I loved Sarah. I truly did.”

“Your handkerchief,” she said, holding it out.

“You can hang on to that,” Dan said.

She noticed that the handkerchief was embroidered with his initials, DMO, which made her consider the cut of his tailored suit and the quality of his tie. Having spent time with attorneys, she knew both were high-end, which didn’t exactly fit the image of the boy she’d known, who’d worn hand-me-downs. She looked at his business card. “You’re a lawyer,” she said.

He gave her a wink. “Recovering.”

The card included a business address for the First National Bank building on Market Street in Cedar Grove. “I’d like to hear that story, Dan.”

“Just give me a call.” He gave her a gentle smile before opening a golf umbrella and stepping out from beneath the canopy into the rain.

Kins approached with Laub and Faz. “You want some company on the drive back?”

“I know a great place to eat on the way,” Faz said.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m going to stay another night.”

Kins said, “I thought you wanted to come straight back to Seattle?”

She watched as Dan reached an SUV, pulled open the door, lowered his umbrella, and slid inside. “My plans just changed.”





[page]CHAPTER 17





First National Bank’s fortune had been literally tied to Christian Mattioli’s fortune. Established to protect the considerable wealth of the founders of the Cedar Grove Mining Company, including Mattioli, the bank had nearly died when the mine had closed and he and his cohorts had left town. The Cedar Grove residents had rallied together, transferring savings and checking accounts and making a commitment to the bank for their mortgages and small-business loans. Tracy wasn’t certain when the bank had folded for good and vacated the building. Judging from the register inside the vacant lobby, the opulent, two-story brick building had since been carved into office spaces, though many of those offices were currently vacant.

As she climbed the interior staircase, she looked down on the intricate mosaic floor that depicted an American eagle with an olive branch in its right foot and thirteen arrows in its left. Dust had settled over it, along with sporadic cardboard boxes and debris. She recalled teller cages, bank officer desks, and sprawling potted ferns. Her father had brought her and Sarah to the bank to open their first savings and checking accounts. First National’s president, John Waters, had initialed and stamped their books.

Tracy found Dan’s office on the second floor and stepped into a tiny reception area with a vacant desk. A sign told her to ring the bell. She slapped it with the palm of her hand, resulting in an obnoxious clang. Dan came around the corner in khakis, leather boat shoes, and a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt. She was still having trouble accepting that the man before her was the same kid she’d known in Cedar Grove.

He smiled. “Have any trouble finding parking?”

“There’s quite the selection out there, isn’t there?”

“The City Council wanted to put in those automated parking meters. Someone did the math and determined it would take ten years before the revenue generated would pay for them. Come on in.”

Dan led her into an octagon-shaped office with rich, dark molding and wainscoting. “It was the bank president’s office,” he said. “I pay fifteen dollars a month more in rent to say that.”

Law books filled bookshelves, but she knew they were mostly for show. Everything was now accessed online. Dan’s ornate desk faced the arched bay window still bearing the maroon-and-gold lettering that had advertised the building as the First National Bank. From it, Tracy looked down on Market Street. “How many times do you think we rode our bikes down that street?” she asked.