Read Online Scammed by Ron Chudley - Free Book Online

how important that money was to my parents. No damn notion at all.”
    â€œMr. Lothian,” Wilshire said calmly. “It’s our assumption that all of our clients’ resources are vital: as important as our duty to protect them. That’s why, when ignorance, or even negligence, has enabled the committing of a crime, we still protect our customers.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œIt means that if we’re satisfied there has been no malfeasance on the account holder’s part, it is our policy to reimburse what has been stolen. The bank takes the loss, not the client.”
    Greg stared. “Are you saying you’re prepared to replace my parents’ money?”
    â€œI’m saying it’s already been done.”
    The manager turned his computer. With a hollow sensation, Greg peered at the screen. There it was, the current month of his parents’ savings account. The only difference from the passbook was the final entry—a credit of twenty thousand dollars. After his first shock, Greg pulled himself together enough to note the entry date, at last unable to avoid the awful truth: on that last night—perhaps even as early as when his father was still alive—the money that had caused all the trouble had already been restored.
    â€œWhy?” he whispered at last.
    â€œWhy replace the money?”
    â€œWhy didn’t you let them know ?”
    â€œI’m sure we did. The clerk would have made it clear that it was possible. Perhaps, at the time, your mother was too distraught to understand. Anyway, the next account statement would have shown . . . Mr. Lothian, are you all right?”
    Greg heard a buzzing in his ears. His vision blurred and for a moment he felt as though he might faint. Further anxious words from the bank manager seemed to be coming from some distance away. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and the shock symptoms receded. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This has been a—difficult time.”
    â€œOf course. I understand. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”
    â€œNo, no! I’m all right.” Greg swayed to his feet, resisting the urge to stare at the telltale figures on the computer screen. “I—should have known that this might happen. It’s just a pity that my parents . . . Never mind. I really came in to tell you that—er—I’m the executor of my father’s will. When probate is granted, I’ll come in again.”
    Herb Wilshire had risen too. He came around his desk, looking genuinely distressed. “Of course,” he said hastily. “But do you need any money now? If you let us make a copy of the will, I can authorize cash for expenses, even before probate.”
    â€œNo, that’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s—fine. Thanks for your help. Goodbye.”
    Then, with very little memory of the journey between, Greg found himself in his car, driving back along Riverbottom Road.
    â€¢ • •
    When he got to the house, he did not turn in, but kept on going, driving absent-mindedly, until the road turned onto the Old Lake Cowichan Road, which in turn joined the new highway, eventually ending up at the lake itself. Beyond the village at the south end, there was a waterside park, which he arrived at by chance, ending his blind journey when the road stopped at the water.
    He sat in the car at the lakeside, facing a grand panorama of lake and forested mountains, seeing nothing, his mind still reeling at the implications of all that had happened. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the theft of the money, causing the chain of circumstances that had resulted in two deaths, or the sickening irony of the funds having been replaced, but too late. The bank—no doubt backed by insurance—had reimbursed the twenty grand with what amounted to alacrity, the tragedy being that somehow their intentions had not been