I’m fine. Of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine? And those women are nutcases. You should keep an eye on them, Luke. They’re up to no good.” Then she stood up and made a hasty escape before her panic took control of her and she started screaming.
Keeping her gaze straight ahead, not acknowledging any customers’ or employees’ looks of concern, she headed for her office and slipped inside. Both Adam and Micton were napping, thank heavens. Micton was still tiny and slept most of the time, anyway. Adam, however, had just turned fourteen months, and he was getting more active by the minute. Soon he would be too much to handle at work, and she would have to find a full-time babysitter.
She paused a moment to watch her son sleeping, his thumb in his mouth, his favorite blanky clutched in his other hand. He was the light of her life. She’d never expected to enjoy motherhood. But she’d taken to it like a hog to mud, proving that she did in fact have at least one domestic bone in her body, contrary to what her parents had always said.
Enough distraction. She had to call the bank. And then, when she heard everything was as it should be, she could laugh off her momentary worries.
Cindy found the number in her Rolodex, then dialed. She asked for her personal banker, Mary Dietz.
“Oh, hi, Cindy. It’s nice to hear from you. How can I help you?”
Cindy made her request to check the balance in her checking account. It was exactly where it should be, seven hundred and change. She breathed a little easier.
“And my money-market fund?”
There was a long silence. “That account is closed.”
“No, you’re thinking of my mother’s account. I closed that out last year when her estate was settled. I’m talking about my personal savings account. Here’s the number.” She rattled off the long account number.
Another long silence. “Cindy, Mr. Shalimar closed that account last week. I handled it personally. He said you were investing the funds into real estate.”
That buzz was starting up in Cindy’s head again. “Are you sure?” But she knew that was a stupid question. Mary didn’t make mistakes.
“Oh, my gosh, of course,” Cindy said, masking her panic as best she could. “I forgot he was going to do that. Okay, never mind. Sorry I bothered you.” She hung up.
Could it possibly be true, what those women had told her? That Dex wasn’t Dex at all, but someone named Marvin who’d given her a fake ring, shown her a penthouse that wasn’t even his and made off with close to three-quarters of a million dollars—Jim’s entire life-insurance benefit, her parents’ life savings and both her and Jim’s savings?
She picked up the phone again, frantically dialing Dex’s cell number. She got a recording that the number wasn’t valid. She dialed again, thinking she must have misdialed in her haste. But she got the same result.
On a mission now, she pulled the Houston phone book from her bottom desk drawer and looked up the number for Shalimar Holdings. Dex had always told her not to bother calling him at the office, where she would have to wade through layers of receptionists and secretaries to get to him. His cell was always on, always with him and a much easier way to reach him.
She dialed the business number, reached a secretary. “This is an emergency. I really, really need to get word to Dexter Shalimar. Does he have an assistant or someone I could talk to?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Cindy Lefler, his fiancée. I know he’s in Malaysia, but surely you people have a way of getting through to him in an emergency?”
Long silence. “Mr. Shalimar is not in Malaysia. Nor does he have a fiancée named Cindy or anything else. Shall I transfer your call to security?”
Cindy couldn’t speak. She simply hung up the phone.
She had to get out of here, go home, pull herself together. She couldn’t let her customers or employees see her falling apart. She couldn’t let anyone know what was happening until she’d figured it out for herself.
She packed up Adam’s diaper bag and her purse and car keys, then gently picked up Adam from his playpen. He stirred slightly, then opened his eyes and blinked blearily at her.
She cuddled him against her shoulder. Thank goodness he wasn’t a cranky baby. He was very adaptable, willing to sleep anywhere, eat anything, play with whatever was on hand, allow anyone to hold him. He would be a fabulous traveling companion, she’d told herself many times.
She ducked into the kitchen long enough to tell her cook, Manson Grable, that she was going home because she didn’t feel well.
“Is there anything I can do?” Manson asked. He was sixty, portly, round faced and had worked for the Miracle Café his whole adult life. “Can I send you home with some chicken soup?”
“I’ll be fine—just a headache.” She forced a smile and had almost made it out the back door when a booming voice from the dining room snagged her attention.
“I’m looking for Cindy Lefler!”
She considered escaping, then decided it might be important. With a heavy heart, she walked back through the kitchen and out the swinging doors into the dining room.
Standing in the middle of the dining room, looking something like King Henry VIII in madras shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, was the man who’d spoken.
“Hi, I’m Cindy Lefler,” Cindy said, lacking her usual smiling hospitality. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Ed LaRue.”
She looked at him blankly. The name meant nothing to her.
“I’m the new owner of the Miracle Café,” he continued, still grinning. “Soon to be Ed’s Enchilada Emporium!”
Chapter Two
Deputy Luke Rheems looked at first one, then the other of the two women seated in his office. They were both attractive, but beyond their blond hair, they were complete opposites. Sonya Patterson was the epitome of wealth and sophistication. Tall and slim with an elegant, aristocratic face, she wore an ivory linen suit, sheer stockings that looked like silk and cream-colored leather pumps with a medium heel. Her nails were long, probably acrylic, and salon fresh with a coating of pale pink-frosted polish. Her artfully highlighted hair was piled atop her head in a complicated twist, not a strand out of place.
Brenna Thompson was petite, with a pleasantly curvaceous figure, and she looked as if she belonged in an artist’s loft in SoHo. Her platinum-frosted hair was short and spiky, sticking out of her head like a porcupine’s quills, and her eye shadow was a particularly virulent shade of purple. Her left ear was graced with five piercings, each with a distinctly unique silver earring.
The rest of her jewelry was just as interesting, and she wore a lot of it—rings on almost every finger, bracelets jangling with every movement of her arms, a handful of chains around her neck from which dangled charms in whimsical animal shapes, their eyes winking with colored stones. Her snug, tie-dyed T-shirt didn’t quite meet up with her faded hip-hugger jeans, leaving a couple of inches
