Cold Comfort: A Southern Mystery Thriller : Book 2 of the Zoe Nichols Van-Life series by Abby Rice

Author:Abby Rice [Rice, Abby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Clairitage Press
Published: 2024-03-13T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7:

The sun had set nearly an hour ago, so night filled Emmeline’s kitchen window. The mood inside felt nearly as bleak.

Taking Emmeline’s hands, I settled her at the table and put a pot of water on for tea. I grabbed the box of tissues from the counter and set it by her elbow, just in case. And slowly, slowly, the rest of the story spilled out.

That red-edged bill I’d noticed the first day we met was only the latest of a long string. Roughly six months ago, Emmeline had started receiving notices that she was behind on her home loan – a delinquency Emmeline swore was impossible. She’d paid like clockwork, she insisted, writing a check each month and mailing it off. Her silver curls bobbed in frustration at the memory.

She’d done her best to straighten things out. First, the old-fashioned way, writing letters that were never answered. Later, she’d tried calling the phone number on the bill – only to discover it was answered by a secretary at Vern Tarnhaven’s real estate office. She’d dutifully left messages ̶ which no one ever returned. Even then, she hadn’t quite panicked.

She knew she’d sent her payments, month after month. So she had been utterly shocked when a packet of formal papers arrived last week, communicating the awful news that foreclosure proceedings had begun.

Finally, Emmeline had thought to check with her bank. And they’d confirmed the worst news of all: not a single one of her mortgage checks had been cashed in the last six months.

“You believe me, don’t you?” Emmeline lifted red-rimmed eyes to mine. “I may be 83, but I’m not batty, I swear.”

I squeezed her hands tighter. “Of course I believe you.”

But believing was one thing. Proof was something else again.

Emmeline’s eyes narrowed as she took in my expression. “Look,” she said. “I’ll show you.” Tugging off her apron, she strode to a small built-in desk in a corner of the kitchen. She opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, and thrust it at me.

Inside was an old-fashioned check register. . . . with duplicate copies of every check. Slowly, I thumbed through the tissue-thin duplicates: gas bill, electric bill, phone bill. And yes, a mortgage payment, each and every month, the dollar amount always the same.

I glanced up as Emmeline shot me a look of triumph. “I always mailed them in the return envelope that came with every bill. I can’t understand why they never received them.”

It sure looked like everything should have been fine. Unless maybe Emmeline was more forgetful than she appeared? Was it possible those envelopes never made it to a mailbox?

No, I thought. Emmeline might be a bit unsteady on her feet, but there was nothing wrong upstairs. That wasn’t the answer.

I tried to think back. What exactly were the angry words Vern Tarnhaven had been spewing as I’d walked through the door this evening? Some sort of threat, I remembered. An oblique reference to “the easy way or the hard way,” and not taking no for an answer.

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