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
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.
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.
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. Deciding 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.
