A Bad Boy is Good to Find - By Jennifer Lewis Page 0,81

ladder then, aren’t we?” His self-satisfied smile made Lizzie’s scalp tingle. “But if you care to retain me in this matter, I’ll have my secretary start doing some digging. She’ll call around to see if she can find his name on any school rolls or in the record books of any other— Come in!”

A knock on the door had interrupted him and his cheerful-looking middle-aged secretary appeared. “Mr. Hodgkins on the phone.”

“Thank you, Vera.” He turned to them. “I’m afraid I must take this call. It’s of the utmost urgency. A criminal matter, I’m afraid,” he said with a wink. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”

Lizzie and Con rose and left the room.

“What an asshole,” muttered Lizzie once they were outside in the cramped hallway. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.” Con looked rigid with tension. She moved behind him and pressed her thumbs under the collar of his white shirt and into the muscle at the base of his neck. “Don’t worry, if he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

The secretary peered out into the hallway. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“Sure.” Lizzie led the way to the spacious waiting room. The coffee actually smelled pretty good.

“That nice production assistant—Mia, was it?—told me you’re staying at Dumas House,” Vera said, as she handed a white mug to Con.

“Yes.” He took a sip. “We’re there filming our wedding.”

Lizzie got a funny feeling in her tummy. He didn’t say it with any undertone of amusement or mockery. He said it as if they were…getting married.

“How lovely. It sure is a beautiful place to get married. My niece had her wedding there two years ago in May.”

“Really?” Lizzie accepted a cup too. “So the house is often rented out for events?”

“Yes. Mr. Stapleton has been managing it for nearly six years now, since the owner died.”

“And he owns it now?” Lizzie peered over the rim of her coffee cup, holding her breath.

“He doesn’t own it. He manages it as executor of the former owner’s estate. We’ve been unable to locate any heirs. The old man was in his late nineties when he died, no family left to speak of. Mr. Stapleton’s been using the attached trust to maintain the place. If you ask me he’s made a world of improvements. I don’t think it had been renovated since the 1950s before he took over.”

“It must cost a fortune to maintain,” said Lizzie.

“I believe he’s had to invest a good deal of the trust in the house. He replaced the roof, updated some of the plumbing and electrical, and he keeps the gardens immaculate as it’s becoming quite the place for any outdoor social event.”

“Sounds like he has a pretty good business going,” Lizzie took a sip of coffee, grateful for the air-conditioning in the offices. “So who, exactly, are the heirs he’s been unable to locate?”

She heard Con choke on his coffee and recover himself, but she kept her eyes fixed on the woman.

“Apparently the old man who owned it—Thomas Milford his name was—had an estranged daughter. This all happened before my time, so I don’t know the details, but I believe it turned out she was dead.”

Lizzie shot Con a pointed look.

“No other descendants were found so Mr. Stapleton’s been managing it while he searches for any remaining heirs.” She blew her nose on a tissue. “But between you and me and the doorpost, he’s looking to buy it himself. Once the trust is exhausted there won’t be any cash in the estate to pay the local property taxes. At that point it becomes property of the parish, gets auctioned off and voilà! He’ll be the legal owner. He’s managed it like his own anyway, these last six years. You’ve seen the place, so you can tell just how much love and care has gone into it. Mr. Stapleton is a true guardian of our heritage.”

While she was speaking Lizzie’s breathing got shallow. Con stood motionless.

“Mind if I step outside for a smoke?” Lizzie asked, with what she hoped was a casual smile. Con shot her an odd look.

“You can smoke in here if you like,” the secretary replied.

“I don’t want to stink the place up. Come on, Con.” She grabbed him by his sleeve, almost spilling his coffee.

Outside, cars whizzed past as they stood on the immaculate postage stamp of lawn in front of the law office.

“Did you hear that?” she hissed.

“Sure, I heard it.”

“He’s supposed to be looking for heirs. Those would be