Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“He is moving your mail without your say-so, Arthur,” Edwin said, his gravelly voice low. “That is not just pushy. That is legal groundwork.”
“He said they are coming Friday,” I said. “He told me he broke my lease back in Denver.”
Edwin spat the toothpick onto the gravel and reached into his shirt pocket for a fresh one. He pointed the clean wooden stick at me before putting it in his mouth.
“You need to look at your bank accounts, Arthur,” he said. “Today.”
“My retirement is set up on automatic deposit,” I said. “It goes into the regional bank right here in town.”
“Go down there,” Edwin said, turning his wrench back to the mower frame. “Do not call them. Go look at the screen.”
The bank lobby in Cody smelled of lemon wax and damp carpets from the early spring slush outside. I waited behind a waist-high velvet rope until a young teller with a silver name tag shaped like a trout waved me forward. Her name was Clara.
