Beckett's Convenient Bride. Dixie Browning

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ