“A litter of born criminals,” was how O. M. Staunton referred to his grandchildren.
When Nell reached the chief teller’s window a man was there before her. The occupant of the cage was patiently enduring his complaints.
Bea Fontaine was a woman in her middle fifties with a full bosom and a ramrod spine. Dark eyebrows contrasted with a braided coronet of silvery hair. Her complexion was the envy of younger women. Although optical technology had made eyeglasses obsolete, she wore spectacles rimmed with gold wire which complemented the décor of the bank.
In her youth Bea had been called handsome. A number of men thought she still was. Her lack of a permanent male partner was one of the town’s enduring mysteries.
When Fred Mortenson lost the dispute over the bank statement from his dry cleaning business, he began teasing Bea about her cats. Fred was constitutionally unable to avoid teasing anyone who would allow it.
Bea refused to be ruffled. “Every town should have several town drunks and a lady who rescues cats,” she told her would-be tormentor. “Since Ozzie Walsh and Mort Franklin died we just have one town drunk, but I’m still here.”
“You and your hundred cats.”
“Only seven.”
“Only seven!” Fred mocked. “Betcha can’t name ’em all.”
The chief teller recited, “Apollo, Hector, Castor and Pollux—they’re twins—Aphrodite, Polydamus—he’s a polydactyl, of course—and Plato.”
“What kinda names are those?”
Standing behind him, Nell fixed her eyes on his bald spot and chewed her lip. The incident with the bank card had shaken her.
“I’m sorry you lack a classical education, Mr. Mortenson,” Bea said as if she meant it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me? Mrs. Bennett is waiting.” She politely waved him aside.
“Thank you, Miss Fontaine.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Bennett. What can I do for you?”
When they met outside the bank they were Bea and Nell, in spite of the twenty years’ difference in their ages; their families had been friends for generations. But this was the Sycamore and Staunton. Proprieties must be observed.
Bea Fontaine was one of the bank’s chief assets. She understood the proprieties and her air of calm authority was invaluable. As soon as she heard Nell’s problem she rang the discreet bell that summoned the vice president.
Hurrying from his office, Dwayne Nyeberger sucked in his stomach and tried to arrange his sharp features into a combination of trustworthy officialdom and boyish charm. “Nell! What a nice surprise.”
“Nothing to compare with the surprise I got when your ATM ate my bank card,” she said, taking a step backward. She always did when Nyeberger insinuated himself into her personal space.
“What do you mean, it ate your card?”
“Just that. I put my bank card in the slot and it never came out. Nothing came out but sticky ooze!” She realized her voice was getting shrill. “I’m going shopping after I close my office this afternoon and I’ll need my bank card. And some cash for the kids. Rob insists they be familiar with real money.”
“Very wise of him,” Nyeberger echoed on cue. “Wait till I get the keys to the machine and we’ll have your problem sorted out in…”
His words stuck in his throat. He stared toward the windows at the front of the lobby. The bulletproof glass did not distort his view.
A woman with auburn hair brushing her shoulders was walking past the bank. She wore a pale blue toga-and-leggings outfit that concealed more than it revealed. He could not tell if she had high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes, but he had no doubt those eyes were green. Her legs were every bit as long as he remembered. Her undulant walk was unique.
The unforgettable subject of a thousand wet dreams: Lila Ragland.
A decade earlier she had been notorious among a segment of Sycamore River’s male population—until the night she disappeared, leaving rumor and wreckage behind.
The night Dwayne Nyeberger’s rosy future came crashing down around him.
2
He staggered back until he encountered the reassuring reality of a desk. The color drained from his face.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Nyeberger?” asked the chief teller.
“I saw… I mean…” He sank lower, resting his buttocks on the desk.
“Are you sick?” When he didn’t respond to her question Bea snapped, “Dwayne!” Still no response.
She hurried from her cage. As she passed Nell Bennett she murmured, “Help me, will you?”
Nell swung into action. Bracketing Dwayne between them, the two women loosened his tie and fanned his face.
He was embarrassed. Having Nell observe him in a moment of weakness was bad, but not as bad as what he had just seen.
“It’s her,” he said hoarsely.
Bea leaned closer to him. “What are you talking about?”
He waved a hand in the direction of the front windows. “Lila. She’s back.” A large vein began throbbing in his temple.
“He’s having a heart attack,” Nell determined. Someone else’s emergency was having a steadying effect on her own nerves.
Bank staff and customers gathered around the stricken man. “Make him bend over and put his head between his knees,” said a portly man wearing plaid golf trousers.
“No way,” the woman with him contradicted. “With a heart attack they have to lie down.”
A bank clerk added, “If he’s having a fit, don’t let him swallow his tongue.”
“It’s not a heart attack or a fit,” said Bea. “He’s just upset. Sit down, Dwayne, you’ll be all right in a minute.” She steered him to the nearest chair.
“I know what I saw!” He waved toward the windows again. Stabbed the air with his forefinger.
The others turned to look, but by then it was too late. Ordinary people were passing by, going about ordinary business.
Dwayne Nyeberger moaned like an animal in pain. “Lila Ragland’s come back to ruin me!”
Nell patted his shoulder. “Ssshhh, it’ll be all right.”
He responded with an inarticulate croak and flung his arms around her hips.
While Nell was prying him off, two women entered the lobby, paused, looked at each other and left. “What d’you s’pose that’s all about?” one asked when they were outside.
“Maybe she just paid off a gigantic mortgage,” the other guessed.
Dwayne was taken to his office and given a glass of water. He dutifully drank while wishing for something stronger. Much stronger. In the bottom drawer of his desk was a practically full bottle of single malt, but he didn’t want to take it out with Bea Fontaine watching him. The chief teller had strict views on alcohol in the workplace.
What he really needed was…
No, that was what got him into trouble in the first place. When he was younger. And stupid.
What had Lila said? “It’s fairy dust,” she had told him, laughing. “Takes your troubles away.”
It had for a while.
But sometimes when he least expected it the evil fairies came back.
Dwayne bent over and vomited into his lap.
Nell flinched away to avoid being splattered.
“Go on home,” Bea whispered to her, “and we’ll take care of him. This has happened before, it’s only an hallucination.” She squared her shoulders, raised her voice and became the chief teller again. “I’ll see that your bank card is replaced, Mrs. Bennett—it’ll come to you in the mail—and if you’ll stop by the front desk on your way out, Janine will arrange for your cash. Just tell her how much.”
When Nell left the bank the heat off the sidewalk hit her like a giant fist. She paused for a moment to catch her breath.
Lila Ragland? Wasn’t she the one who…
Nell recalled the headline in The Sycamore Seed. Ten years ago, but not forgotten. The scandal had hit the quiet town like a thunderclap.