Killertrust (13 page)

Frank’s bundle had been wrapped
in tattered cloth, with drawstrings that looked like worn shoelaces. Slowly
Randolph untied it and spread the flaps, displaying the contents. A steel
cylinder about the size of a lunch-sized Thermos bottle rolled to the side.
Next to it, held together by a wide rubber band, lay a sheaf of very old
papers, if the brown stains and yellowing were any indication.

Tucked under all of it was a
four by six inch faded black and white photograph of the same men they had seen
in the video. Randolph carefully picked it up, and turned it over. On the back
were their names. And the date: August 6, 1973.

Next, he picked up the metal
cylinder. It had a screw-on top that had rusted closed. Randolph turned it over
in his hands, looking for a way to open it. He tried unscrewing the top, but
the rust had guaranteed it stayed sealed. He went to the garage and returned a
moment later with a spray can of Bolt Buster. He carried the cylinder to the
sink, wrapped it in paper towels, and gently sprayed the grooves around the
top. He twisted again, and the top came loose.

He carried the cylinder and
the contents back to the counter.

“Looks like they used an old
Thermos-type vacuum bottle.” Rhetta nodded and peered at the rolled up document
inside. Randolph presented the metal clad bottle to her. “Here, see if you can
get this out. Your hands are much smaller than mine.” She reached for it.
“Slowly. That parchment looks old. We don’t want to tear it.”

Rhetta reached in and
carefully withdrew a scroll. Using both hands, she unfurled it and read it.

“I can’t make much sense out
of this.” She let it curl back up as she handed it to Randolph.

He carefully laid it flat,
then studied it. “I think it’s in Portuguese or Spanish. Let me put the words
into a Google translator and see if we can generate a translation.

Randolph carried the
parchment to the computer and booted up. As soon as it chimed, he opened a
browser and a Google translator page. After trying French, Italian, Spanish and
Portuguese, he finally had a translation. “I have it,” he said and turned
toward Rhetta who had come up behind him to watch. “This document is the
charter of the Garibaldi Tontine Trust. And it’s written in Catalán.” Randolph
opened a new translation window. “Here is the top line.” From the print on the
document he typed,
Garibaldi
tontine
establert pel Banc
Real de
Santo Domingo
a
Vera
Mardola
.
“I believe it means our Garibaldi trust is at
The Royal Bank of Santo Domingo in Vera Mardola.”
Randolph Googled it.
He turned to Rhetta. “
Vera Mardola is an obscure island in the Mediterranean.”

He read aloud, “Wikipedia
says that the tiny island of Vera Mardola’s chief source of income is money. It
rivals Switzerland and Monaco as a financial center. It claims to be
independent, being neither French nor Spanish. Depending upon the political
climate, it may align itself with either France or Spain for currency. The
official language is Catalán.” He looked up from the screen. “The only way you
can get there is by ferry from the northeast part of Spain or the southwest of
France.”

He picked up the thin
parchment. After studying it again, he typed the remaining text into the
translator. Randolph shook his head. “There isn’t much more here. It says that
anyone claiming the trust has to do so in person, have the account number and
the proof, and be the last survivor. It doesn’t say what the proof is, or what
the account number is. The only real information is that there is no
information other than location. The rest of the information is stored within
the institution, and whoever brings in the claim has to match what’s on file.”
He found a plastic folder in the desk drawer and carefully placed the delicate
page inside.

“Did your father tell you
anything, like maybe what the account number is? Or if there’s any money left
in the trust? Is it even worth going after?”

“On the phone he was adamant
that I remember the name Garibaldi. He even spelled it for me.”

Rhetta and Randolph returned
to the kitchen where Rhetta finished her chocolate and chewed on the sticky
marshmallows. “There must be a significant amount of money for someone to have killed
three people for it. But if all of them are gone, who is the killer?”

Now that she’d said the “K”
word out loud, she shuddered. She was positive that whoever had tossed her into
the Dumpster meant to kill her.

Randolph picked up the cups,
took them to the sink, and began rinsing them. “There has to be another heir, a
son or daughter of one of the seven original members. That must be who is after
this. The question is, how do we find out who the surviving family members
are?”

Rhetta shook her head. “That
shouldn’t matter. Frank said that he had proof of everyone’s deaths, and
according to the trust agreement, only the heirs of the final survivor can get
what’s left.” She exhaled deeply. “I’m not sure that’s fair, but that’s what it
says. We’ll have proof of Frank’s death, so who else would be trying to get the
money?”

Randolph dried the cups, then
put them away. “I can’t imagine who. Plus, don’t forget, according to the
charter, even if we can get to this bank, if it’s still around, we need the
account number. And I don’t see an account number anywhere in this stuff.”

Rhetta jumped down, her eyes
blazing. “I know exactly where it is.”

The long shower didn’t help
clear the horrific images out of her mind. She padded around the bedroom,
careful not to disturb Randolph who was still sleeping peacefully.

At 5:14, Rhetta’s eyes had
flown open, her heart jackhammering against her ribs. She had to lie back
against the pillows until her heart quit racing. She dreamt she was inside the
Dumpster and Randolph wouldn’t get her out when he got there. “You’re way too
much trouble,” he’d lamented. “I’m going to leave you here. That should teach
you a lesson.” Then he slammed the lid down.

Rhetta guessed she was
feeling guilty and that’s what brought on the dream.
I didn’t do
anything to bring my father into my life. Why would Randolph blame me for this?
No, he’s not blaming me. I need to get a grip.
Her
thoughts ricocheted between the fire, her father, and what she’d told Randolph
about feeling that the VIN on her father’s Camaro was the trust account number.
That was why the Camaro and the title were so important to Frank. “We’ll wait
until after the holidays before thinking about heading out to get it,” Randolph
had said. “For one thing, the weather is supposed to turn bad tomorrow, with
snow and ice possible right before Christmas. We may have to cancel the open
house after all.”

“You’re right. We’ll wait for
better weather. After all, the car isn’t going anywhere.” Rhetta knew Ricky
wanted to take off as soon as possible to get the car, but Randolph made sense.
Best to wait. She didn’t look forward to the four hundred mile trip on wintry
roads, even though Ricky was an excellent driver. Even knowing it possibly held
the bank account information, the money wasn’t going anywhere either. If there
was any money. Also, she would need to properly bury her father, once the
coroner released his body. That had to come first.

Her head wound felt better,
although it still hurt when she touched it. She decided coffee and ibuprofen
would fix her right up. She prayed they could still hold the open house. She
loved Christmas. Randolph had decorated the outside of the house, transforming
it into a magical light show, while she spent hours dragging boxes of Christmas
decorations from room to room. She wanted a tree in every room, and this year
she had purchased a two-foot high fiber optic tree at the Dollar Store that was
perfect for the kitchen. With its tips changing color all the time, it was cheerful
and colorful in any light.

Sitting at the counter in the
kitchen, she turned the television to the Sunday morning news, located her cat
mug, and made a pot of coffee. Just inhaling the heavenly aroma jump-started
the soothing around her injury. If not her injury then, at least, her soul.

As she watched a report on
Christmas shoppers, she decided to beg Randolph to take her to the mall to
finish her shopping. He hated shopping, but he would take her, she was sure.
That way she could drop hints about what she wanted, in case he hadn’t yet
bought her an iPad. She smiled, and took a sip of her brew. She began reaching
for her iPhone to catch up with her email when she spotted a news item
scrolling across the bottom of the television screen.
Scorched remains
found in the burning car at yesterday’s impound lot fire on Highway 177 will be
sent to St. Louis for autopsy. Police hope dental records will help identify
the female victim.

Rhetta spit out her coffee.
Holy crap!

Female?

“Merry Christmas!” Ricky hugged
Rhetta
and handed her a gaily-wrapped box about the size of an
eight by ten picture.

“I thought we said no gifts
this year,” Rhetta chastised her friend, but only mildly. She had gotten Ricky
a gift, too. When she was at Macy’s she found a beautiful silver pin of a
silhouette of two dogs that looked remarkably like Ricky’s two little dogs,
Taffy and Tater. She pointed to Ricky’s present lying on top of the sofa table.
“I see you listened like I did. There’s yours, girlfriend.” Ricky grinned
broadly.

Ricky and Billy Dan handed
their coats to Randolph who carried them back to the guest room, adding them to
the heap on the bed. While Randolph busied himself arranging the coats so they
wouldn’t slide to the floor, Ricky and Billy Dan mingled with the other guests.
The day had dawned clear and bright, and because all the snow had melted, no
one had worn winter boots. Meaning no one had tracked slop into the house.
Rhetta smiled. She wouldn’t have minded cleaning up, but not cleaning up was
better.

Ricky was stunning in an
emerald green short dress cut low in front, matching leggings, and knee high
boots that wouldn’t have been any use in ice or snow. Billy Dan’s blue-gray
velour shirt enhanced his gray eyes. Rhetta smiled as she watched Billy Dan’s
arm encircle Ricky’s waist.

The house was bursting with
the aroma and good cheer of Christmas. All the decorated trees were glowing
with colored lights, while all around, scented candles treated the olfactory
senses with sweet vanilla and pine.

Woody and Jenn were wrapped
in each other’s arms in the living room slow dancing to “I’ll Be Home for
Christmas,” while LuEllen and her husband, Manny, maneuvered through the buffet
line balancing plates laden with veggies, deviled eggs, and meat. There were
plenty of yummies for dessert, including some gluten-free for LuEllen. At the
end of the line, which snaked around the overflowing dining room table that had
required inserting the two extra leaves, Mrs. Koblyk stood triumphantly, silver
serving triangle in hand, ready to attend to her homemade desserts. Her merry
laughter could be heard above the chattering.

Rhetta had set up several
sturdy wooden TV tables near the chairs and couches in the living room, family
room and even the closed-in porch, so that there would be plenty of spots for
everyone to sit and eat. The open floor plan of the house made it feel cozy,
even though many folks were scattered in different rooms. More people sat in
front of the fireplace where split oak logs glowed red, radiating warmth where
Randolph had banked the fire.

When the music changed
tracks, Jenn and Woody strolled over to the wine cart and served themselves a
fresh glass. After refilling, Jenn went to chat with LuEllen while Woody ambled
over to Ricky and Rhetta who were standing near the closed-in sunroom.

“I read the online wire
services yesterday. It appears the woman’s remains were tentatively
identified,” Woody whispered, looking around furtively, as though not wanting
anyone else to overhear. “It hasn’t made the news here yet.” Woody, the
newsaholic, constantly scoured numerous news sites on the computer, especially
the Associated Press. Doing that had earned him the nickname AskWoodydotcom.

Rhetta glanced around and
whispered, “You must be right. I haven’t seen anything. Why are we whispering?”

“I don’t want anyone else to
hear me.” He stretched his neck as though searching for someone. Rhetta
followed his gaze. He was watching Jenn.

“Okay.”

Rhetta waited for Woody to go
on. When he didn’t she prodded him. “Well, are you going to tell me who she is?
Jenn is way over there.” She pointed toward Mrs. Koblyk who was talking
animatedly with Jenn. Mrs. Koblyk’s grey curls danced around her pixie face as
she smiled and laughed at something Jenn said.

“Jenn said not to talk about
all of this during the open house.”

“Okay, but since we’re not
talking about it, who did they identify? Is it someone we know?”

Woody shook his head. “Not
anyone from here. Authorities were able to match the VIN to a car registered in
Kansas City. The police matched dental records from a woman in New York by the
name of Rushia Coughenour.”

Rhetta and Ricky glanced at
each other. Rhetta shrugged.

He whispered, “She was also
known by another name.”

Rhetta waited.

Woody leaned forward. They
inclined toward him as he whispered, “Rushia Caldwell. She had been married to
Alexander Franklin Caldwell.”