A Wedding To Die For yrm-2 Page 12

  I had found the mystery woman from the wedding, the woman Mason Dryer had captured in his composite. The same woman Quinn Fielder wanted to question. The woman who might well be Megan’s mother.

  10

  As I set down the photograph, Blythe Donnelly’s house suddenly seemed smaller. And since I had neglected to close the bathroom window, mosquitoes had joined me, buzzing around my head like little vultures. Before I went to shut the window, I took out my phone and clicked off a couple shots of the photograph, using my flashlight to enhance the meager light.

  I retraced my steps to the bathroom, thoughts zinging through my head like the bugs surrounding me. How had Donnelly ended up at Megan’s wedding? Had the inquiries I made prior to last Saturday reached her somehow? Or had someone else informed her that her daughter was about to get married?

  But when I slid the window shut, I decided I was jumping to conclusions. I had no hard proof Megan was Blythe Donnelly’s child, just a pile of circumstantial evidence. I needed DNA to be positive—and I was standing in a houseful of the stuff. Being no expert on evidence collection, I wasn’t sure what would be the best thing to take with me. On TV all you needed was a damn coffee cup. I glanced around the bathroom, but nothing jumped out at me. I started to open the medicine cabinet above the pedestal sink but then spotted a toothbrush. Did toothpaste ruin DNA? I had no idea, but I took it anyway, wrapped it in some toilet tissue, and put it in my pocket.

  I then returned to the bedroom to see what else I could find to connect Blythe Donnelly to Megan. After opening the closet I immediately surmised the woman lived alone. The beige, chocolate, tan, ecru, and white clothing all seemed to be the same petite size. No men’s suits, shirts, or trousers.

  I dragged over the footstool so I could get a look at the top shelf of the closet, all the while wondering why I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for rifling through a stranger’s house. But Daddy always said the truly guilty run even when no one is chasing them, so maybe my sense of purpose made guilt no more than a second thought.

  I spied a taped-up box in a far corner advertising Myer’s Rum in bold letters. When I slid the box toward me, I knew it didn’t hold bottles. Too light. I took the box down from the shelf and set it on the floor. It was bound with old, yellowed tape, and I guessed it had been stashed up there for some time. I peeled off the tape and did a damn poor job. Next time Donnelly looked at this box, she would know it had been opened.

  The box was only half full and on top of the meager stack of papers I found the deed to the house and an attached real estate contract. Donnelly had paid cash twenty years ago. If that’s when she came to Jamaica, the timing was right.

  Next I found a Grand Cayman bank account statement with a six-figure balance dated about the same time, but the account had been closed several months later. Since these were the only financial records I’d found, I figured she kept everything else locked away somewhere, probably in a bank or a concealed safe. She obviously had a source of income because she’d purchased five cars during her time in Kingston—and those were all bought with cash, according to the receipts I found.

  Then I came to a stack of pictures, all poor-quality snapshots. The first was Donnelly with another fishing pole, only she was much younger in this photo. The others showed her trekking through mountains, riding a bicycle, or fishing the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Aside from whoever took the pictures, she was alone.

  Near the bottom of the box I found an old passport—had to be old because it was olive green. I opened to the first page, but nothing had been written in the spots for name and address or whom to notify in an emergency. I turned to the photo page and Blythe Donnelly stared at me, her hair dyed black, her face unsmiling and haggard. The passport had been issued the year Megan was born, and if Dryer’s composite had shown a likeness, this unflattering photo of the younger Donnelly revealed a stressed and troubled woman who did not favor Megan as much as the composite, though the resemblance was still there. I photographed every page of the passport, noting Donnelly had been born in Dallas in 1961.

  Finally I picked up an unsealed envelope as aged around the edges as the tape that had secured the box. Inside was a folded document and a plastic hospital ID bracelet—a tiny band with a pink sticker attached and the words Donnelly female written in blue ink. I opened the paper and read, but I didn’t comprehend what I was seeing.

  The document bore an official seal, was signed by a Dr. Johnson and cosigned by Elizabeth Benson, midwife. It was a death certificate for an eight-pound baby girl born the same day and year as Megan, with the baby’s death from “birth complications” occurring a day later.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I whispered.

  About then I realized that I had been so focused on what I’d found that I had pushed all other noise to the background. But the sound of my voice must have brought me back to reality.

  The dogs I had heard in the distance when I first arrived now seemed to be in the near vicinity. Like right outside the house.

  I quickly clicked off shots of the death certificate and bracelet until my phone battery bleeped a warning. Damn. Any power left would be needed to call Jug, praying he answered this time. Then I remembered his number was in my purse, the one stashed outside the bathroom window. Brilliant move, Abby.

  I replaced the box’s contents in roughly the same order, then returned box and footstool to their original spots. I shut off the bedroom light and went back down the hallway to the kitchen. The dogs sounded like they were at the back door and I peeked out the window. I couldn’t see them, but they were close. And from all the snarling and yapping I was hearing, I feared I was about to have a less than pleasant encounter with them.

  I started opening cupboards and looking through drawers for a key that might get me through the dead-bolted front door, but the only thing I accomplished was to make enough noise to draw the dogs closer. I flicked a switch by the back door—also dead-bolted—and an outside light came on. I had hoped this would scare them away and maybe it did, because it got real quiet.

  I peered out the window again.

  There they were, staring at the door, stone still, heads cocked. Four of them. Skinny, mangy, toothy animals—all mutts about the size of German shepherds. Four against one. I didn’t like the numbers. And then another one came prancing around the corner of the house.

  And the little bastard was clutching my purse in a very strong-looking jaw.

  Christ on a cracker! I needed a dead bolt key and about a pound of steak to distract them. But then I noticed a glass cookie jar on the counter filled with dog biscuits.

  Now I understood the canine interest in this house. Donnelly must like these critters. Either that, or throwing food at them was the only way she could escape.

  I grabbed a handful of biscuits, went to the bathroom, and climbed into the tub. I’m a good whistler, thank God, and sure enough the dog pack started barking and I soon heard them whining and yapping outside the window. I balanced on the edge of the tub and tossed several biscuits out the window as far as I could. The four hungry ones raced after them, but the one with my purse didn’t budge. The animal sat down and stared at me.

  “Nice puppy,” I whispered, using a sweet, gentle tone. I began to wiggle out the window, head first, still muttering, “Good doggie, nice doggie.” When I was almost out, I tossed a biscuit at the dog’s feet.

  She didn’t even glance at it—had to be female what with this strange attachment to my bag. But the other dogs must have caught on because they turned and started back toward me. I threw the rest of the food at them, but being half in and half out of the house limited my skill as a pitcher. The biscuits didn’t go as far as I’d hoped, so I had to move fast. I ducked under the sash, tumbled out through the window, and rolled onto the grass.

  “Hello, baby,” I said to my purse thief.

  We were practically nose to nose.

  She sat—definitely a girl—and her tail swept back and forth on the lawn. Decidi
ng this was just a big baby with a prize to show off, I offered my hand.

  But the others must have had noses on their tails because they turned again and came running after the biscuit she still hadn’t touched. She moved closer to me as they pounced for the food.

  One treat and four dogs fighting for it raises plenty of dust and fur. But above their yelps and growls, I heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine. Then tires grinding up the gravel road. I could be staring down the barrel of a real dilemma if the person who’d been collecting the mail, or even Blythe Donnelly herself was coming home.

  I had to get my purse back. Now.

  “Can I have that, baby?” I said softly.

  More tail wagging. No growling.

  I placed a tentative hand on the dog’s broad, golden skull and stroked.

  She dropped my bag and I let out the breath I’d been holding. But my relief was short-lived because the others had gotten over their tiff now that the last biscuit was gone and they were creeping toward me, snarling all the way.

  I picked up the purse, stood and stepped back, reaching in the bag for Jug’s card.

  Four sets of canine teeth were bared, but then something unexpected happened. Purse Dog came to my rescue. She faced my aggressors, putting herself between them and me. Meanwhile I found Jug’s number, took my phone from my pocket, poised my flashlight over it, and dialed as fast as my shaking fingers would allow.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “I need you in a hurry,” I said and gave him the address. He said okay. The battery warning sounded again right after he hung up. Too much picture taking.

  The teeth-baring standoff between the dogs grew louder and then I saw a light sweeping the ground on the other side of the house, a light headed in my direction.

  I was scanning the landscape for a hiding place when I heard a loud pop.

  One of the dogs yipped and took off running, tail between its legs. The others followed—all except for my friend. She stood her ground.

  The pop had come from a rifle—seems the owner of the flashlight happened to have a weapon. And a uniform. And when he came up to me with that rifle pointed at my chest, I also noticed he had Dog Police embroidered above his pocket.

  Then he changed his focus and targeted my partner, pumping his rifle several times.

  The idiot planned to shoot her.

  “Hey! This is my dog and if you hurt her, I’ll have you arrested,” I said.

  He looked at me and grinned. “Is that so, mon?”

  “Yes. She and I are locked out of my house and—”

  “You don’t live here and neither does she.” He gestured at my friend with his gun. “I chase that bitch two, three times a week.”

  Okay. Lie number one failed. Try another. “I do live here and I want to adopt this wonderful—”

  “Miss Donnelly live here long time, so unless she die and give you this place, you don’t belong here. The cops pay me nice for burglars. You a burglar?”

  If he was asking, I still had hope of getting myself out of this mess. “Of course I’m not a burglar. Blythe and I go back a long way and—”

  “Miss Donnelly keep to herself and I never seen you round here.”

  Lie number three also seemed doomed to failure. Maybe I could salvage it. “We haven’t seen each other in years, but—”

  “First time she leaves the island you comes round here opening her windows.” He nodded up at my escape hatch. “She no like that stuff. Now you and me, we gonna visit the jail.”

  He stepped toward me, but the dog and I had definitely bonded. She growled.

  The guy raised his rifle and aimed.

  “No! Please don’t!” I raised my hands in surrender. “What can I do to make you listen?” I was thinking of money and at the same moment remembering I had very little to offer.

  He lowered the muzzle slightly. Then I heard another car approaching. The cop turned his head, and we both saw Jug’s cab pull up to the shed.

  “I think my ride is here,” I said.

  Jug got out of the cab and called, “Hey, beast! What you do with my lady?”

  “This bobo your lady?” the cop said.

  “Yeah and she be some bobo, mon. Give me plenty agony, though.”

  Both of them laughed and if I read their tone correctly, I’d say lecherous was the operative adjective.

  But if trash talk worked, I’d play along. “Hey, honey, this is the dog I was telling you about.” I placed a protective hand on my rescuer’s head.

  “You no want that flea bag,” Jug said.

  The cop smiled. “Hey, lady says she wants to take the dog home, you take the dog. But you know I need something from the both of you, mon. See, your lady’s story been changin’ every five seconds. She don’t know when to shut up.”

  I started to answer his insult with one of my own but realized he was right. I bit my lip.

  Jug reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of Jamaican bills. “This is all I got, mon.”

  The dog catcher took the money and counted it, shaking his head. “Cops pay me way better if I bring them a burglar.”

  I pulled out my wallet. Travelers checks do not make great bribes. He didn’t want them. And what little Jamaican money I had left didn’t please him either. But he liked my watch, my sapphire ring and my tiny gold bead earrings. He also liked my phone, but when I balked, Jug offered a heavy gold chain from around his neck and that was enough to buy my freedom. Once he’d cleaned us out he went away.

  While Jug closed the bathroom window and returned the crate and pail to the shed, I tried to interest the dog in the only thing I had left—my Altoids. She liked chasing them, but kept bringing them back and dropping them at my feet.

  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.”