Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
FRANKIE
Now
It rained at Heathrow when Frankie stepped out of arrivals onto British soil. If she didn’t count two hours of fitful dozing on the plane, she was going on over thirty hours of no sleep, but adrenaline and hope carried her forward to the taxi ramp.
The discovery of the locket had made up Frankie’s mind.
Even if she put all other question marks aside and decided lies and financial irregularities were unimportant, she had to keep digging for her sister’s sake.
That picture of baby A, which was how she’d come to think of her, had been a sign.
If the payments to the bank had anything to do with her, Frankie needed to know.
In the car on the way to her hotel, she texted Owen first to let him and Thora know she’d made it safely, and then Kayla.
Frankie had expected Kayla to put up a fight about her leaving again, but after she’d explained everything that had happened, her friend had hugged her and told her she’d keep everything back home on schedule.
Losing out on the ten thousand dollars was a hit, but Kayla had promised she’d offer Cal musicians free of charge for the procession and let him know he was off the hook for the donation.
Frankie would go see him in person when she returned, and in the meantime, she had to trust that they’d pull in enough money at the event anyway.
The only caveat she’d added after telling Kayla everything was to keep Matt out of it until Frankie got back.
While Frankie didn’t believe for one second that Estelle and Ray had been romantically entangled, Orla’s comments had shone a spotlight on just how close the two of them had once been.
The more Frankie thought about it, the more convinced she was that Uncle Ray knew more than he’d let on about something—exactly what, she didn’t know—and she didn’t want to risk Matt’s ear getting bent by subterfuge until she had the facts to counter them.
Cal was disappointed but gracious about it, Kayla texted. Mira is going to play. Where are you now?
Almost at the hotel, Frankie responded.
London traffic was chaotic, but at least they didn’t have to dive into the fray of downtown to get to the small boutique hotel Owen had found for her last minute near Waterloo station.
“First time visiting?” the driver asked when Frankie plastered her face to the window to see the River Thames joining them on their right.
“Yes,” Frankie said.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Um…” Frankie sat back in her seat again to avoid getting car sick as they dodged another traffic jam. “Business I guess.” Of the unfinished kind.
Her phone dinged again. Another message from Kayla. Hope you can get some sleep.
That made two of them. Tomorrow could be a big day, and she needed to be ready.
The branch of the bank Frankie needed to visit was in Guildford, about an hour’s train ride from Waterloo station.
She’d left herself plenty of time by taking a train out of the city that would get there thirty minutes before the bank opened.
It was a sunny morning, though still cool enough to warrant a jacket, but Frankie turned her face to the sky as she headed toward the high street and let the morning rays fortify her.
She hadn’t expected the town to be so charming.
Cobblestoned streets, narrow alleys here and there, skewed storefronts that spoke of history, a river.
Saturday foot traffic had yet to pick up, but she had no doubt that the cute shops and cafés would be teeming with people in a few hours—especially on a nice day like today.
It was almost enough to help her forget the real reason she was there.
The branch was in a block of unassuming yellow-brick buildings that lacked the character of the quaint structures she’d passed on her way.
At the bank, she texted Owen once she’d located the side street where her destination lay.
He’d insisted on getting up early for moral support, even though she’d told him he didn’t have to.
Break a leg, he responded, true to his word. And don’t take no for an answer.
“I’ll do my best,” Frankie mumbled to herself. Then she pushed open the heavy door and entered.
There was only one teller working, and she was helping another customer, so Frankie took her place in line and pulled the envelope that held all the documentation she might need out of her bag.
She didn’t have to wait long until a second teller took his place behind the counter and called her forward.
“Morning, Miss, how can I help?”
“Hi,” Frankie said, placing the envelope on the polished wood while choosing her words. “I have a somewhat unusual request I’m hoping you can help me with. I spoke to someone on the phone a few days ago and they suggested I come in person, so I flew here from the US just for this.”
The teller’s eyes widened. “Oh my,” he said. “Must be important.”
Frankie explained what she was trying to do. That her dead mother had made payments to a UK account and that she was trying to figure out what for.
“I have this,” she said, pulling the sheet with the payment information out of the envelope.
“See. Here’s the account number and payment reference.
I also have my mother’s death certificate and a notarized letter from her bank stating that I am the beneficiary.
” She presented him with everything she’d brought, sending up a silent prayer that it would be enough.
“Hmm. Let’s see.” The teller studied the documents, a crease forming between his brows. “I’ll be right back. One moment.” He disappeared through a door to the right, leaving Frankie hanging on to the counter to support her increasingly jelly-like legs.
Please, she thought. Give me something.
The man returned with an older woman with a gray perm and readers on a cord around her neck. She was the embodiment of a stern school ma’am, but her pale blue eyes were friendly as she slid the documents back to Frankie.
“I hear you’ve traveled far,” she said. “But unfortunately, we cannot disclose account information to anyone but the account holder. That’s the law.”
Frankie dug her nails into her palms. Not again. “But I’m not asking for account activity on your end—only where my mother’s money was going.”
“Be that as it may, our hands are further tied by the fact that there is no active account matching the details you’ve provided.”
“But I know it’s here.” Frankie pointed to the address on the page. “This is the right branch.”
“Like I said,” the woman continued, glancing at her colleague. “There are no active accounts matching your information.”
Frankie was about to protest again when the inflection of the woman’s voice stopped her. The emphasis wasn’t accidental. She was trying to say something.
“The account is inactive,” Frankie said. “Closed?”
“We’re simply unable to find an active account with that number,” the male teller said, a pointed glint in his eye. “That’s all we can tell you.”
Okay. Frankie pondered this. As disappointing as it was to learn the account was inactive, these two tellers were being helpful.
Maybe she could push her luck a little. “Let’s forget about the account then,” she said, offering a smile.
“I’ll start over. I’m here to understand the reference for an international payment to your bank.
It’s not important to me who the account holder is or was—I just want to know what these letters mean.
” She indicated the eight letters next to the account number, deliberately covering the numerical digits in a demonstration of just how much the account itself didn’t matter.
“Let’s see,” the older woman said, placing her readers at the tip of her nose. “SSTGTAFY.” She turned to the computer monitor next to her and typed something on the keyboard.”
“AFY—is that Aftbury?” the man asked.
“What’s Aftbury?” Frankie asked.
“A village south of here. Used to be a Benedictine monastery hundreds of years ago.”
The woman scribbled something on a note and handed it to Frankie. “Looks like this abbreviation is for St. George’s Trust in Aftbury.”
Frankie looked between the two of them. “A religious trust? Like a church?” Why would Estelle have been sending money there?
“Could be for land management, education, charity, building upkeep…” The older woman gave a little shrug. “We couldn’t say.”
Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Frankie nibbled at her lip as she looked at the note. “How far away is it?”
“Oh, about a twenty-minute drive, I’d say,” the man said. “Not more.”
“And the trust is still there?”
“It’s possible,” the woman said. “It’s a historical landmark, so someone must still be overseeing it, one would think.”
So the account was inactive, but there might be someone there with more information about the trust. Frankie gathered everything and shoved it back into the envelope she’d brought, a decision forming. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “Do you happen to know where I could rent a car around here?”
“There are cars for hire at the train station,” the man said. “Do you know where that is?”
“That’s where I came from.” Frankie tucked the envelope back in her bag, backing away from the counter. “Thank you again.”
“Best of luck,” the older woman called.
Frankie retraced her steps through the town to the station, not stopping to admire the old-timey charm again. She was getting closer. She could feel it. All she had to do was get to Aftbury.
She practically ran up to the rental desk, out of breath and sweaty. “One car please,” she panted. “To rent, I mean. I’d like to rent a car.” She’d never rented a car before, which was obvious to anyone judging by the clerk’s amused expression.
“American?” he asked.
“Is that a problem?” Frankie asked.
“No, no.” The man smiled. “Just curious. We don’t get a lot of walk-ins from overseas.”
“Oh. Yes. Poor planning.” Frankie let out a self-depreciating laugh.
“Not to worry. And how long will you be needing it for?”