Beckett's Cinderella (3 page)

After answering a few questions about various family members, Beckett stripped down and headed for the shower. He started out with a hot deluge and let it run cold. The hot water eased the ache caused by too many hours strapped into a bucket seat, while the cool water helped clear his mind. As he slathered soap from the postage-stamp-size bar onto his flat midriff and let the suds trickle down his torso, the image of Eliza Chandler Edwards arose in his mind.

Lancelot Beckett had known his share of beautiful women—maybe more than his share; although, ever since he'd been left at the altar at the impressionable age of twenty-two, he'd made it a policy never to invite a repetition. At this point in his life he figured it was too late, anyhow. Any man who wasn't married by his midthirties probably wasn't a viable candidate.

All the same, it had been a long time since he'd met a more intriguing woman than Ms. Edwards. Skilled at reading people, he hadn't missed the flash of interest that had flickered in those golden-brown eyes just before wariness had shut it off. Pit that against the physical barriers she'd erected and, yeah…
intriguing
wasn't too strong a word. Her hair was not quite brown, not quite red. Thick and wavy,
with a scattering of golden strands that had a tendency to curl, she wore it twisted up on her head and anchored down with some kind of a tortoiseshell gadget. Her clothes were the kind deliberately designed to conceal rather than reveal. He wondered if she realized that on the right woman, concealment was a hell of a lot more exciting than full exposure.

Oh, yeah, she was something all right. Everything about her shouted, “Look but don't touch.”

In fact, don't even bother to look. Which had the reverse effect. Did she know that? Was it deliberate?

Somehow he didn't think so.

He adjusted the water temperature again, trying for ice-cold, but only getting tepid. Not for the first time he told himself he should have waited and let Carson do the honors. Car was two years younger and didn't have quite as much rough mileage on him as Beckett did.

But he'd promised. As his mother had stated flatly, time was running out, and it was time to lay this business to rest once and for all. “PawPaw's worried sick, and Coley doesn't need that kind of aggravation.”

Ever since Beckett's father had been diagnosed with emphysema, his mother's main purpose in life had been to spare him anything more stressful than choosing which pair of socks to wear with his madras Bermudas when he got up in the morning.

She'd been waiting at the airport when Beckett had flown in more than a week ago. She'd hugged him fiercely, then stepped back to give him her patented Inspector Mother's once-over. Nodding in approval,
she said, “You do this one thing for me, honey, then you come back here and tell PawPaw it's finished. Just find somebody named Chandler and hand over that mess of old papers and whatever else you think the Becketts owe them, then you can go back to chasing your pirates. Honestly, of all things for a grown man to be doing.” She'd tsk-tsked him and slid in under the wheel.

Beckett had tried several times to explain to his mother that piracy on the high seas was as prevalent now as it had been in the days when Blackbeard had plied his trade off the Carolina coast. No matter. To her, it was still a kid's game. She'd wanted him to go into politics like his state senator father, Coley Jefferson Beckett. Or into investment banking like his grandfather, Elias Lancelot Beckett, and his great-grandfather, L. Frederick Beckett—the man who had started this whole bloody mess.

A few years ago he had fallen hard for a sexy marine biologist named Carolyn. Fallen hard but, as usual, not quite hard enough. After about six months he'd been the one to call it quits. He'd done it as graciously as he knew how, but Carolyn had been hurt. Beckett had readily accepted his guilt. Fortunately—or perhaps not—his work made it easy to run from commitment.

The payback had come a year later when he'd run into a glowing and very pregnant Carolyn and her professor husband at a jazz festival. He'd had a few bad moments as a result, wondering if he might have made a mistake. Family had always been important
to him. Even seeing that old man today, rocking away the last years of his life at a roadside produce stand, had reminded him a little too much of his own mortality.

True, the Beckett men were generally long-lived, but what would it be like to grow old completely alone, with no wife to warm his bed—no kids to drive him nuts? No grandkids to crawl up on his arthritic knees?

His only legacy was a healthy portfolio and a small, modestly successful firm he'd built from practically nothing—one that included a two-room office in Delaware, a partner and a part-time secretary. His will left whatever worldly goods he possessed at the time of his death to his parents. Who else was there? Carson? A few distant cousins he'd never even met?

Cripes, now he really was getting depressed. Maybe it was all this humidity—he was coming down with a bad case of mildew of the brain, he told himself, only half joking as he crossed the bedroom buck stark naked to dig out a change of clothes.

On the other hand, it could be due to the fact that he hadn't eaten anything since the lousy chili dog he'd bought at the airport. One cup of free ice water didn't do the job.

 

Liza washed her hair and towel dried it before fixing supper. Then she did something she hadn't done in a long, long time. She stood in front of the fogged and age-speckled mirror on her dresser and studied her naked body. James had called her classy. Any
man in his right mind would call her clinically emaciated. Her hipbones poked out, her ribs were clearly visible, and as for her breasts…

Tentatively she covered the slight swells with her hands. Her nipples, still sensitive from the rough toweling, nudged her palms, and she cursed under her breath and turned away.

That part of her life was over. Fortunately, sex had never played that large a role. After the first year or so, she had done her wifely duty once a week, sometimes twice, and then even that had ended. They'd gone out almost every night, entertaining or being entertained, and by the time they got home, they'd both been ready to fall into bed. To sleep, not to play. After a few drinks James hadn't been up to it, and she'd felt more relief than anything else.

Dressing hastily, she hurried into the kitchen. There was a Braves game tonight; they were playing the Mets. Next to the Yankees, the Mets were her uncle's favorite team to hate. Once the dishes were washed she could retire to her room and look through those blasted papers. It wouldn't hurt. The envelope wasn't sealed, just fastened with a metal clasp. If it had anything to do with James, she would simply toss it, because that part of her life was over and done with. She had repaid as much as she was able, although she hadn't been obligated to do even that much. She'd been cleared of all responsibility after James had made it quite clear before he'd died that she'd never even known what was going on, much less been involved.

His last act had been one of surprising generosity, but that didn't mean she hadn't been brought in for questioning. Nor did the fact that she hadn't known what was going on mean she'd escaped feeling guilty once she'd found out. She'd lived high on the hog, as Uncle Fred would say, for almost eleven years on the proceeds of James's financial shell games. The beautiful house in North Dallas, the trips to all those island resorts that James always claimed were for networking. Like a blind fool, she'd gone along whenever he'd asked her to; although, for the most part, she hadn't particularly liked the people he'd met there.

When the dishes were done, she turned out the light. Uncle Fred called from the living room. “Game time. You want to bet on the spread?”

“A quarter says the Mets win by five points.” She knew little about baseball and wasn't particularly interested, but he enjoyed the games so much that she tried to share his enthusiasm.

“You're on! I know you, gal—you like that Piazza feller that catches for 'em.” His teasing was a part of the ritual.

Liza leaned against the door frame and watched him prepare for the night's entertainment: fruit bowl nearby, recliner in position and a bag of potato chips hidden under the smoking stand. She was turning to go to her room when headlights sprayed across the front window. Traffic out on the highway didn't do that, not unless a car turned in.

“Uncle Fred, did you invite anyone over to watch the game?”

But her uncle had turned up the volume. Either he didn't hear or was pretending not to, so it was left to Liza to see who'd come calling. Occasionally one of the women who supplied the soft goods would drop off work on the way to evening prayer meeting. But this was Saturday, not Wednesday.

She knew who it was, even before he climbed out of the SUV parked under one of the giant oaks. She checked to be sure the screen was hooked, then waited for him to reach the front porch. He'd instructed her to look over the papers and said he'd see her later. She'd thought later meant tomorrow—or, better yet, never.

Doing nothing more threatening than sauntering up the buckled flagstone walk, the man looked dangerous. Something about the way he moved. Not like an athlete, exactly—more like a predator. Dark, deceptively attractive, moving silently through the deepening shadows.

Get a grip, woman.

“Let me guess,” she said when he came up onto the porch. She made no move to unhook the screen door. “You came to tell me I won the Publisher's Sweepstakes.”

“Have you had chance to look over what I left you?”

“Not yet.” She refused to turn on the porch light because it attracted moths and mosquitoes. Besides, it wasn't quite dark yet. But it didn't take much light
to delineate those angular cheekbones, that arrogant blade of a nose and the mouth that managed to be firm and sexy at the same time.

Listen to you, Eliza, would you just stop it?

“Then how about reading them now? It shouldn't take long. Unfortunately, most of the pages have stuck together, but once you've skimmed the top layer or so, I'll explain anything you don't understand and hand over the money. Then you can sign a release and I'll leave.”

“I'm not signing anything, I'm not buying anything, I'm not—” She frowned. “What money?”

“Give me three minutes, I'll try to talk fast. Are you or are you not the great-granddaughter of Elias Matthew Chandler, of…uh, Crow Fly, in Oklahoma Territory?”

Her jaw fell. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you crazy?”

Beckett slapped a mosquito on his neck. “Man, they're bloodthirsty little devils, aren't they? Any reports of West Nile virus around these parts?”

She shoved the screen door open, deliberately bumping it against his foot. “Oh, for goodness' sake, come inside. You've got two minutes left to tell me why you're harassing me.”

He took a deep breath. Liza couldn't help noticing the size and breadth of his chest under shoulders that were equally impressive. Not that she was impressed. Still, a woman couldn't help but notice any man who looked as good and smelled as good and—

Well, shoot! “One minute and thirty seconds,” she warned.

“Time out. You still haven't answered my question.”

“You haven't answered mine, either. All right then, yes, I might be related to someone who might originally have been from Oklahoma. However, I don't happen to have a copy of my pedigree, so if whatever you're trying to prove involves my lineage, you'd better peddle your papers somewhere else. One minute and counting.”

“I have.” His smile packed a wallop, even if she didn't trust him.

“You have what? Tried peddling your papers somewhere else?” And then, unable to slam the door on her curiosity, she said, “What money? Is this a sweepstakes thing?”

“You might say that.” The smile was gone, but the effect of those cool gray eyes was undiminished. “Would you by any chance have a cousin named Kathryn, uh—Dixon?”

Some of the wind went out of her sails. From the living room, her uncle cackled and called out, “Better get in here, missy—your team just struck out again.”

“Look, would you please just say whatever you have to say and leave? I don't know much about my family history, so if you're trying to prove we're related, you'd do better to check with someone else who knows more about it than I do. And if you're after anything else, I'm not interested.” Never mind the money. She knew better than anyone not to fall for the old “something for nothing” dodge.

The man who called himself L. Jones Beckett
edged past her until he could look into the living room. “Is that the Braves-Mets game? What's the score?”

“So you're back, are ye? Thought ye might be. General Sherman's not going to be taking Atlanta tonight, no siree. Score's one to one, the South's winning.”

Liza closed her eyes and groaned. If he could talk baseball, she would never get rid of him. Uncle Fred would see to that. She might as well read his damned papers and be done with it.

“B
ring Mr. Beckett a glass of iced tea, Liza-girl. Have some potato chips, son.” Suddenly Uncle Fred leaned forward, glaring at the screen. “What do you mean, strike? That pitch was outside by a gol-darn mile!”

Liza left them to their game and headed down the hall to her bedroom. She would skim whatever it was he insisted she read, hand it back to him and show him the door, and that would be the end of that. If he did happen to be peddling some kind of get-rich-quick scheme, he'd come knocking on the wrong door this time. Any junk mail that even hinted that she was a big winner got tossed without ever getting opened. She didn't want one red cent unless she knew exactly where it had come from.

The papers slid out in a clump. For a moment she only stared at them lying there on her white cotton bedspread. They looked as if they'd been soaked in tea. The top sheet appeared to be a letter, so she started with that.

“My Dear Eli…”

Liza made out that much before the ink faded. The ornate script was difficult to read, even without the faded ink and the work of generations of silverfish. She squinted at the date on the barely legible heading. September…was that
1900?
Mercy! Someone should have taken better care of it, whether or not it was valuable. Maybe the writer was someone important. If it had been a baseball card from that era—if they'd even had baseball cards back then—her uncle would have done backflips, arthritis or not.

She gave up halfway down the page after making out a word here, a few words there. Whoever had written the letter more than a hundred years ago appeared to be bragging about making loads of money on something or other, but the script was too ornate, the ink too faded, the insect damage too great, to make out more than a few random lines.

Judging by the fancy borders, the rest of the papers appeared to be certificates of some sort. They were so fragile she didn't dare risk prying them apart. In a separate clump were a few sheets that looked as if they might have been torn from a ledger. The only words she could make out were “Merchants Bank” and “deposit to the…” Amount of? Account of? Something that looked like shorehavers.

Shorehavers? Shaveholders?

“Shareholders,” she murmured aloud, “500 shares of…”

Whatever the name of the company, whatever the value of the stock, an army of silverfish had successfully obliterated the record.

And then she caught her breath. That creep! That slow-talking, smooth-walking creep!

Oh, sure. He'd found these valuable-looking certificates, but before they could go up for sale they needed to be authenticated by an expert. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to go? Only poor Mr. Beckett, if that really was his name, couldn't quite swing it alone. He was willing to cut her in, however, for the small sum of, say five hundred dollars—a thousand would be even better if she could scrape it up—to have the certificates authenticated. As earnest money, he would toss in an equal amount.

How many suckers had he talked into investing in his scheme? It was a classic street con. The found wallet. The pocketbook left in a phone booth.

What she ought to do was turn this jerk over to the sheriff.

From the front of the house she heard a roar. Baseball fans were an excitable lot. Her uncle shouted, “Go it, son! Show them fellers how it's done!”

Evidently one of the Braves had hit a home run. She only hoped L. J. Beckett enjoyed the baseball game, because his other game wasn't going to play. Not tonight. Not with her.

Before leaving her room, she shook down her hair,
gave it a few swipes with the hairbrush and then fastened it back up again, tighter than ever. It was more a security thing than a matter of style or even comfort. James used to call her a throwback to a time when women over a certain age wore their hair pinned up. Only their husbands had the privilege of seeing them with their hair hanging down their backs. Now, every Tom, Dick and Harry had the privilege of seeing any woman of any age with her hair down.

Okay, so maybe she was a throwback. Or maybe she was instinctively searching for a safer time.

Fat chance.

She'd put on a clean pair of jeans after her bath, along with a T-shirt that was now damp where she'd splashed it washing dishes. Hardly her most flattering outfit, but then, she wasn't out to impress anyone. Especially not some silver-haired devil who thought he had her number.

“Are we still winning?” She addressed her uncle, but handed the envelope back to the visitor.

He ignored her outstretched hand. He'd stood when she'd come back into the room, but turned back to the screen when several players huddled on the mound, their words screened behind gloves, mitts and face masks.

“Interesting,” she said calmly, placing the envelope on top of the
Coastland Times
on the coffee table when he failed to take it from her. If he left it behind again she would simply trash it. Let him find himself a relic from someone else's attic to use as bait.

“You read the letter?” He was still watching the game, but there was no mistaking who he was talking to.

“As much as I needed to.”

“Then you understand what this is all about?”

“Oh, I understand. Don't let us keep you, Mr. Beckett, I'm sure you're a busy man.”

Picking up on her skepticism, Beckett raised his dark eyebrows. In other words, go peddle your papers somewhere else, he interpreted, half amused, half irritated. If she'd understood only half of what she'd read, and been able to read just a fraction of what he'd given her, she'd done better than he had. Of course, he had the advantage of knowing what it was all about. The legend had been handed down in his family for generations. Once upon a time, someone named Beckett had cheated or stolen a sum of money from someone named Chandler. His mission was to make restitution so that the remaining Becketts could quit fighting their collective guilty conscience and concentrate on more important matters. Such as dealing with strokes, broken bones, Alzheimer's and emphysema.

The old man was watching them curiously instead of the action on the small-screen TV. Beckett would just as soon not have to try and explain over two sports announcers and a mob of cheering fans. “Look, could we go somewhere quiet where we can talk?”

“We've talked. I've read your papers, and I'm not interested.” As if to prove it, she crossed her arms.

His stomach growled, protesting its emptiness.
Dammit, he needed to wind up this business and get back to his own life. He made the mistake of reaching out to lead her into the hall. The brief brush of his fingers on her arm created a force field powerful enough to set off mental alarms. If the startled look on her face was anything to go by, she'd felt it, too. Jerking her arm free, she led the way to the front door, held it open and stood at attention, waiting for him to leave.

Reaching past her, he closed the screen door. “Mosquitoes,” he reminded her.

“Will you please just go?” Crossed arms again. The lady was at full battle stations. “Whatever it is you're doing, you're not doing it with me.”

Oh, but lady, I'd like to.
The thought came out of nowhere, catching him off guard. And dammit, he didn't need that particular distraction. He made it a policy never to mix sex with business.

“I'm not interested,” she said flatly.

“You're not interested in ten thousand dollars?”

Her jaw fell, revealing a tiny chip in an otherwise perfect set of china-white teeth. Beckett found the small imperfection immensely satisfying for reasons he didn't care to explore. He was growing a bit irritated by her refusal to hear him out.

“No. Absolutely not. I told you, I don't play that kind of game.”

“You think this is some kind of
game?
”

Her eyes flashed. “Isn't it?”

“No, ma'am, it is not!” He'd figured he'd be in, out and gone by now. Game or not, the lady wasn't
playing by the rules, which made him feel better about leaving the envelope containing the money with the old man while she was in another room going over the documents. “This belongs to Ms. Edwards,” he'd said to Uncle Fred.

“She goes by Chandler now. Maiden name. Don't want nothing to do with that rascal she married.”

Beckett could understand why, if the police reports and press coverage had been accurate. “Would you mind giving her this after I've left? She'll know what it's for.”

The old farmer had looked as if he'd like to know more, but just then, Chipper had hit a two-run homer. Then Queen Eliza had stalked into the room and tried to hand off the papers.

Now she did it again. He'd given the money to the old man, who had absently stashed the envelope under a half-empty potato chip bag. The papers had been left in plain sight. “Here, take these with you.” She said. “Don't trip over that big oak root on your way out. It's buckled some of the flagstones.”

Beckett stared her down. He was tempted to—

No, he wasn't. The only reason his glands were in an uproar was because he hadn't had a decent meal since he'd left his parents' home before daybreak that morning. Just because the woman was attractive didn't mean he'd lost his lost his mildewed mind—it only meant he hadn't lost his powers of observation.

He left, nearly tripping on the gator-size root. He quickly strode out to his rental, rationalizing that while he might not have a signed receipt, at least he
had a witness. Tomorrow, on his way to the airport, he'd stop by and get the old man's signature on a statement saying that Ms. Chandler-Edwards had received the money. He'd be a fool not to. No telling how many heirs might come crawling out of the woodwork once word spread that someone was making reparations by paying off a generations-old debt.

 

In a certain fourth-floor apartment in South Dallas, Charles “Cammy” Camshaw hunched over a table, munching French fries and concentrating on the list he was making. “Look, we know for sure where she's at now. It's been a week and the letter hasn't come back, right? And it was her that answered the phone?”

“I don't know, Cammy, she was always real nice to me. I mean, like, what if we go to all this trouble for nothing? Driving all that way costs money, and like, we'll have to eat and sleep and all.”

“I got it covered. We can write it off on our income taxes once we're up and running.”

“I don't know,” the shapely, freckle-faced blonde said again. She was sitting on the foot of the bed in a fourth-floor, two-room apartment painting her toenails a deep metallic blue. “You're so sure this is gonna work, but me, I'm not so sure. I mean, the police cleared her and all.”

“Hey, that's what makes this so great. Can't you just see it? Cops clear suspect. Security guard—make that private investigator Charles Camshaw—digs deeper and solves the crime of the year.”

“Huh. I wouldn't hardly call it that. He stole a whole bunch of stuff, but they caught him. Anyway, the guy was creepy, always smiling when people were looking and trying to cop a feel whenever his wife went out. But she was okay. I mean, she gave me stuff and all. She didn't act all stuck-up like some women I worked for.”

“Yeah, well, once we get our business off the ground, you won't have to go nosing up to no society types. It'll be you and me, babe. Camshaw and Camshaw, Private Investigations at Bargain Rates. How's that grab ya?”

Patty Ann capped the bottle and wiggled her toes. “What if it's a bust? She sold off all her stuff—pictures and jewelry and some old furniture. Even her designer gowns. I was there when the lawyer showed up and she gave him the money so he could pay back what her husband stole. That don't strike me as being so bad.”

“Hey, we're not going to do anything to hurt her, but you said yourself she was a smart lady. The way I see it, a smart lady would stash enough away until the stink blew over, then move to a brand-new location and start over, right? So she had a bunch of stuff and sold some of it—that was for show.”

“You don't know that.”

“Trust me, honey, in my business, you get to know how far people will go to survive. Now, I'm not saying she's done anything wrong, I'm just saying she's got plenty stashed away, waiting for things to cool
down. You don't think folks might like to know where their money is?”

“They weren't even living together when he got caught. He was staying at a hotel, and she'd just rented this cheesy apartment—I helped her move, even after she told me she wouldn't be able to afford me no more.”

“I still say she was in on it. Maybe not all the way, but she had to know something. Way I see it, she copped a plea, and they let her off easy.”

“That's not what the papers said.”

“Don't trust everything you read in the papers. They can be bought off just like everybody else. Look, she's living it up out there on the beach, right?”

“It didn't look like a beach on the map.”

“Close enough. We've got her spooked now, so once we turn up she'll break and then we can get us a story and sell it to the highest bidder. I'm thinking
National Enquirer
, but I'll settle for the
Star
.”

“I guess,” Patty Ann said doubtfully. “I'm startin' to wish I hadn't stole her address book. It makes me feel kind of…I don't know. Bad, I guess.”

“I know, babe. But look at it this way—she had her big chance. She blew it. That's tough, but hey, that's the breaks. Now it's our turn. Once we get the goods on her, we write our own story. If she's dirty, we go to the cops. If she's really innocent like you say, we go to the papers with a story about how this society woman is repenting her sins, living in the sticks and all. Papers pay big money for human-
interest stuff, and the good part is, either way, we get our name out there. First thing you know we'll be going on all the talk shows, telling about how we tracked her down using no more than an address book, a few phone calls and a first-class stamp. That's real brainpower. Best kind of publicity in the world. Hey, we might even write a book.”