like a year later when I heard my phone ding, indicating an e-mail.
Dave offered a little Texas-Aggie-style “whoop” and said, “Hey, cool. You’ve got mail!”
Back at the hotel an hour later, I ordered a proper room service breakfast and eagerly opened the attachment I’d sent to myself—a large file containing text documents as well as scanned birth certificates. About five hundred of them, in fact, covering more than just the year Megan was born. Jeesh. This might take a while.
I decided to enjoy my breakfast first, something called bully beef served with johnnycakes. In Texas a johnnycake is a pancake, but these were more like fried biscuits. The meat tasted corned beef-ish spiced with herbs—thyme maybe?—and was mixed with tomatoes and onions. An unbelievably yummy combination. And the Blue Mountain coffee Jamaica was so famous for did not disappoint.
Once my belly was full and my brain was functioning on all cylinders again, I got to work. Unfortunately the file had not been organized chronologically. Not only were birth certificates scanned, but some entries were copies of pages from something called a “birth book.” These entries were handwritten in a beautiful cursive. By early evening, after several breaks to rest my eyes and to walk off the stiffness in my back from hunching over the tiny screen, I had located all the birth records for girls born the same day as Megan. All three of them. Two were scanned certificates close to unreadable and one was from the birth book. I printed out all three.
Since nearly everyone in Jamaica, Rasta included, has British-sounding surnames, the mothers identified in these documents all sounded Anglo: Lucille Bodworth, Blythe Donnelly, and Mary Hanover. Didn’t mean they were Caucasian like Megan. And fathers’ names weren’t included, so I feared that since twenty years had passed, I might have to spend a very long time hunting these people down.
I started with the easiest approach—the phone book in my nightstand—and decided to take the names alphabetically. An L. Bodworth was listed, so I dialed the number and a woman answered.
I said, “I’m trying to reach a Lucille Bodworth. Is she there?”
“I’m Lucy,” she said in the cheerful Jamaican way I was becoming familiar with. Didn’t mean I’d get anywhere with her, but she sounded pleasant enough.
And from her accent, she was probably as black as most of the islanders. I doubted she’d given birth to a blue-eyed blond baby. But I had to be certain, so I said, “My name is Abby Rose and I’m a private investigator. I’d like to discuss something with you and I was hoping we could meet for lunch?”
“Wait a minute, mon. Why should I meet up with some private cop? I didn’t do nothing wrong.” All her cheeriness had disappeared.
“Of course you didn’t. I just want to ask you a few questions.” I couldn’t figure out a way to tactfully ask her what color her skin was. But even if she wasn’t Megan’s mother, she may have been in the hospital the same day Megan was born and that alone was worth exploring.
“So ask your questions,” she said.
“I’d prefer to meet. I’m staying at the Plaza and they have a great restaurant. I’ll send a cab for you and buy you lunch. How’s that sound?”
She didn’t speak for several seconds, then said, “You seem like an okay lady. Where you come from?”
“Texas,” I said.
“Cowgirl? I never met a cowgirl. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk, but I can get to you myself. Don’t send no cab.”
She told me she would be wearing a pink and yellow dress, and I headed to the lobby to wait. I paced around a grouping of chairs near a fountain wondering if I could be wrong. Maybe a Jamaican woman
Twenty minutes later Lucy Bodworth arrived on the arm of a huge, lean man as black as she was. One question answered. But I still wasn’t sure if this was the same woman from the hospital database. As far as I knew, the name Bodworth could be the equivalent of Smith in Jamaica.
“Are you Miss Rose?” said the man once I approached them near the front desk.
“Yes.” I looked at the woman and smiled. “And you must be Lucy.”
“True, and this is my brother Henry,” she answered.
Indeed there was a resemblance. Same high cheek-bones, same flawless, shiny skin. But I couldn’t tell how old either one of them was. No stray gray hairs at their temples, no wrinkles either.
“Would you like to go to the restaurant now?” I asked.
“We’re not hungry,” said Henry in an accent far more on the British side than I had heard in Jamaica up until now. “We’d prefer the bar.”
“Okay, that works for me.” I was picking up on something I didn’t quite like in his tone. Maybe it was him deciding for both of them about the hunger factor.
Once we sat down at a round table near a window, Lucy hit the plantain chips not a second after the waiter set the basket on the table.
While we waited for our drinks, Lucy asked me where in Texas I was from and whether we had horses on the street and cattle in everyone’s yard. She even seemed interested in my answers, but the serious Henry continued to unsettle me. Those dark eyes encircled by bloodshot whites never left my face.
Henry had ordered “aerated water,” which I assumed was club soda, and Lucy opted for some concoction I’d never heard of. I chose Coke. When the drinks arrived, Henry rubbed the rim of his glass with a lime and said, “So what is this about?”
“I’m looking for a woman who delivered a baby about twenty years ago.” I turned to Lucy. “Did you have a baby at the Duchess of Kent Hospital back then?”
Lucy started to open her mouth, but Henry put a hand on her forearm. “Why do you want to know?”
“Three babies were born that day and one was a white infant who was later adopted. I’m looking for that baby’s mother and wonder if you might remember the other women who were there. My client wants a reunion.” I directed this toward Lucy, hoping to show her that I was one of the good guys and just wanted to make a young woman happy.
“So you want to know what Lucy remembers?” Henry said.
“Yes.” I folded my hands on the table and leaned toward Lucy. “Can you help me?”
But once again, it was Henry who spoke. “How much is this information worth to your client?”
Remembering Jug’s words about how everything costs in Jamaica, I felt foolish for not realizing sooner why Henry had come with his sister. They were wanting money before I even knew whether they had information.
“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe I could decide how much
“Sure she was. The young man is in school now or we could bring him here and show you,” said Henry, responding to my obvious displeasure with a smile—the first I’d seen from him.
Henry had slipped up big-time, though. The Lucille Bodworth I was looking for had given birth to a girl so this obviously was a con.
I stood. “Thanks for meeting with me, but our business is finished. I’ll tell the bartender to give you another round on me for your trouble.”
When I started to walk away, Henry’s huge hand came down on my arm as I passed him. His grip was so tight and cruel I couldn’t move.
“Lucy’s got a good memory, mon,” he said. “So don’t go away so fast.” His refined British accent had disappeared, and though he was grinning, his voice told a different story.
“Let go of me,” I said loud enough for the few other patrons to hear.
The bartender slipped from behind the bar and headed in our direction. Henry must have seen him, too, because he released me and held up his hands in a surrendering gesture.
“Just trying to make a deal for both of us, mon,” he said.
I mouthed a thank-you at the bartender as I made my escape.
The encounter had at first unnerved me, but then I got angry—and more at myself than at the brother-sister
