Found Money - James Grippando [45]
“Did you know my father?”
“I don’t ever recall meeting him.”
“How do you know it’s from my father?”
“It came in a Crock-Pot box. I checked the registration from the product number on the box. It was registered in your mother’s name. I suppose it could have come from your mother—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Couldn’t have come from my mother. How much money was in the box?”
“At least a thousand dollars.” She flinched at the white lie—but again, it wasn’t a total lie. There was at least a thousand dollars. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to do with it.”
Sarah leaned forward in the swing, speaking sharply. “I’ll tell you what you do with it. You put the money back in the box. Every bit of it. And you bring it right back. You have no right to keep it.”
Amy froze in her rocker. It was as if she’d stepped on a rattlesnake. “I didn’t come here to make trouble.”
“I won’t let you make trouble. Ryan and me are the only heirs. Our father didn’t leave no will, and in two months of dying, he sure as hell didn’t mention no Amy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Is your mother home? I’d like to talk to her. Maybe your father mentioned my name to her.”
“Don’t you go near my mother. This has been hard enough on her. I don’t need you poking around like some long-lost illegitimate child trying to weasel her way into an inheritance.”
“Who said anything about that? All I’m trying to do is figure out why your father would have sent me some money in a box. I’d like to know where the money came from.”
“It doesn’t matter where it came from. All that matters is that it comes back where it belongs. I want that money back, Miss Amy. I hope you have the good sense to see me eye-to-eye on this.”
“I really wish you would just let me talk to your mother, maybe clear things up.”
Her eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing to clear up. I told you what to do. Now do it.”
Amy stared right back, but there was nothing more to say. “Thank you for your time,” she said, rising. “And your hospitality.”
She stepped down from the porch and headed for her car.
It nearly maxed out his Visa card, but Ryan booked a flight to Panama City through Dallas. Getting out of Denver was the easy part. Apparently the plane for the second leg of the journey had come down with malaria or some other mysterious Panamanian ailment. He spent the night and most of Sunday in the terminal at the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, waiting on a mechanically sound 737 to take him and the other two hundred stranded passengers the rest of the way to Panama.
Ryan had no luggage to check, just his carry-on bags. Norm had loaned him some extra clothes, which accounted for the monogrammed polo player on his shirt. He took several naps in the waiting area, no more than twenty minutes at a stretch, keeping both arms wrapped around his bag at all times. The last thing he needed was someone to walk off with his passport. His bladder was bursting, but he didn’t dare get up from his seat. The flight was overbooked, and one trip to the airport rest room would mean having to sit on the floor until boarding time. The family camped out on the floor beside him spoke no English, so he used the opportunity to practice his Spanish. He was rusty, but it pleased him to see he could still get his point across. He’d treated a number of Spanish-speaking patients over the years, mostly migrant workers from the melon fields west of Piedmont Springs.
At 3:35 the woman at the check-in counter announced that Flight 97 to Panama would begin boarding in fifteen minutes.
Promises, promises. Ryan grabbed his bag and made a final pre-boarding break for the rest room. On his way out, he stopped at the bank of pay phones in the hall for one last domestic call home, just to check on things. He punched out the number and waited. Sarah answered.
“Hi, it’s Ryan,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Mom’s okay?”
“Yup.”
“You’ll stay with her tonight, right?”
“I’ve been with her all day, Ryan. Yes, I’ll spend the night.”
“Be firm about it. She’ll tell