Missing Banker

  The Missing Banker

  by Edna Curry

  A Lady Locksmith Mystery

  Copyright 2016 by Edna Curry

  Lady Locksmith Series:

  The Lilliput Bar Mystery -- Book 1

  Body in the Antique Trunk -- Book 2

  The Missing Banker -- Book 3

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the author, except for short excerpts for reviews.

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  Smashwords Edition.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Credits:

  Cover by Bev Haynes

  The Missing Banker

  by Edna Curry

  Chapter 1

  I’m Cassie Jennings, called the Lady Locksmith by the people in Canton, my small Minnesota town. I run a one person business out of my home and advertise myself as available twenty-four hours. Calls for help when someone is locked out of their car or home in the middle of the night are common. Someday, when my business is going well, I’ll switch to having regular office hours and let my voice mail pick up messages the rest of the time. But for now, I don’t have that luxury.

  My life is often hectic and sometimes very quiet and dull. In the quiet times, I stare at my computer and worry about how I’ll pay my bills. Sometimes, I work at writing a romantic suspense novel. But that’s my personal secret that few people know.

  Today started with a frantic call from a young woman. She’d locked herself out of her car in a parking lot before she’d gotten her son out. She wanted me to open her car immediately, desperate to rescue her crying infant.

  When I arrived ten minutes later, she had a large rock in her hand and was about to smash the passenger window.

  “Wait a minute,” I yelled, jumping out of my van. “That window will shatter and glass will fly all over your car. You don’t want your baby covered with bits of sharp glass.”

  “But he’s crying!”

  “Don’t worry, a bit of crying won’t hurt him. I’ll have the door open in a jiffy.”

  She dropped the rock and turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “His face is all red. I never let him cry. I always pick him up as soon as he starts.”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing, opened the side door of my van and dug out my tools. I’d spent a lot of time babysitting during my teen years and knew that all babies cried on a daily basis and it didn’t hurt them a bit. However, this mother believed otherwise, so I held my tongue.

  “Why don’t you fill in your vehicle information on this sheet, sign it and write your check while I open your car? Then you’ll be able to take care of your son as soon as I get the door open,” I said.

  “Oh. Good idea,” she said, and took the form I handed her.

  With her busy so I could work without interruption, I soon had the car door open for her.

  She grabbed her baby and cuddled him. He immediately stopped crying, evidently used to getting his own way. The cute little guy smiled and gurgled at me across his mother’s shoulder. Both mother and baby had tears on their faces, but at least now they were happy tears.

  My phone rang as I got back into my van. A woman’s terrified voice came over the line, “This is June Wattmore. Someone’s been in my house! I need all my locks changed as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

  “Sure,” I agreed, and quoted her my prices. She agreed and I copied her name and address into my notebook, then headed to her house. What was it with panicky women today?

  And why did her name sound familiar? I racked my brain for a previous job I might have done for her, but nothing connected. Oh, well, I’d figure it out.

  I found the address she’d given me. Her house was a large brick rambler on the west side of Canton. Brilliant red and yellow tulips bloomed in the flower beds lining the foundation and sidewalks. The large lawn was neatly mowed. A triple garage fronted one whole side of the house.

  I picked up my tools and pinning kit and rang the bell. A pudgy lady in jeans and a blue sweatshirt answered the door. Her dark brown hair encircled the top of her head in a fancy braid that I doubted she’d done herself. Strands of hair escaped and stuck to her tear-stained cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was devoid of makeup.

  She glanced at the logo and name on my van and then eyed me. Apparently satisfied, she said, “You’re the locksmith?”

  “Yes, I’m Cassie Jennings, Locksmith.”

  “Come in. I’d like all the locks changed on the exterior doors of the house.”

  “Okay,” I said, eyeing the lock as I followed her inside. It looked fairly new, so should be easy to rekey. “Do you have some place I can work? It’s easier to do it at a table rather than in my van.”

  “Sure.” She led the way through the large open-concept living room area to the dining room and kitchen off the end.

  “Will this do?” She indicated a large, granite work island in the kitchen.

  “Perfect,” I looked around. “How many locks are there?”

  “Um, I don’t really know,” she said. “There’s the front and back door, the door into the garage, the patio doors off the master bedroom. Oh, and the basement door that leads out to the backyard.”

  “Okay. Do you want them all keyed alike? Or some of them different?”

  Her brows dipped. “All alike, I guess. That’s how they are now, I think.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean, you think? Don’t you know?”

  “Well, I haven’t been able to make the key work in the basement door for quite a while. My husband claimed it was just stuck or something and to not worry about it.”

  I glanced around. “Is your husband here?”

  She flushed angrily. “No. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Oh?” Those words sent a warning ringing through my head. Was I getting in the middle of a family quarrel? A divorce battle over property?

  More than once, I’ve changed locks while a deputy stood guard. Once the man’s lawyer was with the man and said the wife was in the wrong to change the locks because they owned the house jointly. And the man spitefully made me change them back. I bit my lip, remembering that I, just as stubbornly, had made him pay me in cash before I’d do that extra work. But I hate getting into that kind of situation. So, I asked nervously, “Will he object to my changing the locks?”

  Her face took on a bitter look and her voice turned sharp. “I have no idea. But he’ll have to show up if he wants to object. He disappeared about a month ago and no one’s heard from him since.”

  “I see.” I swallowed and arranged my tools on the island, relaxing. If he’s been missing for a month, he’s not likely to show up while I do this.

  She turned to the kitchen counter. “I made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some?”

  “That would be great,” I said over my shoulder. I went to the side door that led to the garage and took out the lock, then brought it to the island and began taking it apart.

  She put a mug of coffee in fro
nt of me and sat opposite me to watch me work.

  I sipped the coffee. “You said someone has been in your house?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.” She stared into her cup, then lifted it and drank.

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  She nodded. “A deputy came out first thing this morning. He said he couldn’t find any evidence. So I don’t think he even believed me. He’ll probably file it under ‘delusional woman,’ and forget it.” She sighed and her shoulders sagged.

  I glanced at her, then down at my work. “But you are quite sure someone was here?”

  Her lips pursed tightly. “Yes. I smelled someone’s shaving lotion as I walked through the living room this morning. And my coffee pot and toaster oven were both unplugged, as though someone had moved them to search my upper cupboards, then put them back into place but forgot to plug them in again. There were crumbs all over the counter, too.”

  I eyed her. “You’re certain you didn’t unplug them yourself? To clean around them or something?”

  “No. I never unplug them. And I don’t bother to clean. My cleaning lady does that and she only comes twice a month now that J-John’s not here.” She swallowed, then took a deep breath and continued, “I use the appliances every day and she hasn’t been here for a week.”

  “I see.” I got up and replaced the garage door lock and moved to take out the one from the front door. Taking my place at the island again, I asked, “The shaving lotion couldn’t have been your husband’s? Maybe you spilled a bit moving stuff around in the bathroom or something like that?”

  She laughed bitterly. “No. John had his own bathroom. He didn’t like sharing. I never go in there.”

  “Did you check to see if anything in there was spilled?”

  “Yes. Nothing was out of place. Besides, this wasn’t John’s shaving lotion. It was musk and it was strong. I hate the smell of musk and so does John. He would never have that scent in the house, let alone wear it. One of his tellers at the bank wore it to work one day and John told him to never wear it again if he wanted to keep his job.”

  “Oh. Did you tell that to the deputy who investigated?”

  “Sure. He shrugged and said he didn’t smell anything. I’m sure he thought I was imagining it.”

  “Did you look around to see if anything was missing?”

  “Yes. I can’t be sure, but I think some of John’s clothes are gone. He had so many shirts, pants and underwear, it’s impossible to tell, though. And an older suitcase is missing. But he told me he was going to donate that to a church sale when he bought a new luggage set. I can’t remember if he ever did that.”

  An odd feeling turned my gut over. Suspicion swirled in my mind, but I dared not voice it. “How about anything valuable? Like money or credit cards or electronics?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  But she sounded uncertain. I pressed on, “Did your husband take his personal things when he left? Like billfold, car, etc.?”

  She nodded. “Yes, they’re all missing, too. You’d think someone would find his car if something bad had happened to him, wouldn’t you?”

  I kept my eyes on my work, and tried to keep my voice casual, so as not to upset her more than she already was. “I’d think so. You filed a missing person’s report with the police?”

  “Yes. They made me wait two days before they’d accept it. Said he was an adult who had a right to come and go as he pleased and didn’t need to tell me where he was going all the time.” She laughed bitterly and sipped more coffee. “You’d think I’d been a controlling wife or something, the way the deputy talked to me.”

  I smiled encouragement. “Men can be so boorish sometimes.”

  “You’d think I had no right to question why my own husband had disappeared. Like he didn’t much care if something bad had happened to him.”

  “And they haven’t found him in a whole month? Not even his car?”

  “No. Nothing.” She rubbed her arms as though she felt chilled. Then she got up and stood with her back to me, obviously crying. Finally she grabbed some tissues from a box on the counter and blew her nose.

  I discreetly kept my silence as I replaced the lock and worked on the next.

  She sat opposite me again, watching me work.

  “What did your husband do?” I asked.

  “He was a loan officer at the Old Town Bank,” she said. “Before it closed and the National Bank took everything over.”

  Aha, I thought. That’s why I’d recognized the Wattmore name. I’d tried to get a loan from him and he’d said I didn’t have enough collateral. Luckily, I’d had no trouble getting a loan elsewhere. I glanced at June. “And the new bank people haven’t heard from John either?”

  “No, nothing. I asked them to check his accounts, which were moved to the new bank with everything else. They said there’s been no activity other than the checks I wrote and deposits I’ve made. Then they gave me online access to my accounts so I can check for myself. If he’s living somewhere, what is he doing for money?” She sniffed and blew her nose again.

  I was about to suggest that he could have planned his disappearance and stashed cash away in advance. I’d heard of people doing that before. But she seemed to feel bad enough already, so I held my tongue.

  Finally, there was only the basement door lock left to change, so I asked her to show me where it was. She led the way out the patio doors and down a path to the outside basement door.

  “You don’t have access to the basement from inside the house?” I asked.

  “No, not to this section. This is my husband’s workshop area. The other part of the basement isn’t accessed from the outside. It has the laundry area and furnace room.”

  The key she had wouldn’t work for me, either, so I had to pick the lock to open it, then took it up the stairs to the kitchen to change it.

  When I had it apart, I immediately saw why the key wouldn’t work. “This lock has been changed,” I said. “No wonder it wouldn’t work.”

  She stared at me, with a disbelieving look on her face. “But…but why would he do that? I mean, John must have done it, because I know I didn’t.”

  “I have no idea.”

  She chewed her lip, then got up and left me, going back outside the way we’d just come from. In a few minutes, she returned and poured us both more coffee, explaining, “I wanted to check to see if anything was missing down there.”

  I glanced at her. “And was there?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think so. But I seldom go into his workshop, and he has so many collectibles and expensive tools, it would be hard for me to tell. Everything looks the same as it always did.”

  How odd, I thought. John must have had something to hide if he’d bothered to change the locks and lied about it to keep her out of his workspace. Or maybe he only needed some time alone and she usually didn’t give him any? Hard to know. People don’t always tell you the truth. Nor do they realize how their actions seem to others.

  I finished up and went to install the basement lock. She didn’t go with me. While I was down there, I snapped on the light and took a quick look around the two rooms. The first room seemed to be mostly woodworking tools and half-finished birdhouses and bird feeders. The second room had shelves of books on antiques and various glass fronted cases of antique metal children’s toys on two walls and several locked gun cases along another wall. A small bathroom was partitioned off in one corner and the other corner was a small office area. It had a computer, printer, phone and modem, as well as a locked filing cabinet. Since I had no idea what was supposed to be there, I saw nothing unusual. I locked the door and went back upstairs where June sat at the kitchen island, drinking yet another cup of coffee.

  I handed her the new keys and accepted her check. She thanked me profusely for coming to do the job so quickly.

  I picked up my tools, said goodbye and went on my way.

  ***

  I’d made a date to have lunch with my friend
Darcy, so headed to the Flame Restaurant. The Flame is a large building divided into a coffee shop at one end that serves as the local gossip center for morning coffee groups, bathrooms and kitchen in the middle portion and a large dining room on the other end. We meet in the dining room so we can have a bit of privacy for our chats. Not that we don’t keep up with the local gossip as well as any other person, but we don’t like to add bits of our lives to the weight of the stuff already cluttering the grapevine.

  Today, Darcy had beat me to our table in the corner. Our latest fad lunch, raspberry iced tea and seafood salads with French dressing, was on our table. Now my friend looked up and smiled at me. She’s an RN and was still wearing her hospital uniform.

  “Did you come straight from work?” I asked.

  “Yes. One of the gals had a sick kid. She had to stay home until her mother could drive over to stay with him. So, I stayed a couple extra hours to cover for her.”

  “You work too hard,” I scolded.

  Darcy shrugged. “Since she’s covered for me several times, I could hardly say no. Anyway, I thought we’d have lunch before I hit the sack for some shuteye.”

  “Good thinking.” I sat and sipped my iced tea, then looked at her. She always keeps up with the latest happenings. What other nurses don’t tell her, a patient or hospital visitor does. “What’s new around town?”

  “There was an accident on highway eight a few miles into Wisconsin last night, so we were busy. No fatalities, only a couple of broken bones, thank goodness. We patched them up and sent them home.”

  “That’s good.” I poured the dressing on and dug into my salad.

  “Yeah. One guy used to work as a teller at the Old Town Bank before it closed. The new bank didn’t offer him a job, but he was old enough to retire.”

  “I was surprised when that bank closed.”

  “Yeah,” Darcy agreed. “Everyone else was, too. It happened pretty suddenly.”