Low Country Liar Read online

  THE SHARP CLICK of the closing door snapped Lisa out of her daze. Her mouth opened. The words formed to call him back, her hand raised uselessly. Then she hesitated, her hand coming back to her mouth as she began to thoughtfully nibble a fingernail.

  Why not? a mischievous little voice inside her demanded.

  Obviously Slade Blackwell was expecting a replacement for his regular secretary and had mistaken Lisa for that replacement. Why should she bother to tell him differently? A private secretary would have access to all the files. If she wanted proof to confirm or denounce her suspicions, what better way than through his own records?

  It was a heaven-sent opportunity. She would be a fool not to take advantage of it. True, Lisa admitted, she wasn't trained as a secretary, but she could type, not very speedily, but at least it wasn't the hunt-and-peck method. She knew the rudiments of dictaphone use. With any luck she could bluff her way through what other skills might be necessary.

  With the decision made, Lisa quickly stepped behind the desk, slipping her bag into a lower drawer. The first thing she had to do was cancel the order for a secretary. She had no idea which agency had been contacted and couldn't very well ask. That meant going down the list of agencies in the telephone book and calling every one until she found the right one. Luckily, she reached the right agency on the third call.

  One more phone call. She looked the number up in the directory and dialed it quickly. Her fingers drummed the desktop impatiently as she listened to the ring on the other end.

  Finally it was answered. "Talmadge residence," came the world-weary voice of the housekeeper.

  "Mildred, this is Lisa." She hurried her words, speaking softly and quickly. "I'm just calling to let you know my … my friends and I are going to make an afternoon of it. Tell Mitzi I'll be back shortly after five o'clock."

  "Did she tell you?"

  Lisa frowned at the receiver. "Tell me what?"

  "That Sl — Mr. Blackwell is coming for dinner tonight." The housekeeper immediately corrected herself to refer to their guest formally.

  "Good lord," Lisa muttered to herself, seeing all sorts of complications setting in. "What time is he to be there?"

  "He usually comes for cocktails around six," was the reply.

  "I'll be there by then." An irritated "damn" slipped out as Lisa replaced the receiver on the hook.

  But there wasn't time to dwell on her ultimate unmasking. She had to start transcribing the letters on the dictaphone before Slade Blackwell became suspicious about the silence in his outer office. It took a few minutes to find the stationery and carbon paper, and another few minutes to figure out how to operate the dictaphone before she was finally able to start.

  On the first letter, the spacing and margins were all wrong. The result was decidedly amateurish and Lisa had to do it all over again, interrupted by phone calls that she had to transfer to Slade Blackwell. The metal cabinets kept beckoning Lisa to investigate their files, but she remembered his statement that the letters were important. She didn't want Slade Blackwell coming out to discover her going through the files when she should be typing.

  Working on the fourth — and what she hoped was the last — letter, Lisa heard the connecting office door open and mentally tensed as Slade Blackwell stopped at her desk. Her cool green eyes slid a brief glance in his direction as he picked up the letters she had finished. She tried to increase her typing speed to an efficient rate — a mistake, as she misspelled a word by reversing the letters. She reached quickly for the liquid paper to correct it.

  The longest letter of those she had completed was tossed back to her desk. "The word is 'guaranty,' not 'guarantee,' Miss —?"

  "Mrs. Eldridge." The false name came so quickly to her tongue that Lisa was slightly astounded. Quickly she used her little finger to turn the birthstone ring on her left finger around so a plain gold band showed. "Mrs. Ann Eldridge," she carried her lie further, using her middle name in place of her first.

  "The word is repeated several times in the letter, Mrs. Eldridge. You'll have to retype it," he declared with cutting indifference,

  "Of course," Lisa agreed with a nod of deference, but she was actually gritting her teeth. He seemed to be waiting for an explanation for her error, and Lisa grudgingly gave him one, masking it in sweet politeness. "Unfortunately I'm not familiar with the 'to wits and 'whereas' and the other legal terminology, Mr. Blackwell."

  "I specifically requested a legal secretary," he stated.

  "The agency didn't have anyone available with legal experience. I'm sorry."

  She didn't dare look at him as she made the false apology. Lisa knew the glint in her eye was anything but apologetic. She could feel his sharp gaze studying her and tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation it aroused.

  "Do you always wear a hat when you work, Mrs. Eldridge?"

  Her hand lifted to her head in surprise, her fingers touching the green turban covering her silver blond hair. She hadn't completely forgotten about it, and a germ of an idea immediately took hold.

  "Only when my hair is a mess, Mr. Blackwell." This time she met his arrogantly appraising look, smiling faintly with a touch of challenge.

  One corner of his mouth quirked as if he found some cynical form of amusement in her answer, but he made no further comment about the hat.

  "I have a luncheon appointment. I'll be back around one o'clock," he told her, and walked to the double doors leading to the reception area.

  Waiting, Lisa listened for the opening and closing of the outside door before she darted from the desk to the metal filing cabinets. Alone at last, she had her first chance to investigate the files. She tried not to think about how unethical her search was, if not downright dishonest.

  Filing systems were beyond her experience, but luckily the drawers seemed to be labeled. Quickly Lisa began looking for the one that might indicate that it contained her aunt's records. The door to the reception area opened and Lisa stared visibly again.

  "Hello." A man walked in, shorter than Slade Blackwell but in his age group of the late thirties. He wore glasses and his brown hair was combed forward across his forehead; Lisa suspected it was to conceal a receding hairline. "You must be Mary Lou's replacement."

  "Yes, I am." Lisa heard the nervous tremor in her voice and tried to return the man's broad smile naturally. She glanced toward the connecting door to Slade Blackwell's office. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Blackwell has just left for lunch."

  "Yes, I know. I saw him in the reception area before he left," was the answer, but the man made no move to leave.

  Her fingers were resting on the handle of one drawer. The metal felt almost hot to the touch. It was so obvious that she was looking for something that she couldn't move away from the cabinets. She silently cursed the inner sensation of guilt that made her so uncomfortable.

  "Was there something I could help you with?" she asked politely, wishing he would go.

  The man was staring at her, his expression making it plain that he liked what he saw. Her prodding question seemed to awaken him from his silent study.

  "Yes," he walked quickly towards her. "I came to get the Talmadge file."

  "The what?" Lisa breathed weakly.

  "Talmadge, Miriam L.," he repeated, not apparently noticing the way the color drained from her face.

  She turned away from him, mentally grasping for straws. "I'm sorry, but these are Mr. Blackwell's files. I couldn't possibly —"

  "Good heavens!" he interrupted with a laugh. "I didn't introduce myself, did I? I'm Slade's assistant, consultant or whatever label you want to pin on me." He extended a hand to Lisa. "The name is Drew, as in Andrew, Rutledge — unfortunately no relation to the Charlestonian Rutledges of yore. And you are?"

  "L —" Inadvertently she almost gave him her real name and caught herself just in time. "Ann Eldridge. Mrs. Ann Eldridge."

  When Lisa had first placed her hand in his, he had seemed inclined to hold it. He released it on hearing her marital status, a faintly ru
eful smile curving his mouth.

  "Divorced? Widowed?" Drew Rutledge inquired with mock hopefulness.

  Lisa had to add another lie to the rest. "As of this morning when I left the house and kissed my husband goodbye, I was neither of those."

  "Isn't that just my luck?" he grinned. "The first attractive secretary we get in this place turns out to he married. Happily, I suppose?"

  "Very happily married," Lisa lied again.

  "Pity," Drew sighed mockingly, and shook his head. "I guess I'll have to retreat to the ranks of the confirmed bachelors with Slade."

  "Mr. Blackwell isn't married?" Somehow she had never assumed that he was. Now it was confirmed.

  "No. We've had a standing bet since our college days as to which of us gets married first, and we've both had our share of close calls."

  "Haven't we all?" Lisa agreed dryly, thinking of her abortive engagement to Michel, but her remark drew a curious look from Drew. She had to cover the slip quickly. "But once you meet the right person you don't want to settle for a close call."

  "So I've heard," he smiled, the curiosity leaving his hazel eyes at her reply. "Well, I suppose I'd better let you get back to work."

  "Yes." She tried not to show her relief. "I have a lot to do."

  "I'll get out of your way and let you get at it, as soon as you hand me the Talmadge file," he agreed.

  Her hope that Drew had forgotten the reason he had come in faded with his statement. She hesitated. "I really don't think I should —"

  "You guard the files more jealously than Mary Lou does," he laughed.

  Lisa seized on that comment instantly. "If that's true, then that's all the more reason for me not to give it to you." The main reason, of course, was that she wanted to look at it herself. "If it's not common practice to let the files leave this office, I shouldn't give it to you."

  "I have work to do, too, but I can't do it without the file," he insisted patiently, amused by her reluctance.

  "Listen, I'm just a temporary," Lisa pointed out. "Maybe you should wait until after lunch when Mr. Blackwell comes back." That would give her an opportunity to look at the file's contents before she handed it over to him.

  "He's the one who sent me in hereto get it," Drew replied. "He would have mentioned it to you, I'm sure, if he'd known you were going to turn into a green dragon guarding the file cabinets." His gaze flicked briefly and mockingly to the green suit she was wearing.

  There weren't any more excuses left. She had used them all. Inwardly she railed against the fates that had brought him in here for the Talmadge file and no other. Here she was with the ideal chance to do some undercover work and the object of her inquiry was being removed.

  "I promise I won't let the file out of my sight and return it the minute I'm through." Drew raised two fingers. "Scout's honor."

  "All right," Lisa agreed very grudgingly. She looked at the metal cabinets and found herself back in the same dilemma. Which drawer was it in? "Do you know where it's filed? I don't know this system." Or any system, other than the helter-skelter one in her own office in Baltimore.

  "I'll find it," Drew offered, and Lisa stepped aside. He opened the very drawer her hand had been resting on and flipped through the alphabetical index to the T's. "Here it is."

  Lisa had a fleeting glimpse of her aunt's name on the tab before he tucked it under his arm and closed the drawer. It was frustrating to know how close she had been to it and to see it being taken away.

  "Don't look so upset," Drew teased. "I'll have it back first thing tomorrow. I hope," he tacked on as a qualifying afterthought.

  "I'm not upset. Not really." Lisa composed herself quickly. "I was just wondering if anyone else would be coming in asking for files." She latched on to the first excuse that came to mind.

  "No need to worry," he assured her. "There's only myself, Slade and Ellen Tyler at the reception desk. Bob Tucker, the other assistant, consultant, whatever to Slade, isn't here. He should be back this weekend, although Mary Lou took a two-week leave of absence."

  "Mary Lou? Mr. Blackwell's secretary, the one I'm replacing?"

  "She's also Bob's wife. There was a death in her family," Drew explained. "After two weeks here, you'll know your way around the office and filing system like a pro."

  "I may not be here for two weeks." Not when Slade Blackwell discovers who I really am, Lisa thought.

  "Why not?" He cocked his head curiously, his eyebrows puckering together.

  "I'm not a trained legal secretary. The agency didn't have one available when Mr. Blackwell called. They'll be replacing me with someone more experienced."

  Her gaze kept darting to the file under his arm. Lisa turned away to walk back to her desk before Drew noticed her preoccupation with the folder.

  "I'll put in a word with Slade to keep you on until Mary Lou comes back. Experience doesn't count for all that much in this place. Slade likes things done his way, which is not necessarily according to the book."

  I can believe that, Lisa thought cynically, but she kept her opinion to herself.

  "That's kind of you," she said aloud instead, "but Mr. Blackwell might have his own opinion."

  "I know what he'll say." Drew nodded positively. "He'll tell me the same thing his father always tells me — that I'm a sucker for a pretty face."

  "His father? The Courtney Blackwell of Courtney Blackwell & Son?"

  "That's right, the old man himself."

  "Has he retired?" Lisa asked. "You didn't mention him when you ran down the list of people in the office."

  "He retired within a year after Slade got his law degree." Drew walked to Lisa's desk, leaning against the edge, hooking a knee over the corner so he was half sitting on the top. "He didn't like practicing law, said he was a farmer at heart, but there's been a Blackwell practicing law in Charleston for years. When Slade qualified, the tradition was carried on through him and Court moved out to the country."

  "He's farming, then."

  "Yes, he bought what was the old Blackwell plantation that the family had lost after the Civil War. The original house was still standing, but one wing was beyond repair and had to be torn down. They've restored most of it, though. It's quite a place;" he smiled. "You should see it."

  "Sounds interesting." But Lisa was wondering if Slade Blackwell was contributing Mitzi's money to the restoration.

  "Is your husband the jealous type?" Drew asked unexpectedly.

  "Burt?" Lisa was stunned. She couldn't believe the way these lies and fake names were springing from her tongue. She just hoped she could keep them all straight. "No, he's not particularly jealous. Why?"

  "I'd like to take you to lunch tomorrow. I'd make it for today, but have this —" he touched the folder under his arm, "— to work on. Which means I'll have to settle for Ellen bringing me back a sandwich." He noticed her hesitation and teased, "Come on, Ann. I'm harmless. Just look at me — I wear glasses, I'm short, or at least shorter than Slade. But I have a great personality. Perfectly harmless, I promise."

  "I'll bet you are," she laughed with mocking skepticism.

  "What do you say? Is it a date?" Drew wasn't put off.

  "Ask me tomorrow." If I'm here, Lisa added to herself.

  "I'll do that." He started to straighten from the desk, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "Talking about lunch, if you want yours today, you'd better be leaving. Things get pretty hectic around here in the afternoons."

  Lisa looked at her own watch, realizing how swiftly the time had fled since Slade Blackwell had left. It was nearly noon and her stomach was beginning to protest its hunger after skipping breakfast that morning. Mentally she thumbed her nose at the unfinished letter in the typewriter carriage and opened the lower desk drawer where she had put her purse.

  "That's a good idea," she told Drew. "I think I will leave now."

  Later, sitting alone in a booth at a nearby small restaurant crowded with lunch-hour patrons, Lisa stared at the few crumbs left that had been her lunch. She had had time t
o think while she was eating and she was just beginning to recognize what a very complicated and potentially embarrassing situation she had got into with her lies.

  Drew Rutledge had the folder Lisa wanted to read and he wouldn't return it before tomorrow. Which was too late. That left her with two choices. The first was to go back to the office and tell Slade Blackwell who she really was before he discovered it for himself.

  But how could she possibly explain why she hadn't done it before? Lisa didn't think he had all that great a sense of humor to laugh off her masquerade.

  The second alternative was to continue the deception until she could get her hands on the records concerning her aunt and take the risk of being unmasked before she could succeed. The only way she could do that was by avoiding meeting Slade Blackwell as herself, Lisa Talmadge.

  Considering her aunt had invited him to dinner this evening, that was already impossible. He would recognize her instantly. Then she would have to be the one who did all the explaining instead of the other way around.

  Sighing, Lisa glanced out the restaurant window. The sunlight hit the glass at just the right angle to reflect her own image. Her green eyes focused on the blurred reflection of the green turban on her head. Slade had made a reference to the hat earlier. The idea that had germinated at his mention of it now began to grow.

  In flashback, she remembered the mailman who stopped at the television studio practically every day for the past year. Yet when she had seen him off work in a store without his uniform, she hadn't recognized him.

  The wheels began to turn inside her head. A disguise was the answer, a very subtle disguise. Lisa Talmadge had shoulder-length silver blond hair. Mrs. Ann Eldridge, whose hair had not been seen, thanks to the turban, would have — Lisa thought for an instant — red hair.

  It would be a perfect foil for her fair complexion and green eyes and such a startling contrast to the true color of her pale hair. With luck, Slade Blackwell would never compare the two women.

  Within seconds, Lisa was at the cash register, paying for her meal and inquiring where the closest wig shop was located. She was told a boutique three blocks away carried a small selection. In all it turned out that the shop had no more than a dozen wigs in their inventory. One was red, a shade of flaming orange, cut short, styled in a pixieish bob. Lisa hardly recognized herself when the saleswoman helped her put it on.