Page 74 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Violet snorted a laugh. “Good luck prying that girl’s eyes open before two in the afternoon.”
“She was up and ready on time for the funeral, which was at ten in the morning.”
“That was different. She got up for Fenton, and for you. As I did for you, today. I wasn’t about to let you go to town solo after that last incident.”
“I’m sorry for the rude awakening. You’re a good friend, Violet. As is Patsy.”
She shrugged off the praise then turned it around. “We give as good as we get.”
Their steps slowed as they turned the corner of Wyoming Ave and Main St., and the bank with the huge stone pillars out front came into view.
“I’ve never been inside a bank before,” she said. “I’m excited to see so much money in one place.”
“They don’t leave it lying around on shelves like canned goods at the general store.”
“Where, then?”
“In a steel vault.”
“Do you think they’ll let me peek inside?”
“Doubtful. They whisk the women away to a special waiting room.”
They’d arrived at the concrete steps when Violet asked, “What for?”
Charlotte’s reply dripped with sarcasm. “So, we can wait while our menfolk conduct their business, since our delicate minds can’t possibly grasp the concept of money.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “Just because I don’t have a lot of it doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.” Suddenly, she blinked then frowned. “What happens if a woman doesn’t have menfolk?”
“That poses a problem.” Charlotte looked up at the double doors and linked her arm through Violet’s. She had to hope the persnickety bank manager didn’t give her trouble; it was one of the many worries that kept her up last night. “Come on, let’s get this over with and see to our other errands before the streets fill with snobs and prudes.”
“Ah. That explains why we’re out at the crack of dawn.”
“It’s a quarter past nine!”
“Like I said,” Violet yawned, perfectly timed.
With a shake of her head, she pushed open the heavy, iron-reinforced door and entered, a wide-eyed Violet close on her heels.
“Good morning, George,” Charlotte said in greeting.
The teller recognized her instantly—not from the Red Eye but from years of working at the bank. “My condolences, ma’am. I heard of Mr. Sneed passing.”
“Thank you. Sadly, that is why I’m here today. No deposit because we were closed all weekend, out of respect and for the funeral. It left me a bit short, however. So, I’d like to make a withdrawal instead.”
George, a studious-looking man in his forties, always the picture of health—suddenly looked pale and sick.
“Is there a problem?” Charlotte asked.
“I…uh…better get Mr. Simmons.”
She watched as the teller hurried to the bank manager’s desk separated from the main floor of the bank behind a waist-high half railing. They conferred, both men glancing her way several times. Mr. Simmons stood, tugging down his waistcoat, then accompanied the teller back to his window.
“Miss Charlotte. This horrid business with Mr. Sneed,” he said, shaking his head. “Such a shame. He was an excellent, longtime customer of First National.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied woodenly, wanting to get her business done and be on her way before the emotions bubbled up again. “As joint account holder, I’m here to make a withdrawal.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
