Page 131 of Road Trip
She told him about her chance meeting with Esme Rossington and the sleuthing she and Maeve had done to prove that Esme was the “inside man” behind the IRA robbery at Tarrymore.
“Damn! Y’all are pretty formidable,” Scotty said, visibly impressed by what the Dunagin sisters had accomplished during their whirlwind trip.
Therese picked an onion ring off her platter and nibbled at it.
“Funny you used that word. That’s how Esme described her grandmother Fiona.”
“Must be a family trait,” Scotty remarked. “Your mother was like that. I mean, before she got sick.”
“Mary Helen was that in spades,” Therese agreed. “And so was Kathleen. We’ve been reading her letters. Isabel gifted them all to us. I told Maeve she should write a book about Kathleen’s exploits.”
“Speaking of exploits, I talked to someone in the US attorney’s office here about the Reverend Jerome and his ‘temple.’ He wouldn’t talk specifics, but he did say they have received multiple complaints about the guy. I gather there’s some question about his taxes.”
“You don’t sound too optimistic about that,” she said.
“I just don’t want to get your hopes up,” Scotty said. “These federal investigations can take years. And even if they do eventually indict him, that doesn’t guarantee you get back the money your momdonated. I’ve been doing some research of my own. This guy has an oceanfront house down in Vero Beach that’s worth four million dollars. He’s got a private jet, a Gulfstream G650. Drives a Bentley, just built a house in Fort Worth that’s twenty thousand square feet. That temple of his holds two thousand worshipers. The locals out there refer to it as Six Flags over Jesus. That’s what he did with those donations from the Mary Helen Dunagins of the world.”
“What do you think our chances are that the bank will do right by us?” Therese asked.
“That’s gonna depend on what Arletha Carter tells us. Let’s hope she can help us prove that the bank knew, or should have known, that Mary Helen was not competent when she took out that second mortgage.”
The doorbell rangpromptly at two. Arletha Carter stood on the front stoop, nervously glancing around the yard, as though watching for enemy spies who might be lurking behind Mary Helen’s prized camellia bushes.
“There you are,” Arletha said, beaming when Therese answered the door. “Oh my. You really are a grown woman. Your mama would be so proud to see you home like this.”
“I think she’d be proud of both me and Maeve,” Therese said. “Come on inside.”
Arletha was dressed like the banker she’d been for four decades, in a pale pink linen blazer, white blouse, and darker pink slacks. Her close-cropped hair was silver now, and her long acrylic nails were painted the same shade as her jacket.
Scotty was already seated in a wing chair near the fireplace, with a yellow legal pad and pen at the ready.
“I think you’ve met our friend and family attorney, Scott Childress,” Therese said.
Letha gave him a polite nod.
“I don’t know if Scott told you why we needed to talk to you,” Therese started.
“He told me,” Letha said. “And my daughter Saundra said, ‘Mama, you don’t need to be messin’ in those folks’ business.’ But I prayed and prayed over it. I wrestled with Satan, you know? But my better angels were settin’ right there on my shoulder, and they reminded me about how I was raised.”
Scotty and Therese exchanged worried glances.
“‘Tell the truth and shame the devil,’ that’s what my Bible says,” Arletha added.
“Your mama, rest her soul, was my special friend. Mary Helen never forgot my birthday, always had me a card and a lil’ cupcake or some flowers picked from her garden. When my grandbabies were born, she sent them little gifts too. Your mama was special to me, and not just as a bank customer.”
“That’s so sweet of you to say, Arletha. And it was good of you to come to her funeral too. Maeve and I really appreciated that.”
Letha gave a sad smile. She sat erect on the edge of the sofa, shoulders back, hands folded in her lap, almost like she was on a witness stand.
“Did you notice a change in Mama, like over the year or so before she died?” Therese asked.
“Oh yes. It was kinda gradual like. After she retired from the drugstore, she didn’t have to make deposits and do your uncle’s banking no more, but she still kept coming in on Fridays. She didn’t believe in direct deposit, so she’d bring in her social security check herself, and she didn’t like ATM machines either, so she’d withdraw whatever cash she wanted, like for what she called her ‘fun money.’
“But then, over that last year or so, she’d come in on other days, and she was withdrawing more cash than I’d ever known her to take out. I kinda teased her about it a little bit, but she said she was sending money to a preacher who was doing the Lord’s work out in Texas.”
Scotty spoke up, showing her the printout of Mary Helen’s banking transactions for the prior two years. “It looks like she almost always banked with you, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. She was kinda particular about who knew her business.If I was out sick, or like when I had foot surgery year before last, she’d try to wait until I was back at work.”
