Beckett's Cinderella. Dixie BrowningЧитать онлайн книгу.
job had to do with family matters. It couldn’t be delegated. The buck had been passed as far as it would go.
He’d allowed himself a couple of hours after leaving the airport to find the place and another half hour to wind things up. After that, he could go back to Charleston and tell PawPaw the deed was done. Any debt his family owed one Eliza Chandler Edwards, direct descendant of old Elias Matthew Chandler of Crow Fly, in what had then been Oklahoma Territory, was finally settled.
The genealogist had done a great job in record time, running into a snag only at the point where Miss Chandler had married one James G. Edwards, born July 1, 1962, died September 7, 2001. It had been police research—in particular, the Financial Crimes Unit—that had dug up the fact that the lady and her husband had been involved a couple of years ago in a high-stakes investment scam. Edwards had gone down alone for that one—literally. Shot by one of his victims while out jogging, but before he died he had cleared his wife of any involvement. She’d never been linked directly to any illegal activities. Once cleared, she had hung around Dallas only long enough to liquidate her assets before dropping out of sight.
Beckett didn’t know if she was guilty as sin or totally innocent. Didn’t much care. He was doing this for PawPaw’s sake, not hers.
In the end, it had been pure luck. Luck in the form of a reporter with an excellent visual memory who spent summer vacations on North Carolina’s Outer Banks and who had happened to stop at a certain roadside stand on his drive south.
He’d called Carson from Nags Head. “Hey, man, weren’t you checking out this Edwards woman a few weeks ago? The one that was mixed up in that scam out in Texas where all these old geezers got ripped off?”
And just like that, they’d had her. She’d holed up in the middle of nowhere with a gentleman named Frederick Grant, a great-uncle on her mother’s side. Check and double-check. If it hadn’t been for that one lucky break, it might’ve taken months. Beckett would’ve been tempted to pass the buck to the next generation, the way the men in his family had evidently been doing ever since the great-grandfather for whom he’d been named had cheated a business partner named Chandler out of his rightful share of Beckett money. Or so the story went.
At this point there was no next generation. Carson wasn’t currently involved with anyone, and Beckett had taken one shot at it, missed by a mile, and been too gun-shy to try again.
Although he preferred to think of it as too busy.
“Money, the root of all evils,” Beckett had mused when he’d checked in with his cousin Carson just before leaving Charleston that morning.
“Ain’t that the truth? Wonder which side of the law old Lance would’ve been on if he’d lived in today’s society.”
“Hard to say. Mom dug up some old records, but they got soaked, pretty much ruined, during Hurricane Hugo.” He’d politely suggested to his mother that a bank deposit box might be a better place to store valuable papers than a hot, leaky attic.
She’d responded, “It’s not like they were family photographs. Besides, how was I to know they’d get wet and clump together? Now stop whining and taste this soup. I know butter’s not supposed to be good for you, but I can hardly make Mama’s crab bisque with margarine.”
“Mom, I’m nearly forty years old, for cripes’ sake. While I might occasionally comment on certain difficulties, I never whine. Hmm, a little more salt—maybe a tad more sherry?”
“That’s what I thought, too. I know you don’t, darling. Just look at you, you’re turning grayer every time I see you.”
According to his father, Beckett’s mother’s hair had turned white before she was even out of her teens. All the girls in her high-school class had wanted gray hair. “It’s one thing to turn gray when you’re young enough to pass it off as a fashion statement. It’s another thing when you’re so old nobody gives it a second thought,” she’d said more than once.
For the past fifteen or so years, her hair had been every shade of blond and red imaginable. At nearly sixty, she scarcely looked more than forty—forty-five, at the most.
“Honey, it’s up to you how to handle it,” she said as he helped himself to another spoonful of her famous soup, which contained shrimp as well as crab, plus enough cream and butter to clog every artery between Moncks Corner and Edisto Island. “PawPaw tried his best to find these people, but then he got sick.”
Right. Beckett’s grandfather, called PawPaw by family and friends alike, was as charming an old rascal as ever lived, but at the age of one hundred plus, he was still putting things off. Cheating the devil, he called it. When it came to buck passing, the Beckett men took a back seat to none.
Which is why some four generations after the “crime” had been committed, Beckett was trying to get the job done once and for all.
“What’s the latest on the new tropical depression? You heard anything this morning?” Carson had asked.
“Pretty much stalled, last I heard. I hope to God it doesn’t strengthen—I’ve got half a dozen ships in the North Atlantic using the new tracking device. They all start dodging hurricanes, I’m going to be pretty busy trying to find out if any of them are being hijacked.”
“Yeah, well…take a break. Go play fairy godfather for a change.”
“Easy for you to say.”
When his mother had called to say that PawPaw had had another stroke, Beckett had been in the middle of negotiations with an Irish chemical tanker company that had been hijacked often enough for the owners to feel compelled to contact his firm, Beckett Marine Risk Management, Inc. “Just a teeny-weeny stroke this time, but he really would like to see you and Carson.” She’d gone on to say she didn’t know how long he could hang on, but seeing his two grandsons would mean the world to him.
Beckett came home. And, as Carson was still out of commission, it was Beckett who’d gotten stuck with the assignment.
So now here he was, chasing an elusive lady who had recently been spotted selling produce and God knows what else at a roadside stand in the northeast corner of North Carolina.
“PawPaw, you owe me big-time for this.” Beckett loved his grandfather. Hadn’t seen much of him recently, but he intended to rectify that if the old guy would just pull through this latest setback. Family, he was belatedly coming to realize, was one part anchor, one part compass. In rough weather, he’d hate to be caught at sea without either one.
So, maybe in a year or so, he thought as he crossed the state line between North Carolina and Virginia, he might consider relocating. He’d incorporated in Delaware because of its favorable laws, but that didn’t mean he had to stay there. After a while, a man got tired of zigzagging across too many time zones.
Pulling up at a stoplight, he yawned, rubbed his bristly jaw and wished he had a street address. He’d called ahead to rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle in case the chase involved more than the five-lane highway that ran from Virginia to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. Having experienced back roads of all descriptions from Zaire to Kuala Lumpur, he knew better than to take anything for granted. So far it looked like a pretty straight shot, but he’d learned to be prepared for almost anything.
“We’re out of prunes,” came a wavering lament from the back of the house.
“Look in the pantry,” Liza called. “They’ve changed the name—they’re called dried plums now, but they’re still the same thing.” She smiled as she snapped her cash box shut and tied a calico apron over her T-shirt and tan linen pants. Uncle Fred—her great-uncle, really—was still sharp as a tack at the age of eighty-six, but he didn’t like it when things changed.
And things inevitably changed. In her case it had been a change for the better, she thought, looking around at the shabby-comfortable old room with its mail-order furniture and hand-crocheted antimacassars. A wobbly smoking stand, complete with humidor and pipe rack—although her uncle no longer smoked on orders from