The Fiance Thief

by Tracy South

  I’d better sit down, too, she thought. As Alec typed, she tried to sum up what seemed to be a truly bizarre situation. Alec appeared to be putting the manuscript of her story into his laptop. Shoved to one side of the desk was a collection of cheese, chocolate, cola and wine, all of it unopened.

  “Are you about to have some kind of feast?” she asked him.

  He looked up again. “Oh. You mean all this stuff? I got it out, but then I got sidetracked. Have some.”

  “Thanks.” She got a couple of wineglasses down from the small cabinet over the refrigerator and found a corkscrew there, too. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “What? The corkscrew? Oh, sure. Just a sec.” He reached another stopping place, then quickly uncorked the wine and handed it back to her. “Do you mind pouring? I want to get as much of this in as possible before dinner.”

  Claire spoke slowly, trying to figure it all out as she talked. “As much of my story put into the computer as possible. Because…because why?”

  Alec held his finger on the page to mark where he’d quit. “It’s running next week, in the slot I had for the Miranda interview. That means it’s got to go to production by Monday. I don’t think it needs much work, though.”

  “You don’t think it needs much work? To run in next week’s issue?”

  He pointed at her with the finger that wasn’t marking his place. “I like how it isn’t all Harlan Edwards. But one thing I think you need to do is make it more obvious that this corporation guy, Blalock, knows what’s going on and is just stonewalling you and everyone else.”

  He sounded serious. He didn’t sound like he’d agreed to consider running her story, but like he was really burning the late-afternoon oil to get it into shape. This was more than odd. This was fishy.

  “Alec,” she said. “I know why you’re doing this, and you don’t have to.”

  “Doing what? Putting your story in this week’s paper? If you think I’m just doing it because I’m in love with you, that’s not it.”

  “Oh.” That hadn’t been what she was thinking, but hearing him deny it was pretty crushing anyway. “No, what I meant was…”

  Sneaking in a few words as they spoke, Alec continued, “I’d be doing it even if I wasn’t in love with you. It’s a great story.”

  Claire sneaked a longing glance at Alec’s tape recorder. If her horse and carriage turned into a pumpkin after she left here, she’d at least like to have some proof that those two remarkable phrases had come out of Alec’s mouth. “What did you say?”

  “I’m in love with you. This is a great story.” He grinned at her wickedly. “Which part sounds too good to be true?”

  Both, she thought to herself, but she said, “Alec, you think that if you act enthusiastic about this, I won’t judge you for your story on Miranda. I don’t anyway. Go ahead and write your interview with Miranda. I know it’s going to move a lot of copies.”

  “Damn right it will,” Alec said, turning back to her story. “It’s going to be a really hot story. I got great quotes from her.”

  Claire remembered her earlier conversation with Chris. “Listen, did you…”

  He continued talking, “But you’ve got this quote from Senator Johnson in here, back when he promised to something about the dumping. He’s going to be in town on Thursday, so maybe we can get some publicity for the paper if we tie that in with his visit. The Miranda thing is an evergreen, something that won’t date if it isn’t published right away.” Rifling through the pink papers, he turned to her and said, “Pictures.”

  It took her a second to hop on board his train of thought. “You mean do I have any? A few.”

  “Well, we can always cut out of here early tomorrow and go up to the sites.”

  Claire knew she was hearing more than she deserved to hear. Looking this particular gift horse in the ivories was a bad idea, but she couldn’t help herself. “Well, maybe you could run them both.”

  “Two big scoops in one week and nothing in the next?” He shook his head. “We want to give readers the impression that this isn’t a fluke, that we’re going to come up with great stuff every week.”

  Thinking she’d wait until later to remind him that he hadn’t previously given two shakes about those readers, Claire said, “You see, I was kind of hinting to Chris that I was going to tell Christine something no one else knew about Miranda.” She took a truffle from the plate. “By the way, how did that part of the interview go? I expect she denied it, but that’s okay. I mean, Trent Daniels will certainly back us up.”

  “Give me five seconds, and I’ll be done with this. I’m a crackerjack two-fingered typist.”

  Claire waited, watching him type his story. “That got it.” He turned and took a chunk of cheese from the plate. “Can I have a sip of your wine?”

  She gave him a sip, and he said, “Now what were you saying about Chris? Was it about him asking me to play badminton on the stairs a while ago?”

  “Not exactly,” Claire said. “I let him think I was going to say something big about Miranda tonight during the interview. Now, I’m not stupid. I know it will get cut out. But if Chris is in the room, he can report the story anyway. Secret revelations about ruthless screen heroine.’ Something like that. But if you wait to print your story, it means you’ll get scooped by the tabloids.”

  Alec’s face held a troubled look, one she couldn’t read. “First of all, I don’t consider those papers my competition.”

  Claire stared athim. “You mean you don’t care if they get the story first?”

  “I’m not doing that kind of story. I’m doing an in-depth profile of a local actress. It won’t include any mention of what you told me.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Now whose horse is wearing platform shoes?”

  Alec busied himself with configuring his modem and dialing into the paper. “You asked me not to mention it.”

  “I changed my mind,” she said.

  “So did I,” he told her. The silence that followed was broken by the sound of the modem dialing and connecting.

  “Tell me why,” Claire said, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. “Did she sweet-talk you out of mentioning it? Did she whisper in your ear that little old her would just be devastated if people thought she was anything less than a paragon of virtue? You said yourself it was just a college play.” She hated what she heard herself say next. “How many kisses did it take to change your mind?”

  “I can’t believe you would say that after what just happened here,” Alec said, standing to face her. “I felt sorry for her, okay?”

  “Sorry? Sorry that last month she was on the cover of two magazines rather than five?”

  “She might have gone out there to make you jealous. She might have even considered making a play for me. But she didn’t. Once she realized that my mind was on you and nobody but you, she considered me a sympathetic ear. She let her guard down around me. There was no spark between us, Claire. I promise you that. And she was honest enough to let me see that she’s eaten up with envy over you. Even somebody as emotionally dense as I am can see that’s why she made off with Scott.”

  Someone keep him away from the self-help books, Claire thought to herself. Pop psychology was not his forte. “Why would she be jealous of me?”

  “A thousand reasons. Because she grew up thinking how much prettier and smarter you were.”

  Claire was amazed. “Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes, she did,” Alec said. “She’s also jealous of how talented you are, as a writer and as an actress.”

  Claire grew suspicious. “You’re telling me all this so I’ll change my mind about what to tell Christine.”

  “It’s your secret,” Alec said. “I can’t tell you not to reveal it. If it had been mine, I would have written about it years ago.”

  “That’s the point,” Claire said hotly. “I’m tired of forgiving and forgetting. The fact remains, she got mad at me because I had lunch with her boyfri
end, and she thought she’d make a play for you in turn.”

  Alec shrugged. “If that’s the way you see it. I see someone who looks in the mirror every day and wishes she were more like you.”

  There was no use continuing this argument. Claire stood up and got her clothes together, grabbing an elegant black jumpsuit out of a suitcase. She was going to be on her best behavior at the dinner table, she decided, but that didn’t mean she had to fade into the mashed potatoes. Playing at self-confidence this weekend was leading her to believe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if that character were a regular part of her life.

  “I’m going to get ready,” Claire said.

  Alec shut off his computer. “Do what you have to do.”

  I will, Claire thought to herself. I will.

  HANK EXPECTED MICK TO BE at the front door, hat on, ready to go. Instead, he greeted them with a leisurely “Come in, come in. Come have a drink.

  You won’t believe who stopped by,” Mick said, pointing to a plump, pretty woman in her fifties who was seated at the kitchen table.

  “The former Mrs. Regan?” Hank guessed.

  “That’s her,” Mick said, beaming. “She came to talk to me about our daughter Sally. Who’s this?”

  Hank introduced Allie, reminding him that she knew how to get to Miranda’s.

  Mick took another sip of his bourbon. “You know, I’m not in any hurry to get the boat back this evening. It can wait.”

  “Oh.” Hank and Allie said with one voice. Hank took the unlabeled computer diskette out of his pocket and turned it over in his hands before putting it back. “Okay, then,” he said. “I guess we’ll head back into town.”

  “Sure,” Allie said.

  Mrs. Regan looked from one face to the other. “You know, Mick,” she said. “I think I’d like to go with them. I’ve heard the house is gorgeous, and it isn’t often I get to peek into the life of a real Hollywood star.”

  Hank, who knew from Mick’s tirades that the former Mrs. Regan was less impressed by money than almost anyone else, silently thanked her.

  Allie took the car keys from Hank’s hand and jiggled them. “Let’s go, guys. This band of intruders is about to storm Miranda Craig’s gate.”

  12

  “DO YOU THINK there’s some kind of universal distress signal for SOS?” Lissa was stretched out on the floor of the flat-bottomed boat, watching the sky as the sun crawled to sleep over the horizon.

  “You mean besides jumping up and down and waving our arms?” Scott asked. He was lying beside her.

  “That didn’t work very well for us, did it?” Lissa asked. In between eating cheese, drinking wine and talking, they’d made what they hoped were enthusiastic overtures at everyone who had passed by them. But the other boaters, with their smiles, waves and hoots, apparently thought they were just trying to express their feelings of solidarity and fellowship.

  Scott said, “I never had any reason to know them. Signals. It shows how little you ever really know about what’s going to happen in your life.”

  “I know just what you mean,” lissa said, leaning up on one elbow to look at him. “How stuff you thought was important just isn’t.”

  He leaned toward her, and she waited for his kiss. Just then, she heard the unmistakable sounds of an outboard motor.

  “Did you hear that?” Scott asked her. She nodded and they stood up, rocking the boat a bit as they waved and hollered at a small army green boat named Mary Sue.

  Unlike the boaters who had waved back at them, be hurried over. Cutting off the motor, he said, “I’m Andy Milton. You folks having some kind of trouble?”

  Scott explained what the motor was doing, or, more accurately, not doing.

  “I’m afraid I’m a fisherman, not a boat mechanic,” Andy said, gesturing to the bucket of fish he had in his boat. “If you all want to catch a ride with me to my house, though, you can call somebody about your boat from there. Then I could give you a ride back home.”

  “Actually,” Lissa said, “we were sort of expected at Miranda Craig’s. Do you know where that is?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s about three-quarters of a mile down the road from my house. There’s a big to-do going on there this weekend, I heard.”

  “Yes, there is,” Lissa said. “Some friends of ours are there, and they invited us to sail on over this afternoon.”

  “Just hop on in here, and as soon as we drop these fish off at my place, I’ll drive you over there.”

  With reluctance, Lissa agreed that they should leave their stuff in Mick’s boat. Scott helped her into the other, and they were off.

  “Sit anywhere you don’t see a fish,” Andy yelled over the motor.

  That was more difficult than it sounded. There were fish, remnants of fish or the definite smell of fish everywhere in the boat. Finally Lissa located a small space on the seat that appeared to be free of any kind of water-life ooze. Scott, who was apparently less picky, plopped down beside her.

  She was finally going to get to Miranda Craig’s house. She’d get an intimate peek at the life-style of Ridgeville’s most celebrated citizen. She’d toss out amusing bons mots to those who would appreciate her for the witty and sophisticated woman she was. And Scott would get to see Claire. Suddenly that didn’t sound so appealing.

  “So I guess you’re really eager to get there, huh?” Lissa said.

  “To see Claire? Oh, yeah. That’ll be great.” The words came out in a total monotone, and Scott rested his chin on his hand and stared at the boat floor. Then he seemed to brighten a little, and he looked up at her. “Say, you don’t think that Claire and this guy she went with…”

  Lissa sighed. “Not a chance.”

  After a couple of minutes, Andy pulled up to boat dock in back of rambling, comfortable home. He dumped the fish into an outside cooler, then ushered them into the house, hollering as he walked in, “Company, Mary Sue.”

  Mary Sue was a trim, twinkly version of Andy himself. They introduced themselves, but Lissa found it hard to keep her mind on the introductions with the comforting, peppery aroma of fried chicken wafting through the air. Having eaten only cheese and grapes all day, Lissa forgot all about her recent conversion to vegetarianism as her stomach gave an audible growl. Scott’s stomach echoed the cry.

  “You kids are starving,” Mary Sue said. “Stay for dinner.”

  “I told them I’d give them a run out to the Craigs’ house,” Andy told his wife. “They’re going to a party there.”

  Mary Sue put her hands on her hips. “Not without eating something first they aren’t.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Milton. We couldn’t possibly,” Lissa said. She tried to make herself sound convincing. Had they gone all this way and struggled so hard just to give it all up for a home-cooked meal? Besides, she reminded herself, she owed it to Claire to see whether there was anything left between her and her old boyfriend. She hadn’t dragged him down from New York City just so she herself could have her way with him.

  “Come look at what all I’ve cooked,” Mary Sue said, motioning them to follow her into the large kitchen. There on the countertop was fried chicken, plus a serving bowl full of creamy mashed potatoes and a platter of flaky oversize biscuits. A pecan pie sat next to the biscuits. Lissa felt Scott tremble a little beside her.

  “You’ve got to stay and help us eat some of this food. I always forget I’m cooking for just the two of us, and most of it will wind up going to the cats.” She got some plates down from the cabinet. “We wouldn’t be eating so late, except that Andy’s been out on the boat all day. I know dinner’s over for the Craigs. You won’t be getting a thing to eat.”

  “Nothing to eat,” Scott echoed.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll dig up some hors d’oeuvres,” Lissa said, taking Scott by the elbow and digging her nails into him slightly.

  Mary Sue sighed and looked away from them, looking as disappointed as Lissa’s kindergarten teacher had once been when she refused to join the clean plate club. She folded h
er arms across her chest. “Andy, I won’t let you drive them down the road until they’ve had a decent meal.”

  “Oh, no, we can’t,” Lissa said.

  “Why don’t you put a little something away first, then head down there?” the woman asked.

  “Yeah,” Scott said. “Why don’t we put a little something away first, then head down there?”

  Lissa narrowed her eyes at him while keeping an apparent smile on her face for the benefit of the Miltons. “Maybe you’re right,” she said sweetly. “It’s very kind of you to think about us. Is there a place where we could freshen up for dinner?”

  She and Scott were directed toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, and they shambled off toward it.

  “After you,” Scott said.

  Lissa motioned for him to be quiet, and pulled open a couple of doors near the bathroom till she found one that opened onto a flight of stairs. She motioned for him to follow her as she crept down the stairs and out of the basement through a side door.

  “We’ll walk there. Miranda’s house is just three-quarters of a mile down the road that way,” she said, pointing to her right.

  Scott frowned. “No, it’s three-quarters of a mile down the road that way,” he said, pointing left. “Listen, since we’re not sure, let’s go in there and eat some fried chicken and wait on Mr. Milton.”

  Lissa shook her head furiously. “Did you see how slowly everything moves in there? We’d still be on dessert and coffee when everyone was packing up and going back to California.” Poor thing—he did look hungry, and she patted him on the shoulder for encouragement. “I’m sure they’ll be heavy hors d’oeuvres.” She started up the driveway, Scott behind her, and he followed her without comment as they turned right up the road.

  Forty minutes later, they had seen nothing resembling Miranda Craig’s home. They looked at each other, then turned and walked left, trudging onward past the Miltons’ inviting home. Evening turned to night as they kept up a pace that would have been the envy of any power walker in the mall, but the road only seemed to get longer and more uninhabited the farther they walked.