Found Money (8 page)

Stupid. That was how Amy felt. After all the mental preparation for her meeting with Ryan Duffy, she hadn’t really accomplished what she’d set out to do. Her only objective had been to find out why Frank Duffy had sent her the money. She came away with no clear picture. Stupid, was all it was.

Not that it was so great to be smart all the time. She’d learned the downside of brains long ago, as a child. If you were stupid, no one blamed you. But people were suspicious of intelligence, as if you had done something wrong just by virtue of being smart. That reaction from others had bred shyness in Amy, a trait that had surely contributed to her blunder with Ryan. She didn’t especially like that about herself, which was precisely the reason she could recall the very day she had begun her transformation from an outspoken little girl to a kid who was beyond humble, almost embarrassed by her own extraordinary abilities. A couple of years before her mother’s death, she had tagged along to the doctor’s office for her mom’s annual checkup. Her mom sat on the table, so pretty, looking much like the woman Amy would become. Amy watched intently as the nurse rolled up her mother’s sleeve and checked her blood pressure.

“Very good,” said the nurse, reading from the gauge. “One-twenty over eighty.”

“One and a half,” Amy volunteered.

“One and a half what?” her mother asked.

“One-twenty over eighty. That equals one and a half.”

The nurse looked up from her chart, almost dropped her pen. “How old is that child?”

“Six,” said her mother. “Well,
almost
six.”

More than twenty years later, the look on that old nurse’s face was still unforgettable. Over and over, throughout her childhood, Amy would see that same spooked expression. Hearing the amazing things that came out of her mouth, people would think she was just small for her age. Then they’d find out how young she really was and look at her like some kind of walking gray-matter freak.

“You’re special,” her mother would tell her, and she had always made Amy feel that way. Until she was gone, and then things really got difficult. Amy learned to be tough, both physically and emotionally. Especially with boys. In elementary school, they would pick fights with her on the playground, just to show her the limits of being so smart. As pretty as she was, she had plenty of dates in high school, but not many second dates. Brains were a scary thing to some people, from that nurse in the doctor’s office, to the boys on the playground, to her jerk of an ex-husband.

Somehow, it didn’t seem like that would ever be an issue for a guy like Ryan Duffy.

Admittedly, the meeting with Ryan wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. Even her own mother would have told her that, had she been alive. Yet dismissing the whole thing as stupid rang hollow in her heart. She had a good feeling about Ryan. He’d made her smile, put her at ease in a situation that could have been far from easy. To
her surprise, she found herself wishing they had met under different circumstances, another time in their lives. She wasn’t sure what was percolating inside of her, but ever since she’d left the restaurant, she’d thought more about him than the money.

If that was what it felt like to finally feel stupid, stupid wasn’t such a horrible thing.

What was really stupid was her remark right before she’d left, when he’d asked to see her again.
You never know
. Three little words that, to any reasonable human being, translated roughly to “In your dreams, buddy.”

Enough self-flagellation.
She had his phone number. And she did have to call him. She at least had to tell him the truth. This wasn’t just a matter of a thousand dollars, as she had led him to believe. She had ignored the very pep talk she had given herself outside the Green Parrot, when she’d promised herself to use “the direct approach.” It was time to practice what she preached.

And then just see where things led from there.

She picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the number.

The phone rang, piercing the silence. Ryan stopped in the hall. He had checked the entire house. He was definitely alone. Whoever had been there had left some time ago. Still, he had a strange sensation that somebody was watching the house—that whoever had broken in was on the phone, calling him, taunting him. He went to the kitchen and answered in a harsh tone.

“What do you want?”

“Ryan, hi. It’s Amy. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

He knew he sounded stressed, but he sure wasn’t going to tell her about the break-in. “Sort of. No, I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

“I’ll make this quick. I’ve been thinking about our conversation, and I felt like I needed to set something straight. But I can call back later, if you want.”

“No, really. What is it?”

She struggled, not wanting to sound like a complete liar. “One comment you made really stuck in my mind. You said it didn’t surprise you that your dad gave me some money. You said you wouldn’t be surprised if your dad had given away money to lots of people after he learned he was sick.”

“I was just talking off the cuff.”

“But let’s say he did give away money to more people like me. Maybe lots more. I don’t mean to offend, but from what I can tell, your father didn’t appear to be super wealthy.”

He leaned against the refrigerator, curious. “What are you getting at?”

The direct approach
, she reminded herself.
Use the direct approach
. Her voice tightened as she asked, “Where would he get that kind of money?”

Ryan hesitated.
Did she know something?
“I could only assume he saved it.”

“But what if it were a lot more than a thousand dollars? Just hypothetically speaking.”

“I don’t really see your point.”

“Just bear with me. You seemed like a nice guy when we talked. I guess I need to know just how nice you really are. Let’s say the box had…five thousand dollars in it. Would you still tell me to keep it?”

“A thousand, five thousand. Whatever. Yeah, keep it.”

“What if it were fifty thousand? Hypothetically speaking.”

He swallowed with trepidation. “I guess it wouldn’t make a difference. Not if that was what Dad wanted.”

“How about a hundred thousand?”

He said nothing, as if it were unthinkable.

“No,” said Amy, “let’s say it was
two
hundred thousand dollars. Would you let me keep it?”

A nervous silence fell over the line. “Hypothetically?” asked Ryan.

“Hypothetically,” she said firmly.

He answered in a low, even tone. “I’d want to know where in the hell my dad got the money.”

She answered in the same serious voice. “So would I.”

He sank into a bar stool facing the kitchen counter. “What do you want from me?”

“I just want this to be on the level. I’d love to keep the money. And as you say, for some reason your father apparently wanted me to have it. But if it’s dirty, I don’t want to be connected to it in any way.”

“I don’t know where my dad would get two hundred thousand dollars, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“All I’m really asking is whether your father was an honest man.”

Ryan only sighed. “I may need a little time to answer that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. There are some things I need to check into.”

“What kind of things?”

“Please, give me a week, just to get things in order. Family stuff.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but she didn’t see a choice. Not if she wanted to keep the money. “All right. I’m not looking to upset your family or ruin your dad’s good name. But if I don’t see some bank records or something that proves this money is from a legitimate source, I’m afraid I’ll have to turn it over to the police.”

“You could just give it back to me.”

“I’m sorry. But it came to my house, touched my hands. If it’s tainted money, I have to turn it in. Maybe the police can figure out where it came from.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“I know it does. Believe me, that was the last thing I intended when I made this phone call. I was hoping…”

“Hoping what?”

The words caught in her throat. There was no point telling him she had hoped to see him again. Not if he couldn’t give a straight answer to a simple question like
Was your father an honest man?

“Nothing. I just hope you can come up with something to put me at ease. You can have a week, Ryan. I’ll call you then,” she said, then hung up the phone.

Ryan hung up, then froze. He heard a creak in the floorboard just a few feet behind him. He whirled, clutching the phone like a weapon.

His moment of panic turned quickly to relief. It was his brother-in-law. Sarah must have given him her key. “Damn it, Brent. What the hell you doing, sneaking up on me?”

“Not sneaking,” he said in a thick, gravelly voice. He smelled of spilled beer, a half-empty Coors in one hand.

Ryan peered through the kitchen window to the driveway. Brent’s car was a few feet behind his, parked at a careless angle. He must have pulled up while Amy was on the phone. “Did you drive here in that condition?”

He grinned widely, as if it were funny. “I don’t remember.” Typical Brent. Still proud of the way he could polish off a six-pack faster than a drunken frat boy.

Brent was actually four years younger than Ryan, but he looked older. He had been handsome once—he still was, to a lesser degree, at least on the two or three days a week he was showered, shaved and sober. His glory days had passed with high school football, rekindled briefly in his late twenties with delusions of becoming a bodybuilder. Ryan got him to quit the steroids, but then he turned to alcohol.
The muscles softened, the personality hardened. Now he was just a large, angry man, like the overweight and over-the-hill wrestlers on television—except that Brent had no job. Ryan had never been thrilled with Sarah’s choice of a mate, but five years ago she’d panicked, nearly forty years old and never married. She’d latched onto Brent, good looking and nine years younger, winning him over by playing his live-in maidservant. Now she was forty-something and pregnant, stuck with a shell of a man who slept off a hangover every morning as his pregnant wife trudged off to work at Wal-Mart for minimum wage.

“You were here earlier, weren’t you?” asked Ryan.

“Yup. Waited over an hour for you.”

Ryan noticed the empty beer bottles on the kitchen table. He counted eight. “Way to go, buddy,” he said with sarcasm. “I see you’re cutting back.”

Brent’s face was flushed. He was clearly buzzed. He offered Ryan his half-empty bottle. “Want some?”

Ryan pushed it away, his tone harsh. “What were you doing here?”

He went to the refrigerator, got himself a fresh beer. The head went back, the bottle was emptied. Twelve ounces in twelve seconds. He wiped his chin, then looked at Ryan. “Looking for the money.”

The word hit like a sledgehammer, but Ryan kept a straight face. “What money?”

“Don’t play dumb on me. Sarah told me.”

Ryan flushed with anger.
Good ol’ Sarah, always great with secrets.
“What about it?”

“I need fifty thousand dollars. And I gotta have it tonight.”

“What for?”

“None of your damn business, that’s what for. It’s Sarah’s money. And I want it.”

“Sarah and I had a deal. Neither one of us takes any of the money until we know exactly where it came from.”

Brent’s eyes narrowed. “How do we know you haven’t already spent it?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I’m still trusting your ass for nine hundred and fifty thousand. Just give me the fucking fifty grand.”

“No. Who do you think you are, Brent? Coming into my mother’s house, looking for money.”

He rose, threatening. “It’s Sarah’s money. Give it to me!”

“I said no.”

Brent wobbled toward him. “Give me the fucking money, man, or I’ll—”

Ryan silenced him with a steely glare. “Or what, Brent?”

Brent knew better than to take on Ryan drunk. Still, he had a crazed look in his eyes, as if the eight empty beers on the table were merely a footnote to a full day binge. “Or,” he said with a slur, “I may be forced to hit a pregnant woman.”

Something snapped in Ryan. He lunged forward and grabbed him by the throat, knocking him to the floor. “I told you I’d kill you, Brent! You ever touched her again, I’d fucking kill you!”

Brent wriggled and clawed, trying to break Ryan’s grip around his throat. His face was turning blue. Ryan squeezed harder, spurred by the memory of stitching up his own sister after the blows from her husband. He should have settled the score then, but Sarah begged him not to.

“Ry-an,” Brent was wheezing, barely conscious. His eyes were bulging.

Ryan stopped, suddenly realizing what he was doing.

Brent pushed him off and rolled on his side, coughing and gasping for air. “You coulda killed me, you crazy bastard.”

Ryan was shaking. He
could
have killed him.

Brent rose slowly, whining pathetically, a drunk on a crying jag. “I want my money. I
need
it, bad. Please, Ryan, I gotta have it.”

Ryan’s hands were shaking. Since the funeral, all anyone talked about was money. Liz would divorce him for it. Brent would beat his sister for it. And Amy—who the hell knew what she was up to.

“You want it?” he said bitterly. “Fine. I’ll give you the damn money. Wait here.” He stormed out of the room and raced upstairs, gobbling up two and three steps at a time. He yanked down the ladder to the attic and climbed up. He went straight to the old dresser and shoved it aside. In seconds he popped the floorboard and grabbed a bundle of bills—a few thousand, easy, but he didn’t even count it. He scurried back down the ladder and ran downstairs. He was huffing like a sprinter as he raced past the living room, then stopped short. He suddenly had an idea. It was as if Liz, Amy and now Brent in the same day had brought everything to a head. His father’s betrayal. The greed all around him.

He called out to the kitchen. “Come get your money, Brent. It’s all here.”

Brent hustled eagerly into the living room. He stopped cold at the sight across the dimly lit room. Ryan was standing beside the fireplace. He had a stack of bills in one hand. A long, burning matchstick was in the other. An open can of lighter fluid rested on the mantel.

Brent’s voice shook. “What—what you doing?”

“Easy come, easy go.” He brought the match to the stack of bills, lighting the corner.

“No!”

The bills burst into flames, thoroughly soaked with lighter fluid. Ryan tossed them into the fireplace. Brent rushed forward. Ryan grabbed the fireplace poker, cocking it like a baseball bat. “Not another step, Brent!”

He stopped in his tracks, his face filled with anguish. The money was burning, but Ryan looked deadly serious. He was nearly in tears. “Ryan, man. Please don’t burn it.”

Ash fluttered up from the fireplace. The bills burned quickly. Ryan didn’t budge. “You lay a hand on Sarah, I’ll burn it all. I swear, I will burn every last bill.”

“Okay, man. Just be cool, okay?”

“It’s the rule,” he said, as if to remind himself as much as Brent. “No one gets the money. No one tells anyone else about the money. Not until we find out who paid it to my father and why.”

Brent backed away slowly. “Okay, my friend. You’re the man. You make the rules. I’m going home now. Just don’t burn any more of that money. That’s fair, right? You and me just pretend like this little episode never happened.”

Ryan kept the poker cocked, ready to crack Brent’s skull if he had to.

Brent stepped backward to the door. “No problem here. If you say that’s the rule, that’s the rule. I’ll just go home and tell Sarah we gotta play by the rules, that’s all.”

“Get the hell out of my sight, Brent.”

Brent gave an awkward nod, then hurried out the door. Ryan went to the front window and
watched him pull away. He glanced back at the fireplace. The money was a glowing pile of smoldering ash. Thousands of dollars. Gone. Strangely, he felt good about that. He glanced up the staircase, toward the attic. There was still plenty more to fight over.

Or plenty more to burn.

He checked the clock on the end table. Mom wouldn’t be home for another hour. He stoked the ash with a shot of lighter fluid, then threw on some kindling and a dry, split log. As the fire hissed and flames reached upward, he closed the screen and started up the stairs.