The next day I took a crowded flight on Air Jamaica that first stopped in Ocho Rios, a magnificent resort town I once visited with Kate and my father. It had been a high school graduation gift from him. We had climbed up the Dunn’s River Falls and spent an afternoon playing with stingrays on a white beach. But those sweet memories were obliterated once we landed in Kingston. The instant I walked into the chaotic Norman Manley Airport terminal, I wished Megan had been born somewhere else. I might need a shot or two of spiced rum just to survive the trek to the taxi stand.
This is tourist season, I reasoned, rolling my bag toward the exit. That’s why all these people are shuttling to the U.S. with too much luggage. But the tall women with waists about the size of dimes dressed in brilliant swaths of island fabric or every imaginable shade of spandex did not appear North American. So maybe the Rasta and ebony-skinned natives screeched and argued and laughed all day no matter what the time of year. And all to a reggae beat like the music coming from a far corner of the terminal. I felt crazy by the time I climbed into a lime green and checkerboard taxi manned by a driver who introduced himself as Jug.
“Where you go, miss?” he asked, steering out of the cab line.
“The Plaza.” I tried not to look at the grimy seat beside me, knowing I was probably sitting on a cushion in similar condition.
“Ah, Plaza good choice, miss. Safe part of town.” Jug—whose real name according to the faded license on his window visor was Thomas Anderson—laid on his horn. Why he was honking, I had no idea. Surely not for the ancient, diesel-smoking pickup a good twenty feet ahead of us. All the driver had done was tap his brakes.
But that was only the beginning. I was about to experience the most noisy, bumpy, and fascinating taxi ride of my life. And did I mention long? It took nearly an hour to travel about five miles because of the goat herds wandering the streets and the packs of wild dogs racing helter-skelter like the rabies-infested monsters they probably were.
By the time I made it to my very nice hotel room, thank you God, I felt dirty and tired and culture shocked. I may have loved the beautiful Ocho Rios, but this was like meeting her unshaven, potbellied father who was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I had Jug’s promise, however, that he would make my stay in Kingston as “trouble-free” as possible, or so he said. I hoped he was trustworthy, because he was picking me up at nine A.M. the next morning.
The hotel sat at the foot of the Blue Mountains, and from my seventh-story room, I had a spectacular view of a brilliant turquoise bay meeting a melon-colored horizon—all this provided free of charge by the setting sun. This vista was in such calming contrast to what I had just experienced on the streets of Kingston, I figured that’s how folks maintained their sanity here. A walk on the beach below me could cure anyone’s road rage in a minute.
After a fantastic room service meal of cod in white wine with onions and herbs, I used my computer/camera phone to connect to the Internet. I downloaded the address and a map for my trip to the Duchess of Kent Hospital from a Jamaican health ministry Web site and then printed them out with my handy little travel printer. Then I made the mistake of lying down for a nap. I must have fallen asleep the minute my head hit the pillow, and the nap turned into ten hours of hard sleep. I had time only to shower, hop into some linen drawstring pants and a knit peach tank top, and grab two bananas from the breakfast buffet before meeting Jug outside the hotel.
“You rest good, miss?” he asked after I climbed in the backseat.
“Too good. I need to go to the Duchess of Kent Hospital. Do you know where that is?”
“Sure, miss, but if you sick, you can go to better place. I got a doc see you for cheap. Maybe ten bucks U.S.” He had pulled away from the hotel and merged into traffic accompanied by a cacophony of blaring horns.
“I’m not sick,” I said. “I’m trying to find a birth record.”
“I know someone can make those, too. Paper like you need for them hard to come by, but this man—his name be Top Hat—he got a way to do anything, miss. Maybe cost you a hundred, U.S.”
“Thanks again, Jug, but I don’t need a new birth certificate. I need to find an old one.” I smiled at him in the rearview.
“Sure thing, miss.” His dark eyes glinted in the mirror with amusement. “Just remember everything in Jamaica cost you. You get what you want, but it cost you.”
With that, the cab hit the largest pothole in the universe and I was catapulted to the cab’s ceiling and hit my head. I slammed back into the seat where my tailbone made violent contact with the springs.
Jug seemed unperturbed by this bone-shaking experience, but I decided I might need the hospital for other things besides the birth record before this day was over.
An hour later—and I swear we traveled no more than two miles—Jug dropped me off in front of a dingy, stucco, two-story building that had to be a hundred years old. He gave me his card so I could call him when I’d finished my business and warned me that if I couldn’t reach him, to take only a cab with a red license plate. These were apparently the “good guy taxis” registered in Jamaica.
I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the weathered sign over the double wood front doors. This was indeed the Duchess of Kent Hospital, but the building looked like a neglected mission. Inside, however, I found no religiously garbed inhabitants but rather white coats, white nurse uniforms, white walls, and black people. And a volunteer wearing a striped apron who asked me how she could help. I produced a business card and handed it to her, but not one from Yellow Rose Investigations. This was one of my old CEO business cards from CompuCan. I no longer ran the company, but Kate and I were still majority owners, so the cards told a partial truth. I had decided to use this approach after my conversations with the Registrar General’s Office. I was certain I would get absolutely nowhere with the government in Jamaica, but after visiting Sister Nell, I had learned all good things of value—like birth records—lie in computer databases. If this hospital had someone like her in charge of their records, I preferred to approach him or her directly for what I needed.
The lady with the striped apron had to make three phone calls to find out that they had a computer liaison with an office on the upper floor in what looked like a converted surgical suite—except the only surgery being done was on hard drives. The floor was littered with the guts of ancient PCs, though a few models were up and looked ready to go. Those sat side by side on a long brown folding table against a far wall. A man with messy bleached-blond hair and wearing a tropical shirt had his back to me. He was hunched over a keyboard, and though he switched off the monitor when I cleared my throat, I saw he’d been playing a video game.
“Hi,” I said when he stood and faced me. “Are you the computer liaison?”
“Yeah. Dave. But if you’re from Civil Registration, I’m still moving data. I told the last guy this is gonna take like a trillion years.” Dave looked to be in his mid-twenties and his Valley-speak and freckled face marked him as American through and through.
“I’m not from Civil Registration.” I walked across the white tile floor and handed him my CompuCan card.
He studied it so long you’d have thought he was reading a calculus textbook. “So? What’s this mean?”
“Actually, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m from a major computer software developer via my company CompuCan and I’m here to help.”
As the unmistakable odor of marijuana permeated the space between us, his golden eyebrows pulled together. Apparently compound sentences triggered confusion in his pot-addled brain.
“Um, Dave? Could we sit and talk?” All monosyllabic words. Maybe they would do the trick.
“Sure. Whatever.” He sat back in his computer chair, making no effort to find me so much as a stool.
I spied a straight-back chair resting against a wall behind a pile of ravaged PC towers, brought it over, and sat next to him. I then had to scoot farther away, fearing I might get high off the dope fumes emanating from his clothes and hair.
“As you probably know, the big cheese at the company, a man whose name I am not allowed to mention, has an estate in Grand Cayman,” I said.
“You mean Bill?” he said.
“Yes.” If that name works for you, all the better. “And after living near other less-affluent West Indies islands, he has decided to help the health care sector in these countries with a generous endowment. My company will be providing the technical support to see that his money is spent wisely, and I have arrived to assess various hospital computer needs here in Jamaica.” Nice chunk of bullshit, even if I did say so myself.
“Cool,” Dave said. “But maybe you should talk to an administrator.”
“Do you think I would be here if that hadn’t already happened?”
“Uh, I guess not.” His freckled cheeks flushed.
Oh how I love the slow ones. “You must be from the states, correct?”
“Florida.”
“And I see you’re working under less than modern conditions.”
“No shit,” said Dave.
“What kind of network does this facility utilize?” I asked.
“Network? Are you kidding?”
“Okay, no network,” I said. “What about the operating system? Unix?”
“Try Windows 2000,” he answered, making a sweeping gesture around the room. “These machines are all donated, and most of them can’t even support Windows Net Server much less the next generation.”
I took out my computer phone, knowing that if this guy had any real geek in him, he’d start drooling the minute he saw it. “Mind if I check out the software? Make a few notes?”
He stared with undisguised lust at my phone. “Yeah. Guess that would be okay.”
I held out the phone. “Do you have one of these?” “No way. But I read about this model. You gotta charge them every day, right?”
“This one’s ready to go. Want to play?”
“Wow. You mean it?”
I gave him the phone. “Meanwhile, I’ll see what we need to do to improve the technology in this hospital.”
“Hey. Go for it,” Dave said. Unlike with Sister Nell and the U.S. government, privacy and confidentiality apparently meant nothing in this room.
I rose and went to the last computer on the table, booted up, and began exploring files on the hard drive. It was full of spreadsheets—hospital financial records dating back five years. If they had only five years worth in their databases, I was in trouble. But noting the PC was low on memory, I figured maybe this machine couldn’t handle more than that. I moved to the next computer, and that’s when I noticed a piece of masking tape stuck on the previous machine’s tower. The word “billing” was written in black marker. If all the computers were similarly labeled my job just got a little easier.
The next computer tower was under the table and I bent and looked for its identifier. This one was marked “outpatient.”
I glanced over at Dave. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes fixed on my phone, his hand moving the wand over the tiny keyboard. I swear he might have a techie orgasm any second.
I skipped the outpatient computer and moved on to the next one, which actually had a flat-screen monitor. When I looked below to check for a label, I noticed a landline Internet connection. Obviously this was the most modern computer in the room. And the label made me as eager as a dry steer scenting fresh water. It read Births and Deaths. Oh yes.
“Uh, Dave,” I said. “I see you have Internet access here. What’s that for?”
“I’m uploading a bunch of crap to Civil Registration. So far, I’ve reached 1995.” He punched something on my phone and grinned, his eyes wide. “This is so awesome.”
“And why are you sending these files to the government?”
He kept playing. “You know that bad-ass hurricane they had here about twenty years ago?”
“Gilbert?” Had to be. Everyone on the Gulf Coast knew about Gilbert and how lucky we’d been to be spared. The storm’s hundred and sixty mile an hour winds had practically flattened Jamaica.
“Yeah. Gil Baby. Lots of records were lost. And more were lost when Ivan hit last year. Births, deaths, shit like that. Government’s overhauling their vital stats and they want all the hospitals to send whatever they saved as far back as possible.”
“I see.”
“Took the guy who worked here before me about four years to enter stuff from old, practically unreadable medical charts. Some he could scan in, but most of them were in such bad shape he had to enter all the data manually.”
“And now your job is to send the records to a central location?”
“Yeah, but if I had one of these babies,” he said, caressing my phone, “shit, I’d be done in a month.” He reluctantly held it out to me.
“Did you try getting on the Net?” I made no move to take the phone back.
“No. I only checked out the basics. Can’t believe you have so much memory on this little thing.”
I took the phone, entered my password, logged on, and handed it back. “It’s satellite enabled. Surf away, dude.”
He smiled and eagerly began to tap the keys again.
Everyone has their currency, I thought. I returned to the desktop computer and booted up. When the Internet connection screen opened, I hit connect and the PC dialed in. Meanwhile, I began searching the hard drive and soon found the file for the year Megan was born. I checked to make sure it contained demographic information on people who were born or died that year, then attached the records to an e-mail addressed to myself with the subject line “Lowest Mortgage Rates Guaranteed.” That was in case Dave got curious when the message and attachment arrived on my phone in a few seconds. I hit send and the computer, circa maybe 2000, seemed to chug like a locomotive up a hill. I was used to high speeds and the latest software, and it seemed like a year later when I heard my phone ding, indicating an e-mail.
Dave offered a little Texas-Aggie-style “whoop” and said, “Hey, cool. You’ve got mail!”
No kidding, I said to myself, thanking those lucky Mary Jane leaves for providing me with this opportunity. Before I logged off, I went to the Sent Items folder on the ancient PC and deleted the e-mail.
Back at the hotel an hour later, I ordered a proper room service breakfast and eagerly opened the attachment I’d sent to myself—a large file containing text documents as well as scanned birth certificates. About five hundred of them, in fact, covering more than just the year Megan was born. Jeesh. This might take a while.
I decided to enjoy my breakfast first, something called bully beef served with johnnycakes. In Texas a johnnycake is a pancake, but these were more like fried biscuits. The meat tasted corned beef-ish spiced with herbs—thyme maybe?—and was mixed with tomatoes and onions. An unbelievably yummy combination. And the Blue Mountain coffee Jamaica was so famous for did not disappoint.
Once my belly was full and my brain was functioning on all cylinders again, I got to work. Unfortunately the file had not been organized chronologically. Not only were birth certificates scanned, but some entries were copies of pages from something called a “birth book.” These entries were handwritten in a beautiful cursive. By early evening, after several breaks to rest my eyes and to walk off the stiffness in my back from hunching over the tiny screen, I had located all the birth records for girls born the same day as Megan. All three of them. Two were scanned certificates close to unreadable and one was from the birth book. I printed out all three.
Since nearly everyone in Jamaica, Rasta included, has British-sounding surnames, the mothers identified in these documents all sounded Anglo: Lucille Bodworth, Blythe Donnelly, and Mary Hanover. Didn’t mean they were Caucasian like Megan. And fathers’ names weren’t included, so I feared that since twenty years had passed, I might have to spend a very long time hunting these people down.
I started with the easiest approach—the phone book in my nightstand—and decided to take the names alphabetically. An L. Bodworth was listed, so I dialed the number and a woman answered.
I said, “I’m trying to reach a Lucille Bodworth. Is she there?”
“I’m Lucy,” she said in the cheerful Jamaican way I was becoming familiar with. Didn’t mean I’d get anywhere with her, but she sounded pleasant enough.
And from her accent, she was probably as black as most of the islanders. I doubted she’d given birth to a blue-eyed blond baby. But I had to be certain, so I said, “My name is Abby Rose and I’m a private investigator. I’d like to discuss something with you and I was hoping we could meet for lunch?”
“Wait a minute, mon. Why should I meet up with some private cop? I didn’t do nothing wrong.” All her cheeriness had disappeared.
“Of course you didn’t. I just want to ask you a few questions.” I couldn’t figure out a way to tactfully ask her what color her skin was. But even if she wasn’t Megan’s mother, she may have been in the hospital the same day Megan was born and that alone was worth exploring.
“So ask your questions,” she said.
“I’d prefer to meet. I’m staying at the Plaza and they have a great restaurant. I’ll send a cab for you and buy you lunch. How’s that sound?”
She didn’t speak for several seconds, then said, “You seem like an okay lady. Where you come from?”
“Texas,” I said.
“Cowgirl? I never met a cowgirl. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk, but I can get to you myself. Don’t send no cab.”
She told me she would be wearing a pink and yellow dress, and I headed to the lobby to wait. I paced around a grouping of chairs near a fountain wondering if I could be wrong. Maybe a Jamaican woman could give birth to a fair-skinned blond baby girl. Yeah, and maybe rabbits will opt for birth control in the future.
Twenty minutes later Lucy Bodworth arrived on the arm of a huge, lean man as black as she was. One question answered. But I still wasn’t sure if this was the same woman from the hospital database. As far as I knew, the name Bodworth could be the equivalent of Smith in Jamaica.
“Are you Miss Rose?” said the man once I approached them near the front desk.
“Yes.” I looked at the woman and smiled. “And you must be Lucy.”
“True, and this is my brother Henry,” she answered.
Indeed there was a resemblance. Same high cheek-bones, same flawless, shiny skin. But I couldn’t tell how old either one of them was. No stray gray hairs at their temples, no wrinkles either.
“Would you like to go to the restaurant now?” I asked.
“We’re not hungry,” said Henry in an accent far more on the British side than I had heard in Jamaica up until now. “We’d prefer the bar.”
“Okay, that works for me.” I was picking up on something I didn’t quite like in his tone. Maybe it was him deciding for both of them about the hunger factor.
Once we sat down at a round table near a window, Lucy hit the plantain chips not a second after the waiter set the basket on the table. I’m guessing she would have appreciated a meal, Henry, I thought.
While we waited for our drinks, Lucy asked me where in Texas I was from and whether we had horses on the street and cattle in everyone’s yard. She even seemed interested in my answers, but the serious Henry continued to unsettle me. Those dark eyes encircled by bloodshot whites never left my face.
Henry had ordered “aerated water,” which I assumed was club soda, and Lucy opted for some concoction I’d never heard of. I chose Coke. When the drinks arrived, Henry rubbed the rim of his glass with a lime and said, “So what is this about?”
“I’m looking for a woman who delivered a baby about twenty years ago.” I turned to Lucy. “Did you have a baby at the Duchess of Kent Hospital back then?”
Lucy started to open her mouth, but Henry put a hand on her forearm. “Why do you want to know?”
“Three babies were born that day and one was a white infant who was later adopted. I’m looking for that baby’s mother and wonder if you might remember the other women who were there. My client wants a reunion.” I directed this toward Lucy, hoping to show her that I was one of the good guys and just wanted to make a young woman happy.
“So you want to know what Lucy remembers?” Henry said.
“Yes.” I folded my hands on the table and leaned toward Lucy. “Can you help me?”
But once again, it was Henry who spoke. “How much is this information worth to your client?”
Remembering Jug’s words about how everything costs in Jamaica, I felt foolish for not realizing sooner why Henry had come with his sister. They were wanting money before I even knew whether they had information.
“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe I could decide how much after you tell me if Lucy was in the hospital to deliver a baby that day.”
“Sure she was. The young man is in school now or we could bring him here and show you,” said Henry, responding to my obvious displeasure with a smile—the first I’d seen from him.
Henry had slipped up big-time, though. The Lucille Bodworth I was looking for had given birth to a girl so this obviously was a con.
I stood. “Thanks for meeting with me, but our business is finished. I’ll tell the bartender to give you another round on me for your trouble.”
When I started to walk away, Henry’s huge hand came down on my arm as I passed him. His grip was so tight and cruel I couldn’t move.
“Lucy’s got a good memory, mon,” he said. “So don’t go away so fast.” His refined British accent had disappeared, and though he was grinning, his voice told a different story.
“Let go of me,” I said loud enough for the few other patrons to hear.
The bartender slipped from behind the bar and headed in our direction. Henry must have seen him, too, because he released me and held up his hands in a surrendering gesture.
“Just trying to make a deal for both of us, mon,” he said.
I mouthed a thank-you at the bartender as I made my escape. Welcome to Jamaica, Abby, I thought as I entered the elevator and headed back to my room.
The encounter had at first unnerved me, but then I got angry—and more at myself than at the brother-sister con team. People lie all the time, I rationalized as I made my way to the exercise room a half hour later. But I was still steamed and decided a little time on the treadmill might clear my head. After an hour of walking, I spent thirty minutes in the hot tub. Once I had relaxed, I was able to refocus on why I came to Jamaica in the first place.
I returned to my room, showered, and went back to the phone book to see if Blythe Donnelly, the mother written up in the birth book, had a listed number. She didn’t, but these days finding anything unlisted is no problem. Still, finding her number turned out to be tougher than I thought. After several hours searching every Internet directory more than once, I finally came up with an unlisted number and street address.
But after this afternoon’s encounter in the bar, I was now painfully aware the Donnelly woman might not be the person I was looking for. I’d be on the lookout for game players this time. My next move was to call Jug.
He didn’t answer.
I considered waiting until tomorrow to pursue the lead, but I hadn’t made the trip to sit around a hotel room, so I changed from my shorts and halter top into capris and a T-shirt, stuffed my phone and the address in my bag, hurried out of the hotel, and hailed the first cab that drove by.
The driver was nothing like my congenial Jug. This guy spoke in grunts, had matted long dreadlocks, and smelled like a curry factory. He also played reggae on the radio so loud you could probably hear it in Mexico. All my senses were grateful when we arrived at the address atop a hill on the outskirts of the city. I asked him to wait and he informed me in speech suddenly devoid of grunts that I would have to pay him the fare up to this point. Impatient idiot that I was, I handed over most of the Jamaican bills I possessed, figuring I could replenish my funds at the hotel when he took me back to the Plaza.
He promptly floored the taxi and pulled away. No red license plate, I noted before the car sped out of sight down the narrow gravel road. Too bad I hadn’t remembered Jug’s warning before I handed over the money. But I had Jug’s number in my purse and hoped I could reach him once I was done here. Either that or I would be taking a very long walk back to the city.
The house was a one-story pink stucco with paned windows and a low white rail fence. The yard, lush with palms, trees, and bushes, was dabbed with brilliant hibiscus-like flowers of magenta, fuchsia, and orange along the sloping backyard. Whoever lived here probably made a decent living—and liked their privacy. The nearest house was probably a half mile away.
Just as I opened the gate and started up the path to the front door, a porch light came on. It wasn’t quite dark, so I assumed whoever was inside had seen me approach the door. But when I knocked and then knocked again, no one answered.
I made my way along a stone path through the yard and around to the back. I saw no garage, just a small shed and a cleared space where a car had obviously been parked many times if the numerous oil stains were any indicator. No car today, though. Maybe a child who was home alone had turned the light on and then thought better about answering. I knocked on the weather-worn back door, noting the paint was peeling all the way down to bare wood. Then I called, “Is anyone home? I need some help.” I hated to exploit a child who might love to help me, but heck, I had no ride and plenty of time, so exploitation seemed in order.
But that didn’t get any response, either. Damn.
I sidestepped to the window five feet to my right and pressed my nose against the pane. The madras plaid curtains were not fully closed and I stared into a tiny, neat kitchen. In a room beyond, another light cast a haze in the entry. And then I saw why. A timing device was attached to an outlet in the kitchen. The lights had been programmed to come on. No one was home.
I went back to the door and tried the knob. Naturally it was locked and when I checked the window, I met similar resistance. But I figured my getting stranded up here was a sign, one telling me I shouldn’t leave until I’d accomplished something. I needed to find out if Blythe Donnelly was Megan’s mother before I left the island and this seemed like my best chance.
I walked around to the other side of the house and found a frosted glass window too high up to peer into. Probably the bathroom. I wasn’t tall enough to see if it was latched shut, nor was I sure I could fit through that opening if it happened to be unlocked. But I was damn sure going to try.
Breaking and entering in a foreign country is not a smart move, but I was willing to risk it. It just felt like the right thing to do, the PI thing to do. I’d heard no sounds of life in the vicinity aside from the distant barking of the dogs that seemed to own this city, that and the squawking of a macaw in the huge, gnarled mahogany tree at the edge of the property. I’d be in and out and no one would know the difference.
I walked over to the shed. Getting in there proved no problem. The door was open, probably because the small building held nothing of value. There were trash cans, a box filled with house paint, some garden tools, an old metal bucket, and a plastic milk crate. I’d been hoping for a stepladder, but no such luck.
I had no choice except to use the bucket and milk crate. I carried them over to the window and stacked them underneath. Not the most secure stepping stones to my target, but it would work. My purse was a problem, so I pocketed the phone as well as the small flashlight from my key ring, then stashed my leather bag behind an aloe vera plant alongside the house.
Now for the window. Tottering on my makeshift ladder, I fit my fingers under the sash and pushed up. I heard a little cracking sound, like paint loosening. I kept working away until a small space appeared at the bottom. One last shove with the now sore heels of my hands and the old window gave up the fight. I raised the glass completely. The opening proved not as small as I’d anticipated, and I managed to pull myself halfway through before the bucket toppled off the crate. Getting out wouldn’t be as easy as getting in.
On my descent into the bathroom, I hit my knee on a faucet and cursed under my breath before getting my footing in the tub. Now that the sun had finally set, the room was dark and I had to let my eyes adjust for a second. I then climbed out of the tub, my heart going ninety to nothing. Even though no one seemed to be home, I’d never climbed into a stranger’s house through a window before. But the adrenaline surge came more from excitement than fear. I was kinda liking this little adventure.
The bathroom door was open and I peered out. The light I’d noted after looking through the window shed a muted glow down a narrow hall straight ahead. I went in that direction and came to a living room lit by one table lamp beside a burgundy loveseat. A telephone table by the front door was piled with unopened mail so I went over and searched for a recent letter and checked the postmark. The mail had started piling up about a week ago. Then I noticed a handwritten note on the floor. Seems someone with the first initial K was caring for the house. That someone could drop by at any time. Better get busy.
I decided the writing desk would yield the most information, and after several minutes spent examining the contents of every drawer and cubbyhole, I discovered Blythe Donnelly worked as an accountant for a real estate firm. But that was about all I learned. Either she shredded her bank statements and other bills, or she didn’t keep them in this desk. I moved on to the bedroom.
Thanks to closed wood shades I had to turn on my flashlight to find the lamp on a small bedside table. I switched it on. A white matelassé coverlet and two plump pillows graced the high queen-sized bed. An embroidered footstool, the Shaker-style bed tables, and a matching dresser were the only furniture. But on the bureau, a photograph of a woman standing beside an island native who had the hugest teeth I’d ever seen caught my attention. She had her arm around the man and they were both holding fishing poles. I walked over and picked up the framed picture for closer examination, then whispered, “Uh-oh.”
I had found the mystery woman from the wedding, the woman Mason Dryer had captured in his composite. The same woman Quinn Fielder wanted to question. The woman who might well be Megan’s mother.