“Come in.”
Karen opened the door. “There’s a call–”
“I thought I was permitted to have my drink in peace.”
“Don’t be a grouch,” she said.
“It’s part of my image.”
“I told him you weren’t in. But then when I heard what he wanted, I thought maybe you should talk to him. It’s weird.”
“Who is it?”
“A Mr. Preston from the First Pacific United Bank in San Francisco. It’s about the Frye estate.”
“What’s so weird?”
“You better hear it from him,” she said.
Joshua sighed. “Very well.”
“He’s on line two.”
Joshua went to his desk, sat down, picked up the phone, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Preston.”
“Mr. Rhinehart?”
“Speaking. What can I do for you’?”
“The business office at Shade Tree Vineyards informs me that you’re the executor of the Frye estate.”
“That’s correct.”
“Are you aware that Mr. Bruno Frye maintained accounts at our main office here in San Francisco?”
“The First Pacific United? No. I wasn’t aware of that.”
“A savings account, a checking account, and a safe-deposit box,” Preston said.
“He had several accounts in several banks. He kept a list of them. But yours wasn’t on the list. And I haven’t run across any passbooks or canceled checks from your bank.”
“I was afraid of that,” Preston said.
Joshua frowned. “I don’t understand. Are there problems with his accounts at Pacific United?”
Preston hesitated, then said, “Mr. Rhinehart, did Mr. Frye have a brother?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Did he ever employ a look-alike?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did he ever have need for a double, someone who could pass for him on fairly close inspection?”
“Are you pulling my leg, Mr. Preston?”
“I know it’s a rather strange question. But Mr. Frye was a wealthy man. These days, what with terrorism on the rise and all sorts of crazies on the loose, wealthy people often have to hire bodyguards, and sometimes–not often; I admit it’s rare; but in certain special cases–they even find it necessary to employ look-alikes for security reasons.”
“With all due respect for your fair city,” Joshua said, “let me point out that Mr. Frye lived here in the Napa Valley, not in San Francisco. We don’t have that sort of crime here. We have a much different lifestyle from that which you … enjoy. Mr. Frye had no need for a double, and I’m certain he did not have one. Mr. Preston, what on earth is this all about?”
“We only just discovered that Mr. Frye was killed last Thursday,” Preston said.
“So?”
“It is the opinion of our attorneys that the bank can in no way be held responsible.”
“For what?” Joshua asked impatiently.
“As executor of the estate, it was your duty to inform us that our depositor had died. Until we received that notice–or learned of it third-hand, as we did–we had absolutely no reason to consider the account frozen.”
“I’m aware of that.” Slumped in his chair, staring wistfully at the glass of whiskey on his desk, afraid that Preston was to tell him something that would disturb his rosy complacency, Joshua decided that a bit of curmudgeonly gruffness might speed the conversation along. He said, “Mr. Preston, I know that business is conducted slowly and carefully in a bank, which is fitting for an institution handling other people’s hard-earned money. But I wish you could find your way clear to get to the point quickly.”
“Last Thursday, half an hour before our closing time, a few hours after Mr. Frye was killed in Los Angeles, a man who resembled Mr. Frye entered our main branch. He had Mr. Frye’s personalized checks. He wrote a check to cash, reducing that account to one hundred dollars.”
Joshua sat up straight. “How much did he get?”
“Six thousand from checking.”
“Ouch.”
“Then he presented his passbook and withdrew all but five hundred from the savings account.”
“And how much was that?”
“Another twelve thousand.”
“Eighteen thousand dollars altogether?”
“Yes. Plus whatever he might have taken from the safe-deposit box.”
“He hit that, too?”
“Yes. But of course, we don’t know what he might have gotten out of it,” Preston said. Then he added hopefully: “Perhaps nothing.”