“I did,” said his mother.
Sarah scoffed. “Framed? Right. I don’t believe it for one second. Brent told me everything before he went to court this morning. He was afraid you might retaliate. But neither one of us ever imagined this.”
“Look, I don’t know what Brent told you, but-”
“He told me that you called him from Panama and asked him to beat up Liz’s lawyer. He wouldn’t do it, so you hired some thug.”
“He said the same thing in court. It’s a lie.”
“Did you hire the same guy to kill my husband, Ryan? Or did you do this job yourself?”
“Sarah, I had nothing to do with Brent’s murder.”
“It all goes back to that night Brent asked you for some money at Mom’s house. You went berserk and started burning it. You almost killed him then. Mom says you even had Dad’s gun that night. You tried to hide it when she walked in, but she saw it. You were gunning for Brent!”
“I didn’t kill Brent, so just shut the hell up!”
Sarah leaned into her mother, crying. Jeanette pulled her daughter close to console her, then looked at Ryan. “We all need to just calm down before we say things we don’t mean. Let’s get a good night’s sleep and talk about this in the morning.”
“No!” shouted Ryan. “You told me on the phone we would discuss this as a family. Well, the family’s all here. Don’t avoid this, Mom. We have to talk — tonight.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
Ryan nearly exploded, but a knock on the front door checked his anger. The three of them glanced at one another, as if to ask who it might be.
“Are you expecting someone?” asked Ryan.
Both women shook their heads.
“Answer it, Ryan. Your sister is in no condition.”
He sighed with exasperation, his feet pounding the floor as he left the kitchen. He yanked hard on the door, harder than necessary. It startled their visitor.
“Hello, Ryan,” the man said timidly.
It was Josh Colburn, the old lawyer who had prepared his father’s will. Ryan hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He was wearing a bright yellow bowling shirt that bore the logo of the local hardware store. “Mr. Colburn,” he said with surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was over at the bowling alley. Word is out about Brent. Poor fellow. I drove by your mother’s house first, but there was nobody there. So I came here as quickly as I could.”
“That’s very nice of you,” he said, bewildered.
“But what’s the hurry?”
“Well, I needed to talk to you. I’m having a little trouble interpreting your father’s instructions.”
“My father? What are you talking about?”
He leaned forward and whispered, as if sharing a matter of national security. “I have the envelope.”
“Mr. Colburn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The envelope. Frank told me to send it straight to the Denver Post if anyone in the Duffy family was ever harmed.”
A chill went down Ryan’s spine. It was just like Norm had said. In any viable extortion scheme there had to be a safety valve — an unidentified third person who would automatically disclose the secret in the event the blackmailer or his family were ever killed. It was a way to ensure payment and prevent retaliation.
“Did you send it to the Post yet?” asked Ryan.
“No. You see, that’s where I’m confused. I know how your father felt about Brent. He hated him more than you did. To be honest with you, I’m not sure if Brent is considered part of the Duffy family.”
“Where’s the envelope now?”
“Back in my law office. I keep it locked in the safe. Frank told me never to carry it on my person.”
Ryan stepped outside, put a friendly arm around the old man’s shoulder, and started down the porch. “Let’s you and I talk about that,” said Ryan. “On the way to your office.”
The telephone rang after midnight. Amy was stretched across the couch in the living room, watching an old Audrey Hepburn flick. She snatched the cordless receiver from the cocktail table before the piercing ring could wake Taylor or her grandmother.
“Hello.”
“Amy, this is Ryan Duffy.”
She nearly jackknifed on the couch, spilling her steamy bag of microwave popcorn. “How did you get my number?”
“I found an old letter written by a woman named Debby Parkens.”
She rose, stunned. “That’s my mother.”
“I figured. It was postmarked in Boulder. I dialed directory assistance on a hunch. There’s only one Amy Parkens.”
She suddenly regretted ever having told him her real first name. “What do you want?”
“I had to call you. Amy, my father didn’t rape your mother.”
“I know he didn’t. He raped-” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to drag Marilyn’s name into this. “Just stop harassing me. Don’t ever call me again.”
“No, wait. I know why my father sent you the money.”
She fought the urge to hang up. That was one question she definitely wanted answered. “Why?”
“If I tell you on the phone, you’ll think I’m making this up. Meet with me, please.”
“I’m not getting anywhere near you. Just tell me now.”
“Amy, you have to see the letter. I don’t want to share it with you or anyone else until I’m sure it’s genuine. You’re the only one who can verify it. Bring something that will help you identify your mother’s handwriting. But please meet with me. As soon as possible.”
She paused to think. He now knew where she lived. If she refused to meet him, he’d probably show up at her front door, which would give her one more thing to explain to the FBI. “All right. Come to Boulder. But we can’t meet at my apartment.”
“Unfortunately, Boulder won’t work. I can’t leave Piedmont Springs right now. I have some serious family issues I have to deal with.”
“What kind of joke is this?”
“I just can’t go anywhere right now. There’s been a… another death in the family.”
“I’m sorry. But do you really expect me to come all the way down to Piedmont Springs again?”
“Only if you want to find out why your mother would write to my father just two weeks before she died.”
Chills ran down her spine. That was all she needed to hear. “I’ll be there in the morning,” she said, then hung up the phone.
51
A firm knock on the door landed just after dawn. Sarah lay on her side in the fetal position, trying to relieve the stabbing back pain that came with her pregnancy. Her bleary eyes focused on the orange liquid crystals on the alarm clock beside her bed. 6:22 A.M. She rolled out of bed, slipped on her robe, and started downstairs.
The night had taken its toll. She had slept little, wept often. The tears were not those typical of grief. They were laden with self-pity and apprehension about her future. She thought about the long term, but it was the short term that created the most anxiety. Her mother had run interference for her last night, telling the police that Sarah was an emotional wreck and couldn’t talk to them. Very soon, however, she would have to talk to the homicide detectives. They’d surely ask her if she was aware of any reason why someone might want to kill her husband. One question had kept her awake most of the night: What would she tell them about her father’s money?
The knocking continued.
“Coming,” she said, shuffling to the front door. She instantly regretted having said a word. It took away the option to peek out the window, see who it was, and pretend not to be home. She pulled back the curtain for a discreet peek anyway.
The man standing on the porch was facing the driveway, his back to the house. His profile was unfamiliar to her. He seemed handsome and was dressed casually but smartly. The wristwatch looked to be the expensive kind. Inasmuch as she didn’t feel ready to talk to police, she was certain that no one at the sheriff’s department could afford a Rolex. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Mrs. Langford,” he said in a soft, sympathetic tone. “I’m Phil Jackson.”
She knew the name but was unsure of her feelings. “You’re Liz’s lawyer.”