Ms. Wolfe thumbed through a fat file with expert fingers and wordlessly handed me Mrs. Frizell’s letter asking that her account be closed. The old woman had written on a piece of yellowing lined paper, torn from a pad she might have had since first opening her account. Her writing was disconnected, as though she’d written the letter over a period of several days without bothering to check what she’d said on the previous occasion, but the content was clear enough.

I have had an account at your bank for many years and never would believe you would cheat an old customer, but people take advantage of old women in terrible ways. My money with you is all I have, yet you are paying me only 8 percent, but at another bank I can earn 17 percent, and of course I have my dogs to think about. I want you to sell my seedees [sic] and close my savings account and send my money to U.S. Meterpoltan [sic], I have a form for you to use.

“Seventeen percent? What on earth could she be talking about?” I asked.

Sylvia Wolfe shook her head. “I called her and tried to discuss it with her, but she refused to talk to me. I even tried stopping by to see her, tried to tell her only someone who really is preying on old people would promise her seventeen percent, but she said of course I’d take that line now that it was too late. We wrote and told her we’d reopen her account without any fees if she ever decided she wanted to come back to us. We had to leave it at that.”

“How much did she have in certificates of deposit?” I asked.

Ms. Wolfe shook her head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

I turned the letter over in my hand, studying it, but it didn’t tell me anything. No one else had written those words, and they didn’t sound as though she’d been under duress, although there was no real way of telling.

“Did she keep a safe-deposit box here?” I asked abruptly.

The loan officers exchanged guarded glances. “No,” Ms. Wolfe said. “I talked to her about it a few times over the years, but she preferred to keep any important documents at home. I didn’t like it, but she wasn’t the kind of person you could tell things to: she pretty much had her mind made up before a conversation started.”

I handed the letter back to Ms. Wolfe. As I thanked her for her help, I wondered where Mrs. Frizell’s private records were. Todd and Chrissie wouldn’t have been trying to pry the information from her if they had them.

“You get what you need, Vic?” Alma interrupted me.