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.”
“Want me to call Aunt Becky and let her know?”
“Wait until I know for sure when I’ll be heading back again. I ran into a small snag.”
“Don’t tell me she’s the wrong Chandler.”
“She’s the right Chandler, I’m pretty sure of that. Trouble is, she doesn’t want to accept the papers.”
“Doesn’t want to accept ten grand?”
“We never got that far. I gave her the papers, but she needs to look ’em over before I hand over the money. Or at least as much as she can decipher.”
“Didn’t you explain what it was about?”
“I was going to, but she got tied up with customers before I had a chance to do any explaining. I didn’t feel like hanging around all day. I’ll go back later on, after the place closes down and explain what it’s all about. Listen, did it ever occur to you that if she starts figuring out the rate of inflation over the past hundred or so years, we might have a problem on our hands?”
“Nope, never occurred to me. Sorry you mentioned it, but look—we don’t really know how much money was involved originally, do we?”
Beckett idly scratched a mosquito bite. “Good point. I’m going to ask for a receipt, though. You think that’s going too far?”
“Hey, you’re the guy who deals with government regulations and red tape. Me, I’m just a lowly cop.”
He was a bit more than that, but Beckett knew what he meant. He didn’t want the next generation of Becketts to trip on any legal loopholes. Before he handed over the money, he would definitely get her signature on a release.
“You know, Bucket,” Carson mused, “it occurs to me that the way we’re doing this, we could end up in trouble if old man Chandler scattered too many seeds. Just because we were only able to locate two heirs, that doesn’t necessarily mean there aren’t any more.”
“Don’t remind me. That’s one of the reasons I want things sewed up with lawyer-proof thread. You can handle the next contender however you want to. If any more turn up after that, we’ll flash our receipt and send them to Ms. Edwards and what’s-her-name—the other one. They can share the spoils…or not.”
After answering a few questions about various family members, Beckett stripped down
