Greywalker - Kat Richardson [8]
“A joint account is a little unusual for a kid over fourteen or fifteen.”
Colleen waved it away. “It was set up a long time ago. When my husband died, we created a very large trust for Cameron until he completed his college degree. I am the executrix of that trust, and it was easier to establish a joint account into which to put his stipend and expense money than to try to set up an individual account. When he got a little older, he chose to keep the account rather than open a new one. I always kept the account records for tax purposes.”
She frowned, her mask of expensive makeup creasing like heavy paper. “But now he appears to have left school. As the trust executrix, I must find out if he really means to quit school and give up the money, or if he’s just taking a quarter off, which would only put the payments into suspension. Of course, as his mother, I need to find out what’s happened to him. This is . . . unlike him.”
I sipped coffee and braced to be rude. “How much money are we talking about in this trust?”
She didn’t flinch. “Just under two million dollars.”
“That’s a nice trust.”
She shrugged. “Daniel and I wanted to be sure the children were taken care of if anything happened to either of us.”
“What becomes of the trust now?”
“If Cameron goes back and finishes his degree, he’ll get a set percentage of the trust to get started on after he graduates, and the rest will be divided among a list of persons and charities. If he doesn’t go back to school, he gets nothing and the entire trust is divided.”
“Among whom?”
“Well, myself, our daughter Sarah, Daniel’s old business partner, Dan’s two brothers, and a list of charities.” She shifted uncomfortably and bit the inside of her lip.
I just nodded and made a note. “Let’s go back to the bank statement,” I suggested. “Do you know the times, dates, or locations of any of the transactions, or the amounts?”
She looked startled. “I forgot to bring the statement with me.”
She didn’t strike me as the scattered and forgetful type. I’d bet she was the president or treasurer of three or four charitable boards around town. A flicker of her mouth and the shadow of sudden small lines gave a hint of unaccustomed anxiety, which she shut down as quickly as I spotted it.
I continued. “What’s your son’s full name, Colleen?”
“Andrew Cameron Shadley. He prefers to go by his middle name.” She reached into her case and brought out a large manila envelope. “I brought some photos and a list of friends and relatives who may be able to help you.”
I took the envelope and pulled out two photos and a sheet of typed bond—the thick, cottony stuff that costs forty dollars a box. One of the photos was an eight-by-ten color studio print, the other a standard snapshot.
The portrait showed a beaming Pre-Raphaelite angel in a black crew-necked sweater. His long, pale gold hair would have hung in Shirley Temple ringlets if cut to shoulder length. His eyes, fringed with thick, dark gold lashes, were deep violet like his mother’s. Only the vaguest blond down of a mustache kept him from being mistaken for a girl.
Colleen pointed at the portrait. “That picture was taken after his high school graduation. He’s lost a little weight since then, and that dreadful mustache finally grew in.” She sighed. “He was the most adorable child, but, of course, he hated it.” Which I’d figured. “That other picture is from this past Christmas. That’s what he looked like when I saw him last.”
In the snapshot, Cameron and a girl were standing next to a hearth that was decorated with cedar garland and red-and-green-plaid ribbons. Thinner, his face had lost its cherubic plumpness, and a silky blond mustache draped over his mouth. His long hair was tied back. Now his smile was secretive. The girl looked about the same age, but sullen at having her picture taken. Her hair was asphalt black, but whether it was natural or from a dye bottle was impossible to tell in such a small picture. She had cultivated the trendy,