A Bad Boy is Good to Find (26 page)

Would someone please unzip me?
was the only thought on Lizzie’s mind, which felt as squished as her torso. She didn’t voice it until Maisie had stalked out of the room, tut-tutting about primitive conditions and the need for hardship pay.

Gia unzipped her and she sagged with relief.

“I’m going outside for a smoke,” muttered Dino.

“I’m with you,” said Gia, already striding for the door.

Lizzie was left standing on the podium in a too-tight fifteen-thousand dollar dress, towering over a tiny Japanese woman whose name she’d not managed to catch.

This was all your idea
.

Con’s blood crept like Arctic ice as he and Lizzie stood in the Parish records office with Dino’s camera trained on him. You weren’t allowed to look in anyone’s file but your own, but the kind young clerk had agreed to check Danny’s file to see if it contained a death certificate.

She pulled a folder from the file drawer and flipped through it. It took all Con’s strength to keep his face calm. He held himself steady as blood pounded in his head and cold fingers squeezed his heart.

“No death certificate.”

He sagged with relief. “Thank God.” Of course it didn’t mean Danny was alive, but there was hope.

Lizzie let out a breath too. She looked almost as nervous as him, twisting her fingers together, her face white. He wanted to hug her, but didn’t.

“Could Con see his own file?” she asked, as the clerk put Danny’s away.

“Yes.” The clerk looked at him. “Would you like to?”

Not really,
was the answer that sprang to mind as a queasy sensation sneaked into his stomach.

“Come on, Con. You need to see your mother’s maiden name.” Lizzie put her hand on his arm.

No, I don’t.
He didn’t want to know if she was that sad woman in the letters. His memories were sad enough already.

“Okay.” He couldn’t help feeling nothing good could come from digging up the past. Who knew what other skeletons lay rotting in the muck down there? He shivered in the air-conditioned room as they waited for the clerk to come back. Lizzie rubbed his back, and he took a deep breath.

“Conroy Aaron Beale.” The clerk drew out the file. Aaron? How could he not even know he had a middle name? He became acutely aware of the camera on him, like he was being stripped naked.
It’s just a piece of paper.

“Can I see it?” His voice sounded disembodied.

The clerk handed it to him, and he pulled Lizzie close so she could see it too.

“Father, Daniel Patrick Beale.” That name still gave him a chill. Made bile rise in his throat.

“Mother,” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Mother, Katherine Marie Milford Beale.”

“It’s her,” breathed Lizzie. “I knew it.”

A hurt deep inside him started to throb.

“Can we see her birth certificate?” Lizzie asked quietly.

“I’m afraid birth certificates are confidential for 100 years.” The clerk’s soft voice was apologetic. “You can only see your own file.”

“Why do you want to see it?” Con asked Lizzie.

“Just to see if her father really was Thomas Milford. But I guess we have our answer in her name. The puzzle pieces fit together. Your mother wrote those letters.”

Con didn’t say anything. He looked at the typewritten name, unwelcome tears blurring his eyes and pain seeping through him.
I miss you, Mom
.

His breathing became erratic. He shoved the paper back at the clerk. “Thank you.” He needed to escape from the camera, from the punishing fluorescent lights, from the past.

“You really are descended from Louisiana aristocrats.” Lizzie touched his arm, making him flinch.

“Let’s get out of here.” He strode for the door.

Back at the house there was still no electricity, and Lizzie tried hard not to laugh at the exchange taking place in the unlit dining room after a hurried take-out lunch.

“Well, yeah, I probably could, but I don’t have an electrician’s license so it wouldn’t be legal,” said Con to a fierce-eyed Maisie.

“But they said they can’t get anyone out here until the day after tomorrow! That’s supposed to be the day of the wedding! We’re on a deadline here, for crying out loud. I have to be back in New York by the weekend.”

Con shrugged.

“Don’t you understand? There’s no electricity. None at all! The entire main circuit is blown. There are no lights. We can’t cook. We have no water. All the hotels are full because of some zydeco festival. It’s a disaster!”

“A propane range works without electricity, and the bayou’s out back.” Con adjusted his cuff. He looked up at her. “Maybe you could fly out an electrician from Manhattan.”

Maisie stared at him for a second. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea.” She stormed off, punching numbers into her cell.

“So much for our all-expenses-paid vacation in the lap of luxury,” said Con. “Everyone keeps trying to put me to work. They’re going to have me rebuilding the transmission on that van any minute the way Maisie’s running it into the ground.”

“I don’t think she knows how to drive stick either.” Lizzie winked. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?” She punched his arm, feeling strangely cheerful for reasons she couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe because she hadn’t had any time to sit and think.

Probably a good thing.

“I managed to get you an appointment with a local lawyer for this afternoon!” Gia burst into the room. She looked from Con to Lizzie, glowing with excitement.

“Why?” Lizzie wondered if Gia had been smoking something other than Dino’s cigarettes.

“He’s famous for tracking down missing people—heirs of estates in probate that kind of thing. If anyone can find Con’s brother, he can. And guess what?”

“What?” Lizzie said on cue.

“He’s the same lawyer who owns this house!”

“Oh. Okay. So can’t he do something about the electricity? Like, bribe a local electrician or something?”

“Oh yes, that’s all under control. He said he’ll have someone out right away.”

“Thank God. Tell Maisie before she blows a fuse.”

“Will do. Anyway, I have the lawyer’s address right here. He’s expecting you at two. No cameras, though. Something about attorney-client privilege. He wouldn’t budge on it.”

A strange buzz of excitement tickled Lizzie’s skin. “We’ll be there.”

“So you’re a Beale?” Eric Stapleton, esq., leaned into his wingback office chair and surveyed Con over his reading glasses. He was fiftyish, with silvering dark hair and a slight paunch straining his pinstriped shirt. Stacks of files climbed the walls of his office. Pictures of his perfect-looking family faced visitors from the top of his vast mahogany desk.

“I am.” Con sat straight as a cypress.

“Well, well, well. I thought we’d seen the last of the Beales in these parts.” The lawyer let out a laugh and wiped his nose with a large white handkerchief as if overcome by amusement.

Lizzie bristled.

“Things have been quiet around here since your daddy died. He sure did know how to stir up some excitement on a Saturday night.” The lawyer looked steadily at Con with a supercilious smirk on his face.

“Do you know where I can find my brother?” asked Con stiffly.

“Can’t say I do. As you said, there’s no record of him after your daddy died. My assistant did some preliminary poking around, and he’s off the school records after that year. Never registered with social services and nobody’s seen him since.”

He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “Must have left town. Do you have any relatives he could have gone to stay with?” He replaced his glasses and peered at Con through them.

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, we are up a tree without a ladder then, aren’t we?” His self-satisfied smile made Lizzie’s scalp tingle. “But if you care to retain me in this matter, I’ll have my secretary start doing some digging. She’ll call around to see if she can find his name on any school rolls or in the record books of any other— Come in!”

A knock on the door had interrupted him and his cheerful-looking middle-aged secretary appeared. “Mr. Hodgkins on the phone.”

“Thank you, Vera.” He turned to them. “I’m afraid I must take this call. It’s of the utmost urgency. A criminal matter, I’m afraid,” he said with a wink. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”

Lizzie and Con rose and left the room.

“What an asshole,” muttered Lizzie once they were outside in the cramped hallway. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.” Con looked rigid with tension. She moved behind him and pressed her thumbs under the collar of his white shirt and into the muscle at the base of his neck. “Don’t worry, if he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

The secretary peered out into the hallway. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“Sure.” Lizzie led the way to the spacious waiting room. The coffee actually smelled pretty good.

“That nice production assistant—Mia, was it?—told me you’re staying at Dumas House,” Vera said, as she handed a white mug to Con.

“Yes.” He took a sip. “We’re there filming our wedding.”

Lizzie got a funny feeling in her tummy. He didn’t say it with any undertone of amusement or mockery. He said it as if they were…getting married.

“How lovely. It sure is a beautiful place to get married. My niece had her wedding there two years ago in May.”

“Really?” Lizzie accepted a cup too. “So the house is often rented out for events?”

“Yes. Mr. Stapleton has been managing it for nearly six years now, since the owner died.”

“And he owns it now?” Lizzie peered over the rim of her coffee cup, holding her breath.

“He doesn’t own it. He manages it as executor of the former owner’s estate. We’ve been unable to locate any heirs. The old man was in his late nineties when he died, no family left to speak of. Mr. Stapleton’s been using the attached trust to maintain the place. If you ask me he’s made a world of improvements. I don’t think it had been renovated since the 1950s before he took over.”

“It must cost a fortune to maintain,” said Lizzie.

“I believe he’s had to invest a good deal of the trust in the house. He replaced the roof, updated some of the plumbing and electrical, and he keeps the gardens immaculate as it’s becoming quite the place for any outdoor social event.”

“Sounds like he has a pretty good business going,” Lizzie took a sip of coffee, grateful for the air-conditioning in the offices. “So who, exactly, are the heirs he’s been unable to locate?”

She heard Con choke on his coffee and recover himself, but she kept her eyes fixed on the woman.

“Apparently the old man who owned it—Thomas Milford his name was—had an estranged daughter. This all happened before my time, so I don’t know the details, but I believe it turned out she was dead.”

Lizzie shot Con a pointed look.

“No other descendants were found so Mr. Stapleton’s been managing it while he searches for any remaining heirs.” She blew her nose on a tissue. “But between you and me and the doorpost, he’s looking to buy it himself. Once the trust is exhausted there won’t be any cash in the estate to pay the local property taxes. At that point it becomes property of the parish, gets auctioned off and voilà! He’ll be the legal owner. He’s managed it like his own anyway, these last six years. You’ve seen the place, so you can tell just how much love and care has gone into it. Mr. Stapleton is a true guardian of our heritage.”

While she was speaking Lizzie’s breathing got shallow. Con stood motionless.

“Mind if I step outside for a smoke?” Lizzie asked, with what she hoped was a casual smile. Con shot her an odd look.

“You can smoke in here if you like,” the secretary replied.

“I don’t want to stink the place up. Come on, Con.” She grabbed him by his sleeve, almost spilling his coffee.

Outside, cars whizzed past as they stood on the immaculate postage stamp of lawn in front of the law office.

“Did you hear that?” she hissed.

“Sure, I heard it.”

“He’s supposed to be looking for heirs. Those would be the descendants of Katherine Marie Milford. Also known as you.”

Con’s knuckles were white around his coffee cup. “I just want to find my brother.”

“But don’t you get it? The house is yours. And from the sounds of it, Mr. Stapleton here is spending the trust money hand over fist while he builds up a tidy rentals business there. That explains why it’s so well renovated. He’s probably poured a million dollars into the place. New roof, new upholstery, soon it will have all central air. I’ve never seen such a thorough renovation of an old house, but it all makes perfect sense now. He’s deliberately trying to spend the money that came with it, so he can bankrupt the estate so it can’t pay the taxes, then when the taxes go unpaid, the town takes over the property and he buys it for peanuts. He’s trying to steal your inheritance.”

Con let out a growl of frustration. “Lizzie, the house isn’t mine. It never was and it never will be. I don’t really get why you’re—“

“Con, listen,” she leaned into him and hissed in his ear. “That slick bastard in there knows you are the heir. How could he not? He must know who your mother was, if they found out she was dead. So I bet he knows she has two sons, and what their names are. He may well know exactly where your brother is. But is it in his interest to tell you? To let you find out about any of this? Hell, no.”

Con stared at her.

She nodded. “Up until now he’s been sitting pretty on a goldmine that no living soul has a claim to—then you turn up like a bad penny. Right now he’s probably sweating bullets looking for ways to throw us off the trail. The one thing he forgot to do was scotch tape his secretary’s lips together. We’ve got to run with this information.”

At that moment the front door opened and Vera peered out. “He’s ready for you.”

Lizzie squeezed Con’s arm above the elbow, and followed him back in. Eric Stapleton summoned them back into his office with an avuncular wave of his meaty hand.

“So, we’re looking for Danny, aka ‘Tiny’ Beale…” he said, rifling in a drawer and emerging with a packet of extra-strong mints. “I’ll make a note for Vera to check the local prisons. Mint?”