Beckett's Convenient Bride (7 page)

“Uh-huh.”

In the ten minutes or so it took to get there, she told him about the work in progress and about
Claire the Loon,
which had been optioned for TV, but probably wouldn't make the cut. Carson found himself intrigued by the way the woman's mind worked. He told her she could probably look at a rock and make up a story about it.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, but didn't deny it.

And then they were at the old church. Boarded-up windows, leaning steeple, weeds growing up through the graveled parking lot. Off to one side stood several makeshift tables in various stages of disrepair, used in bygone days, no doubt, for dinner-on-the-ground meetings.

He deliberately parked off the road near the entrance to the parking lot in case there were any tracks worth examining. If a deputy had checked out the scene, that meant there'd be at least one more set of tracks obliterating the evidence. As for anything else, he didn't hold out a lot of hope. Usually in a case where a body went missing, a certain level of professionalism was indicated.

Which made Kit's situation all the more precarious, he reminded himself, one hand on the door as he scanned the peaceful scene. Anyone who took the time to remove the body was unlikely to allow a potential witness to go free.

“It's nice, isn't it? I mean other than…you know.” He could hear the brittle edge in her voice. She had obviously tried hard to convince herself that she'd been mistaken, but it hadn't worked. The lady had definitely heard something she wasn't meant to hear and seen something she wasn't meant to see, and as he was the only one who believed her at the moment, it was up to him to protect her.

Carson was half tempted to bring up the reason he had tracked her down just to get it out of the way. Knowing something of what his cousin Lance had gone through trying to convince Liza that he wasn't trying to pull a con when he'd offered her ten
G
s and a chunk of worthless certificates, he was tempted to rush through the spiel while Kit was still too distracted to argue.

He'd already wasted what—two days? Three? By the time he'd reached North Carolina he'd been too damned miserable to track time with any degree of accuracy. The fact that he had yet to mention the yellowed, bug-eaten, all-but-illegible stock certificates and the check with her name on it said a lot about his inability to focus.

She could obviously use the money. Hell, she didn't even own a TV. So why not just hand off, head south and get on with the next thing on his agenda? He still had a few more days on disability, plus a lot of unused leave. He could stretch it a few more days if he had to, but sooner or later he needed to get on with his own life.

Kit slid out of the car and he moved around to stand beside her. “Right over there,” she said, pointing to a general area near the center of a weedy, poorly graveled surface designed to hold maybe a dozen cars. “That's where the body was. I thought at first it was a deer or a big dog.” She shuddered. Without thinking, he put his arm around her. She was stiff at first, but he sensed a yielding. A reluctant yielding, as if she didn't want to give in to her own worst fears.

They stood like that for a couple of minutes while he studied the alleged crime scene, filing away the details for later evaluation. Not that there was much to see. No yellow tape, that was for damned sure. Some low scrub, mostly groundsel, yaupon and wax myrtle. Thanks to his mother, he knew his shrubbery, cultivated and otherwise. Beyond that was the usual wetland growth, mostly bulrushes, with the invasive phragmites starting to move in and a creek winding in from the nearby Currituck Sound.

Kit started to move out onto the parking lot, but he caught her arm and pulled her back, not wanting her to compromise any possible evidence. Somehow, her back ended up pressed against his chest, her bottom against his
groin. For a moment neither of them moved, but he didn't miss the sharp intake of her breath. Carson told himself he was holding her back only because he didn't want her trampling any possible evidence.

Speaking of evidence, there was no way she could miss the evidence of his body's involuntary reaction, which could be described as enthusiastic, inappropriate, unwanted and damned embarrassing.

“Do you see what I see?” In an effort to distract her, he pointed toward the center of the area in question. “Look it over—tell me what strikes you as odd.” He stepped back, giving her time to recover—giving them both time.

“Well…some of the weeds are bent over,” she said thoughtfully. “Like they'd been raked or something,” she added after a moment.

“But just in one narrow area.”

“Like something was dragged across,” she said, picking up on his line of thought.

“Right. To just about where we're standing now.”

Kit glanced down at her feet, then looked at him over her shoulder. “Are we messing up evidence?”

“I doubt it. Tracks of at least two cars have been here recently.”

“Mine?”

He shook his head. They were standing side by side now, a safe few feet apart, facing the old Primitive Baptist church with its leaning steeple. Kit's hands were on her hips, her feet spread in a take-no-prisoners stance. Her braid was already relinquishing control of her curly auburn hair.

Dammit, he didn't need this kind of a distraction, not now.

Not ever, a dutiful conscience reminded him.

“Since yours. One was a standard-size sedan.” A patrol car, he figured. “You said the sheriff had driven out to investigate?”

“Someone from the department did. I guess that's why they were so angry. They didn't find anything.”

“I figure the other vehicle for a pickup truck, which narrows it down to maybe a hundred or so possibilities just in the immediate vicinity. With no leads, there's no way of narrowing it down further.”

“What about that funny sound I heard when whoever fired the shot drove off? I told you about it, didn't I?”

“Right. A muffler pack narrows the suspects down to maybe a few dozen. Offhand, I'd say roughly three out of every five vehicles in this area are pickup trucks or SUVs.” Carson moved onto the graveled lot, waving for her to stay behind him. Unless he got lucky, without forensics he couldn't prove much except that a certain area had been disturbed while all the rest remained pretty much untouched except where a vehicle—probably Kit's Ladybug—had driven over it. Something—or someone—had been dragged away from roughly the center of the parking lot. The area could have been raked to cover any bloodstains that might have soaked into the surface, but depending on the caliber, the slug was probably still inside the victim's head. Odds were that no shell casing would be found, but if he could rent a metal detector, he might make a few sweeps.

Dammit, he shouldn't have to do this. That's what the local law was for. He should never have gotten mixed up in it in the first place.

She was watching him closely with those unsettling eyes. Either he was reading too much into a simple gaze, or she was sending messages he was in no shape to receive.

Or the message was scrambled and he lacked the key to translate.

Probably just waiting for him to follow her on a tour. “All right, show me this cemetery,” he said, wishing he were in his own jurisdiction. Wishing he knew more about the local law.

Wishing the woman herself weren't so damned distracting.

I
t was nearing noon when they completed the tour. Carson had wanted to drive directly to the sheriff's office, but when he'd called to get directions he'd been told Sheriff Mayhew was in Raleigh at a meeting of the Sheriff's Association, and that both deputies were away from the office.

“I told you it wouldn't do any good,” Kit said, wandering in with two napkin-wrapped sandwiches. Offering him one, she said, “Feta cheese and dandelion greens on whole wheat with salsa and ripe olives.”

He peeled back a flap of napkin and eyed the thing warily. “I'm, uh—not particularly hungry.”

“You need to eat to regain your strength. I saw you limping out there. You might not have sneezed all day, but you can't tell me you're not suffering from something. Is your head still hurting?”

He shook it. It didn't fall off, so he told her he was
fine, just fine. Her gaze slid down his body, centering on his knees. He was still wearing the pants he'd worn yesterday, mud-stains and all. He'd brought along a second pair of khakis just in case, along with a clean shirt and a decent jacket, but he was keeping those for emergencies.

Although after what he'd been through so far, he didn't even want to think about what might constitute an emergency. “I don't usually eat weeds.”

“Don't know what you're missing. Try it, you might like it. If you don't, you can pull out the greenery.”

He took a bite. She settled onto one of the kitchen chairs and he hooked the other one and sat. The stuff wasn't too bad. At least, if it was, the salsa was hot enough to cover the damage, not to mention cauterizing any flu germs that might be hanging around.

“Uh—I don't think I'm contagious,” he felt obliged to say. At least he wasn't unless he gave in to any wild impulses.

Rising stiffly, he poured them both a glass of milk, then turned to find her eyes focused on his nether regions again. Before he could question her interest, she laid down her sandwich and said, “You're still limping. I didn't hit you all that hard, did I?”

“You didn't.” Hadn't hit him at all, but he wasn't above using her conscience to his advantage. “Most of the damage was already done, but I might've twisted something when I jumped out of the way.”

“What damage? Tell me about it.”

Like she cared about his health. Still, all things considered she'd been pretty decent. “You know—the usual. Bad cold now—accident a few weeks back. Aren't you even curious about how I knew who you were?”

“What usual? Your bungee cord was too long? You leap tall buildings without a safety net?”

“Enough about me. Look, admit it—you were scared stiff when I called you by your full name. Aren't you even going to ask how I knew?”

She frowned, then shook her head and took another bite. When she was able, she said, “I panicked when I thought you'd come to silence me, but now that I know you didn't, I figure it has something to do with either my folks or my books. But you're from South Carolina, not Virginia, so it's probably the books. Not that I'm a celebrity or anything like that—I mean, I've done a few autograph sessions, but there are plenty of really well-known authors right here on the Outer Banks. Gilbert's Point isn't actually part of the banks, but you know what I mean.”

He didn't, but he was willing to let her ramble since it was what she did best. If he could sift through half of what she said and match up a word here and there, he might have a clue as to what she was all about.

Then again, he might not.

“Wait here, I want to show you something,” he said. Laying his half-eaten sandwich aside, he rose and headed for the living room where he'd left his briefcase. Just as he reached for it, his cell phone rang.

There were times when he wished the coverage weren't so damned good.

Identifying the number as Margaret's, he said, “Yeah, what's wrong?” She rarely called him unless there was a last minute change of plans.

There was a last minute change of plans.

“The hell you say,” he muttered, leaning against the doorframe.

From the kitchen, Kit was staring at him, her eyes questioning. “What's wrong? she mouthed.

“Listen, Maggie, can it wait until I get home? Mom's all right, isn't she? You didn't tell her—”

Kit came and stood beside him and he reached out absently and hauled her closer. “Listen, don't make a move until I get home, will you just promise me that much? Your friend can wait another few days, can't he?”

Kit didn't say a word, but feeling her surprisingly sturdy body beside him felt good. Damn good. He broke the connection and held back on expressing himself. His mama had taught him better than to use foul language in the presence of a lady. “Okay, you want some answers? We'll trade. You wouldn't happen to have any beer on hand, would you?”

She shook her head. “I don't keep anything alcoholic in case I'm allergic.”

That pulled his attention away from his immediate problem. “Allergic to beer? The hops, you mean?”

“My mother was an alcoholic,” she said with grave dignity. “I think maybe her father might have been one, too, I'm not sure. I don't really remember Mama's family.”

Carson rubbed the back of his neck. “Coffee, then. Strong.”

While she measured out grounds and set the pot to brewing, he paced the small kitchen, sifting through various mental files in order of priority. Then, while the pot did its burbling duty, he straddled a chair and started talking in no particular order.

Evidently the style was contagious.

“I looked you up on a chart—tracked you down mostly through your cousin. By the way, she says you owe her a call or at least an e-mail.”

Kit perched on the bar stool—she had only the one. It didn't match anything else in the room. “Liza? How do you know her? I don't do computer things.”

“Like I told you, didn't I? She married my cousin. I guess that makes us cousins, right?”

 

Kissing cousins. The thought popped into her mind out of nowhere. Kit tried not to let his wickedly attractive grin affect her. When on earth had her life gone so completely off the rails? She really, really needed to be in control, and right now she wasn't even in control of her own kitchen.

“Wrong,” she said. “I don't even know you. I have no idea what you're doing here except that I might have caused you an injury and you're obviously sick, and—well, I guess I needed someone and you just happened along, but I don't need you any longer.”

The grin didn't fade. If anything, it got even wider. Truly extraordinary eyes, she thought disjointedly. She needed to get rid of him—he was the last thing she needed, the very last. “Look, if you've got something to say, then spit it out. I've got a lot to do and I don't even know where to start.”

He raised his eyebrows in a way that sucked the words out of her before she could stop the flow. “Okay, so I do know. First I need to make the sheriff believe me, and then I've got to figure out how to stay alive, and then there's my grandparents.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. With a stricken look, she whispered, “Oh, for Heaven's sake, the anniversary party!”

“Lucent as ever,” he said. “Good to know you haven't lost your chain of thought.”

“Oh—bull!”

“That about sums it up,” he said, the grin fading.

That two-day growth of beard had to be a fashion statement, Kit thought despairingly. On him, it was lethal.
“All right, so now you know my story. Now it's your turn. Why did you come looking for me?”

“To give you ten thousand dollars.”

Her mouth fell open. She snapped it shut, glaring at him. “Right. And your name is Ed Thingamabob—you know who I mean. And you're going to tell me I just won the sweepstakes, right?”

He sighed as if he was running short of patience. “Look, it's easy if you'll just listen and not make any judgment until I'm finished. In case you hadn't heard, your cousin Liza jumped to the wrong conclusion and Lance had one hell of a time trying to persuade her he was on the level.”

The cousin thing again—she'd almost forgotten. There was obviously some connection between them, but cousinhood was not the relationship she'd have preferred, given a choice.

Oh, and what would you prefer?

Don't ask, she thought, quelling a rush of something that felt dangerously like arousal.

Lips clamped tightly together, she waited for him to continue.

Sprawling in the chair, with one elbow propped on her table, he did. “Listen, at the moment I've got a lot on my mind. I don't have time to hold you down and convince you.” Her imagination flared at the thought. “Just take my word for it, I owe you the money—maybe a lot more, but ten
K
is all I can scrape up without liquidating a few investments, and with the market on a downward spiral—”

She hopped down off the stool and grabbed her head with both hands. “Stop! Just stop right there, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but you don't owe me anything! Cousin or not, I never even saw you before yes
terday, so if you don't mind, how about just moving on. My life at the moment is complicated enough without any—any slow-walking, smooth-talking stranger offering me candy. I wasn't born yesterday, you know.”

He arched a dark brow at that, and she could have bitten her tongue. Speak first, think later—if ever. You'd think she would learn after awhile.

The errant eyebrow settled back into place and he looked so discouraged she nearly gave in. That was the last thing she could afford to do. In less than twenty-four hours she had discovered a weakness she'd never even known she had.

A weakness for blue-eyed men with square, grizzled jaws and twisty grins—with hard, lean bodies and a soft-spoken take-command attitude that rubbed her the wrong way and the right way, at the same time. It didn't even make sense. She wasn't about to allow anyone to take control of her life, no matter how appealing he was. She had good reason to know what happened when a woman gave up control, and it wasn't going to happen to her, no way, no how.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. “Listen, Kit, it's not what you think. Just give me another minute, all right? Go back with me a few generations.”

Gladly, a romantic, irresponsible element whispered.

“Your great-great-grandfather—I think—lent some money to my great-great-grandfather. You with me so far?”

Ignoring the whisper, she crossed her arms over her breasts and stared him down, daring him to convince her of anything.

“My grandfather—his name, in case it matters, was Lancelot Beckett—the first of several, actually. Anyhow, at the time all this got started, his family had lost every
thing in the War Between the States and he was having a hard time getting back on his feet. The Becketts had been in banking before the war. To make a long story short, old Lance did a favor for an Oklahoma cowboy named Chandler, who, according to a genealogical chart we commissioned, was your great-great-grandfather. You still with me?”

Grudgingly, she nodded, her interest growing in spite of herself. She wished old Cast Iron could hear this, whether or not it was true. He'd always claimed the Chandlers were trash, her mother the trashiest of the lot, and she didn't know enough about that side of her family to disprove the charge.

“So—where was I? Chandler gave old Lance some money to invest, but by the time the investment paid off, Chandler had disappeared. The Becketts went on to prosper, but they never found out what had happened to the cowboy. He never got in touch again, and unfortunately, the debt never got repaid. So that's where the ten grand comes in. There's a bundle of stock and some old letters, but they're worthless and almost impossible to pry apart, much less to read. A hundred years in an attic under a leaky roof can do that.”

He waited.

She waited.

The coffeepot signaled its readiness, and Kit turned and took down two mugs. She plopped them down on the counter, poured, and set out a can of fat free evaporated milk and a sugar bowl filled with brown sugar.

Carson accepted the coffee, declined the rest and waited for her to argue. He inhaled suspiciously. The woman was evidently some kind of a health nut. For all he knew, the coffee might be roasted acorns or something equally disgusting, but it smelled all right. Damned good, in fact.

“Who's Margaret?” she asked out of the blue.

He choked on the coffee—it was the real thing—and set his mug down. “She, uh—she's my fiancée. Sort of.”

“Sort of? What kind of an answer is that?”

“Look, it's not important right now. We need to settle two things, and then I'll get out of your hair. First, I've got a cashier's check and the stock—you might as well have it, no one else wants it. Maybe you can sell it to an antique dealer. Next, I'll stop by the sheriff's office on my way out of town and try and convince him that a crime's been committed, and that you need some protection until things are cleared up.”

“You're leaving, then?”

The sound of a distant siren wove through the room like an errant breeze. The front door was open; it was that kind of day. Fickle March.

“Yeah, it seems I've got this situation at home that needs handling.”

“Does it have something to do with your sort-of fiancée?”

So then, without intending to, Carson found himself telling her what was going on down in Charleston. About his mother and her wedding fixation, and his decision to marry while she was still able to take part. “I'm thirty-seven years old, never been married—I'm a cop,” he said with a shrug. “That makes me a pretty lousy risk. Margaret understands, though. She grew up next door, and she happens to love my mother.”

“And you?”

Without answering, he rose and moved to look out the window. “Something's going on down by the wharf. An unmarked and an ambulance just pulled in.”