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.”
After my arms had been treated with pulverized aloe vera leaves mixed with some other plant Martha ground up with, and after we’d all eaten bowls of curried rice and jerk chicken, Martha gave each child a sugarcane stalk to suck on and sent them back to the little TV.
“You really got a job for Jug?” Martha asked.
We were sitting around a cotton blanket on the tile floor near a stone hearth in the kitchen. Martha had stacked our wooden bowls to one side and gave Jug and I small glasses of amber rum.
“I do have a job, if he’s willing. First, though, let me tell you why I’m here.” I sipped my drink, and though I always add Diet Coke to my rum, this needed no additions. It was delicious and warm, and if I drank enough, I figured my still stinging arms and legs wouldn’t be bothering me. I’d be passed out.
Jug had heard some of my story on the way over here, but Martha listened intently, and gently rubbed her belly when I mentioned the tiny pink bracelet and death certificate I’d found in Donnelly’s house.
“The death certificate is making me wonder if I’m on the wrong track,” I said. “I’m hoping Jug can do a little research on the island while I go back home and try to find out more about Blythe Donnelly. I have the name of the midwife who attended the birth and—”
“What’s her name?” Martha and Jug said almost in unison.
“Elizabeth Benson,” I replied.
They both nodded knowingly.
“You know her?” I said.
“Just the name,” said Jug. “Jamaica is not a big place, miss, and we got plenty experience with midwives.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “Too much experience, you ask me.” But she smiled at Jug, who reached over and took her hand.
“I’d like you to find this woman, see what she remembers about Donnelly and her baby.”
“What if he can’t find her?” Martha said.
“Then he can’t find her, but he still gets paid for looking. His time is valuable.”
She laughed. “That be news to me.”
Jug slapped her knee playfully. “I can find anyone. Cost you a hundred dollars U.S. Special deal for you.”
“Let me decide the price, okay? I guarantee you it will be more than a hundred.”
Martha grinned widely. “Oh, he can do it okay, now that you gonna give us enough for the dog. Gonna take lots of trouble to get rid of those fleas.”
Jug looked at her, eyes bright with what I could have sworn were tears. I think he wanted that dog as much as the kids did.
“We call her Bobo, like the cop called missy here,” he said with a smile.
He and Martha laughed loudly, so of course I had to ask. “And just what does bobo mean?”
Martha said, “Bobo means fool, mon.”
12
I sat in the quietest corner of the Kingston airport—a spot more at din level than the chaos level fifty yards away. My plane to Houston would board in about fifteen minutes, so I took out my freshly charged cell phone. I had plenty of voice messages.
I’d thought about listening to them when I woke up, but I’d slept longer than I should have after last night’s activity and had enough time before coming here only to have Jug drive me to a bank. We set up an account for him and I deposited two hundred dollars. Once I got back home, another ten grand would appear by electronic transfer—something I hadn’t told him. I wanted it to be a nice surprise. He’d saved my butt, and God knows he needed money for his family. Meanwhile, I’d provided him with a printout of the birth book record and death certificate. He seemed eager to hunt down the midwife and ask her what she remembered, if anything. When he’d dropped me off at Norman Manley Airport, we’d said our good-byes and hugged like the good friends we’d become. I would miss that guy.
I accessed my voice mail, bending over and plugging one ear so I could hear. The first message was from Jeff asking me how I liked Jamaica and telling me he’d be gone for a few days to pick up a murder suspect who had fled to Seattle. The next was from Kate asking when I’d be home and telling me that Diva was pouting. Gee. What a surprise.
The last voice message was from Graham Beadford, and I immediately wondered how he’d gotten my cell number, but then I recalled I’d given it to Roxanne, so she’d probably given it to him. He said he wanted to meet with me about a matter “of interest to us both” and provided his suite number at the resort where he was staying.
I erased the messages, then called Angel’s cell number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Angel. I was wondering if you could do a little research for me on my case.”
“Sure. I got nothing going right now except watching this dentist lady cheat on her husband. Galleria tryst. A little window shopping for jewelry, a little wine drinking, a little stayover in a fancy hotel. Like watching an old episode of
I told him about the progress I’d made on Megan’s behalf and asked him to check out Blythe Donnelly, born in Dallas in 1961. He told me that as soon as he snapped a few pictures of the lovebirds exiting the hotel, he’d head back to the office and get busy. I thanked him and clicked the phone off.
I had just enough time before I boarded to visit the duty-free shop. Jamaican rum makes for good sleep, mon. Martha had taught me that much.
True to Kate’s report, Diva was aloof when I arrived home that evening. But she warmed up as soon as I sat down in the living room with my Diet Coke. I gave her some much-needed attention, then called Kate to tell her I was home. I filled her in on my trip, not sharing exactly how I’d learned the things I was telling her. She must have been tired because she didn’t ask too many questions. I had just hung up when my doorbell rang.
I went to the foyer, saw Angel through the peephole, and quickly opened the door.
“Did a drive-by to see if you were home yet and saw your car,” he said after I let him in.
“Want a drink?” I asked. “Got some nice rum.”
“No, thanks.” He was holding a large brown envelope and as usual looked like he came right off the dry cleaner’s rack—pressed white shirt, creased khakis, and a silver belt buckle, this one so huge it must have weighed five pounds.
“Come on in and sit awhile,” I said, leading him through the foyer.
He glanced around as we entered the living room. “Nice place. Nice neighborhood. You like this better than River Oaks?”
