Chapter 32
“So where shall we begin,” asked Wilbur brightly, indicating
a chair. Mr. Rockwell sat, opened his bag, and removed his notebook.
“As you
know,” began the accountant, “It is my responsibility to conduct the final
disposition of your grandmother’s estate according to her will. As Agnes is a
single woman without substantial income, Mrs. Brown intended, as you were
aware, to leave the lion’s share of her liquid assets to her. A will to this
effect has been in place for many years. Agnes was, as a result, looking
forward to an absence of worry regarding the upkeep of Brookside.”
“The
balance of your grandmother’s accounts as of February 28 was nearly
$8 million. No transactions came across my desk since that time. However,
when I checked the balances in preparation for making the proper distributions,
I found that they totaled only $748,000.
Since you and Eleanor were her daily companions, and I can only assume were
privy to some discussions of her finances, I am looking to you for help in
explaining this.”
Wilbur had
seated himself behind his desk while listening. Now, downing the last of his
glass, he rose and began a thoughtful pacing.
“Abram, as
a man of business and considerable assets yourself, I know that you know the
importance—no, the necessity—of continuing to make one’s money work for one’s
family. A dormant fortune is a shrinking fortune.”
“I am well
aware of this principle. And you have always been free to invest your wealth
where you saw fit, I am sure.”
Wilbur
cleared his throat and tugged at his vest. “You may not know that my assets
have been committed for some time now to improvements at my estate, Montefiore,
and a small number of long-term investments abroad.”
Mr.
Rockwell interrupted, his color rising. “You have made use then of your
grandmother’s funds without consulting me? Is that what you are saying?”
“Some
opportunities require immediate action,” Wilbur returned sharply. “I have taken
advantage of chances that could not wait.”
“Such as?”
Mr. Rockwell was clearly struggling to control himself.
“Principally
real estate.”
“All since
February?”
Wilbur was
silent for a moment, then poured himself another dose of dark orange whiskey.
“And by
what means? With the exception of your grandmother, I am the only one
authorized to access these accounts.”
“Grandma
Brown saw the wisdom of the purchases and was amenable to offering me power of
attorney to make use of additional resources.”
“What?” Mr.
Rockwell exploded from his chair. “Without asking me? Without even notifying
me?”
Just then
both men noticed Jenkins standing in the doorway with a bundle and a tall mug.
“Well?”
Wilbur snapped at the wide-eyed boy.
The youth mumbled
that he had the gentleman’s chicken pie and his coffee and could he keep the
change as he had run all the way back with it. Mr. Rockwell, like a man in a
daze, said he could keep the change and the food for that matter. At this the
boy, after a moment’s confusion, darted back out the front door to eat his
dinner safely removed from the strange gentleman who might, he feared, at any
moment change his mind.
Wilbur
proceeded to assure Mr. Rockwell that he had the situation under firm control.
When asked for receipts and ledger books, he raised his arms helplessly and
said that his associate had been called away to Washington that very morning on an errand of
the greatest importance that had required him to take those items with him. He
should be back next week, though, and they could sort it all out then.
“Do you
mean to tell me, sir, that you have nothing to show me at this time?”
“Sadly that
is true. I do regret the great inconvenience, Abram. But you are more than
welcome to spend the night.”
As the weight
of Wilbur’s words registered with him, Mr. Rockwell dropped into his chair like
one whose legs had been knocked from under him. His mind whirled. At length he
demanded, “I should like to see this power of attorney you mention.”
“Of
course.” Wilbur pulled out a desk drawer and produced the document, duly signed
and witnessed and dated March of the same year.
“Why wasn’t
I advised? It is not like your grandmother to not communicate with me on such a
matter.”
“She had
confidence in our plan and was afraid you would not approve. After all, Grandma
was entitled to make her own decisions, was she not? She was a sharp old woman
to the last.” Wilbur tried to smile, but the effect was ghoulish.
Mr.
Rockwell tucked the document into his bag. “I’ll take this. I’m sure you have
another copy.” He rose and stood squarely in front of Wilbur. “You have much to
answer for, Wilbur. There could be a challenge. You might have to liquidate
these recent investments to give the family its due, and soon. I hope you
invested very wisely.” He picked up his bag. “As for spending the night, no. If
your boy will get me a cab, I will return to the station directly. As soon as
your associate is returned, so shall I, and we will have a full accounting of
all this. Make sure your papers are in order. I will not come alone.”
Mr. Rockwell
headed to the door, grabbed his hat and umbrella on the way, and walked out.
Wilbur, just behind him, whistled for Jenkins, who set out to find a cab while
chewing the last mouthful of pie. Wilbur said an awkward good-bye and closed
the black door behind his visitor. A carriage, which had been parked half a
block away, pulled out and came to a stop a few yards from where Mr. Rockwell stood.
A head projected from the window, and a hand beckoned, and Mr. Rockwell
recognized the imposing countenance of Mrs. Eleanor Brown.
Chapter 33
Eleanor’s carriage, with Mr. Rockwell inside, pulled away at
a brisk clip just as Jenkins, already planning how to spend his next tip,
appeared with a cab for the gentleman. Mr. Rockwell looked through the rear
window to see the young man crane his neck one way and the other, then run into
Brown and Associates in search of his fare.
Meanwhile,
the puzzled passenger turned his attention to Eleanor and waited for her to
speak. The shock he had just been dealt had robbed him of his usual manners.
“I know you
have just met with my husband,” Eleanor began. She clearly saw no need for
polite preamble. A Persian cat dozed in her lap as she absently stroked its
luxurious head. “What did he tell you?”
“He told me
things my ears could barely take in, madam. That he had secured power of
attorney over his grandmother for the purpose of using her money to make
certain real estate investments, none of which I was consulted about. When I
asked for receipts he told me that they were all with his associate who happens
to be in Washington
this week, and if I would be so kind as to return next week, he will provide a
full account of this shocking situation.” Mr. Rockwell’s voice swelled as he
finished, and Eleanor shrank inwardly at the fury she and her husband would now
face. “Can you tell me anything further?” the old man asked, raising his
eyebrows.
“I can tell
you that I had nothing to do with all this. I warned him many times, and I
urged him to talk to you and to Agnes, but he refused, kept putting it off.”
“Why didn’t
Mrs. Brown contact me?”
Eleanor
looked away. “She did. That is, she wrote letters and Wilbur always took them
to town to send. I suspected you might never receive them.” She paused and
glanced at her visitor with a dark mixture of fear and hesitation. “I have
reason to believe that he led her to think you replied . . . approvingly, and
even concealed the actual amounts.”
“Infamy! And what do you know about
these investments?”
“What
investments?”
“The $7
million of investments your husband says are in real estate opportunities.”
Eleanor
stroked the sleepy cat. “I’ll only say this. Do not expect to return next week
for a full accounting. If I were you, I would take whatever money remains and
safeguard it. That may be all Agnes will ever see.”
Mr.
Rockwell’s face blanched and his hands went cold. “What are you telling me,
Mrs. Brown?”
“I had
nothing to do with it. It can’t be helped now. I’m sorry.” She raised her chin
and the muscles in her neck tensed.
The
carriage door swung open. Mr. Rockwell had not even noticed that they had
stopped. Mechanically he looked out and saw that they were at the station.
Understanding that their conversation was over, he descended to the street,
shuffled into the great train station, and found Western
Union. He sent a telegraph to his office to freeze what remained
of Grandma’s assets and request the current balances. “Urgent. Will explain
upon immediate return.”
The air in
the station hung gray and stifling as outside a steady drizzle resumed. The old
accountant realized that his clothes were sticking to his body and that he had not
eaten for many hours. He bought a sausage and coffee, downed both without
tasting them, and boarded the next train to New York.
How could
he have let this happen? He had let down the family, he had let down Benjamin.
He should have been more vigilant. He would press a lawsuit. If necessary,
Wilbur could sell his mansion to recover the money due Agnes. There would be a
solution, it would just take time. But what did Eleanor mean about there being
no accounting? Was there no property purchased? If not, how had Wilbur spent $7
million in only a few months?
These and a
hundred other questions swirled in the old man’s head. But emerging above them
all was a fear that gripped him more with each mile that separated him from Philadelphia: What if
Wilbur disappeared? Would he dare? Mr. Rockwell had heard enough that afternoon
to know that the man was capable of anything to save his skin and not face
whatever it was he had done. He felt it in his bones.
And what in
the world was he going to tell Agnes?
To be continued . . .
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