Amy met Mr. Phelps’s unrealistic three o’clock deadline. She always met her deadlines. This time, however, she was feeling abused. She went home when she finished.
She conjured up an image as she drove — a fantasy of sorts. It had to do with the money. She wouldn’t just quietly give notice, she decided. She would drive her old truck to Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz, like any other day. She’d get her morning coffee, retreat to her office, and sit very calmly at her desk. But she wouldn’t turn on her computer. She wouldn’t even close the door. She’d leave it wide open — and just wait for someone like Phelps to come piss her off.
For the moment, however, the waiting was beginning to breed paranoia.
It had been Gram’s idea to keep the money in the house and see what happened. Amy had a nagging instinct that someone was testing her, checking whether she’d do the honorable thing. She recalled the pointed questions on her application to law school. Are you currently under investigation for any crime? Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Before long she would face the same probing questions in her application to the Colorado State Bar Association. What kind of dim view might they take toward a candidate who had knowingly deprived the IRS of its fair share of a mysterious cash windfall? Worse yet, someone could be setting her up — someone like her ex-husband. Maybe he’d reported the money stolen, the serial numbers registered with the FBI. The minute she tried to spend it, she’d be arrested.
Now you’re really being paranoid. Amy’s ex-husband made a stink over paying five hundred dollars a month in child support. He certainly wouldn’t risk shipping two hundred grand in a cardboard box. Still, the prudent course was to contact the police, probably even fess up to the IRS. But Gram would kill her. She’d kill herself, if she messed up her chance to beg off law school, return to her graduate studies and follow her dreams. It was time for Amy Parkens to live on the edge a little.
Amy walked to the kitchenette and opened the freezer door. She reached for the box of cash behind the frozen pot roast.
“Amy, what are you doing?”
She turned at the sound of her grandmother’s voice. She felt the urge to lie, but she could never fool Gram. “Just checking on our investment.”
Gram placed a bag of groceries on the table. She’d returned from the store sooner than Amy had expected. “It’s all there,” said Gram. “I didn’t take any.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you had.”
“Then leave it be, girl.”
Amy closed the door and helped unload the groceries. “Where’s Taylor?”
“Outside. Mrs. Bentley from three-seventeen is watching her. She owes us, all the times I’ve watched her little monsters.” Gram paused, then smiled with a thought. “Maybe we can take some of the money and get Taylor a nanny. A good one. Someone who speaks French. I’d like Taylor to speak French.”
Amy stuffed a box of Rice Krispies into the pantry. “Excellent idea. She’ll be the only four-year-old in Boulder who orders pommes frites with her Happy Meal.”
“I’m serious, Amy. This money is going to open a whole new world for your daughter.”
“That’s so unfair. Don’t use Taylor to make me feel better about keeping this money.”
“I don’t understand you. What’s so wrong about keeping it?”
“It makes me nervous. Sitting around, waiting for a letter in the mail or a knock on the door — anything that might explain the money. An explanation might never come. If the money was sent by mistake, I want to know. If it’s a gift, I’d like to know whose kindness is behind it.”
“Hire a detective, if you’re that nervous. Maybe they can check the box or even the money for fingerprints.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Just one problem. How are you going to pay for it?”
Amy’s smile vanished.
Gram said, “You could use some of the money. Take five hundred bucks or so.”
“No. We can’t spend any of it until we find out who it’s from.”
“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.