Beckett's Cinderella by Dixie Browning Read Free Book Online Page A

out.
    â€œNo. Absolutely not. I told you, I don’t play that kind of game.”
    â€œYou think this is some kind of game? ”
    Her eyes flashed. “Isn’t it?”
    â€œNo, ma’am, it is not!” He’d figured he’d be in, out and gone by now. Game or not, the lady wasn’tplaying by the rules, which made him feel better about leaving the envelope containing the money with the old man while she was in another room going over the documents. “This belongs to Ms. Edwards,” he’d said to Uncle Fred.
    â€œShe goes by Chandler now. Maiden name. Don’t want nothing to do with that rascal she married.”
    Beckett could understand why, if the police reports and press coverage had been accurate. “Would you mind giving her this after I’ve left? She’ll know what it’s for.”
    The old farmer had looked as if he’d like to know more, but just then, Chipper had hit a two-run homer. Then Queen Eliza had stalked into the room and tried to hand off the papers.
    Now she did it again. He’d given the money to the old man, who had absently stashed the envelope under a half-empty potato chip bag. The papers had been left in plain sight. “Here, take these with you.” She said. “Don’t trip over that big oak root on your way out. It’s buckled some of the flagstones.”
    Beckett stared her down. He was tempted to—
    No, he wasn’t. The only reason his glands were in an uproar was because he hadn’t had a decent meal since he’d left his parents’ home before daybreak that morning. Just because the woman was attractive didn’t mean he’d lost his lost his mildewed mind—it only meant he hadn’t lost his powers of observation.
    He left, nearly tripping on the gator-size root. He quickly strode out to his rental, rationalizing that while he might not have a signed receipt, at least hehad a witness. Tomorrow, on his way to the airport, he’d stop by and get the old man’s signature on a statement saying that Ms. Chandler-Edwards had received the money. He’d be a fool not to. No telling how many heirs might come crawling out of the woodwork once word spread that someone was making reparations by paying off a generations-old debt.
    Â 
    In a certain fourth-floor apartment in South Dallas, Charles “Cammy” Camshaw hunched over a table, munching French fries and concentrating on the list he was making. “Look, we know for sure where she’s at now. It’s been a week and the letter hasn’t come back, right? And it was her that answered the phone?”
    â€œI don’t know, Cammy, she was always real nice to me. I mean, like, what if we go to all this trouble for nothing? Driving all that way costs money, and like, we’ll have to eat and sleep and all.”
    â€œI got it covered. We can write it off on our income taxes once we’re up and running.”
    â€œI don’t know,” the shapely, freckle-faced blonde said again. She was sitting on the foot of the bed in a fourth-floor, two-room apartment painting her toenails a deep metallic blue. “You’re so sure this is gonna work, but me, I’m not so sure. I mean, the police cleared her and all.”
    â€œHey, that’s what makes this so great. Can’t you just see it? Cops clear suspect. Security guard—make that private investigator Charles Camshaw—digs deeper and solves the crime of the year.”
    â€œHuh. I wouldn’t hardly call it that. He stole a whole bunch of stuff, but they caught him. Anyway, the guy was creepy, always smiling when people were looking and trying to cop a feel whenever his wife went out. But she was okay. I mean, she gave me stuff and all. She didn’t act all stuck-up like some women I worked for.”
    â€œYeah, well, once we get our business off the ground, you won’t have to go nosing up to no society types. It’ll be you