32
Ralph called Mr. Jennings and found out that Eugenie worked at a local bank. We hoped to catch her before her lunch break. I could work on refining my Confused Bank Teller’s face.
If Florida ever seceded from the United States (I know—my money is on Texas, too), the main branch of the West Florida Credit Union would not be featured on their currency. A single story brick building, the two diminutive, once-white columns at the entrance looked as if they’d been stolen from a funeral home as an afterthought. Inside, three tellers waited for someone—anyone—to relieve their boredom. Well, maybe not anyone. Eugenie recognized us, and I think she would have opted for either a mom with a loud, sticky-fingered brat or stultifying boredom over seeing us. Too bad. We headed for her window, Ralph
