Found money

20

On Sunday morning Amy called Ryan Duffy again. An elderly-sounding woman answered, his mother. Amy hadn’t realized that the doctor she had found so interesting had formally moved in with his mother, but she quickly cut him some slack. She knew better than anyone what a divorce could do for your living arrangements.

“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Duffy.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He had to go out of town on business. Can I take a message?”

“I can call again. You think he’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Probably not. He called me from the Denver airport last night and said he’d be away for a few days. Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes, sort of. Thank you for your time, ma’am. I’ll check back later.” She hung up before the next question.

Amy sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts churning in her head. It was a bit unnerving to hear Jeanette Duffy’s voice, the voice of the widow. It was Jeanette’s Crock-Pot, after all, that had given Amy her first link to the Duffy family. In that light, it seemed interesting now that Ryan had been so quick to dismiss the possibility of his mother’s involvement — his off-the-cuff comment that his father but definitely not his mother would be the type to give away money to strangers. And now the phone call. Evasive, at best.

Amy hurried to the closet and dug out her tennis shoes. If Mrs. Duffy was lying and Ryan was still at home, she had to talk to him. If he was really out of town, this was her chance to talk directly to Jeanette Duffy.

It was time for another visit to Piedmont Springs.

The temperature rose as morning turned to afternoon and the mountains gave way to the eastern plains. Five hours on the highway had brought Amy down from an elevation of 5,400 feet to just over 3,000. The typical July humidity and scattered afternoon thunderclouds marked her entry into Prowers County.

Amy knew the way to the Duffy house from her earlier trip, when she had scouted out the family in advance of her meeting with Ryan. Her second trip to Piedmont Springs in a week had her somewhat concerned about her old truck. So long as she traveled by day, however, she felt safe.

She reached the Duffy residence around two o’clock. The Jeep Cherokee she’d seen in the driveway last time was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Ryan really was gone. Another car was in its place, a white Buick. Amy parked right behind it. She drew a deep breath and headed up the walkway toward the front door.

Wind chimes tinkled in the lazy breeze as she climbed the porch steps and knocked lightly. The screen door was locked with a metal latch. The heavy wood door behind it was wide open for ventilation. Through the screen, Amy could see across the living room, almost to the kitchen. Her palms began to sweat as she waited for a response. She had spent the last five hours in the truck rehearsing exactly what she would say — Plan A and Plan B, depending on whether Ryan or his mother came to the door.

Amy was about to knock again when she heard footsteps from inside the house. Actually, it was more of a shuffling sound. Slowly, a large woman came into view. As she crossed the living room, it was clear she was pregnant. Very pregnant.

“Can I help you?” she asked, still shuffling forward.

Amy smiled. She had this notion in her mind that people in small towns always smiled. It was a nervous smile, however, as this woman’s voice didn’t match the voice on the phone. Amy had no Plan C.

“I — uh. Is Ryan here?”

She stopped on the other side of the screen door and caught her breath. “No.”

“Are you — you’re not Jeanette Duffy, are you?”

“I’m Sarah. Ryan’s sister.” She turned decidedly suspicious. “Who are you?”

She thought for a second. Last Friday, she had told Ryan her first name. It would be interesting to know if the name meant anything to his sister. “My name’s Amy.”

“You a friend of Ryan’s?” Neither the tone nor her expression raised a specter of recognition. Apparently Ryan hadn’t told his sister a thing.

“I wouldn’t say I’m a friend, really. To be honest, you might be as much help to me as Ryan. Maybe even more.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It has to do with money. Money that I think may have come from your father.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. Amy noted the reaction. “Can I come inside and talk for a minute?” asked Amy.

Sarah didn’t move, said nothing.

“Just for a minute,” said Amy.

“Let’s talk out here.” The screen door creaked as Sarah stepped onto the porch. She directed Amy to the wicker rocking chair in the corner. Sarah took the hanging love seat swing in front of the window. She looked about as miserable as pregnant-in-July could possibly look.

“I’m listening,” said Sarah. “What money are you talking about?”

Amy wasn’t aware of it, but she was on the edge of her chair. She was apprehensive, unsure of how to play this. She settled on a replay of her meeting with Ryan. “I received a package a few weeks ago. There was money inside. No return address, no card. But as best I can tell, I think it came from your father.”

“Did you know my father?”

“I don’t ever recall meeting him.”

“How do you know it’s from my father?”

“It came in a Crock-Pot box. I checked the registration from the product number on the box. It was registered in your mother’s name. I suppose it could have come from your mother-”

“No,” she interrupted. “Couldn’t have come from my mother. How much money was in the box?”

“At least a thousand dollars.” She flinched at the white lie — but again, it wasn’t a total lie. There was at least a thousand dollars. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Sarah leaned forward in the swing, speaking sharply. “I’ll tell you what you do with it. You put the money back in the box. Every bit of it. And you bring it right back. You have no right to keep it.”

Amy froze in her rocker. It was as if she’d stepped on a rattlesnake. “I didn’t come here to make trouble.”

“I won’t let you make trouble. Ryan and me are the only heirs. Our father didn’t leave no will, and in two months of dying, he sure as hell didn’t mention no Amy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Is your mother home? I’d like to talk to her. Maybe your father mentioned my name to her.”

“Don’t you go near my mother. This has been hard enough on her. I don’t need you poking around like some long-lost illegitimate child trying to weasel her way into an inheritance.”

“Who said anything about that? All I’m trying to do is figure out why your father would have sent me some money in a box. I’d like to know where the money came from.”

“It doesn’t matter where it came from. All that matters is that it comes back where it belongs. I want that money back, Miss Amy. I hope you have the good sense to see me eye-to-eye on this.”

“I really wish you would just let me talk to your mother, maybe clear things up.”

Her eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing to clear up. I told you what to do. Now do it.”

Amy stared right back, but there was nothing more to say. “Thank you for your time,” she said, rising. “And your hospitality.”

She stepped down from the porch and headed for her car.

It nearly maxed out his Visa card, but Ryan booked a flight to Panama City through Dallas. Getting out of Denver was the easy part. Apparently the plane for the second leg of the journey had come down with malaria or some other mysterious Panamanian ailment. He spent the night and most of Sunday in the terminal at the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, waiting on a mechanically sound 737 to take him and the other two hundred stranded passengers the rest of the way to Panama.

Ryan had no luggage to check, just his carry-on bags. Norm had loaned him some extra clothes, which accounted for the monogrammed polo player on his shirt. He took several naps in the waiting area, no more than twenty minutes at a stretch, keeping both arms wrapped around his bag at all times. The last thing he needed was someone to walk off with his passport. His bladder was bursting, but he didn’t dare get up from his seat. The flight was overbooked, and one trip to the airport rest room would mean having to sit on the floor until boarding time. The family camped out on the floor beside him spoke no English, so he used the opportunity to practice his Spanish. He was rusty, but it pleased him to see he could still get his point across. He’d treated a number of Spanish-speaking patients over the years, mostly migrant workers from the melon fields west of Piedmont Springs.

At 3:35 the woman at the check-in counter announced that Flight 97 to Panama would begin boarding in fifteen minutes.

Promises, promises. Ryan grabbed his bag and made a final pre-boarding break for the rest room. On his way out, he stopped at the bank of pay phones in the hall for one last domestic call home, just to check on things. He punched out the number and waited. Sarah answered.

“Hi, it’s Ryan,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Mom’s okay?”

“Yup.”

“You’ll stay with her tonight, right?”

“I’ve been with her all day, Ryan. Yes, I’ll spend the night.”

“Be firm about it. She’ll tell you she’s fine alone and tell you to go home. But she’s still depressed. She left the damn gas burner on yesterday. She’s just not all there. She’s gonna hurt herself if there isn’t somebody there looking after her.”

“Ryan, I said I’d stay.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“When you coming home?”

“Possibly Monday night. Tuesday at the latest.”

The airport speakers crackled with another announcement. Ryan’s flight would begin boarding in five minutes. “I gotta go, Sarah. You’re sure everything is okay?”

“Yes,” she said, almost groaning. “Just a typical dull day in Piedmont Springs.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, Ryan. Nothing at all. I assure you, everything is perfectly A-okay.”