“What about work? You want me to call the law firm and tell them you’re sick?”
“Gram, this isn’t grade school. I can call them.” She instantly regretted the sarcasm. Gram only meant well, even if she did sometimes treat Amy as if she were Taylor’s age.
Gram let it go. “By the way, did you get to talk with Mrs. Duffy?”
“No.”
“Just as well.”
“I talked to her daughter. A woman named Sarah. She said she wants the money back.”
“Doggone it, Amy. I told you not to stir the pot. Now look where we are.”
“I didn’t tell her I had two hundred thousand dollars. I only told her it was about a thousand.”
“Good girl.”
Amy blinked. The woman who’d taught her right from wrong was now praising her for telling half-truths. “Gram, I don’t think I have the stomach for this.”
“Nonsense. We’re over the hump now. You talked to the son. You talked to the daughter. You tried to talk to the widow. You’ve done everything you can to try and find out where the money came from. Your conscience should be clear. Just give that Sarah character her thousand dollars and everybody will be happy.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know how to describe it. I just got some strange vibes from Sarah. Downright hostile.”
“How do you mean?”
Amy had not forgotten the feeling she’d gotten when talking to Sarah — the way Sarah had treated her like the gold-digging illegitimate heir. Still, it was a touchy subject to raise with her grandmother — the mother of her father. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just being a nervous Nellie.”
“You really are. Now promise me you’ll be careful getting home.”
“I will. Let me talk to Taylor for a minute, okay?”
“She might be asleep already. Let me check.”
The wait triggered a wave of thoughts, again about Sarah. An inheritance would explain the money. Amy had no list of every man her mother had ever known intimately. Perhaps Frank Duffy was among them. Maybe the money was his way of acknowledging Amy was his. Why else would he have been so seemingly careless as to send the money in a used Crock-Pot box, which made it possible for her to track down the sender with just a little ingenuity and perseverance? Maybe his mind had said make the gift anonymously, but in his heart he wanted her to find out it was from her real father.
She was suddenly queasy about the instant attraction she’d felt toward Frank Duffy’s handsome son.
“She’s asleep,” said Gram, back on the line.
“Poor little angel must have put a hundred miles on her roller skates today. Call us in the morning before you get on the road. And be careful. I love you, darling.”
“I love you, too.”
She hung up the phone, torn inside. She did love her Gram. She’d always love her. Even if it turned out she wasn’t her real grandmother.
22
Ryan woke at 5:30 Monday morning, Mountain Time. He reset his wristwatch ahead two hours to local time in Panama City. Butterflies swirled in his belly. The bank would open in thirty minutes.
He showered and dressed in record time. Room service brought him a quick continental breakfast. He managed a few sips of cafe con leche while shaving but didn’t have the stomach for food. Overnight, something inside him had changed. He felt different. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he even looked at himself differently. From the moment he’d left Piedmont Springs almost forty-eight hours ago, his mind had strategically diverted his attention from the real problem. He’d been thinking of his mother and her small-town preference never to know anything that wasn’t fit to print in the Lamar Daily News. He’d met his friend Norm to talk out the legal niceties of Panamanian banks. He’d made small talk with a Panamanian family in the airport. He’d done everything but come to terms with the fact that his father was a blackmailer — and that the box would tell him why.
This morning, there was no more dodging the truth. He felt like a son who had never known his father. Today, he would meet him for the very first time.
Ryan checked out of the hotel at 7:50 A.M. and checked his garment bag with the concierge. He would pick it up later on his way to the airport after visiting the bank. He took the small carry-on with him, a leather shoulder bag that made him look like a camera-toting tourist. Whatever he might find inside the safe deposit box, the bag would enable him to carry it out in concealment.
Sweat soaked his brow the minute he stepped outside the hotel. Besides the great canal and those namesake hats that were actually made in Ecuador, Panama was known for its rainfall. It got more than any other Central American country, mostly between April and December. Today’s rain was not yet falling, but the heavy tropical heat and 90 percent humidity foreshadowed the inevitable. Ryan considered hailing a taxi to beat the heat, but the drivers were beyond aggressive; they were downright reckless, notorious for their many accidents. The buses weren’t much better, called the Red Devils not just because of their color. Ryan would just have to hoof it.
His pace was swift, partly because he was eager to open the box, partly because he was uncomfortable in the neighborhood. There seemed to be more beggars than anything else on the sidewalks. Street crime in Panama City was a serious problem. It surprised him that his father had actually come here. His mother never would have come.
The thought jarred him.
Maybe that was the point. Dad had chosen to hide his ugly secrets in a place Mom would never look — even if she knew where they were and she desperately wanted to know them.
The neighborhood improved considerably as he turned on Avenida Balboa. Banco Nacional de Panama was a modern building on the lively thoroughfare, one of literally hundreds of international banks in the burgeoning financial district of Panama City. Ryan climbed the limestone steps slowly, bemused by the fact that he was retracing his father’s steps. The bank itself was medium-size, slightly larger than the typical branch bank in the States. The entrance was formal and impressive, a tasteful mix of chrome, glass, and polished Botticino marble. An armed guard stood at the door. Two others were posted inside. Business hours had started just fifteen minutes ago, and the place was already bustling. Behind velvet ropes, lines of customers snaked toward the tellers. Bank officers were busy with clients or on the phone. With business all over the world, the bank transcended time zones.
Ryan crossed the spacious lobby and headed for the sign marked LAS CAJAS DE SEGURIDAD — SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES. The boxes were located in a small, windowless wing behind the tellers, part of the private banking section. Ryan left his name with the receptionist and took a seat on the couch, absorbing the surroundings. The well-dressed man seated beside him was reading a French magazine. The receptionist appeared to be a descendant of a local Indian tribe. One of the tellers was black; the other, Chinese. Ryan had read somewhere that Panama was not a melting pot but a sancocho pot. As in the local dish, the various “ingredients” contributed their own flavor but retained their own individual identity. The meaning was beginning to come clear.
“Senor Duffy?”
Ryan looked up at the woman in the doorway.
“ Buenos dias, senora. Yo soy Ryan Duffy.”
She smirked, obviously sensing from his accent that Spanish was his second language — a distant second. She answered in English. “Good morning. I’m Vivien Fuentes. Please come with me.”
Though not perfect, her English was fairly good, which helped account for his father’s selection of this particular bank. Ryan followed her to the small office around the corner. She offered him a chair, then closed the door and seated herself behind her desk. She smiled pleasantly and said, “How can I help you?”
“I’m here on family business, I guess you’d call it. My father recently passed away.”