“Then all we can do is wait.” She folded up the paper shopping bag, placed it in a drawer, and kissed Amy on the forehead. “I’m going to check on our little angel.”
She grimaced as her grandmother left the apartment. Waiting was not her style. Short of hiring a detective and checking for fingerprints, however, she wasn’t sure how else to go about it. Cash was virtually untraceable. The plastic lining had no identification on it. That left the box.
The box!
She hurried to the freezer, yanked open the door, and grabbed the box. She set in on the table and checked the flaps. Nothing on top. She turned it over. Bingo. As she had hoped, the box bore a printed product identification number for the Crock-Pot it had once contained. Amy had purchased enough small appliances to know that they always came with a warranty registration card. She doubted, however, that they would freely give out names and addresses over the phone. After a moment to collect her thoughts, she called directory assistance, got the toll-free number for Gemco Home Appliances, and dialed it.
“Good afternoon,” she said in her most affected, friendly voice. “I have a favor to ask. We had a potluck supper here at the church the other night, and wouldn’t you know it that two women showed up with the exact same Gemco Crock-Pot? I washed them both, and now I’m not sure whose is whose. I really don’t want to have to tell these women I mixed up their stuff. If I gave you the product identification number from one of them, could you tell me who owns it?”
The operator on the line hesitated. “I’m not sure I can do that, ma’am.”
“Please. Just the name. It would save me a world of embarrassment.”
“Well — I suppose that would be all right. Just don’t tell my supervisor.”
She read him the eleven-digit number from the box, then waited anxiously.
“Here it is,” he said. “That one belongs to Jeanette Duffy.”
“Oh, Jeanette.” Amy wanted to push for an address, but she couldn’t think of a convincing way to work it into her ruse. Leave it be, she thought, heeding Gram’s advice. “Thank you so much, sir.”
Her heart pounded as she hung up the phone. She had surprised herself, the way she’d pulled it off. It was actually kind of fun, exhilarating. Best of all, it had worked. She had a lead.
Now all she had to do was find the right Jeanette Duffy.
7
The kitchen smelled of corned beef and cabbage. So did the dining room. The living room, too. The whole house smelled of it. It was a Duffy family tradition going back as far as Ryan could remember, which was his grandfather’s funeral. Just as soon as the body was in the ground, they’d file back to the house and stuff themselves, as if to prove that nothing was depressing enough to ruin a good meal. Somebody always brought corned beef and cabbage. Hell, anyone who could turn on an oven brought corned beef and cabbage.
Dad didn’t even like corned beef and cabbage. Not that it mattered. Dad was gone. Forever.
“Your father was a good man, Ryan.” It was Josh Colburn, the family lawyer. He’d been every family’s lawyer for the last fifty years. He was no Clarence Darrow, but he was an honest man, an old-school lawyer who considered the law a sacred profession. It was no wonder his dearly departed client’s last will and testament had made no mention of the stash in the attic. Colburn was the last person Dad would have told.
He was back in the buffet line before Ryan could thank him for the kind words.
Apart from the guests’ black attire, the post-cemetery gathering had lost any discernible connection to a funeral. It had begun somberly enough, with scattered groups of friends and relatives quietly remembering Frank Duffy. As the crowd grew, so did the noise level. The small groups expanded from three or four to six or eight, until the house was so crowded it was impossible to tell where one group left off and the other started. The food had broken whatever ice remained — tons of food from mutton to whitefish, dumplings to trifle. Before long, someone was playing “Danny Boy” on the old upright piano, and Uncle Kevin was pouring shots of Jameson’s, toasting his dearly departed brother and days gone by.
Ryan didn’t join in. He just kept moving from room to room, knowing that if he stood still he’d be locked in conversation with someone he had no interest in talking to. In fact, he had no interest in talking to anyone. Except his mother.
Ryan had been watching her closely all day, ever since that eulogy that had moved everyone to tears — everyone but Jeanette Duffy. She had a detached look about her. In some ways it seemed normal. She wouldn’t be the first widow to walk numbly through her husband’s funeral. It was just so unlike his mother. She was an emotional woman, the kind who’d seen It’s a Wonderful Life at least fifty times and still cried every time Clarence got his wings.
Ryan caught her eye from across the room. She looked away.
“Eat something, Ryan.” His aunt was pushing a plate of food toward him.
“No, thanks. I’m not really hungry.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Really, I’m not hungry.” Through the crowd, he tried to catch his mother’s eye again, but she wouldn’t look his way. He glanced down at his four-foot-ten-inch aunt. “Aunt Angie, does Mom seem okay to you?”
“Okay? I guess so. This is a very tough time for her, Ryan. Your father is the only man she ever — you know. Loved. What they had was special. They were like one person.”
He glanced at his mother, then back at his aunt. “I don’t suppose they would have kept any secrets from each other, would they?”
“I wouldn’t think so. No, definitely not. Not Frank and Jeanette.”
Ryan was staring in his mother’s direction, but he’d lost focus. He was deep in thought.
His aunt touched his hand. “Are you all right, darling?”
“I’m fine,” he said vaguely. “I think I just need some air. Will you excuse me a minute?” He started across the living room, toward the front door, then stopped. He sensed his mother was watching. He turned and caught her eye. This time she didn’t look away.
Ryan worked his way back through the crowd toward the dining room. His mother was standing at the head of the table full of food, busily cutting a piece of corned beef into toddler-sized pieces for some youngster. He stood right beside her, laid his hand on hers, speaking in a soft voice. “Mom, I need to talk to you in private.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
She smiled nervously. “But the guests.”
“They can wait, Mom. This is important.”
She blinked nervously, then laid down the carving knife beside the plate of bite-size beef. “All right. We can talk in the master.”
Ryan followed her down the hall. The door flew open as they reached the master suite. An old man came out, zipping his fly.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Damn prostate, you know.” He hurried away.
They entered together. Ryan closed the door, shutting out the noise. Like his own old bedroom, the master was a veritable time capsule, complete with the old sculptured wall-to-wall carpeting and cabbage rose wallpaper. The bed was the old four-poster style, so high off the floor it required a step-stool to get into it. He and his sister Sarah used to hide beneath it as kids. Dad would pretend he couldn’t find them, even though their giggling was loud enough to wake up the neighbors. Ryan shook off the memories and checked the master bathroom, making sure they were alone. His mother sat in the armchair in the corner beside the bureau. Ryan leaned against the bedpost.
“What’s on your mind, Ryan?”
“Dad told me something the night before he died. Something pretty disturbing.”
Her voice cracked. “Oh?”
He started to pace. “Look, there’s really no delicate way to put this, so let me just ask you. Did you know anything about some kind of blackmail Dad might have been involved in?”
“Blackmail?”
