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Uncle Fred still insisted on being present every day, even though he seldom got out of his rocking chair anymore. She encouraged his presence because she thought it was good for him. The socializing. He’d said once that all his friends had moved to a nursing home or gone to live with relatives.
She’d said something to the effect that in his case, the relative had come to live with him. He’d chuckled. He had a nice laugh, his face going all crinkly, his eyes hidden behind layers of wrinkles under his bushy white brows.
For the most part, the people who stopped for the free ice water and lingered to buy produce were pleasant. Maybe it was the fact that they were on vacation, or maybe it was simply because when Uncle Fred was holding court, he managed to strike up a conversation with almost everyone who stopped by. Seated in his ancient green porch rocker, in bib overalls, his Romeo slippers and Braves baseball cap, with his cane hidden behind the cooler, he greeted them all with a big smile and a drawled, “How-de-do, where y’all from?”
Now and then, after the stand closed down for the day, she would drive him to Bay View to visit his friends while she went on to do the grocery shopping. Usually he was waiting for her when she got back, grumbling about computers. “All they talk about—them computer things. Good baseball game right there on the TV set and all they want to talk about is going on some kind of a web. Second childhood, if you ask me.”
So they hadn’t visited as much lately. He seemed content at home, and that pleased her enormously. Granted, Liza thought as she broke open a roll of pennies, they would never get rich. But then, getting rich had been the last thing on her mind when she’d fled across country from the chaos her life had become. All she asked was that they sell enough to stay in business, more for Uncle Fred’s sake than her own. She could always get a job; the classified ads were full of help-wanted ads in the summertime. But Fred Grant was another matter. She would never forget how he’d welcomed her that day last May when she’d turned up on his doorstep.
“Salina’s daughter, you say? All the way from Texas? Lord bless ye, young’un, you’ve got the family look, all right. Set your suitcase in the front room, it’s got a brand-new mattress.”
The mattress might have been brand-new at one time, but that didn’t mean it was comfortable. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at that point in her life, she’d been a beggar. Now, she was proud to say, she earned her own way. Slowly, one step at a time, but every step was straightforward, documented and scrupulously honest.
“I’ll be outside if you need me,” she called now as she headed out the front door. Fred Grant had his pride. It would take him at least five minutes to negotiate the uneven flagstone path between the house and the tin-roofed stand he’d established nearly forty years ago when he’d hurt his back and was no longer able to farm.
Gradually he and his wife had sold off all the land, hanging on to the house and the half acre it sat on. Fred ruefully admitted they had wasted the money on a trip to the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville and a fur coat for his wife. He had buried her in it a few years later.
Now he and Liza had each other. Gradually she had settled into this quiet place, far from the ruins of the glamorous, fast-paced life that had suited James far more than it had ever suited her.
By liquidating practically everything she possessed before she’d headed here—the art, her jewelry and the outrageously expensive clothes she would never again wear—she had managed to pay off a few of James’s victims and their lawyers. She’d given her maid, Patty Ann Garrett, a Waterford potpourri jar she’d always admired. She would have given her more, for she genuinely liked the girl, but she’d felt honor bound to pay back as much of what James had stolen as she could.
Besides, her clothes would never fit Patty Ann, who was five foot four, with a truly amazing bust size. In contrast, Liza was tall, skinny and practically flat. James had called her figure classy, which she’d found wildly amusing at the time.
For a woman with a perfectly good college degree, never mind that it wasn’t particularly marketable, she’d been incredibly ignorant. She was learning, though. Slowly, steadily, she was learning how to take care of herself and someone who was even needier than she was.
“Good morning…yes, those are grown right here in Currituck County.” She would probably say the same words at least a hundred times on a good day. Someone—the Tourist Bureau, probably—had estimated that traffic passing through on summer Saturdays alone would be roughly 45,000 people. People on their way to and from the beach usually stopped at the larger markets, but Uncle Fred had his share of regulars, some of whom said they’d first stopped by as children with their parents.
After Labor Day, the people who stopped seemed to take more time to look around. A few even offered suggestions on how to improve her business. It was partly those suggestions and partly Liza’s own creativity she credited for helping revitalize her uncle’s small roadside stand, which had been all but defunct when she’d shown up. First she’d bought the secondhand cooler and put up a sign advertising free ice water, counting on the word free to bring in a few customers. Then she’d found a source of rag dolls, hand-woven scatter rugs and appliquéd canvas tote bags. She’d labeled them shell bags, and they sold as fast as she could get in a new supply. Last fall she’d added a few locally grown cured hams. By the time they’d closed for the winter, business had more than doubled.
Now, catching a whiff of Old Spice mingled with the earthy smell of freshly dug potatoes and sweet onions, she glanced up as Uncle Fred settled into his rocker. “You should have worn your straw hat today—that cap won’t protect your ears or the back of your neck.”
The morning sun still slanted under the big water oaks. “Put on your own bonnet, woman. I’m tougher’n stroppin’ leather, but skin like yours weren’t meant to fry.”
“Bonnets. Hmm. I wonder if we could get one of the women to make us a few old-fashioned sunbonnets. What do you bet they’d catch on?” Mark of a good businesswoman, she thought proudly. Always thinking ahead.
She sold three cabbages, half a dozen cantaloupes and a hand-loomed scatter rug the first hour, then perched on her stool and watched the traffic flow past. When a dark green SUV pulled onto the graveled parking area, she stood, saying quietly to her uncle, “What do you think, country ham?” When business was slow they sometimes played the game of trying to guess in advance who would buy what.
Together they watched the tall, tanned man approach. His easy way of moving belied the silver-gray of his thick hair. He couldn’t be much past forty, she decided. Dye his hair and he could pass for thirty. “Maybe just a glass of ice water,” she murmured. He didn’t strike her as a typical vacationer, much less one who was interested in produce.
“That ’un’s selling, not buying. Got that look in his eye.”
Beckett took his time approaching the tall, thin woman with the wraparound calico apron, the sun-struck auburn hair and the fashion model’s face. If this was the same woman who’d been involved in a high-stakes con game that covered three states and involved a few offshore banking institutions, what the hell was she doing in a place like this?
And if this wasn’t Eliza Chandler Edwards, then what the devil was a woman with her looks doing sitting behind a bin of onions, with Grandpaw Cranket or Crocket or whatever the guy’s name was, rocking and grinning behind her.
“How-de-do? Where ye from, son?”
“Beg pardon?” He paused between a display of green stuff and potatoes.
“We get a lot of reg’lars stopping by, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. You from up in Virginia?”
“It’s a rental car, Uncle Fred,” the woman said quietly.
Beckett tried to place her accent and found he couldn’t quite pin it down. Cultured Southern was about as close as he could come. She was tall, at least five-nine or-ten. Her bone structure alone would have made her a world-class model if she could manage to walk without tripping over her feet. He was something of a connoisseur when it came to women; he’d admired any number of them from a safe distance. If this was the woman he’d worked so damned hard to track down, the question still applied—what the devil was she doing here selling produce?
He nodded to the old man and concentrated on the woman. “Ms. Edwards?”
Liza felt a gaping hole open up in her chest. Did she know him? She managed to catch her breath, but she couldn’t stop staring. There was something about him that riveted her attention. His eyes, his hands—even his voice. If she’d ever met him before, she would have remembered. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”
“You’re not Eliza Chandler Edwards?”
Uncle Fred was frowning now, fumbling behind the cooler for his cane. Oh, Lord, Liza thought, if he tried to come to her rescue, they’d both end up in trouble. She had told him a little about her past when she’d first arrived, but nothing about the recent hang-up calls, much less the letter that had come last month.
“I believe you have the advantage,” she murmured, stalling for time. How could he possibly know who she was? She was legally Eliza Jackson Chandler again, wiping out the last traces of her disastrous marriage.
“Could I have a glass of that free ice water you’re advertising?”
On a morning when both the temperature and the humidity hovered in the low nineties, this man looked cool as the proverbial cucumber. Not a drop of sweat dampened that high, tanned brow. “Of course. Right over there.” Indicating the container of plastic cups, Liza fought to maintain her composure.
When he tipped back his head to swallow, her gaze followed the movement of his throat. His brand of fitness hadn’t come from any gym, she’d be willing to bet on it. Nor had that tan been acquired over a single weekend at the beach. The contrast of bronzed skin with pewter hair, ice-gray eyes and winged black eyebrows was startling, not to mention strikingly attractive.
The word sexy came to mind, and she immediately pushed it away. Sex was the very last thing that concerned her now. Getting rid of this man overshadowed everything.
But first she needed to know if he was the one who’d been stalking her—if not literally, then figuratively, by calling her in the middle of the night and hanging up. Just last month she’d received a letter addressed to her by name at Uncle Fred’s rural route box number. The return address was a post office box in South Dallas. Inside the plain white envelope had been a blank sheet of paper.
“I don’t believe you answered my question,” he said, his voice deep, slightly rough edged, but not actually threatening. At least, not yet.
“First, I’d like to know who’s asking.” She would see his demand and raise him one.
“Beckett. L. Jones Beckett.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here asking questions, Mr. Beckett.” If that really is your name.
“The name doesn’t ring any bells?”
Liza turned away to stare down at a display of summer squash. Had any of James’s victims been named Beckett? She honestly couldn’t recall, there had been so many. With the help of her lawyer, she’d done the best she could to make amends, but even after liquidating everything there still hadn’t been enough to go around. Of course the lawyers, including her divorce lawyer, whom she’d no longer needed at that point, had taken a large cut of all she’d been able to raise.
He was still waiting for an answer. “No, I’m sorry. Should it?”
“My grandfather was Lancelot Elias Beckett.”
“He has my sympathy.” Her arms were crossed over her breasts, but they failed to warm her inside, where it counted. Uncle Fred, bless his valorous heart, had stopped rocking and stopped smiling. His cane was at the ready, across his bony knees.
Two
This was the one. Beckett was certain of it. Otherwise, why was she so skittish? A simple farmer’s daughter selling her wares on a country road, no matter how stunning she might be, would hardly slam the door shut on a potential customer.
And she’d slammed it shut, all right. Battened down the hatches and all but thrown open the gun ports. Guarded didn’t begin to describe the look in those whiskey-brown eyes. Frightened came closer.
But frightened of what? Being brought in for questioning again?
So far as he knew, that particular case had been closed when her husband had taken the fall. She’d been a material witness, but they’d never been able to tie anything directly to her—even though she’d still been legally married to Edwards when he’d been shot in the throat by a man who’d been bled dry by one of his shell games. The victim, poor devil, had returned the favor.
“Not from Virginia, are ye?” the old man asked, causing them both to turn and stare. His smile was as bland as the summer sky. The brass-headed cane was nowhere in sight.
“Uh…South Carolina. Mostly,” Beckett admitted. He’d lived in the state of his birth for exactly eighteen years. He still kept his school yearbooks, his athletic trophies and fishing gear at his parents’ home, for lack of space in his own apartment.
The old man nodded. “I figgered South C’lina or Georgia. Got a good ear for placing where folks is from.”
“What do you want?” It was the woman this time. Her eyes couldn’t have looked more wary if he’d been a snake she’d found in one of her fancy canvas bags.
Under other circumstances, he might have been interested in following up on her question. Her looks were an intriguing blend of Come Hither and Back Off. “Nothing,” he told her. “I have something for you, though.” What he had was a worthless, mostly illegible bundle of paper. He’d left the money in his briefcase in the truck. If she wasn’t the right one, the papers wouldn’t mean anything to her, and if she was…
She was. He’d lay odds on it.
But she wasn’t ready to drop her guard. “Something you want me to sell for you? Sorry, we deal only with locals.”
Irritated, he snapped back, “Just some papers for now. Look, if you’ll give me a minute to explain—”
She jammed her fists in her apron pockets and stepped back against the counter. “No. You can keep your papers. I refuse to accept them. You’re a…a process server, aren’t you?” She had a face that could be described as beautiful, elegant—even patrician. That didn’t keep her from squaring up that delicate jaw of hers like an amateur boxer bracing for a roundhouse punch.
For some reason it got to him. “I am not a process server. I am not a deputy, nor am I a bounty hunter. I’m not a reporter, either, in case you were worried.” In his line of work, patience was a requisite. Occasionally his ran short. “I was asked to locate you in order to give you something that’s rightfully yours. At least, it belonged to a relative of yours.” Might as well set her curiosity to working for him. “I might add that I’ve had one devil of a time tracking you down.”
If anything, she looked even more suspicious. Considering what her husband had been involved in, maybe she had just cause. But dammit, if he was willing to fork over ten grand from his own personal bank account, the least she could do was accept it. A gracious thank-you wouldn’t be too far out of line, either.
“Why don’t I just leave this packet with you and you can glance through it at your leisure.” He held out an oversize manila envelope.
Liza jammed her fists deeper into the pockets of her apron. At her leisure? No way. He might not be a process server—she’d never heard of one of those who suggested anyone examine their papers at her leisure—but that didn’t make him any less of a threat. Lawsuits were a dime a dozen these days, and there were plenty of aggrieved parties who might think they had a case against her, just because she’d been married to James and had benefited from the money he’d swindled.
Benefited in the short run, at least.
Before she could get rid of him—politely or otherwise—a car pulled up and two couples and three kids piled out.
“Mama, can I have—”
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom, Aunt Ruth.”
“My, would you look at them onions. Are they as sweet as Videlias, Miss?”
Forcing a smile, Liza stepped behind the homemade counter, with its ancient manual cash register surrounded by the carefully arranged displays of whatever needed moving before it passed its prime.
“Those are from the Lake Mattamuskeet area.” She gestured in the general direction of neighboring Hyde County. “They’re so sweet and mild you could almost eat them like apples.”
She explained to the round-faced woman wearing blue jeans, faux diamond earrings and rubber flip-flops that there were no bathroom facilities, but there were rest rooms at the service station less than a mile down the road. Uncle Fred still referred to the five-lane highway as “the road.”
While she was adding up purchases, two more customers stopped by. Uncle Fred engaged one of the men in a conversation about his favorite baseball team. Finding a fellow baseball fan always made his day.
“Does that thing really work?” One of the women nodded to her cash register.
“Works just fine, plus it helps keep my utility bills down.” It was her stock answer whenever anyone commented on her low-tech equipment. Although what they expected of a roadside stand, she couldn’t imagine. She weighed a sack of shelled butter beans on the hanging scales.
“I saw something like that once on the Antiques Roadshow,” the woman marveled.
From the corner of her eye, Liza watched the stranger leave. Actually caught herself admiring his lean backside as he sauntered toward his SUV. Curiosity nudged her, but only momentarily. Attractive men—even unattractive men—who knew her name or anything at all about her, she could well do without.
He started the engine, but didn’t drive off. Through the tinted windshield, he appeared to be talking on a cell phone.
Who was he? What did he want from her? Just leave me alone, damn you! I don’t have anything more to give!
After James had been indicted, one distraught woman had actually tracked her down to show her a picture of the home she had lost when her husband had invested every cent they had saved in one of James’s real-estate scams. She’d been crying. Liza had ended up crying, too. She’d given the woman a diamond-and-sapphire bracelet, which certainly wouldn’t buy her a new home, but it was all she could do at the time.
To her heartfelt relief, the dark green SUV pulled out and drove off. For a few blessed moments she and Uncle Fred were alone. The midday heat brought a bloom of moisture to her face despite the fact that she still felt cold and shaky inside. She opened two diet colas and handed one to her uncle. She was wondering idly if she should bring one of the electric fans from the house when she spotted the manila envelope.
Well, shoot. She was tempted to leave it where it was, on the far corner of the counter, weighted down with a rutabaga.
Uncle Fred hitched his chair deeper into the shade and resumed rocking. “Funny, that fellow wanting to give you something. What you reckon it was?”
“Some kind of papers, he said.” She nodded to the envelope that was easily visible from where she sat, but not from the other side of the counter.
“Maybe we won the lottery.” It was a standing joke. Every now and then her uncle would mention driving up into Virginia and buying lottery tickets. They never had. Uncle Fred had surrendered his driver’s license a decade ago after his pickup had died, and Liza didn’t want anything she hadn’t earned. If someone told her where a pot of gold was buried, she’d hand over a shovel and wish them luck.
“I guess I’d better start stringing beans while things are quiet. I’ll freeze another batch tonight.” She froze whatever didn’t sell before it passed its prime. Her uncle called it laying by for the winter. It had a solid, comfortable sound.
“Aren’t you going to see what’s in the envelope?”
“Ta-dah! The envelope, please.” She tried to turn it into a joke, but she had that sick feeling again—the same feeling that had started the day James’s so-called investment business had begun to unravel. At first she’d thought—actually hoped—that the feeling of nausea meant she was pregnant.
Thank God it hadn’t.
“Here comes another car.” She handed her uncle the envelope and moved behind the counter. “Help yourself if you’re curious.”
There wasn’t much choice when it came to a place to stay. He could’ve driven on to the beach, but common sense told Beckett that on a Saturday in late August, his chances of finding a vacancy weren’t great. Besides, he wasn’t finished with Queen Eliza. By now she would have looked over the papers and realized he was on the level, even if she didn’t yet understand what it was all about. The name Chandler was easy enough to read, even in century-old faded ink. Add to that the letter from his grandfather, Elias Beckett—funny, the coincidence of the names. Elias Chandler and Elias Beckett. Two different generations, though, if the genealogist had the straight goods.
At any rate, he would go back after she’d closed up shop for the day to answer any questions she might have and hand over the money. Meanwhile, he could arrange to see a couple of potential clients at Newport News Shipyard. Things had clamped down so tight after September 11 that it practically took an act of Congress to get through security.
Fortunately, he had clearance there. He’d make a few calls and, with any luck, be on his way back to Charleston by tomorrow afternoon. He would spend a few days with his parents before heading back to Dublin to wind up negotiations with the tanker firm.
The important thing was to set PawPaw’s mind at ease. If, as he’d been given to understand, the Becketts owed the Chandlers money, he would willingly pay it back. In exchange, however, he wanted a signed receipt and the understanding that any future heirs would be notified that the debt had been settled. A gentleman’s agreement might have served in PawPaw’s day—not that it had served the original Chandler very well. But in today’s litigious society, he preferred something more tangible.
After that, he didn’t care what she did with the money. She could buy herself a decent cooler and a cash register that didn’t date back to the thirties or get herself a grind organ and a monkey for all he cared. He’d been given a mission, and he’d come too far not to carry it out. But he could hardly ask for a signed receipt for ten thousand dollars while she was busy weighing out sixty-nine cents’ worth of butter beans.
“Over to you, lady,” he said softly, setting up his laptop on the fake mahogany table in his motel room. He placed his cell phone beside it, tossed his briefcase on the bed, set the air-conditioning for Arctic blast and peeled off his sweat-damp shirt. He’d stayed in far better places; he’d stayed in far worse. At least the room was clean and there was a decent-size shower and reasonably comfortable bed. Slipping off his shoes, he waited for the phone call to go through.
“Car? Beckett. Yeah, I found her right where your friend said she’d be. Tell him I owe him a steak dinner, will you?” He went on to describe the place, including the old man she was apparently living with. “Great-uncle on her mother’s side, according to the genealogist’s chart. Looks like he could use a few bucks. The house is listing about five degrees to the northeast.”
Carson congratulated him. “When you headed back this way?”
“Tomorrow, probably. I’d like to handle some business in the Norfolk area as long as I’m this close. Maybe stop off in Morehead City on the way and be back in Charleston by tomorrow night.”
