One Stubborn Texan. Kara Lennox
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found,” Russ said flatly. Not even by a gorgeous city woman with big brown eyes.
“She’s gonna figure it out,” Bert said. “All she has to do is ask the right person. Ten minutes in this town and she’ll find out your mother goes by Winnie.”
“I didn’t think she’d be staying around long enough to ask,” Russ said. He realized now that his strategy of misleading Sydney Baines would only delay the inevitable. “I definitely didn’t know she was staying at the Periwinkle.” Fortunately, the two elderly maiden sisters who ran the B and B in their Victorian home were certifiably dotty. They could cook up a wonderful breakfast, but they lived a good deal in the past and nothing they said made much sense.
“I’ll just have to keep an eye on her,” Russ said. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone who knows Mom.”
“I don’t get it,” Bert said. “Didn’t that purty gal say she wanted to give you money?”
Apparently Bert hadn’t heard Sydney reveal the exact amount. Thank God for small favors. If Bert knew Russ was turning his back on ten million dollars, he would call the men in white coats. And maybe he was crazy. But he had his reasons. “Money doesn’t solve all problems,” he said. “And for some people, it just creates more.”
“Ah,” Bert said, nodding, finally getting it. “You’re right about that. If you want to stop that gal from finding out the truth, you better get over to the Periwinkle and keep a watch on her.”
Russ nodded. “You’ll mind the store for me?”
Bert shrugged. “Like I got anything else to do?”
“And you won’t say anything to Mom, right?”
“Mum’s the word.”
Russ wished he could take more comfort in Bert’s promise to keep quiet. But Bert kept his cell phone charged and ready, just in case he had a juicy tidbit to pass along. He had little else to do but watch who came and went on Main Street.
As Russ walked the five blocks to the Periwinkle B and B, he formulated a strategy for dealing with Sydney Baines. If she wanted to bury her nose in the courthouse records, there was no harm in that, he supposed, since the records were in such a jumbled mess she probably wouldn’t be able to find anything. But he ought to take some precautions, just in case.
Maybe he’d volunteer to help her look.
The prospect of spending more time with Sydney wasn’t at all unpleasant. She was the brightest thing to enter his store all winter. Maybe that single dark curl of hair would escape and fall across her cheek again. And maybe next time he saw it there, he would give in to temptation and smooth it back.
“IS EVERYTHING SATISFACTORY?” asked Miss Gail Milhaus, one of the owners of the Periwinkle Bed & Breakfast. Or maybe it was Miss Gretchen. Sydney had a hard time telling the septuagenarians apart. They were identical twins who dressed in identical vintage outfits, complete with matching barrettes in their long, silver hair. They also had a pair of identical cats that liked to wrap themselves around first one set of ankles, then the other.
“It’s a lovely room,” Sydney assured her hostess, reaching down to pet one of the cats. She didn’t trust dogs, but cats were okay.
The misses Milhaus had made her feel very welcome. Since it was the off-season she was the only one staying at the B and B. She’d also gotten a very good room rate, almost as low as if she’d stayed out at the motel on the highway. But here she got to sleep in a soft bed with a feather comforter, take a bubble bath in a huge, claw-foot tub and enjoy a gourmet breakfast in the morning.
Sydney wasn’t really much for fussy Victorian decor. She didn’t like clutter and bric-a-brac, and her apartment back in Brooklyn could be described as minimalist. But her room in the B and B, painted shell-pink and featuring an abundance of cabbage roses, had a certain charm and, thanks to a crystal bowl of potpourri, it smelled wonderful.
“You look so like Miss Moony,” said Gail—or Gretchen. “Are you here for the boat races?”
Boat races? This time of year? “I’m doing some research,” she said. “Actually, I’m looking for a man.”
The elderly lady clicked her tongue. “They’re a waste of time, you ask me. Gretchen and I have lots of boyfriends, but it never works out in the long run. We’ve always been so close and men don’t like that.”
“Well, I agree, men are a lot of trouble,” Sydney said with a smile. “But I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I’m trying to locate a man who has come into an inheritance. His name is Russell Klein.”
“An inheritance? How exciting. And my goodness, there’s that nice Mr. Klein who runs the general store and rents out the canoes and such. Could he be the one?”
“Unfortunately, I’ve already talked to that Russell. I don’t believe he’s the man I’m looking for. The one I want has a mother named—”
The sound of the door chime interrupted her. Gail stepped out of the room and looked down the stairs. “Gretchen, are you getting that?” When her sister didn’t respond, she said, “Excuse me, I’ll have to get the door. Perhaps it’s one of our suitors.”
Sydney smiled after the woman turned away. They were such nice Southern ladies—but a bit unhinged. She doubted they would have any useful information for her.
She unpacked her small suitcase. She hadn’t brought a lot of clothes with her, only enough for a couple of days. If she didn’t find Sammy Oberlin’s heir in that amount of time, she would have to admit defeat and return to New York.
What a picnic that would be, breaking the news to her father that he was going to have to declare bankruptcy.
When she was unpacked, she opened her briefcase, tucked her small suede clutch inside and headed downstairs. She wanted to get to the courthouse right away. When she’d talked to a county official on the phone yesterday, he’d admitted that their records were a terrible mess and that only the last five years’ worth had been put on computer. That meant hours of digging. Actually, she didn’t mind that type of work. She was fascinated by the details of people’s lives, the births, the deaths, the weddings. Old photos and diaries always sparked her imagination, causing her to speculate what people’s lives had really been like.
At the bottom of the ornate, carved-oak staircase, Sydney skidded to a stop. Russ Klein was standing in the entryway, chatting amiably with Miss Gail.
“Oh, there you are,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile at Sydney. “I thought since you were new in town, you might like a tour.” Apparently the lure of ten million dollars had changed his tune.
She might have overplayed her hand, revealing to Mr. Klein—Russ—the amount of money involved. But she’d needed to shake him out of his complacency. And given his sudden appearance, maybe she’d done just that.
Even if he wasn’t the right Russell, if he did help her locate the heir, she’d be happy to donate a portion of her commission as a finder’s fee. He was probably counting on that.
Miss Gretchen joined her sister. “Oh, it’s Mr. Jones, the man from the post office. How nice to see you.”
Miss Gail turned to Sydney. “You won’t get a better tour guide than Mr. Jones here.” Miss Gail said. “Excuse us, will you? Sister, we’d better see to the horses.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Miss Gretchen agreed, and they bustled off, arm in arm.
“The horses?” Sydney asked. “What century are they in? And why does she call you Mr. Jones?”
Russ shrugged. “Last week I was Curtis. Don’t worry, they’re harmless. So how about the tour?”
“That’s very generous of you, but I really don’t have time to be a tourist,” she explained. “I only have a couple of days to spend in Linhart and I need to get to the courthouse this afternoon.”