Chapter 18
18
I vy could hear the construction crew arriving in the car court as she dressed. Over quick bowls of cereals in the cozy kitchen of their quarters over the garage, Bennett told her about his golf game, what Hal had offered about the library, and the lot Boz mentioned.
While she digested this news, he leaned against the counter, peeling an orange. He handed her a slice. “I hope you don’t mind me dipping my toes into the deep waters of your business.”
Ivy smiled at his thoughtfulness. “Come on in. If you start drowning, I’m a certified lifeguard.”
She’d once felt like she was the one drowning—drowning in debt, lack of experience, or demanding guests. But since then, she’d gained experience and learned to accept help wherever she could find it.
She popped the fresh orange slice into her mouth. “I should call the probate trustee to see if he knows anything about a reserve account for the library and art museum Amelia planned.”
Outside, the hammering began. Thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Come with me to the office,” Bennett said, raising his voice. “I know him, and we can call from there.”
Ivy appreciated this. “You’re officially part of the team.” She kissed him and took his hand.
Taking the rest of their fruit, they rushed out and climbed into Bennett’s SUV for the short drive to City Hall.
After greeting Nan and Boz on their way in, Ivy sat on the other side of Bennett’s desk in his office. He closed the door, though she could still hear the muffled sounds of the city administration at work—phones ringing, printers humming, people discussing municipal matters.
Bennett leaned forward. “Mind if I make the call since I know him?”
“Let’s put him on speaker so we can both talk.” After Bennett’s real estate partner had become ill, her listing passed to Bennett, so he represented the trust as the selling agent.
Ivy perched on the edge of the chair, tapping her fingers as she watched him dial the number.
As he dialed the number, he gave her a reassuring smile that did little to calm her nerves.
“Hello, this is Mayor Bennett Dylan from Summer Beach.” Bennett pressed the speaker button, introduced Ivy, and summarized the issue. “It’s regarding the Erickson estate.”
Resting her arms on the desk, Ivy leaned in to listen to the conversation. The lead attorney and trustee Bennett knew was on vacation in Hawaii.
“This is Pierce Grainger. I worked on the Erickson case as well. How can I help you?”
Bennett glanced at Ivy before responding. “We’re inquiring about the possibility of an old Swiss bank account associated with the Erickson estate. Specifically, accounts that might have been designated for the Summer Beach Library and Art Museum.”
There was a brief pause on the other end. “Swiss accounts? No, there was nothing like that in the estate. We did a thorough inventory of all assets at the time of Mrs. Erickson’s passing. No foreign accounts of any kind were listed. She kept her banking relationships in San Francisco.”
Ivy’s shoulders slumped, but then she straightened again as a thought occurred to her. “But then, there might not be,” she said, loud enough for Pierce to hear. “What if the account was opened before or during the war, and the information was lost or forgotten when Mrs. Erickson developed Alzheimer’s? It wouldn’t have been part of the known estate. Or what if it had been bequeathed to her from her father?”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Pierce said slowly, though his tone suggested skepticism. “But extremely unlikely. We were quite thorough.”
“Would it be possible to investigate?” Ivy was unwilling to let go of the possibility so quickly. “We’ve found documentation suggesting funds were specifically set aside for a library and art museum, along with what appears to be a Swiss bank address and what might be an account number.”
Another pause, longer this time. “You could try, or we could look into it on your behalf. But I should warn you that Swiss banks are notoriously private. Without the proper documentation and proof of connection to the account holder, it’s nearly impossible to access information, let alone funds. Especially after all this time.”
The unspoken message was clear. Don’t get your hopes up.
“I understand,” Ivy said. Disappointment crowded in on her. “Thank you for your time.”
Bennett ended the call with a few more pleasantries, then turned to Ivy. Her face must have betrayed her feelings because he reached over and squeezed her hand.
“It was always a long shot.” His tone held a note of apology.
“Do you think I’m letting that call deter me? That was his opinion, not mine. I have other ideas.” Standing, she straightened her shoulders with determination. “I’m just getting started.”
His face shone with admiration for her. “Bravo. What’s next?”
“I need to think.” She picked up the laptop bag she had grabbed on their rush from the inn. “See you back at the house for dinner. Unless you’d rather go out.”
“Everything is getting fairly dusty at the house.” He stood and took her in his arms. “Your choice.”
“I’ll make a plan.” She kissed him before leaving.
Ivy arrived at the Oceanview Cafe and looked around. “Table for one,” she said, giving her friend a hug.
Hallie seated her with a knowing smile. “You look like you could use some peace and quiet.” She led Ivy to a corner table with the best ocean view. “This renovation is turning you into a refugee.”
“A very grateful one,” Ivy had replied, sinking into the chair.
“Coffee?”
“Bring it on, please.”
“Are you expecting anyone else?”
Ivy shook her head. “Shelly and Poppy are planning a book festival to benefit a new bookmobile and, eventually, a library.”
Hallie’s face lit. “That’s wonderful news. We were devastated when the library was destroyed. We sometimes drive to another one, but it’s a little too far to just pop in, especially with our little ones. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help support the cause. I know what it’s like to lose everything in a disaster, so I’d be happy to host a fundraiser here for it.”
“Thanks, I’ll let you know.” Ivy would make a note of that. It was good to know the project had community support.
Hallie and her husband had come here after losing everything in a hurricane in Houston. They opened Oceanview Cafe last year. Hallie specialized in California and Pacific Rim fusion recipes, which meant plenty of mango, curry, avocados, and fresh fish. She bought her seafood every morning from family-owned fishing vessels.
The clatter of dishes inside the cafe punctuated the rhythmic sound of waves, and the aroma of simmering lunch specials floated outside. Ivy sat at her favorite table on the patio and opened her notebook.
The mid-morning lull between breakfast and lunch meant she often had the outdoor space to herself, so she could make phone calls with few interruptions. While she liked Java Beach, it was always busy with little privacy. That’s where Shelly, Poppy, and Libby were right now.
Having quiet time to think was a small mercy after days of endless construction noise at the inn. However, she still checked in with Reed to see if he had questions.
“Here you are,” Hallie said, serving her a cup and leaving the thermal coffee carafe on the table. “Stay as long as you like. It’s nice to have your company.”
Ivy poured a little cream into her coffee. “Do you have any tables open tonight?”
“For you, of course. How many in your party?”
“Just the two of us. It’s date night.” Ivy decided on a time, and Hallie made a note of it before returning to the kitchen.
As Ivy gazed out at the sapphire expanse of the Pacific Ocean, her mind returned to the possibility of a dormant Swiss bank account. She couldn’t shake the thought, despite the trustee’s skepticism. She would have to determine if an account existed and then try to prove if Amelia or her father intended to direct those funds to a library.
That was asking a lot.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was supposed to follow this thread, however tenuous it might seem. She needed a healthy dose of luck, of synchronicity.
As she thought about this, she doodled, sketching clovers in her notebook. Four leaves, for luck.
Who would know about Swiss banking laws? Or dormant accounts from years past? She sketched a bank building with a question mark on its facade. There must be someone who could help navigate this foreign landscape.
Just then, a seagull swooped down to perch on the patio railing. The bird cocked its head and stared at her as if delivering a message.
Ivy stared back and picked up her pencil to sketch the white bird. Mariners often believed gulls were harbingers of good news; likely they were weary sailors looking for land. Others believed the birds embodied the spirits of their fellow adventurers soaring over the seas.
After a while, the seagull lifted off, spreading its impressive wings.
If that bird had meant to deliver a message, she hadn’t received it yet.
She returned to her notebook, flipping through pages of notes about the renovation, book festival plans, and now this mystery. Her thoughts drifted to the people she knew with international connections.
Suddenly, she sat up straighter.
“Raquel,” she murmured, reaching for her phone. “Of course.”
During their honeymoon trip to Mallorca, Ivy and Bennett befriended Raquel and her brother Carlos. As it turned out, their grandfather had worked alongside Amelia’s father during the war. They were part of the network that had saved countless artworks from Nazi destruction. If anyone might have insight into European banking from that era, it would be someone with connections to that world.
Ivy checked the time. It would be evening in Mallorca, but she remembered that Raquel and her family typically ate dinner late, often not until nine or ten at night.
Worth a try, she thought.
She scrolled through her contacts until she found Raquel’s number, and after a moment’s hesitation, she pressed dial. The international ringtone sounded strange and distant.
“ ?Diga?” came Raquel’s voice, warm and musical even in a single word.
“Raquel? It’s Ivy from Summer Beach, California,” Ivy said, refreshing her memory.
“Ivy, what a wonderful surprise. How are you, mi amiga ?” Raquel’s delight carried across the thousands of miles separating them. “I hope you’re planning another visit.”
“I’m well, and I wish we could say hello in person, but Bennett and I are in the midst of a major renovation at the inn.” Ivy relaxed at the genuine warmth in Raquel’s voice.
“Oh yes, the beautiful old beach house by the sea. How is it coming along?”
“Slowly but surely. We’re at the noisy stage with jackhammers and power tools from dawn till dusk.” She asked about Raquel’s brother Carlos and told her that Bennett would love to keep in touch.
“Maybe we’ll visit when the inn is ready.”
“We’d love to see you,” Ivy said. “You know, we’ve made some fascinating discoveries along the way.”
Raquel gasped. “More paintings?”
“Not this time. Instead, we found the original plans for a library and art museum that Amelia Erickson commissioned but never built. It’s an incredible design and would have been stunning.” She told her about the famous architect and what having a new library would mean to Summer Beach.
“How intriguing. Why not build it now?” Raquel sounded decisive. “Such a treasure should not remain only on paper.”
“We’re trying to figure out how to make that happen,” Ivy replied. “The city doesn’t have the budget, and we’re working on fundraising ideas.” She paused, then decided to dive in.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. We found something else. A paper with what appears to be a Swiss bank address and possibly a bank account number. A note indicates Amelia, or her father, set aside funds specifically for this project. I wonder if the account was overlooked when she developed Alzheimer’s later in life.”
There was a thoughtful silence on the other end. “This is very interesting,” Raquel finally said. “Sometimes, my grandfather spoke of families who deposited their money and valuables in Swiss banks during those terrible years. They were considered safe havens, and most were able to retrieve what they had safeguarded, but not always.”
“Why would that have been?”
“If the account holder died or lacked the necessary identification, it could be a problem. Many people lost their papers during imprisonment or relocation.”
“Do you know if it’s possible, or even likely, that such an account could still exist?” Ivy held her breath, hoping for some confirmation that she wasn’t chasing a dream.
“It is definitely worth pursuing,” Raquel answered firmly. “I know of several cases where families recovered funds and belongings, even decades later. The Swiss designed their banking system precisely for privacy and security. If the account existed but was never closed, there is a good chance it still does.”
A renewed rush of hope surged through her. “That’s encouraging.”
“The difficulty, of course, is proving your right to access it,” Raquel continued. “The same privacy laws that protected the assets make them challenging to claim. But not impossible, especially if you have documentation connecting Amelia to the account.”
“We have a paper with what looks like the bank’s address and a number that could be an account number,” Ivy explained. “And we found a note specifically mentioning funds designated for the Summer Beach Library and Art Museum.”
“That is more than many start with,” Raquel said. “You must follow this trail, Ivy. If nothing else, it is a fascinating historical puzzle. And if it’s successful? Imagine what it would mean for your community.”
“I will,” Ivy said, already thinking about next steps. “Thanks, Raquel. I knew you’d understand why this matters so much.”
After promising to send photos of the finished inn, Ivy ended the call. She stared out at the ocean, watching sunlight dance across its surface.
The seagull returned, alighting on the railing again.
“Well, hello you. Did you come to sprinkle fairy dust over me?”
Once again, the bird angled its head at her and stared.
Who to contact next? she mused, tapping her pencil. The Swiss bank itself seemed like an obvious choice, but from what she’d read, they would be unlikely to release information unless she went through legal channels.
She brought out her laptop to research more.
After replenishing her coffee cup, Ivy had another idea. Viola in San Francisco.
The older woman knew a lot of professionals who might have the knowledge she needed. Maybe she would know of someone.
That possibility was worth a phone call.
Once again, the seagull lifted off, soaring into the skies. And then, she thought of another person who might have even more intimate knowledge.