Free The Dog That Whispered by Jim Kraus Page B

investments?”
    “No. None. Or none that I know of. She had a little over six hundred dollars in the bank when she passed. She still had a mortgage. She lived pretty simply. She was sort of an old hippie, you know, nuts and berries and wanting to live off the land—that sort of person. Not in a bad way. But she never wanted much and seemed to be very happy all the time—even with the little she had. She was a very nice person. Very content. Happy. Mostly happy, anyhow.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Mr. Hild spread the certificates into a fan shape on the desk and entered each number into the computer, very slowly and very carefully.
    He waited a long moment.
    Then he moved the keyboard aside and refolded his hands.
    “You should probably thank your mother. I mean…however you do that…you know…”
    “It’s okay, really,” Hazel replied, almost apologetic that her mother had died and couldn’t be thanked, and now she was wondering why he would say such an odd thing.
    Mr. Hild seemed to grow more flustered—for a personal banker, that is.
    “Are they worth anything?” Hazel asked, breaking the tension. “It must have been years and years ago that she bought them. Probably not worth much, right?”
    Mr. Hild responded with a tight financial grimace, then allowed himself a smile.
    “These are real, Ms. Jamison.”
    She waited.
    “And that’s good?”
    “Yes,” Mr. Hild said, exhaling politely, “that is good. Very good.”
    “Are they worth anything?”
    He looked at the screen again.
    “As of the close of trading yesterday, these stock certificates, in total, were worth in the neighborhood of $1.26 million.”
    Hazel stared back, a blank look on her face.
    “Dollars?”
    “Yes. These were purchased in 1981. The stock was trading for a few dollars a share. They would have cost her roughly $12,000. Since then, there have been a few splits, buybacks, and what have you, and as of now, their value is $1.26 million.”
    Hazel blinked.
    “You are talking about American dollars, right?”
    “Yes.”
    Mr. Hild smiled his best, cordial, we’re-a-nice-bank-to-do-business-with smile and added, in a somber, responsible tone, “And we at Umpqua Bank certainly hope that if you decide to sell them, you’ll use our bank to help you with the transaction. No fees involved. We would waive all fees for this size transaction.”
    Hazel leaned against the padded back of the chair and exhaled.
    “American dollars. You’re sure, right?”
    “Yes. I am sure. You must realize that I seldom joke about money. It’s sort a personal banker motto here at Umpqua.”
    Hazel stared at him, not knowing if laughter or tears were appropriate.

    The four of them were in the kitchen and Wilson began to feel a bit claustrophobic. It had been a long time, decades really, since so many people were in that one room at the same time. Wilson did have people over on rare occasions—not recently, of course—and they never gathered in the kitchen. He kept them in the formal living room.
    Gretna was offering a tour of the kitchen, explaining to Emily what changes Wilson had made over the years and which appliances had been updated.
    “The sink is still the same,” she said. “Don’t make them this way anymore. Like a battleship, it is.”
    Trying not to appear perturbed, Wilson switched on the coffeemaker to heat the water and pulled out three varieties of coffee and one of tea.
    Thurman sat near his food dish, watching, looking a bit confused as well.
    It seemed as if he was trying to follow Gretna’s conversation and maintain eye contact with Wilson at the same time. And obviously he was not eminently successful at either endeavor.
    Once their coffees had been brewed—Emily had chosen tea—Gretna insisted on showing Emily the backyard and Wilson’s massive reflecting pool.
    “He built it entirely by hand and all by himself. With just a shovel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
    Emily appeared to be impressed.
    “It is. I never would have imagined