“What if I don’t know who they are?”
“You’re the executor of the estate. It’s your duty to find out. Within the exercise of reasonable diligence, of course.”
The mention of a legal duty only heightened Ryan’s sense of moral responsibility — not to mention his curiosity. “I just can’t believe my dad would be involved in anything… unsavory. I always thought he was such a good person.”
“That’s what we always want to think. We think that about ourselves. Then one day, opportunity knocks. And that’s when we find out. Are we truly honest? Some people are. Some people are hardcore crooks. Those are the extremes. Most of the people I defend are in the middle. They’ve done the right thing all their life, but only because the fear of doing time outweighs the rewards of the crime. For them, morality boils down to simple risk analysis. The thing is, you never know which way those people will turn until the right opportunity comes along.”
“I’m afraid my dad may have flunked the test.”
“It’s not a test, Ryan. At least not the kind you can cram for the night before, like we did in college. It’s a question of what you’re made of. Now, I don’t know where your dad got that kind of money. Maybe it’s totally legitimate. Maybe it’s not. But maybe he still had a damn good reason for doing what he did.”
“I don’t know the complete picture yet.”
“Then you have a couple of choices. You can go down to Panama and open the box. Or you can ignore it. My hunch, however, is that if you go down there, you’re going to find out what your father was made of. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I have to.”
“Okay. That was the easy one. Here’s where it gets complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once you start chasing the money trail, you might well find out what you are made of. So before you hop on an airplane, you need to ask yourself: Can you handle that?”
Ryan looked his friend in the eye. “I brought my passport,” he said flatly. “That question was answered before I got here.”
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.”