Guided hearts, p.1
Guided Hearts, page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Guided Hearts
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
The old woman asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, as usual I feel foolish. I’ll gather myself together in a couple of minutes. My car is just over there,” she said, pointing to the nearby cement path.
With a smirk, the woman said, “You know there is a cute young doctor who jogs through here every day. I know for a fact he’s single. Maybe you could flag him down.”
“Pick up a man in a cemetery? For all you know, I might be married with six kids.”
Cocking her head to one side the woman replied, “Then the last place you’d be first thing in the morning is a cemetery.”
Despite the circumstances Laurel found herself enjoying this odd woman. “You are.”
“I’m old and have no life.”
“In any event, thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to your headache.”
Laurel watched the woman walk toward the development before placing her head in her hands to try to hold off on the urge to vomit. When she felt steady she stood to walk in the direction of her car. Just as she reached the path a jogger passed by.
Stopping, then turning, he gestured at her face. “What happened to you?”
“Do you want the long story or the short one?”
“I guess the short one.”
“Stupidity.”
He grinned. “That’s generally the reason.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a doctor.”
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
Guided Hearts
by
C. Ellen Culverwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Guided Hearts
COPYRIGHT © 2022 by C. Ellen Culverwell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2023
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4811-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4812-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Hayley
Chapter One
As bank president, Laurel Tanner, the only woman and youngest person to hold that position, slid her key into the lock of the front door of the Bridgefield Bank. Admittedly she was there early but she believed in setting an example by being the first to arrive and the last to leave at the end of each day. Experience had taught her the employees respected her dedication and it was reciprocated. When the key refused to turn in the lock, she removed it. Perhaps she’d pulled the wrong one from her purse? She tried again with the same result and started to head for the back door to try that lock when a shadowed figure moved behind the closed blinds.
Heart racing with panic, she reached for her cellphone to call the police when a stranger opened the door. She took several steps backward not certain if she should run or stay.
“Mrs. Tanner?” the unfamiliar man asked.
Before she could answer, a second agent moved to tape a note to the front door of the bank. TEMPORARILY CLOSED, SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.
Outraged, she said, “You can’t just close this bank without notice. I have employees and customers coming in to conduct business.”
The agent, clearly unmoved, replied, “I can, and I did. Now, where is your husband?”
Starting to feel lightheaded, she heard an odd buzzing sound in her ears. Suddenly she couldn’t catch her breath. Why would federal agents ask about her husband? To keep from falling to the floor she quickly sank to a bench typically used by customers. Chaz is in Chicago on business.”
“Are you certain of that?”
Laurel did not like the direction his questions were heading. “I am not answering any more questions until I know exactly what is happening here.”
He handed her several documents. “In due time.”
She examined the pages with the words search and seizure prominently displayed at the top. It still didn’t answer any of the questions topmost on her mind.
The agent said, “This gives us complete access to examine all your bank records and to search your home.”
“My home?” she said, raising her voice.
His cellphone rang, he instructed the caller to take all the computers and files.
By now, Laurel was practically breathless. “You have agents in my home? They are taking my personal possessions?”
He replied with an insidious smile. “We will, of course, give you an itemized receipt.”
She had gleaned enough from their interactions so far to surmise her husband was in big trouble and the Feds considered her an accomplice. She tried to hold herself together, but feared she was going to become ill. She took deep breaths to compose herself. “I am the president of this bank and demand you give me some answers.”
“You may demand anything you like, but that doesn’t mean it will get you anywhere,” the agent said, seeming to enjoy her discomfort.
She took out her cellphone and desperately tried to reach her husband. Chaz was the only one who could give her any answers. Her call went directly to voicemail.
“He is not going to answer, Mrs. Tanner. Unfortunately, he was one step ahead of us.”
“Ahead of you on what? Please, I need to know.”
In a matter-of-fact tone he replied, “I have a warrant for his arrest.”
“Arrest?” she nearly shouted. “You can’t be serious.”
“Very serious.”
“What are the charges?” she asked, fluctuating between anger and despair.
“He’s been a very, very bad boy.”
Laurel was not an imprudent person. Normally she weighed her options and thought before speaking but the agent was deliberately provoking a response. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm and condescending manner. If my husband has done something illegal, and that’s a big if, what does it have to do with me and this bank?”
He smiled. “I need to know if your name needs to be added to the arrest warrant.”
It took every ounce of self-control to keep her from slapping him. She’d never been treated with such disrespect and contempt. She was a kind and thoughtful person, finding herself in such a position was foreign to everything in her life. Her employees appreciated her fair and solicitous nature. She never forgot their birthdays, inquired about their families, and could be relied upon to keep their confidences. Banking customers equally admired her. She aided them in obtaining the best mortgage or loan rates and advised them on which accounts were best, given their personal circumstances. She could have taken advantage of them to increase the branch’s numbers, but people were more important to her than profit. It humiliated her to even have it suggested she may have done something illegal.
As she considered her situation her cellphone began to ring. Smiling, she told the agent, “This is probably my husband.”
He snorted. “I doubt it.”
Laurel deflated when she realized he was correct, it wasn’t Chaz. Caller ID showed it was her New York supervisor, Tom Underwood. She was uncertain if his call was routine, or he knew something was amiss. In either case she would have to tell him federal agents raided the bank. “Tom,” she began, unable to hide her agitation. "There are FBI agents going through all our records.”
“We know all about it. This is particularly important Laurel, say nothing to anyone.”
She stepped away from the agents to avoid being overheard. “That shouldn’t be too difficult, I don’t know anything.”
“We have our own people enroute and a lawyer for you. Corporate is in major damage control mode,” he explained with concern in his voice.
She practically hissed her next question. “Can you at least tell me what they are searching for?”
“In a word,” he replied, “embezzlement.”
“At the bank? You know me better than that.”
“The Feds don’t know our history with you. We have total faith in your integrity,” Tom said. “Chaz is another matter. I don’t have all the details, but it appears he has broken m
Shocked, frightened, and feeling totally defeated, Laurel dropped her phone into her purse. She stared at the front door of the bank. It was still locked, but the key was in the deadbolt. She headed for it and starting to unlock it to leave.
The agent called out, “Where do you think you’re going? We have more questions.”
She stopped dead in her tracks, turned to face him and said with finality, “Call my lawyer.”
People had begun to gather outside the bank. Her employees were understandably concerned, and customers wanted to conduct their financial business. They called out questions to her for which she had no answers.
“Was the bank robbed?” a young teller asked.
Laurel looked into her curious eyes and replied, “I certainly hope not.”
The bank’s head teller Janet Miller, one of Laurel’s closest friends, reached out as Laurel passed her, touching her shoulder.
Laurel momentarily stopped to exchange glances but went ahead without speaking. She continued to walk the short distance to her home.
****
Her home on Maple Street had once been her haven. Situated on a large lot in one of the affluent sections of Bridgefield, it was close enough to the village to be within walking distance of everything while maintaining some degree of privacy. She and Chaz had been fortunate to have found it. Houses in the area seldom stayed on the market for more than a few days. Today it lost its sanctuary status.
Agents freely wandered the interior. When she walked through the door it sickened her to watch her things being touched and moved from their designated spots. She felt violated.
Agents carrying file boxes and computers, passed by her like she was invisible. Both she and Chaz often worked from home on their respective projects, but each had their own computer. The agents seized both. Though hers was one she used exclusively and would hold nothing incriminating, that did little for her current frame of mind.
She dropped heavily onto the sofa and stared absently into space, praying for indignant rage. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, throw a glass at the fireplace, and watch it smash into a million pieces. She would have enjoyed taking a sharp pair of scissors to Chaz’s clothes.
She could not muster rage. Instead, all she felt was numbness. Her arms, legs, and even her brain felt numb. She managed to reach into her purse and retrieve her phone. She dialed Chaz’s number again with no answer. She kept pushing the redial button, not that she thought he’d answer. She wanted to hear his voice, hoping he could give her a logical explanation. She was too astute to think he would have one.
As a financial advisor, her husband had held a position of trust with his clients and ready access to their money. The potential for fraud was clear. He had fewer checks and balances at his firm than she had at the bank. She had seen dozens of examples where unsuspecting clients, generally the elderly, had been cheated out of their lifesavings. It sickened her that her husband may be one of those perpetrators.
A female agent approached, speaking in a gentle voice. “We’ve completed our search, Mrs. Tanner. Here is an itemized list of everything we are removing from the house.”
Saying nothing, Laurel reached for the paperwork. The agents left, leaving her with only disconcerting thoughts. The one comfort she had was the confidence she had done nothing wrong and would be completely exonerated. She knew Chaz to be a shrewd and even sometimes ruthless businessman, but she never thought he was a thief. Nevertheless, she refused to handle any of his banking needs for his company. She wanted a clear separation to avoid any impropriety. They had a joint checking and savings account with a modest balance at the Bridgefield Bank, and their mortgage, which was nearly paid off. The only other accounts she had at the bank were ones she’d shared with her mother. Her mother had died a few years earlier, but she uncharacteristically procrastinated on probating her will, feeling that as an only child, finalizing the estate was of no urgency.
As she tried to clear her head, the doorbell rang. She answered the door and was horrified to find reporters shoving cameras and microphones, in her face.
“Mrs. Tanner, can you tell us why Bridgefield Bank is closed?”
Another shouted, “We understand the FBI has raided the bank and your home.”
“The citizens of Bridgefield have a right to know if their money has been misappropriated,” a third said.
She did her best to sound composed. “If I had answers to your questions, I would gladly share them, but I don’t. Please leave my property at once and do not return.”
She closed and securely locked the door. After a moment, she discreetly peeked out one of the front windows and found them still milling along the sidewalk—but well off her property. She felt like a caged animal. She would have loved to escape to some place quiet and safe, but where could she go?
While she pondered escape, her phone rang. She was hesitant to answer but she was afraid it might be important. Tentatively she did answer with a noncommittal, “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Tanner, my name is Stuart Hoffman. I am an attorney from the New York office. I’m only a couple of miles from your home. May we meet?”
Laurel jumped at the chance for help. She confirmed her address with him and forewarned him about the reporters camped in front of her house. He was not deterred, when a few minutes later, he blared his car horn for them to move as he made his way up her driveway.
Mr. Hoffman was instantly surrounded by the news media and told them in a stern voice, “This is private property, and you are trespassing. We will be issuing a public statement, until that time, Mrs. Tanner is requesting privacy.”
The throngs of reporters backed off as he went to the front door. Laurel practically pulled him through the threshold. She was not worried he was a reporter disguised as an attorney. He looked like every stereotypical lawyer she’d met from the New York office, impeccably dressed in an expensive dark suit and overcoat and comporting himself with confidence. He had a full head of silver-gray hair belying his age; she doubted he was yet fifty.
“Mrs. Tanner, I’m Stuart Hoffman,” he said, extending his hand.
She prayed he understood the desperate situation she was in and would alleviate some of her anxiety. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone. I don’t know where to turn or what to do.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Hoffman said. “To be clear, I’m here to represent you as it pertains to the bank and its entities.”
“Aren’t they one in the same?”
“Only partially. I’m afraid your legal problems will extend far beyond your position as bank president. Your husband has created a mess which I am only beginning to unravel. It will take a considerable amount of time and effort to figure things out.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please, have a seat.” Once they were settled on the leather tufted sofa, she asked, “Do you know where Chaz is?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “It’s conceivable the FBI may know, but it is highly unlikely they would share that information. How confident are you he has not perpetrated any kind of fraud at the bank?”
She shook her head. “If you had asked me that question yesterday, I would have said one hundred percent.”
“And today?”
“I feel so blindsided; I now question everything including my own name. Nevertheless, I’m ninety-nine percent certain. I love my husband, and he knows I would never compromise myself or the bank. It is probably the reason he disappeared without saying anything to me.”
“The New York office is of the same opinion. They have unwavering faith in you. Unfortunately, that may be irrelevant. This whole situation has created a publicity nightmare.”
Laurel knew he was right. All banking institutions were notoriously conservative. The slightest hint of scandal was to be avoided at all costs. “Are they going to fire me?” she asked, fearful of his answer.
“I’m not able to answer that question one way or another. I do know it would not be in anyone’s best interest to do it now. It would imply your guilt, hence their negligence. I’m certain in either event you won’t be returning to the Bridgefield Bank.
“Administrative leave?” she asked.
He nodded. “That’s as good an explanation as any. They have sent their own auditors to work in conjunction with the FBI. The results will determine how everyone should proceed. If everything is in order, as you seem to think it is, then a final decision will be reached. In any event, the FBI will be done with what they need today, and the bank will be open tomorrow, just not with you.”
