Free The Dog That Whispered by Jim Kraus Page A

okay.”
    Thurman beamed at the praise.
    “See?” Gretna said, now beaming as well. “He grows on you, doesn’t he? He is a good dog.”
    Wilson stood back up and sniffed. He was unwilling to fully commit to this arrangement, at least to his mother.
    “I suppose.”
    Gretna knew posing when she saw it, and she probably knew Wilson was simply being obstreperous for show.
    Wilson looked toward the front door.
    “That’s Emily,” Gretna said. “Emily, this is my son, Wilson.”
    Both offered the standard “Nice to meet you” response.
    “Emily’s mother is at Heritage Square too, isn’t she, Emily?” Gretna said. “Mother-in-law. I meant mother-in-law.” Then she added in a softer, lower voice, “But the poor woman can’t get out much. Being in a wheelchair, you know. And she gets confused sometimes. So I asked Emily if she could take me here for a few minutes and Emily said she would be happy to. Right, Emily?”
    Emily smiled and shrugged.
    Wilson recognized the look of capitulation. Not a horrible forced-under-pain-of-death capitulation, but still…
    “I wanted to see the dog,” Emily added. “Thurman, I mean. Your mother goes on and on about him.”
    Wilson arched his eyebrows.
    “No doubt she does.”
    Thurman appeared to follow the conversation, then growled toward Gretna.
    “Are you going to invite us in for coffee, Wilson?” Gretna asked. “Thurman likes company.”
    Emily looked socially horrified, a little bit.
    At least she has manners…or good sense , Wilson thought.
    Obviously, Gretna noticed the look and waved it away.
    “Nonsense. He’s my son. He can offer us a cup of coffee.”
    She started walking toward the front door.
    “Seeing as how you’ve already been inside, Mother, I guess coffee would be fine.”
    Gretna offered a knowing grin to Emily.
    “Such a good boy. Didn’t I tell you he was such a good boy?”

    Mr. Hild looked exactly like an old-school personal banker should look, Hazel thought, wearing a very sedate gray suit, an old-school striped tie, wingtip shoes—all of which was in opposition to the standard blue blazers the rest of the personal banking crew probably had been forced to wear.
    They look like they work at an upscale McDonald’s—and wear better uniforms , Hazel thought.
    “Old stock certificates, you say,” Mr. Hild said, folding his hands and placing them on the desk. He had a nameplate on a little rack on the desk, obviously a subtle sign of seniority.
    Hazel held her purse in her lap, with the envelope in one hand, and explained about the desk in the garage sale and finding the key and finding just the one envelope in the box and the fact that her mother never once mentioned owning any stock, or any investments of any kind.
    She slid the certificates out of the envelope as Mr. Hild explained that very few companies offered paper certificates any longer. “It’s all electronic now. I miss these. Some certificates were like works of art.”
    He saw the one-bite-from-the-apple logo and his eyes widened a little.
    And his hand shook, just a bit, as he took them from her. Hazel thought it was because he was elderly, after all.
    He laid them on the desk, staring at them.
    Then he turned to the computer monitor and began to type. He was much slower and more deliberate than any personal banker she had been with up to now.
    Hazel chattered on, nervous, without being sure why exactly.
    “It would be nice to have a little inheritance. After I settle all her debts and sell the house, I may have a few thousand dollars, if that. I mean, I’m not looking for anything, nor am I expecting anything, and I don’t really need anything, but a little cushion would be nice, you know what I mean? Maybe I could get my condo painted or something. That would be nice. It’s been years since I could afford to do that.”
    Mr. Hild did not look at her but murmured, “Uh-huh.”
    He stopped typing and looked up.
    “Did she…your mother, I mean…did she have any other