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.
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