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Scottlyn nosed her vehicle into a parking space in front of the bank, turned off the ignition, and hit the redial button on her phone. When the call went to Grant's voice mail for the twentieth time, she swiped the connection closed without leaving a message. No point. I've left at least ten over the last day and a half. She sat for a few seconds and stared into space. Grant was angry with her, she got that, but ignoring her calls wasn't the way to settle their argument. She needed to apologize, needed to tell him that she was being more careful about...well, she still didn't know what she was supposed to be looking for, but she was looking.
So far that quest hadn't produced a single thing to make her suspicious. Scottlyn didn't know whether to be pleased or more confused. She'd spent most of the previous day with her mother. They'd looked through old picture albums while Scottlyn shared memories from her childhood. When the subject moved to the rape that left her pregnant with Mercie and her father's actions in the aftermath, her mother had been visibly sympathetic, and in contrast, happy about Scottlyn's upcoming marriage to Grant.
And though her mother had plenty of questions about Grant, it had all seemed the proper response for a woman getting newly acquainted with her daughter. The single moment of sadness in the whole day came only when Mom realized all of the pictures of her had gone missing from the albums. Dad must have destroyed them. He was such a contradiction in extremes. Never divorcing the woman who'd walked out of his life, but removing every reminder of her existence.
Scottlyn returned to the present and fingered the new key on her key ring. Harold called earlier and asked her to pick up a copy of the paperwork giving her access to her father's safe deposit box. She watched the entrance of the bank, people coming and going, each one with their own story, their own mission. I wonder if anyone would trade their task for mine. She'd be willing to tackle just about anything in exchange for emptying Dad's safe deposit box. She drew in a fortifying breath and pushed out of the car. Stalling wouldn't get it done.
Three bank employees and two security checks later, Scottlyn sat at a tiny table in a little room. The metal box rested in front of her. Her hands remained clasped in her lap, the only sound in the room her forlorn whisper. "Oh, Daddy, I feel like I'm violating your privacy. I'm not worried about what's in here, but opening it just makes your absence feel a little more permanent." She giggled even as a tear slid down her face. Death is pretty permanent. She clapped a hand over her mouth and looked around. Get a grip. People will think you're a loon!
Scottlyn lifted the lid. Unlike the dramatic moments portrayed in the movies, she did not find a stack of one hundred dollar bills, a falsified passport, and a handgun. She lifted the contents out piece by piece and lined them up on the table.
The first was a gold pocket watch. It had a chain attached to a small loop at the top and a raised image of an eagle on the back. The case was worn smooth by the many hands that had handled it over the years. She found the latch, opened the front, and squinted at the engraving. Warren Rich 1883. Hmm... "Daddy was William. Grandpa Rich died before I was born, but his name was Albert." Scottlyn did the math in her head. "One hundred thirty-three years. Warren could have been my great-grandfather." Scottlyn laid it aside. Grant and I might have a son to pass it down to someday. If he's still speaking to me.
Next, she unwound a rubber band holding a brown manila folder closed. Inside she found a bundle of legal documents pertaining to her father's estate. Relief that her future was just a little more secure warred with regret over the things left unspoken between father and daughter. She swallowed past her constricted throat, refolded the documents, and pulled out the remaining items. Her parent's marriage license and a stack of birth certificates. One for her father, her grandmother, and her grandfather. She grinned when she examined the one belonging to Albert. Warren was indeed listed as her great-grandfather.
Scottlyn refolded everything and secured it back into the folder. She'd take these to Harold. The last item from the box was a thick white envelope. Scottlyn lifted the flap and shook the contents onto the table. Pictures scattered across the smooth top. She bit down on a smile even as laughter bubbled in her throat. "The missing pictures. He didn't throw them away."
She gathered them into a stack. It was snapshots of her parent's early life together. Pictures of her mother as a bride. Shots taken on a beach maybe from Mom and Dad's honeymoon. Images of a much younger Jocelyn holding a newborn. Scottlyn's finger shook as she traced the figures.
"Mom, look at you, so young and beautiful, and you look so happy." She turned the picture into the light, looking for evidence of the stress Jocelyn had cited. Maybe there were a few tension lines around her eyes, but the photos were nearly twenty years old, it was hard to tell. She flipped to the last picture in the stack. That's odd, it's... She scraped the edge with a nail and the picture separated into three. Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. Her pulse accelerated, and a fine film of sweat coated her forehead and the back of her neck.
The images that looked back at her from the photo hidden in the middle were almost identical to what she saw in her mirror every day. That wasn't what took her breath. Two teenaged girls posed in the picture on a summer day. They had ice cream cones in their hands... and matching eyes and smiles. She flipped the picture over, barely able to read the faded writing due to the trembling in her fingers.
Jocelynn and Marilyn, 1984, age 15.
The picture fluttered to the table. Her mother had a twin sister.
***
GRANT REMOVED HIS GLASSES and wiped sweat from his face with a napkin he'd saved from his breakfast. Cozumel and Oklahoma might share a time zone, but the late spring temperatures of home didn't hold a candle to the humid, tropical heat he found himself in.
I can't believe I'm actually doing this. Harold Cole had a friend who knew somebody, who had a brother who knew somebody with a private jet and overnight business in Cozumel. They'd allowed him to tag along, landing late last night. They were scheduled to fly out right after lunch. Grant had about four hours to find the information he needed.
An ocean breeze ruffled his hair and pulled his eyes back to the turquoise water the Caribbean was so famous for. In the distance he could see at least three of the mammoth cruise ships that brought a steady flow of tourist to this little piece of heaven. Grant smiled. Scottlyn didn't know it yet, but there were two tickets in his dresser drawer at home. One of them had her name on it. He couldn't wait to use them in...he opened a countdown app on his phone...fifty-eight days.
The phone buzzed with an incoming call, and Scottlyn's number lit the screen. He let it go to voice mail. She'd been calling him since yesterday afternoon. Ignoring her calls wouldn't win him any points, but neither would knowing he'd come to Cozumel without her. The reasons behind the trip would only add to her irritation.
He shrugged off the worry over her reaction as he made his way to the taxi stand in front of the hotel. She needed to accept the fact that it was his job to protect her. If she couldn't come to terms with that...well, they'd argue about it when he got home without the long distance charges.
Jocelyn Rich. Everything about that woman rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn't explain it, and he couldn't live with it. Despite Scottlyn's accusations, his reaction had nothing to do with money or jealously. He had parents. They made occasional demands on his time. He loved them. Why would he begrudge Scottlyn the same?
And money? Grant shook his head. He had a brand new degree in journalism. He made a decent living as the rookie reporter for one of the local television stations. Rookie reporter wasn't his dream, but it was a step on the ladder to the job that was his dream...investigative reporter.
In addition to protecting the woman he loved, Grant viewed this as an opportunity to try out the techniques he'd learned in school. There was a story here, and he intended to find it.
He took his place at the back of the line and waited his turn for a cab.
"Where would you like to go this morning, amigo?" The man wore white shorts and a button up shirt. He waved his hand to motion for the next cab in line, and even at eight-thirty in the morning, Grant noticed a patch of sweat shadowing the area between the man's shoulder blades.
"Where would I go to research old court records?"
The man raised his dark eyebrows, obviously caught off guard by the unusual request.
Grant hurried to reassure him. "I'm a journalist doing some leg work on a story. I'd be grateful if you could point me in the right direction."
The attendant smiled. "Si, Senior." He opened the back door of the taxi and spoke to the driver in rapid-fire Spanish while Grant climbed inside.
The driver nodded, reset his trip meter, and headed down the looping drive that led from the hotel to the main road.
Grant settled back in the seat and took in the scenery of downtown Cozumel, shops on one side, the ocean on the other. He'd considered making the embassy his first stop, but privacy laws would keep anyone official from answering his unofficial questions. He didn't have the time or money to waste trying to find someone willing to talk to him.
He didn't know anything about Mexican privacy laws but hoped they weren't as strict as American ones. He was betting on the language barrier working in his favor. The words American journalist might open a door or two, along with the flash of a few American dollars. He closed his eyes and hedged that bet with a quick prayer. Father, I need You to give me favor and guide my search. Truth comes from You, and there's a truth to this situation that I need to find. You know my heart. My only interest is protecting Scottlyn. Please help me do that.
The cab jerked to a stop in front of a line of old buildings. The driver pointed while rattling off a stream of words that Grant's high school Spanish didn't cover. I hope someone in there speaks a little English. He paid the driver, crossed his fingers, and entered the building.
The process was surprisingly simple. He gave the clerk Jocelyn's name and the approximate dates of her trial and imprisonment. An hour later he was seated at a table with a large cardboard box. His excitement built as he removed the lid. Anticipation collided with reality when everything he removed from the box was written in Spanish. Well, duh!
At the bottom of the box was a bag of personal items. He opened a small purse to find a set of keys, a crumpled plane ticket in Jocelyn's name, a dried up lipstick, and a billfold. An examination of the billfold produced a driver's license that expired in 1999 and a couple of faded pictures. Both were shots of a young woman who looked amazingly like Scottlyn. The woman was holding a newborn.
Grant replaced everything in the bag. Shouldn't these have been returned to Jocelyn on her release last month? Grant rubbed the back of his neck. Sending Jocelyn home and keeping this stuff here made no sense. He started the chore of stacking everything back into the box, looking for anything to help explain the mystery.
He tapped a stack of papers together, and an envelope slipped free. One word was written on the front. Scottlyn. His curiosity was almost unbearable. He held it in his hand and weighed the possibilities. Whatever lay hidden in there likely held the answers to many of his questions, but it was addressed to Scottlyn, not him. In the end he laid it aside, unwilling to break Scottlyn's trust.
A final piece of paper caught his eye. It read El Certificado de la Muerta. His Spanish might be rusty, but the words were pretty clear nonetheless. It was a death certificate.
His hands shook as he struggled to make out the details. The name on the certificate and the dates jumped out at him. Jocelyn Rich. August 1998.
His heart hammered in his chest. Vindication and sorrow warred as the piece of paper slipped to the table. "Oh, babe!"