Beckett's Convenient Bride

Name. The woman had wanted her name, of course. “Idiot,” she muttered, feeling the horror of it all over again.

Should she call back and give her name? But if she did that, she might have to go in and answer all sorts of questions, and the story would get in the papers and old Cast Iron would be after her again to come to her senses, and she didn’t feel like brawling with him right now, she really didn’t.

On the other hand…

All right, Katherine, for once in your life, think logically.

Had she done everything she could?

Absolutely. She had reported the crime. Knowing her name wouldn’t help anyone solve it.

Was she in any personal danger?

How could she be? She’d only done her duty as a citizen.

On the other hand, her car had been the only one in the parking lot. It was certainly easy enough to identify, even without the vanity plate. For all the killer knew, she could have witnessed the whole thing instead of only hearing it.

Maybe she should go stay with her grandparents until the murderer was caught. She could even go on with her job, for that matter. Regardless of how often she moved she was never more than forty-five minutes or an hour away, depending on season and time of day.

There was probably some murky psychological reason why she’d untied the apron strings, but never quite cut them entirely, but she didn’t need to delve into that now. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kit weighed her options. She could disappear. All she had to do was pack up and move again. But that would leave her boss in the lurch, and it would mean starting a whole new set of illustrations for Gretchen somewhere else.

She could go back to Nags Head. She knew the area, knew where the best jobs were, and where she could probably find an affordable room this early in the season, maybe even her old one.

Taking another deep breath—at this rate, she’d be hyperventilating—Kit glanced despairingly around at the shabby old house she had rented semi-furnished. It was just beginning to feel like home. She had even named the raccoons that regularly raided her garbage can.

Face it, Katherine—the gypsy life is losing its appeal.

Reluctantly, she dragged out her suitcase and the banana boxes she used for packing her painting equipment, copies of her books and all the messy details of her profession. The legal pads, which she bought by the score; the bulging files of correspondence and another file, pitifully thin, of royalty statements.

Could she be exaggerating the risk? The gunman was probably a hundred miles away by now. Why on earth would he come back to the scene of the crime, knowing he might have been seen?

All right, so she was thinking logically. That didn’t mean the killer thought logically.

On the other hand, she really liked Gilbert’s Point. It was much quieter than Nags Head, which was a circus during the peak season. She liked the people here. She had a decent job that allowed her plenty of free time for her real career. Not all employers were as understanding, but Jeff Matlock at Jeff’s Crab House was proud of her. Even though he was a bachelor, he’d bought copies of both her books.

Besides, her rent was paid through the end of March. And unlike the beach area, Jeff’s season was just getting started. The snowbirds—the semiannual flight of yachtsmen fleeing the snow and ice via the inland waterway, and returning in the spring once the north began to thaw—were beginning to migrate.

Kit stood at the door of her closet, staring at the eclectic mixture of grunge clothes—her tie-dyes and hand-embroidered jeans that her grandparents so despised—and the few decent dresses she’d kept for emergencies. Weddings, funerals, autographings and anniversary parties. Somewhat to her disgust she’d discovered that she was too much her father’s daughter to dress inappropriately for public occasions.

With a sigh of resignation, she closed the closet door. She would stay, but she would definitely be on her guard. If nothing showed up in the paper tomorrow indicating that the murderer had been caught, she would call the sheriff and offer to come in for questioning. Not that there was anything else she could tell anyone. She’d heard voices, she’d heard a shot, she’d seen a body.

And she’d run away.

Two

“Are you sure she’s not here?” Carson asked the white-haired kid with the mahogany tan. He’d arrived at Nags Head just before dark the day before and spent a miserable night in a hotel, wondering if he was coming down with whatever bug Mac McGinty had been generous enough to share with him.

“Kit? Man, she’s long gone. Got a Christmas card from some place called Gilbert’s Point.”

“You got any idea where it is?”

“Across the bridge, I think.”

“Which bridge?” According to the map, the place was full of bridges.

“Hey, dude, geography’s not my gig, y’know? Sorry. She was a cool roomie, too, but I mean, it happens, y’know?”

Dude knew. He was a cop, after all. When it came to education, a degree in criminology was nothing compared to thirteen years on a big-city police force. Ignoring the view through the open door of a coffee table made of beer cans and layered with dirty clothing, and the smell of pot and old pizza, Carson was tempted to forget the whole thing. He’d woken up feeling like leftover hell, but as long as he’d come this far, he might as well see this business through.

Dude? he thought, his footsteps gritting on sandy broken concrete on his way to the car. Was that retro, or had it never quite gone away? At the advanced age of thirty-seven, he was beginning to notice a few recycled trends.

Obviously Kit Dixon’s lifestyle was nothing at all like that of her cousin Liza. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have to approve of the woman, he had only to find her and hand over the money and the bundle of worthless stock certificates, in case she was into collecting useless antiquities. Some people collected “collectibles,” which could cover almost anything.

It was nearly noon when, with the help of aspirin and his GPS unit, Carson reached Gilbert’s Point, which consisted of a few old frame houses, several shabby restaurants, a crab processing plant and a dozen or so boats tied up at the plank wharf. Squinting against the harsh sunlight reflected off the inland waterway, he surveyed the scene, wondering where to start.

Or even whether to start.

He could always bundle up the stock certificates and the cashier’s check for ten grand and address it to Katherine Dixon, in care of general delivery, Gilbert’s Point, North Carolina. The post office would do the rest. If they even had a post office.

Not a chance. The Becketts’ buck-passing days were over. Besides, the job was already half done—he was here. With just a slight additional effort, he could wind things up. Case closed, only a hundred years late.

But the three days he’d allowed himself were getting used up in a hurry. At this rate he’d be lucky to get back home by the weekend. It would help if he didn’t feel so lousy. Hot, cold and sweaty at the same time, with a head that was threatening to self-destruct.

It occurred to him that some real food might help. Not that he was particularly hungry, but the combination of too much coffee, too much greasy fast food on the road and too little sleep didn’t help what else ailed him. Besides, at a local restaurant he could probably kill a couple of birds with a single stone.

He struck pay dirt at the first place he stopped. After ordering hot clam chowder and a fresh tuna sandwich at a waterside restaurant called Jeff’s Crab House, he popped the question.

“You happen to know a woman named Katherine Dixon?”

Instead of answering, the waitress called over the owner, a tall, loose-limbed type with a handlebar moustache, who took his time crossing the empty room that was just now being set up for lunch. “Jeff, this guy wants to know where to find Kit.”

Jeff looked him over before replying. “You a friend of hers?”

Carson stretched a point. “Friend of the family. I was in the area and thought I’d look her up.”

Another minute passed. Carson appreciated what the other guy was doing—sizing him up. Under other circumstances, they could have swapped credentials, IDs—hell, the whole bag of tricks, but his head was throbbing, his throat was getting rawer by the minute and every bone in his body ached.

“You want to hang around, she’ll be working the five-to-nine shift,” the proprietor finally said, “I don’t reckon she’d want me giving out her whereabouts. Probably not home yet anyhow.”

He was tempted to flash his badge, but that might give the wrong impression. He didn’t want to get the woman in trouble, he just damned well wanted to find her so he could go home and go to bed for the foreseeable future.

And anyway, in a place this size, he could knock on every door in less time than it took to search through the phone book.

“Okay. Uh…like I said, our families are connected.” In a manner of speaking, he added silently. “We’ve never actually met, though, so would you mind telling me what she looks like, in case I run across her?”

Jeff frowned. He fingered his handlebar mustache. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt none. ’Bout yea high.” He held a hand up to his shoulder. Five-six, Carson interpreted. “Lots of hair, kind of brown with some red in it. Gray eyes, freckles. She’s a real nice lady and a hard worker.” The guy was on a roll, so Carson let him talk. “Smart woman. Good-looking, too. She walks most everywhere, but you might see her car around. Hard to miss it. Old VW Beetle painted orange with black spots on it. Did the paint job herself,” he added admiringly. “I had me one, same year, back when I was in high school.”

Carson had learned a long time ago that a lot more information could be gained by allowing a witness to ramble on at his own pace than by asking specific questions. He’d take it all in and sift through it later when his head wasn’t threatening to explode. Right now, he needed coffee, food and another handful of aspirin.

Having evidently decided that Carson wasn’t a threat to anyone, the proprietor shifted his weight onto the other foot, apparently settling in for a lengthy visit. “I tried to talk her into selling it, but she said it was like family. Even gave it a name. Ladybug. Got one o’ them whatchacall vanity plates on the stern. Kitskids. Writes kids’ books, but she don’t have no kids of her own, not s’far as I ever heard of. Hey, Bambi, Kit ever mention any family to you?”

From across the room, the pretty waitress with black acrylic nails shook her head. “Less you count all the strays she collects. Kit feeds any critter that don’t bite back.”

By the time Bambi brought over a steaming bowl of Hatteras-style chowder and a tuna sandwich thick enough to choke a mule, Carson had lost his appetite. What had seemed a short-term deal on his to-do list was turning out to be a real headache. Literally.

“This guy said to give you this.” Bambi held out the scrap of paper. “Certified hunk. If you’re not interested, how ’bout I try my luck?”

Kit had come in early to ask Jeff how to find the sheriff’s office. It was probably located in the county seat, wherever that was. She could have called and gotten directions, but having made up her mind to do her duty as a citizen, she needed to show up in person and get the whole thing over with before she lost her courage.

“Here? You mean someone came to the restaurant looking for me?” It took a moment for the impact to sink in. “Did he—did he say what he wanted?”

The redhead shrugged. “You, I guess. Said he was a friend of the family. He asked a whole bunch of questions about where you lived and when you were coming in. Jeff told him you’d be in at the regular time. Hey, you okay? You didn’t eat none of that crab salad last night, did you? Jeff told you it was for the critters. He made it up a couple of days ago, and crab don’t keep.”

Ignoring the question, Kit asked anxiously, “You didn’t tell him where I live, did you?” Not that he couldn’t find her easily enough. There weren’t that many houses in Gilbert’s Point.

“What, me tell a stranger something like that? No way, hon.” She snapped her chewing gum. “Good-looking, though, if you like the type.”

Kit didn’t ask what type. She really, really didn’t want to know. The thought that someone could find her so easily was scary enough. The old church was several miles from Gilbert’s Point. Maybe she shouldn’t have panicked, but after more than two hours, her heart still hadn’t settled down. If she’d done the right thing and gone in instead of just calling nine-one-one, the sheriff could have done his job by now and she wouldn’t be jumping at shadows.

On the other hand, if she turned herself in now and offered to tell everything she’d heard—which wasn’t all that much, really—the sheriff would want to know why she hadn’t come forth immediately. Then she would have to tell him her name and it would get in the papers and her grandparents would see it, because Chesapeake was just over the state line in Virginia and everyone in the area read the same papers and listened to the same news stations.

And then her grandparents would demand that she come live with them, with all that implied, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t. If and when she mended that particular fence, it would be because she wanted to, not because they demanded it. She owed it to her mother’s memory not to get sucked down that particular drain.

Meanwhile she was going to have to stop reading romantic suspense. Her imagination was active enough, without adding fuel to the fire.

By the time he left Jeff’s Crab House, Carson knew he wasn’t going to finish the job that day. His headache had backed off to a dull throb, but his eyes burned, his throat felt raw and every muscle in his body ached. The bones that had been broken ached twice as much. All he wanted at this moment was to crawl into bed and sleep for a year, but if there was a hotel in the immediate vicinity, he’d missed it.

He sneezed, grabbed his head to keep it from flying off his shoulders, and muttered, “Thanks for sharing, McGinty.”

He was on his way out the single road leading to Gilbert’s Point when he saw the little orange VW barreling after him. Black spots. Sort of like a ladybug on steroids. Shoving his personal problems into the background, Carson wondered if the lady could be following him. Had he let slip the fact that he intended to hand over ten grand while he was asking questions?

He didn’t think so, but then, he wasn’t operating at peak efficiency.

There couldn’t be more than one black-speckled orange VW in a place this size. Slowing, he looked for somewhere to pull over. The Landing Road was little more than an old cart trail that had been brought up to minimum standards with a few loads of marl and oyster shell, with drainage ditches on both sides. No place to pull over—barely enough room to pass.

Five minutes. He’d give her the spiel and hand over the goods. Then he could go somewhere and die with a clear conscience. The way she was kicking up dust, she was evidently eager to catch up with him before he got away.

He slowed, stopped and pulled on the parking brake. They were near the intersection of Landing and Waterlily Roads, but so far as he could see, theirs were the only two cars on the road. This shouldn’t take long, Carson promised himself.

Good thing, too, he added. He’d just run flat-out of juice.

Opening the door, he got out, steadied himself for a moment, and waited until she came to a halt a few feet from his rear bumper. Then, levering himself away from the support of his dark green SUV, he headed her way.

His legs were shaky. Maybe he should have eaten his lunch, but by the time he’d been served, food hadn’t seemed all that great an idea.

He was within ten feet of the hand-painted VW when he saw her roll up her window. She locked her door, then leaned over and locked the passenger door.

Well, hell. What now? Find the nearest hollow tree, leave the goods there, then write and tell her where to find it? If she wrote kids’ books, she might be into kids’ games.

Tough. She’d picked the wrong player this time.

He was still trying to figure out an approach when she rolled her window down an inch and shouted for him to move his car, then rolled the window up again.

Move his car? Had he missed something? It occurred to him that she might not have gotten the message that he was looking for her. In that case, maybe she wasn’t trying to catch up with him, but just wanted to pass. Thought he was a tourist, maybe, watching a flyover of cormorants.

Okay, so what now? Try to reason with her through a layer of steel and glass? Put yourself in the lady’s place, Beckett. She’s alone, she finds herself being accosted by a strange man. Reason enough to be spooked, right? The world was no longer a safe place, if it ever had been. Who knew that better than a cop?

The women of his family knew better than to stop if ever a stranger tried to flag them down. They’d been taught to lock all doors and pass the buck by calling the highway patrol. In this case, he was the next best thing, only she had no way of knowing it.

Feet spread apart to keep him from reeling, Carson held up both hands, palms out, in the universal sign of peace. “Hey, I’m one of the good guys, lady.”

Cautiously, she inched her window down and peered at him suspiciously. From where he was standing—aside from the eyeball assault of color: orange car, red hair, purple dress or whatever she was wearing—she appeared to be a damned fine-looking woman.

Irritated as hell, but a looker.

Make that angry, he corrected a moment later when she lowered the glass another two inches.

Make that scared. In fact, terrified would not be an overstatement.

Well, hell. What now? This wasn’t in the script. Under any other circumstances he’d have walked off and let her go unreparated, or whatever the proper term was. His whole body ached like a boil. He was running on fumes. And dammit, he hadn’t come all this way to leave the job unfinished.

Taking two steps forward, he said, “Look, for both our sakes, let’s get this over fast, all right?”

Slowly, he reached inside his buckskin jacket, planning to hold out his badge to reassure her.

“Noo-o-o!” she screamed. “Just get out of my way!”

Wrong move. He held out his hands again as if to prove he was totally harmless. Evidently the message failed to get through. She gunned the engine. The Beetle jerked forward. Carson tried to leap out of the way, but his reconstructed knee wasn’t up to the job. It buckled, and before he could catch himself, he went down, his head in a tangle of weeds bordering a blackwater ditch.

She backed up and slammed on the brakes. She was out of her car in an instant, wild auburn hair flying around her face, purple shirt flapping around long legs covered in a pair of tie-dyed tights.

She was wielding a tire-iron in a way that was anything but reassuring. “Open your eyes,” she demanded in a quavering voice.

No way, lady. I’m safer playing dead.

She crept closer. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping she’d be convinced and leave him alone. Nothing in the genealogist’s chart had indicated a strain of insanity in the Chandler genes, but then the lady genealogist hadn’t gone into any personal detail.

“You’re not dead. I saw your eyelids twitch. I hardly even touched you.”

She hadn’t touched him at all, but only because he’d jumped out of the way just in time. She hesitated, but he could hear her breathing. She was still looming over him with that damned tire iron. The right tool in the wrong hands could be lethal.

“Darn you, open your eyes!” she whispered fiercely. By then she was so close he could feel the heat of her body, feel her breath brushing his face. “I barely touched you, you can’t be dead,” she declared.

He was having trouble regulating his breathing. It would be just his luck to have a sneezing spell. He felt her knees press against his side, felt the soft pressure of cool fingertips on his throat, then on his chest.

Yeah, I’m alive, he was tempted to tell her. Keep on touching me like that and I’ll show you just how lively I can be, headache or no.

Fat chance. He was fighting on too many fronts to take on one more. She smelled like…cinnamon? Apples?

Something equally innocuous…and equally tempting.

She touched his forehead and jerked her hand away. He wanted her fingers back. They were cool, soothing, and God, he needed that. What the hell was he supposed to do now? None of this was in the script. If he opened his eyes or even so much as twitched a muscle, she’d probably cold cock him with that damned tire iron.

“You’re alive, I know you are. I don’t even see any blood, so you can’t be seriously hurt. But while you’re down I just want you to know that I didn’t see anything, not one blessed thing, so you don’t have to worry about me. Just because my car happened to be in the parking lot, that doesn’t mean I saw what you did. I was on the other side of the cemetery. I couldn’t even hear what you were fighting about.”

Breathing through clenched teeth, Carson mentally assessed the damage. He was winded, but probably in no worse shape than before. Unless he slid into the ditch and drowned. If she didn’t stop pressing her knees into his side, that was a distinct possibility.

What the hell was she talking about? A cemetery? Fighting? She sure as hell had seen him.

“Well,” she said tentatively. “I probably shouldn’t leave you here in case another car comes. Besides, you’re blocking the intersection.”

Tentatively, she picked up his hand and tugged. He felt something tickling his cheek and hoped it wasn’t alive, because the last thing he needed on top of everything else was an infestation of chiggers.

“Look, I know you’re not unconscious, I can tell by the way you breathe.”

He could have told her that his breathing would be a lot more convincing if she weren’t so close…and so damned female. Were pheromones considered hormones? His were supposed to be out on sick leave.

He could sense her studying him as if he were something under a microscope. Thank God he wasn’t armed. Sometimes he carried when he was off duty, but not when he was this far out of his jurisdiction. Besides, this wasn’t that kind of a case. Hadn’t started out that way, at least. But who knows, with a crazy woman…

“I didn’t hit you that hard. I didn’t even feel a bump,” she said defensively.

He didn’t know what to say, and so he said nothing. If his head weren’t hanging lower than his feet, he’d have been content to stay right where he was for the foreseeable future.

On the other hand, with a crazy woman feeling him up…

Get your hands off my body, lady, that’s private property you’re invading.

Her hair hung down and tickled his face. She was muttering under her breath, something about a gun. What the devil was she talking about? She didn’t even know he was a cop—they’d never got that far in the introductions.

Kit was looking for his pistol. He had to be wearing one, because why else would he be wearing a leather coat on a day like this? As long as you stayed out of the wind, it felt almost summer.

Had he had it in his hand when she’d hit him? If so, it could be anywhere, even in the ditch—although she hadn’t heard a splash.

The murder weapon. Oh, my blessed mercy!

She had to find it before he came to and hold it on him until she could get help. Yell for one of the men on the wharf to call the sheriff.

Being able to hand over his gun as evidence would make up for not giving her name when she called, but first she had to find it. One side of his coat was caught underneath his body, and so she started, carefully patting him down. His body was hot. Hot, hard and…

Squatting beside him, she leaned over and slipped her fingers under the other side of his coat. Right-handed men wore their guns on the left side, didn’t they? And vice versa?