Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
FRANKIE
Now
“I apologize. Could you repeat that, Miss? I’m not quite clear on what you’re asking,” the British banker said in a perfect imitation of the actor Hugh Grant.
Frankie restated her request to find out who owned the account Estelle had made payments to from her perch at the edge of the bed where she sat with a notepad at the ready, and then she gave him the account number again too for good measure.
“Hm,” Hugh Grant said. “I’m afraid I’m legally prohibited from sharing any such information with you unless you are the account holder.”
“I’m obviously not,” Frankie said, her lack of sleep making it harder to feign politeness.
“Right.” Hugh’s last consonant was sharper than necessary. “Well, you could always try a court order if it’s of great importance to you, but such processes are lengthy and rarely fruitful in my experience.”
Frankie’s eyes roamed the paper that had the account number and transfer information. “Could you at least tell me if it’s a private or business account? And what about these letters next to the account number—SSTGTAFY—can you tell me what they mean?”
Owen followed the conversation from next to the bed. “No luck?” he mimed, absent-mindedly rubbing a kink out of his neck.
She shook her head, then turned the phone on speaker so he could hear.
“Miss, I do so wish I could help you, but unfortunately my hands are tied,” Hugh said.
“Even decoding those letters for me?”
“Again, I’m very sorry, but I can’t confirm any details about that reference over the phone.”
Frankie hung her head, but Owen waved a hand to get her attention. “He said over the phone,” he whispered. “What about in person?”
Frankie covered the microphone with one hand. “And how would that work?”
“Just ask,” Owen prompted.
Frankie inhaled deeply. “What if I visited in person? Could you tell me more then?”
“Well…” Hugh appeared to take a moment to think. “I suppose if you did visit a branch with the relevant documentation in hand—IDs for you and your mother, death certificate, and US bank records showing the payment and account details—we might be able to offer further assistance.”
Owen nodded eagerly, excitement lifting his brow as if this was good news and not merely a small step up from being stonewalled.
“Okay,” Frankie said, dejection weighing heavily on her already exhausted shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” Hugh said, more chipper now. “Happy to be of service. Is there anything else I can do to assist you today?”
Not be in the UK, Frankie thought. Out loud, she declined his further so-called help, and they hung up.
She tipped backward and closed her eyes. “Fudge,” she whispered.
The bed dipped as Owen sat down next to her. “It’s still a lead,” he said. “Not a dead end.”
She opened her eyes to look up at him. “I currently have a Ziplock bag full of Mom’s old jewelry in my purse that I need to pawn to pay off an exterminator because while mice are cute in nature, they are unhelpful to ballerinas trying to dance.
The school is months away from bankruptcy, I have to hire a new teacher and pay them, don’t you know, and the moms spearheading the auction think we have a money tree growing out back.
In what world do I have spare change for airplane tickets lying around waiting for me?
” She pushed herself up to sitting. “I appreciate your support, but this is a dead end. Wishing it wasn’t doesn’t make it so. ”
She reached for her bag and stuffed the papers back inside, then got off the bed. “I’m going to go home and try to get a few more hours of sleep.”
“Frankie…” Owen watched her make her way across the room.
“Owen,” she said, offering him a tight smile. “I know you mean well, and I am so, so grateful for all your help.” She gestured to the room. “For being here right now.”
“We’ll think of something,” he said.
“Maybe, maybe not.” She reached for the door handle.
“But right now I have to be at work in four hours and at Estelle’s in another three to be interviewed about my mother’s legacy by a woman who may or may not be looking for a scoop.
” She huffed out a glum laugh. “So I’m going to try to put all this out of my mind for a bit and see where that leaves me, okay? ”
Owen nodded. “I get it. Sorry, Frankie. I know you’re dreading this interview. I’ll be here if you need me.”
“I know. Thank you.”
The urge to run to him, to seek shelter in his strong arms like that night in the motel, forced her feet out the door and down the hallway.
He’d said no thanks to her once before back when they were teens and he broke things off, and there was no need to add insult to injury with everything she already had on her plate.
“Head in the game,” she said to herself as she unlocked her car and got in. Sleep, work, interview. Professional was the word.
The rest would have to wait.
When Frankie arrived at Estelle’s house after a morning at the school, she found the living room transformed. The couch had been moved closer to the window, the blinds were open, there were freshly cut flowers on every surface that allowed it, and the piano had been polished.
Mrs. Nolan was hovering by the front door, ready to usher Frankie inside as if she was new to the building.
“Orla is ten minutes out, but I thought we could get a couple of pictures for the auction brochures first,” she said. “I’m sure she’s bringing her own photographer for the feature, so look at it like a practice round. Do you need help with make-up?”
Frankie looked into the hallway mirror. “What’s wrong with my make-up?”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were wearing any. You’ll want to go heavier for the camera.”
“I do?” Frankie spun in place as Mrs. Nolan rushed past her to where the cleaning lady had left a roll of paper towels sitting out on a sideboard.
“Definitely,” Mrs. Nolan said, turning back to her. “You’re the face of the school now, Frankie. Let’s look the part. Make Estelle proud.” She put a palm over her heart.
Frankie didn’t have it in her to object, mostly because she suspected this whole affair would only drag out if she did, and after some added blush and eyeliner (plus setting powder because “no one liked an oily forehead”), she was deemed presentable.
It was right on time, too, because no sooner had Frankie been released from Mrs. Nolan’s clutches than the other woman let out a squeal of excitement announcing Orla had arrived.
“We meet again,” Orla said upon entering, extending a hand to Frankie. “I must say I didn’t expect the invitation based on our last conversation.”
Frankie shook her hand, taking a few seconds to recalibrate. Orla thought Frankie was behind this, which could only be a good thing. It meant the reporter might be less likely to think Frankie had something to hide.
Sensing the power dynamic shifting slightly in her favor, Frankie allowed her shoulders to relax. “Of course. The more people learn about this auction, the better.” She nodded a greeting to the too-young-looking photographer Orla had brought along.
“My grandson,” Orla said, gesturing to the young man. “But don’t tell anyone or I’ll be accused of nepotism.”
Frankie shared a conspiratorial smile with her, then she guided them into the living room, following the prompts Mrs. Nolan had given her. “I thought we could sit over here. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Iced tea if you have it,” Orla said.
“I’ll get it.” Mrs. Nolan hurried into the kitchen.
While they waited, Frankie tried to make herself comfortable, but the light and angles in the room were all wrong with the seating moved. “Thank you for doing this,” she said just to say something. “It means a lot that you would take the time.”
“I’ve always liked a good cause. Besides, at this point in my life, I only take jobs that interest me, and this did.”
“Oh?” Act friendly, play dumb. She could do this.
“I followed Estelle’s career obviously, short though it may have been.
She was an interesting person—fun to talk to, thoughtful, enterprising—and I admit it surprised me when she settled here and opened the school.
I never got a chance to talk to her about it since she stopped giving interviews, so I’m excited to learn more.
” The reporter’s gaze held Frankie’s for an extended moment—a life of honed perception shining within them.
Frankie swallowed, her tongue drying up in her mouth.
Still no mention of the botched second interview.
Was Orla holding back too, or did she consider Estelle’s snub a professional failure that she preferred not to think about?
Frankie had no idea if such situations were par for the course for reporters.
What she did know was that she should have asked for something caffeinated to help her step up her game over the next two hours, or this had the potential to turn into a big mistake.
Once they had their beverages in front of them, Orla placed a recording device on the table between them and sat back against the cushions, one smooth leg crossed over the other. “Should we get started?”
Frankie nodded, putting conviction behind the move. “Let’s.”
“Excellent.” Orla lit up. “So, Frankie—or do you perhaps prefer Francesca now that you’re older? Named for your great-great-grandmother, was it?”
“Frankie is fine.” She couldn’t remember the last time someone had used her full given name, and in light of what she now knew, she wouldn’t be surprised if that little factoid also was based on a lie. She’d been too cocky before; this wasn’t good. Her back was already sticky.
“Do you remember the first time you realized your mother wasn’t like other mothers?”
Frankie blinked at her. She’d just thought about how different other people’s relationships with their moms were. Was this woman a mind reader?
“That she was famous, I mean,” Orla clarified.