When Jug was finished covering up my crime, he and I walked to the cab, the dog panting happily after us. I tried to say good-bye, but she looked so pitiful and I was so worried she had an air rifle attack in her imminent future, I pleaded with Jug to take her along with us. He looked unhappy, but didn’t really argue all that much as he pushed the dog into the backseat. Then Jug and me and the dog drove off together.
11
Knowing the Plaza Hotel would shun a canine addition to my room, Jug drove us to his place. He lived in a shack on the mountainside that actually looked in far better shape than the other dilapidated houses in his neighborhood.
“My wife gonna kill me when she see this dog, miss. You gotta help me explain.” Jug had taken a piece of rope from his trunk and tied it around the dog’s neck to use as a leash.
Between the fleas she’d shared with me on the ride over and the mosquitoes that had attacked me at Donnelly’s house, I felt ready to crawl out of my skin.
“I owe you big-time,” I said, scratching my ankle, “so whatever I can do, I will.”
The three of us made our way up the dirt path to a front porch strung with brightly colored bulbs. Maybe it was always Christmas in Jamaica. Jug tied the dog to a rickety railing surrounding the porch and opened the front door.
“Where you been, mon?” called a feminine voice after the door opened.
The smell of curried something filled the small room we entered. Sitting on a rustic-looking bench were three smiling black-skinned children. The two boys and a toddler girl switched their attention from a thirteen-inch combination TV and VCR playing cartoons and grinned at Jug. They all shared his same wide smile.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Abby.”
They just stared back at me, and the girl put four fingers in her mouth.
Then Jug’s wife appeared in the entry to what I assumed was the kitchen. She wore a red and yellow striped strapless dress and was beautiful in that unique Jamaican way—long necked, dark and tall, her hair in beaded dreadlocks. She was also very pregnant.
Wiping her hands on a thin white towel stretched like an apron over her firm round belly, she nodded at me, then turned questioning eyes on Jug.
“This be the lady I been working for,” he said. He gestured at me. “Miss Rose, this is my Martha.”
“Call me Abby,” I said.
Martha smiled tentatively, but the smile immediately disappeared when the dog barked.
“You didn’t bring no dog round here, Jug,” she said, sounding more than a little pissed off.
Jug elbowed me. “You tell her.”
“Actually, I brought the dog,” I said. “It’s kind of a long story, and—”
But before I could finish speaking, Jug’s two oldest—the boys wearing torn T-shirts and shorts—leaped off the bench and streaked past us through the screen door.
I looked out after them and saw the dog kissing both of them with an enthusiasm dogs only heap on children.
“How many times I tell you we can’t afford no dog, Jug? We got too many mouths to feed already,” Martha said.
“I plan to fix that,” I said quickly, hoping to curb her obvious anger. “I’m hiring your husband for an important job.”
Jug looked at me with surprise, an expression that clued Martha in at once.
“We don’t take no charity here, miss,” she said coldly.
Just then the girl, who had been watching us with wide dark eyes, began to whimper. Jug walked over, swooped her up in his arms, and kissed her. She buried her head in his neck.
“This won’t be charity,” I said. “I have to get back home but I haven’t finished my work here and I’m hoping Jug can help me.”
“What kind of work?” she said warily.
“Before I explain, do you have any cortisone cream?” I had been resisting the urge to rake my nails up and down my arms until they bled.
Martha came over, lifted one arm, and examined the red welts that had risen there. I looked like I had the chicken pox.
She made a tisking sound, shaking her head at what she saw. “I got no cortisone, but I got something else.” She pulled me toward the kitchen, saying, “Jug, go make sure that dog don’t send any fleas onto my boys.”
After my arms had been treated with pulverized aloe vera leaves mixed with some other plant Martha ground up with, and after we’d all eaten bowls of curried rice and jerk chicken, Martha gave each child a sugarcane stalk to suck on and sent them back to the little TV.
“You really got a job for Jug?” Martha asked.
We were sitting around a cotton blanket on the tile floor near a stone hearth in the kitchen. Martha had stacked our wooden bowls to one side and gave Jug and I small glasses of amber rum.
“I do have a job, if he’s willing. First, though, let me tell you why I’m here.” I sipped my drink, and though I always add Diet Coke to my rum, this needed no additions. It was delicious and warm, and if I drank enough, I figured my still stinging arms and legs wouldn’t be bothering me. I’d be passed out.
Jug had heard some of my story on the way over here, but Martha listened intently, and gently rubbed her belly when I mentioned the tiny pink bracelet and death certificate I’d found in Donnelly’s house.
“The death certificate is making me wonder if I’m on the wrong track,” I said. “I’m hoping Jug can do a little research on the island while I go back home and try to find out more about Blythe Donnelly. I have the name of the midwife who attended the birth and—”
“What’s her name?” Martha and Jug said almost in unison.
“Elizabeth Benson,” I replied.
They both nodded knowingly.
“You know her?” I said.
“Just the name,” said Jug. “Jamaica is not a big place, miss, and we got plenty experience with midwives.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “Too much experience, you ask me.” But she smiled at Jug, who reached over and took her hand.
“I’d like you to find this woman, see what she remembers about Donnelly and her baby.”
“What if he can’t find her?” Martha said.
“Then he can’t find her, but he still gets paid for looking. His time is valuable.”
She laughed. “That be news to me.”
Jug slapped her knee playfully. “I can find anyone. Cost you a hundred dollars U.S. Special deal for you.”
“Let me decide the price, okay? I guarantee you it will be more than a hundred.”
Martha grinned widely. “Oh, he can do it okay, now that you gonna give us enough for the dog. Gonna take lots of trouble to get rid of those fleas.”
Jug looked at her, eyes bright with what I could have sworn were tears. I think he wanted that dog as much as the kids did.
“We call her Bobo, like the cop called missy here,” he said with a smile.
He and Martha laughed loudly, so of course I had to ask. “And just what does bobo mean?”
Martha said, “Bobo means fool, mon.”
12
I sat in the quietest corner of the Kingston airport—a spot more at din level than the chaos level fifty yards away. My plane to Houston would board in about fifteen minutes, so I took out my freshly charged cell phone. I had plenty of voice messages.
I’d thought about listening to them when I woke up, but I’d slept longer than I should have after last night’s activity and had enough time before coming here only to have Jug drive me to a bank. We set up an account for him and I deposited two hundred dollars. Once I got back home, another ten grand would appear by electronic transfer—something I hadn’t told him. I wanted it to be a nice surprise. He’d saved my butt, and God knows he needed money for his family. Meanwhile, I’d provided him with a printout of the birth book record and death certificate. He seemed eager to hunt down the midwife and ask her what she remembered, if anything. When he’d dropped me off at Norman Manley Airport, we’d said our good-byes and hugged like the good friends we’d become. I would miss that guy.
I accessed my voice mail, bending over and plugging one ear so I could hear. The first message was from Jeff asking me how I liked Jamaica and telling me he’d be gone for a few days to pick up a murder suspect who had fled to Seattle. The next was from Kate asking when I’d be home and telling me that Diva was pouting. Gee. What a surprise.
The last voice message was from Graham Beadford, and I immediately wondered how he’d gotten my cell number, but then I recalled I’d given it to Roxanne, so she’d probably given it to him. He said he wanted to meet with me about a matter “of interest to us both” and provided his suite number at the resort where he was staying.
This has money written all over it, I thought. But I wasn’t about to invest time or money in someone suffering from Anheuser’s disease. My ex had cured me of getting involved with alcoholics for a lifetime.
I erased the messages, then called Angel’s cell number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Angel. I was wondering if you could do a little research for me on my case.”
“Sure. I got nothing going right now except watching this dentist lady cheat on her husband. Galleria tryst. A little window shopping for jewelry, a little wine drinking, a little stayover in a fancy hotel. Like watching an old episode of Lives of the Rich and Famous.”
I told him about the progress I’d made on Megan’s behalf and asked him to check out Blythe Donnelly, born in Dallas in 1961. He told me that as soon as he snapped a few pictures of the lovebirds exiting the hotel, he’d head back to the office and get busy. I thanked him and clicked the phone off.
I had just enough time before I boarded to visit the duty-free shop. Jamaican rum makes for good sleep, mon. Martha had taught me that much.
True to Kate’s report, Diva was aloof when I arrived home that evening. But she warmed up as soon as I sat down in the living room with my Diet Coke. I gave her some much-needed attention, then called Kate to tell her I was home. I filled her in on my trip, not sharing exactly how I’d learned the things I was telling her. She must have been tired because she didn’t ask too many questions. I had just hung up when my doorbell rang.
I went to the foyer, saw Angel through the peephole, and quickly opened the door.
“Did a drive-by to see if you were home yet and saw your car,” he said after I let him in.
“Want a drink?” I asked. “Got some nice rum.”
“No, thanks.” He was holding a large brown envelope and as usual looked like he came right off the dry cleaner’s rack—pressed white shirt, creased khakis, and a silver belt buckle, this one so huge it must have weighed five pounds.
“Come on in and sit awhile,” I said, leading him through the foyer.
He glanced around as we entered the living room. “Nice place. Nice neighborhood. You like this better than River Oaks?”
“A million times better. So were you able to find out anything on Blythe Donnelly?” I asked, eager to get my hands on that envelope.
“What there is to know.” He sat on one end of the sofa and crossed his legs, which showed off his worn but well-cared for alligator boots.
“Because she’s lived in Jamaica so long?” I sat, too.
“There’s not much to know because she didn’t live all that long.” He opened the envelope.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“She’s dead, Abby. She died in 1974.” He removed a sheet of paper and handed it to me.
It was a copy of a small newspaper article from the Dallas Morning News, the death notice for Blythe Donnelly, who had passed on from “complications of cancer” at the age of thirteen. The notice was very detailed, probably a last tribute written by a devastated family who had lost someone they loved far too soon.
I said, “Okay, so maybe the woman in Jamaica is a different Blythe Donnelly. Maybe—”
“That’s possible, but not likely. I don’t think two Blythe Donnellys were born on the same day in the same year in Dallas, Texas, do you?”
“You’re right,” I said. “And considering what I found in Donnelly’s house—cash transactions, a large bank account disappearing, the lack of friends—I’m betting there’s an explanation.”
“I won’t ask how you gained access to that information,” he said.
“I seem to have forgotten myself,” I said with a grin.
“Just so you understand that this person you’re tracking is using a stolen identity and could be in big trouble.”
“I understand. So now what?” I said.
“This could be tough,” he answered. “We’re not dealing with someone stealing personal information to rob a person blind. This sounds more like a woman who needed to disappear. And there could be a hundred reasons why.”
“Criminal reasons?” I asked.
“Or personal,” he said. “A way out of a tough life.”
“So what’s my next step?” I asked.
“There are several ways to go at this, but I’d begin by checking missing person reports around the time this woman showed up in Jamaica.”
“That’s probably a humongous number of people,” I said.
“Not necessarily. You have a location—Dallas—and that narrows the field. Not likely someone in Maine would hunt up death certificates in Dallas trying to find a good candidate for their identity theft. We weren’t exactly a nation of computer users back then.”
“You’ve got a point,” I said. “So I’ll definitely start with missing persons.”
“If you need any help with your research, let me know. I’ve got connections in Dallas, a few friends who used to be cops up that way.” He stood and I followed suit. “And now I better get home. Becky’s cooking venison stew and I’m not about to miss out.” He patted his starched, flat belly.
After Angel left, I headed straight for my office, but once I sat down behind my desk, I paused. Angel had mentioned death certificates. If Donnelly wasn’t really Donnelly, maybe the baby’s death certificate wasn’t real either. Maybe Donnelly had been trying to hide the child as well as herself. And maybe the records copied to my phone computer could offer additional information. So I transferred all the birth and death files from the e-mail message onto my desktop PC.
It took me only fifteen minutes to discover that the baby’s death certificate had not been scanned or even manually keyed into this particular database, though loads of other information from that year had been compiled. The infant’s records could have been lost in the hurricane . . . and then there was the other possibility. The baby’s death had been faked.
But though I wanted to get busy on this angle, the doorbell rang again and this time the visitor was not nearly as welcome as Angel.
“What can I do for you, Aunt Caroline?” I asked when I opened the door. “Because I’m busy working on—”
“A murder case in Seacliff?” she asked sweetly.
Damn. That’s all I needed was her dipping her pen in my ink. Kate must have let something slip. “Listen, I’d love to visit, but—”
“Do you know a police person named Fielder?” she asked.
Double damn. Better find where this leak had come from and shut off that faucet as soon as I could. “Come on in,” I said.
I offered her a drink, and once we were seated on the sofa, her with a glass of white wine and me with the rum and Coke, she said, “So tell me what you’ve been up to, Abigail.”
“Why don’t you go first? Obviously you’ve been snooping around in my business.”
“Why would you think that?” She offered her best shocked and dismayed expression. “And I really don’t appreciate your tone, considering I came here to offer you valuable information.”
I needed this woman in my life like an armadillo needs an interstate. But knowing her, I’d better play nice or she’d clam up. “Sorry if I sounded rude, but I’ve had a long day. What information are you talking about and what’s this about Fielder?”
She smiled and sipped her wine, leaving bright pink lip marks on the rim. “You know how muc
h I care about you, Abigail. And I’m concerned for your welfare. So before I tell you, why don’t you explain how you got mixed up in all this?”
I knew why she wanted to know and it had nothing to do with my well-being. The next time she played a foursome at the country club, she hoped for center stage with her society friends. And she would get exactly that if she could reveal unpublished details about James Beadford’s death. The quickest way to find out what she knew and get rid of her was to give her just enough information to satisfy her.
I summarized what had happened at the wedding reception, focusing more on the response of the guests than on anything substantive. I mentioned the scream, the ensuing chaos, how long we all had to stay in the house. She then asked who did the catering, what the bride wore, and did I think the wedding gown was totally ruined? It seemed clear she didn’t give a rat’s ass how this tragedy affected Megan and her family.
“Now tell me about Fielder,” I said. “How did you connect her name with mine? Did you read it in the newspaper?”
“She called me,” Aunt Caroline said, looking as proud as a cat with a mouthful of feathers.
I blinked. “Wait a minute. She called you? Not the other way around?”
Aunt Caroline picked a piece of lint off her camel wool slacks. “She had a lot of questions about you, Abigail. And she certainly knew plenty about your past.”
I took a hefty swallow of my drink. What the hell was Fielder doing?
“And the gist of these questions?” I asked.
“She wanted to know if you had a personal relationship with the Beadford family and if so for how long. Of course I couldn’t answer that question.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t answer? I told you the last time you were here that Megan hired me a few months ago.”
“Have you forgotten how you cut me out of your life since last summer?” she said. “What makes you think I would know who your friends are or—”
“This has nothing to do with my friends. What else did she want to know?” I was pissed off and she knew it.
A Wedding to Die For Page 13
