The Crock-Pot discovery had Amy in high gear. Just to be safe, she didn’t want to use the law firm’s computers or phones for the follow-up on Jeanette Duffy. A run through her standard Internet search engines on her home computer, however, had turned up hundreds of Jeanette Duffys nationwide, with nothing to distinguish any one of them as the possible sender. So she went to the University of Colorado law library for more sophisticated computerized capabilities. She wasn’t technically a student yet, but a sweet smile and a copy of her acceptance letter for the fall class was good enough to gain access to the free Nexis service, which would allow her to search hundreds of newspapers and periodicals.
She figured she’d limit the search to Colorado initially, then expand out from there, if necessary. She typed in “Jeanette Duffy” and hit the search button, then chose the most recent entry from a chronological listing of about a dozen articles.
The blue screen blinked and displayed the full text of an article from yesterday’s Pueblo Chieftain. Amy half expected to find that someone named Jeanette Duffy had just embezzled two hundred thousand dollars from the First National Bank of Colorado.
Instead, she found an obituary.
“Frank Duffy,” it read, “62, longtime resident of Piedmont Springs, on July 11, after a courageous battle with cancer. Survived by Jeanette Duffy, his wife of 44 years; their son, Ryan Patrick Duffy, M.D.; and their daughter, Sarah Duffy-Langford. Services today, 10 A.M., at St. Edmund’s Catholic church in Piedmont Springs.”
Amy stared at the screen. A death made sense of things. Perhaps the two hundred thousand dollars was some kind of bequest. She printed the article, then logged off the computer, headed for the pay phone by the rest rooms, and dialed home.
“Gram, do you remember the exact day our little package was delivered?”
“I told you before, darling. I wasn’t there when it came. It was just waiting on the doorstep.”
“Think hard. What day was it when it just showed up?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But it was right after you left. No more than a couple days.”
“So, definitely more than a week ago?”
“I’d say so, yes. Why do you ask?”
She hesitated, fearing her grandmother’s wrath.
“I’ve been doing a little investigating.”
“Amy,” her grandmother said, groaning.
“Just listen. The money came in an old box for a Crock-Pot, right? Well, I took the serial number from the box and found out that the Crock-Pot belonged to Jeanette Duffy. Turns out there’s a Jeanette Duffy in Piedmont Springs whose husband died five days ago.”
“Don’t tell me. They buried him in a Crock-Pot.”
“Stop, Gram. I think I’m on to something. The obituary said he had a courageous battle with cancer. That means he knew he was dying. He could have sent it to me before his death. Or his wife could have sent it. Like a secret bequest or something that he didn’t want their children to know about.”
“Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions here?”
“Not really. All my fears about possible criminal connections seem off the mark, the more I think about it. Criminals wouldn’t send money in a Crock-Pot box. No offense, Gram, but that sounds like something an old man or woman would do.”
“So, what are you going to do now? Call this Jeanette Duffy just a few days after her dead husband is laid in the ground? Please, give the poor woman some time to grieve.”
“Gosh, I hate to lose any time.”
“Amy,” she said sternly. “Show some consideration.”
“Okay, okay. I gotta run. Love to Taylor.” She hung up, tempted to snatch the phone right back and call Jeanette Duffy. But Gram was right. It was conceivable that Jeanette Duffy’s husband had sent the money without his wife’s knowledge. Or Amy could have the wrong Jeanette Duffy entirely. Either way, it would be cruel to confront a recent widow with a discovery like this. She checked the obituary again. A sly smile came to her face as she hurriedly dialed directory assistance.
“Piedmont Springs,” she said into the phone.
“Yes, I’d like the number and the address for Ryan Duffy, M.D.” She smirked as she jotted down the information.
The widow was off limits. But the son was fair game.