A Wedding To Die For

con team. People lie all the time, I rationalized as I made my way to the exercise room a half hour later. But I was still steamed and decided a little time on the treadmill might clear my head. After an hour of walking, I spent thirty minutes in the hot tub. Once I had relaxed, I was able to refocus on why I came to Jamaica in the first place.

I returned to my room, showered, and went back to the phone book to see if Blythe Donnelly, the mother written up in the birth book, had a listed number. She didn’t, but these days finding anything unlisted is no problem. Still, finding her number turned out to be tougher than I thought. After several hours searching every Internet directory more than once, I finally came up with an unlisted number and street address.

But after this afternoon’s encounter in the bar, I was now painfully aware the Donnelly woman might not be the person I was looking for. I’d be on the lookout for game players this time. My next move was to call Jug.

He didn’t answer.

I considered waiting until tomorrow to pursue the lead, but I hadn’t made the trip to sit around a hotel room, so I changed from my shorts and halter top into capris and a T-shirt, stuffed my phone and the address in my bag, hurried out of the hotel, and hailed the first cab that drove by.

The driver was nothing like my congenial Jug. This guy spoke in grunts, had matted long dreadlocks, and smelled like a curry factory. He also played reggae on the radio so loud you could probably hear it in Mexico. All my senses were grateful when we arrived at the address atop a hill on the outskirts of the city. I asked him to wait and he informed me in speech suddenly devoid of grunts that I would have to pay him the fare up to this point. Impatient idiot that I was, I handed over most of the Jamaican bills I possessed, figuring I could replenish my funds at the hotel when he took me back to the Plaza.

He promptly floored the taxi and pulled away. No red license plate, I noted before the car sped out of sight down the narrow gravel road. Too bad I hadn’t remembered Jug’s warning before I handed over the money. But I had Jug’s number in my purse and hoped I could reach him once I was done here. Either that or I would be taking a very long walk back to the city.

The house was a one-story pink stucco with paned windows and a low white rail fence. The yard, lush with palms, trees, and bushes, was dabbed with brilliant hibiscus-like flowers of magenta, fuchsia, and orange along the sloping backyard. Whoever lived here probably made a decent living—and liked their privacy. The nearest house was probably a half mile away.

Just as I opened the gate and started up the path to the front door, a porch light came on. It wasn’t quite dark, so I assumed whoever was inside had seen me approach the door. But when I knocked and then knocked again, no one answered.

I made my way along a stone path through the yard and around to the back. I saw no garage, just a small shed and a cleared space where a car had obviously been parked many times if the numerous oil stains were any indicator. No car today, though. Maybe a child who was home alone had turned the light on and then thought better about answering. I knocked on the weather-worn back door, noting the paint was peeling all the way down to bare wood. Then I called, “Is anyone home? I need some help.” I hated to exploit a child who might love to help me, but heck, I had no ride and plenty of time, so exploitation seemed in order.

But that didn’t get any response, either. Damn.

I sidestepped to the window five feet to my right and pressed my nose against the pane. The madras plaid curtains were not fully closed and I stared into a tiny, neat kitchen. In a room beyond, another light cast a haze in the entry. And then I saw why. A timing device was attached to an outlet in the kitchen. The lights had been programmed to come on. No one was home.

I went back to the door and tried the knob. Naturally it was locked and when I checked the window, I met similar resistance. But I figured my getting stranded up here was a sign, one telling me I shouldn’t leave until I’d accomplished something. I needed to find out if Blythe Donnelly was Megan’s mother before I left the island and this seemed like my best chance.

I walked around to the other side of the house and found a frosted glass window too high up to peer into. Probably the bathroom. I wasn’t tall enough to see if it was latched shut, nor was I sure I could fit through that opening if it happened to be unlocked. But I was damn sure going to try.

Breaking and entering in a foreign country is not a smart move, but I was willing to risk it. It just felt like the right thing to do, the PI thing to do. I’d heard no sounds of life in the vicinity aside from the distant barking of the dogs that seemed to own this city, that and the squawking of a macaw in the huge, gnarled mahogany tree at the edge of the property. I’d be in and out and no one would know the difference.

I walked over to the shed. Getting in there proved no problem. The door was open, probably because the small building held nothing of value. There were trash cans, a box filled with house paint, some garden tools, an old metal bucket, and a plastic milk crate. I’d been hoping for a stepladder, but no such luck.

I had no choice except to use the bucket and milk crate. I carried them over to the window and stacked them underneath. Not the most secure stepping stones to my target, but it would work. My purse was a problem, so I pocketed the phone as well as the small flashlight from my key ring, then stashed my leather bag behind an aloe vera plant alongside the house.

Now for the window. Tottering on my makeshift ladder, I fit my fingers under the sash and pushed up. I heard a little cracking sound, like paint loosening. I kept working away until a small space appeared at the bottom. One last shove with the now sore heels of my hands and the old window gave up the fight. I raised the glass completely. The opening proved not as small as I’d anticipated, and I managed to pull myself halfway through before the bucket toppled off the crate. Getting out wouldn’t be as easy as getting in.

On my descent into the bathroom, I hit my knee on a faucet and cursed under my breath before getting my footing in the tub. Now that the sun had finally set, the room was dark and I had to let my eyes adjust for a second. I then climbed out of the tub, my heart going ninety to nothing. Even though no one seemed to be home, I’d never climbed into a stranger’s house through a window before. But the adrenaline surge came more from excitement than fear. I was kinda liking this little adventure.

The bathroom door was open and I peered out. The light I’d noted after looking through the window shed a muted glow down a narrow hall straight ahead. I went in that direction and came to a living room lit by one table lamp beside a burgundy loveseat. A telephone table by the front door was piled with unopened mail so I went over and searched for a recent letter and checked the postmark. The mail had started piling up about a week ago. Then I noticed a handwritten note on the floor. Seems someone with the first initial K was caring for the house. That someone could drop by at any time. Better get busy.

I decided the writing desk would yield the most information, and after several minutes spent examining the contents of every drawer and cubbyhole, I discovered Blythe Donnelly worked as an accountant for a real estate firm. But that was about all I learned. Either she shredded her bank statements and other bills, or she didn’t keep them in this desk. I moved on to the bedroom.

Thanks to closed wood shades I had to turn on my flashlight to find the lamp on a small bedside table. I switched it on. A white matelassé coverlet and two plump pillows graced the high queen-sized bed. An embroidered footstool, the Shaker-style bed tables, and a matching dresser were the only furniture. But on the bureau, a photograph of a woman standing beside an island native who had the hugest teeth I’d ever seen caught my attention. She had her arm around the man and they were both holding fishing poles. I walked over and picked up the framed picture for closer examination, then whispered, “Uh-oh.”

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?