Beckett's Cinderella

by Dixie Browning

  “Am I interrupting a ball game?” he asked when she opened the screen to let him inside. Did it reluctantly, he noted with something akin to amusement. She wasn’t going to give an inch, oh, no.

  “The game was this afternoon.”

  “Right. I actually forgot this was a holiday weekend until I got out on the highway. Is your uncle…?” Raising a questioning brow, he nodded to the living room.

  “Gone to bed. His arthritis bothers him when the weather forecast calls for rain—sometimes even when it doesn’t.”

  “Old bones are a better barometer than any computer model NOAA uses, at least that’s what PawPaw says.”

  Liza led him into the living room. It was smaller than his boyhood bedroom back in Charleston, its furnishings undistinguished—a few of them downright ugly—but it was a comfortable room. A small pile of orange peelings and a scattered newspaper indicated what she’d been doing when he’d arrived. He waited until she took her seat before settling onto the faux leather recliner.

  “Would you like to have another go at the documents, such as they are, or would you rather I just cut to the chase and tell you what I know about how it all started?”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’m here. You’re here.” Granted, it was later than he’d planned. What with the way both clock and calendar had lost all meaning during the process of traveling between Delaware and Dublin, his parents’ home and the hospital, then back and forth to this place, he hadn’t realized until after he’d left Charleston what day of the week it was, much less that it was the start of Labor Day weekend. Once he’d hit the highway, traffic had been pretty much bumper-to-bumper in both directions.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  Yeah, sure you are, he thought. Her arms weren’t crossed over her breasts yet, but that didn’t mean she’d lowered the drawbridge. “There’s really not much to tell. You looked over the packet. I’ve already given you a rough outline—at least, as much as I know about it. Evidently, our great-grandfathers were in business together around the turn of the century. Some kind of investment business, I believe.”

  The first shield snapped into place: she crossed her arms. He waited for her to comment, and when she didn’t he went on. “I don’t know what went wrong, but sometime after they split up, mine evidently got to worrying about some kind of debt he owed yours. Before he died, he asked his son—that’s PawPaw—to make good on it. Incidentally, that’s where the letter and the stock certificates came from.”

  “Stock certificates,” she repeated.

  “Well, yeah…you saw it. Stuff’s worthless now. I had it checked out with a broker. It might’ve had some value back in PawPaw’s day—enough to cover whatever my family owed yours, at any rate. Now it’s worth whatever a collector might offer. My guess—not even pennies on the dollar. It’s yours if you want it, but to settle the debt, the Becketts—”

  “Wait a minute, back up. If your—if the stock’s worthless, where did the ten thousand dollars come from?”

  Beckett frowned at a framed photograph on the mantel above the boarded-up fireplace. He could just make out a couple standing in front of a field of corn that was taller than they were. “Well, you see—”

  “Just tell me the truth, that’s all I ask. Because, quite frankly, when some stranger tracks me down and offers to give me something I’ve neither earned nor want, alarm bells start going off.”

  “Right. Sure. I mean, I can understand that.” Under the circumstances was implied. He was tactful enough not to mention it aloud. “But this is on the level. It started out with some old stock and a few promissory notes, but—” Oops. Hadn’t Car said that one of the charges the Financial Crimes Unit had nailed her husband on was selling fake promissory notes? “What I mean is—”

  “What you meant was that since my husband was a crook, I must be one, too. Either that or incredibly naive. That I’ll grant, but did you actually expect me to grab the bait and not even bother looking for a hook?” Patches of color bloomed on both her cheeks. “Or wait—I get it now. This is one of those pyramid schemes, isn’t it? You hook me, then I’m supposed to talk all my friends into buying your worthless stock or notes or whatever, right? I’m supposed to get a big commission for every sucker I bring in. They drag in their friends, and they’re promised commissions, too, only the commissions never happen. If that’s the way it works, I already know the routine, so thanks but no thanks.”

  In other words, been there, read the book, bought the T-shirt. Beckett couldn’t much blame her for being skittish, but dammit! “Look, I know what you must be thinking and I’m sorry, but I’m not your husband. This is on the level.” He’d made the mistake of activating the recliner when he first sat down. Now he clicked the leg rest back into place, sat up and glared at her. “If you’d just listen to what I’m saying and stop—”

  “I listened.”

  “—stop interrupting, maybe we could wind things up here and I could get on with my own business.”

  “Oh? You mean this isn’t your real business?”

  He looked at her.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Her smile was utterly guileless.

  “That’s it. Try to throw me off balance so I’ll forget where I was. Coffee? Yes, thank you very much, I would like a cup of coffee! Black, no sugar.” And no arsenic, please.

  That smile of hers would have one-upped the Mona Lisa, chipped front tooth and all. “Black, no sugar,” she repeated. “Right. Now, why am I not surprised?”

  She left, and a few moments later he got up and stalked after her. If she had any thought of slipping out through the back door, she was in for a surprise. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her; surprisingly enough, he did. But Beckett had no intention of letting her off the hook, now that he was so close to winding things up. He had a feeling PawPaw might not be around much longer, and if he could do this one thing to put his mind at rest he would damned well do it. Even if he had to hold her down and force her to accept the money.

  Five minutes—make that ten. Five for a cup of whatever brew she was concocting, five more to wind up this crazy business. Then he’d be on his way.

  She hadn’t escaped out the back door, after all. With a mutinous look on her face, she was measuring coffee, spilling almost as much as she poured into the filter basket.

  “What’s with the ladder I saw propped up against the roof? Getting ready to put up a bigger sign?” Two could play the game of diversion.

  “Hardly. Roof rot. A section of gutter fell off this morning, and Uncle Fred wanted to know if the roof was going to cave in.”

  “Is it?” Leaning against a counter, he crossed his legs at the ankles. God, he was tired.

  “Probably. Sooner or later. Nothing lasts forever.”

  “I’m surprised you could find anyone to check it out on a holiday weekend.” Absently, he reached for a peach from the bowl on the kitchen table. Miss Dora always kept a fruit bowl filled in the kitchen of his mother’s house. She used to swat his hand whenever he reached for a cookie before meals, but she never minded his sneaking fruit.

  Now, without even thinking, he took out his handkerchief and rubbed the fuzz off before biting into the soft, ripe fruit.

  “You might try washing it first.”

  “Sorry. What you mean is, I might try asking first.”

  “That, too,” she said dryly, setting the coffee to brew. With any luck, he told himself, they’d have wound up their business by the time it was done. He could gulp and run. He needed the caffeine.

  Wrong. Caffeine was the last thing he needed. He’d refueled his nervous system at every pit stop along the way. Maybe what he was looking for was an excuse to prolong his exposure to this maddening woman until he could figure out what it was about her that kept drawing him back here. He had an unsettling feeling it was no longer entirely PawPaw’s unfinished business.

  “What’s the word on the gutter—eaves, whatever?” If he could keep her off guard, maybe he could sneak
in with a flank attack.

  “I told you I don’t know yet. I got out the ladder and set it up first thing this morning, but so far I haven’t had a minute all day to go up and look.”

  God, she was something else. Up close, her skin was even more remarkable. Pale to the point of translucency. She smelled like soap and oranges. Probably rushed off her feet all day selling her cabbages and peaches and whatnot. On her, even exhaustion looked good. “You know, you really should hire some help. Has it occurred to you that while you’re busy trying to operate that antique gizmo of yours, a lot of stuff probably walks out without stopping by the checkout counter first? Not all the pirates are on the high seas.”

  “You know, you really should mind your own business.” She threw his words back at him. “Has it occurred to you that if I could afford to hire help, I’d have done it long before now? And for your information, I know—better than most, probably—that not all pirates are on the high seas.” She speared him with a look from her clear, whiskey-colored eyes.

  “Ouch,” he said softly. “Eliza, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything personal, I was just making an observation.”

  He expected her to tell him to take his observations and hit the road. Wouldn’t much blame her if she did. Instead, she did the last thing he’d ever have expected. “Have you eaten supper yet?”

  Like a bear coming out of hibernation, his stomach growled. Well, hell. “Not yet. I was hoping to wind things up early enough to head back to Charleston tonight. Figured I’d get something to eat on the road.”

  “You shouldn’t drive when you’re this tired.” It was a quarter past nine.

  “I’ll need to go back at least as far as Elizabeth City to find a vacancy. The place where I stayed last time I was in this area is booked up, all five units. I called ahead once I saw all the traffic and realized what was going on.”

  She got out a frying pan. Beckett bit into the peach, afraid to say more for fear of rocking the boat. Obviously exhausted, she was moving like a sleepwalker, and hungry as he was, he’d almost rather see her go to bed than stand there and cook whatever she had in mind to cook.

  His imagination, hyped by too much caffeine over the long day’s drive, created moving images of her elegant body stepping out of those rumpled pants, pulling the chambray top over her head and reaching behind to unfasten her bra. Women’s arms were a remarkable feat of engineering, the way they could reach back and then so far up. Men’s arms were different—at least his were. But even as tired as he was, he’d have made it easy for her if she’d asked. Pulled her closer, supporting her while he reached around and unhooked her bra, then eased the straps off her shoulders, following them with his lips until—

  “One egg or two? I’m scrambling.”

  “Uh…two?” Wake up, man, you’re dreaming! “I can make toast if you’ll show me where—”

  “Bread box.” She pointed it out, then indicated the toaster before dropping three slices of bacon into a skillet. Dare he hope one of them was for him?

  “About the ladder—Eliza, you shouldn’t—”

  “Most people call me Liza.”

  “Thanks…Liza. Some people call me Bucket, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” That earned him a reluctant smile. “You mentioned setting up the ladder. You didn’t do it yourself, did you?”

  “You think I’d let Uncle Fred lift something that heavy? I’m perfectly capable of carrying and setting up a ladder, but thanks for your concern. We don’t have butter—we use that healthy kind of margarine. Uncle Fred’s cholesterol isn’t anything to brag about.”

  “Neither is mine.”

  She was trying not to smile again, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. Her eyes were sparkling again, too, this time not with anger. “Funny, the things men find to brag about, isn’t it? Uncle Fred brags that his blood pressure is lower than his doctor’s.” Small talk. He could handle that. “Of course, that doesn’t keep him from getting all hot and bothered and yelling at the TV.”

  “Any particular targets?”

  “Politicians and baseball teams who aren’t the Braves.”

  Grinning, Beckett accepted a plate with a mound of golden eggs and two slices of bacon just as the coffeemaker uttered its last gurgle. He dropped a slice of toast onto each plate while Liza set out a jar of fig preserves. “He and PawPaw would hit it off. PawPaw used to watch the news every night just so he could trace the ancestry of every politician even mentioned. You’d be surprised at how many unmarried mothers had sons who grew up and went into politics. Excluding my own father, of course. I’ve seen the marriage records inside the family bible.”

  She actually laughed aloud. Beckett wondered if sleep deprivation had finally done him in. He’d never before realized what a turn-on a woman’s laughter could be. He said, “Nobody ever took offense. I guess it was just PawPaw’s way of blowing off steam once he got too old to do much else.”

  “He lives with you?”

  “With my folks. Uncle Lance and Aunt Kate would have been glad to have him, but our house is bigger. Dad and I used to watch Mom and PawPaw going at it over some issue or another and place bets on who would win the argument.”

  “I wish I’d gotten to know my family that well,” she said wistfully.

  She picked up a slice of crisp bacon, and he admired her hands. They were long, slender and looked surprisingly capable. In fact, he admired them all the way up to her shoulders. And beyond.

  “My mother died when I was eleven,” she went on. “My father remarried less than a year later, and he and his new bride moved to New Mexico while I was in boarding school in Austin. I visited during vacations, but somehow—you know.” She shrugged. “It just wasn’t the same. It was her house, not my home. Daddy was more her husband than he was my father.”

  It was a perfect opening to ask about her cousin, the only other Chandler heir they’d been able to find. He hoped to God her father hadn’t started a second family out in New Mexico, because as far as Beckett was concerned, the buck stopped right here.

  She rose and topped off their cups and he murmured his thanks. At the rate he was drinking the stuff, he wouldn’t have to worry about finding a room tonight. What was that old poem about having “miles to go before I sleep” or words to that effect?

  They ate silently and efficiently. They weren’t the best scrambled eggs he’d ever tasted—Miss Dora put cheese and sour cream in hers—but they did the job. He could have eaten half a dozen slices of bacon.

  “You wanted to explain something,” she reminded him.

  Back to business. Beckett rose, scraped off his plate. Seeing no sign of a dishwasher, he rinsed it, left it in the sink and sat down again. As long as she was in the mood to listen, he’d better start talking. “To start with, this is something that’s carried over for—what, four generations now? Like I said, we Becketts are notorious procrastinators.”

  “Oh, I don’t know…you’re here, aren’t you?” Even when she was tired, her smile got to him. There was something about her….

  Or maybe it was just that his resistance was low. Lack of sleep, worry about his father and PawPaw—throw in irregular hours and too much junk food on the road and it was no wonder his mind kept straying from the business at hand.

  Nah, it was the woman. Something about her seemed to resonate in a way that was…disconcerting, to say the least. He had a feeling that if they hadn’t met here and now, they’d have met some other time, some other place.

  Which was downright spooky.

  “You do understand, then? You’re not still thinking this is some kind of a con?”

  Bedraggled and visibly tired, she blotted her lips with the grace and finesse of a grand duchess. “Let’s just say I’m willing to listen with an open mind and this time I’ll try not to prejudge. I won’t promise to take whatever it is you want to give me—the money, I mean. It’s not mine, no matter how much your family wants to clear its conscience, but if you can make your case before I fall asleep, I p
romise to listen.”

  “Point taken. Liza, did it ever occur to you that you could simply accept the money and hand it over to your favorite charity? Or buy your uncle a new roof?”

  “I haven’t—” But before she could say more, the phone rang. And rang again. Beckett glanced at the old-fashioned instrument and waited for her to reach for it.

  On the third ring, he said, “Aren’t you going to get it?”

  “It’s probably a wrong number. I get a lot of those.”

  “Dammit, it might be for me!” Before common sense could kick in to remind him that anyone calling him would have called him on his cell phone, he snatched up the receiver. “Grant residence, Beckett speaking.”

  Silence. He heard what sounded like a muffled whisper somewhere in the background and the connection was broken. “What the hell?” he muttered, glaring at the receiver.

  “I told you so.”

  “Yeah, you did. Probably a wrong number.”

  When she shrugged and looked away, he said, “Liza?” Reaching across the table, he covered her hands with his. Hers were ice-cold. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

  She shook her head dismissively. “Oh, you know—kids’ games. Call someone in the middle of the night and then hang up.” It was hardly the middle of the night, but he got the point. “I’ll probably go out some morning and find the stand’s been decorated with toilet tissue.”

  His thumb continued to stroke the back of her hand. “Have you reported it?”

  She raked back her hair with her free hand, causing the tortoiseshell clip at the back of her head to lose its grip. A length of wavy, auburn hair fell across her shoulder. Steeling himself, Beckett resisted the urge to touch it.

  “It’s only happened four times,” she went on. “This makes five. And who would I report it to? What could the sheriff do? I doubt if even the phone company could do anything about it. Besides, it’s just a wrong number.”