The clerk took a half-step backward, a subtle signal that Riley had violated her personal space.
“I don’t bank there, so I don’t really know, but I know the talk around town was that the bank was in some kind of trouble, so some other company came in and took ’em over.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
The clerk shook her head sadly. “If you read this carefully, you’ll see that there’s gonna be an auction. A week from Friday at ten o’clock in the morning at the Seafarer Motel, in the banquet room.”
“You’re telling me … my house is going to be auctioned off?” Riley clutched the countertop with both hands. “In a motel banquet room?”
“I guess if you got a problem with that, you best get a lawyer.”
Riley felt her shoulders sagging. “Can I have copies made of these documents?”
“Sure thing,” the clerk said. “But there’s a charge. Fifty cents a page.” She took the heavy ledger and disappeared into an anteroom for a few minutes, then returned with the photocopies. “Two dollars and fifty cents,” she said. “You want a receipt?”
“Not necessary,” Riley said, setting her pocketbook on the counter while she extracted the cash from her billfold.
The clerk gave her an appraising look that took in Riley’s expensive designer handbag and oversize diamond solitaire engagement ring. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, hon, but you sure don’t look like the usual person coming in here on a foreclosure notice. You mind my asking what happened? You have an illness in the family or something?”
“I don’t actually know what happened,” Riley said.
“Maybe you need to ask your husband,” she suggested.
“I’d love to, but unfortunately, that’s no longer possible,” Riley said. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, my,” the clerk said, sucking in her breath. “Bless your heart.”
* * *
The white brick building on Catawba Street had a portable sign on wheels—the kind usually seen at clearance and going-out-of-business sales.
BALDWIN COMMUNITY BANK. ASK US ABOUT FREE CHECKING!
Riley pushed through the plate-glass door. She was standing in a largish room with four bank tellers lined up at high counters across the back of the room. Painters were busily coating the walls with an unobtrusive shade of pinkish beige. There was an unoccupied reception desk to the right of the door, with a young woman standing beside it.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked automatically. And then—“Oh, Riley! Hi. How nice to see you.”
For a moment, Riley couldn’t place how she knew the speaker. Her face was familiar. She was in her early thirties, with long blond hair worn in a tight bun. Attractive, in a crisply professional way, she was dressed in the kind of dark blue blazer they probably handed out in banking school.
“Hello,” Riley replied politely.
The young woman’s face flushed. “It’s me, Melody. From the island?”
Of course. Melody Zimmerman, or as Parrish called her, Belle Isle Barbie’s bestie.
“Of course! So sorry,” Riley said. “I guess I’m not used to seeing you anyplace but the island. And I wasn’t expecting to see somebody I know here, at this bank.”
Melody stood and clasped Riley’s hands in hers. “Are you all right? I heard the terrible news about Wendell.” Her voice oozed concern. “Is there anything at all I can do for you? I did drop a plate of my brownies by your mother’s house yesterday, but she said you weren’t up to seeing company.”
“That was kind of you,” Riley said automatically. “Everybody on the island has been so thoughtful. I’m okay, I guess. Sort of numb.”
Melody clutched her hand. “What does the sheriff say, about, you know, what happened?”
“The coroner says it was a blow to the back of the head,” she said, her voice steely, hoping that would shut down Melody’s questions.
“Oh. I guess he must have fallen. Such a tragic accident.”
“Actually, they don’t think it was an accident at all.”
The color drained from Melody’s face, and she hurriedly changed her line of questions. “What brings you to the bank today?” she asked.
The last person Riley wanted to confide in about her foreclosure issues was Andrea Payne’s best friend.
“Well, it’s, uh, sort of confidential,” she said. “Just some things to do with Wendell’s estate. Is there a bank officer I could speak to?”
Melody smiled. “You probably haven’t heard, but I’ve actually just been named senior vice president here. I’m thrilled, of course.”
She looked around the room and whispered, “Unfortunately, our new management team didn’t retain very many of the former Coastal Carolina employees.”
“Congratulations, Melody. That’s wonderful. Um, do you think I could talk to the bank manager, or whoever is in charge?”
“Afraid not. The manager’s at an all-day meeting off-site. You sure there’s nothing I can help you with? Since the changeover, I’m the employee with the most seniority.” She looked around the room and pointed at a glassed-in cubicle. “We could just slip right into my new office and chat in private if you like.”
Riley felt her resistance ebbing. She didn’t actually dislike Melody Zimmerman, because she didn’t know her well enough to have formed a real opinion.
“I guess that would be all right,” Riley said.
* * *
Melody sat behind a desk with a brass nameplate, which she promptly placed facedown on the desktop. “Mr. Gardiner was let go when the new team took over,” she explained. “Such a sweet man. Now, how can I help?”
Riley folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the talk. My house—the house on Sand Dollar Lane—somehow, through some kind of mix-up, it’s been foreclosed upon. Maggy and I have been staying with my mother at Shutters. And the thing is—I’ve just come from the courthouse, and the foreclosure notice says this bank—or rather, the bank this bank used to be, is the mortgage holder and that the house is going to be sold at auction next week.”
“Yes,” Melody said sadly. “I am aware. Very regrettable.”
“Regrettable? This is a disaster. Wendell never said anything to me about taking out another mortgage.”
“Maybe he forgot to mention it to you? I know lots of stay-at-home moms don’t much bother themselves with family finances.”
Riley felt her face growing hot with anger and embarrassment. She hated the condescending way some professional women treated women who’d left the workforce—as though they’d surrendered their brains and talent when they’d hung up their panty hose and company parking passes. Even more, she hated the way she allowed herself to feel intimidated by the opposing side in the ongoing mommy wars.
“Apparently, there was quite a lot about our finances I wasn’t privy to. If you must know, Wendell and I were separated. We’d planned to tell Maggy on Friday, after we got to the island. This whole thing—it came out of nowhere.”
Melody sighed. “So, you weren’t aware of any of Wendell’s financial difficulties?”