Beckett's Cinderella by Dixie Browning

she was?”
    â€œI’ll figure out something on the way. But listen, six years as a security guard is five years too much. The uniform’s okay, but the pay’s rotten and the benefits are worse. I been planning this thing for years, just waiting for the right opportunity to connect—something that’ll get me some free publicity. You’re my connection, babe. I won’t forget it. From now on, we’ve got it made.”
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    It was too early to go to bed. Liza knew she’d never be able to fall asleep. Wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the book she’d thought was so wonderful just yesterday, either. The writer was clever—she had a great ear for dialogue, but the hero was only in his twenties and had baby-blue eyes and boyish dimples. In Liza’s opinion men didn’t even begin to ripen until they were in their midthirties.
    L. J. Beckett was probably nearing forty, maybe even a year or so on the other side. If he had a dimple, it was in a place that didn’t show. Which brought on a whole new line of thought, one that was strictly off-limits.
    â€œWhat’s the score now?” she asked, dropping into the vacant chair, shucking off her clogs and sighing.
    â€œTied at three, but our guys is red-hot tonight.”
    â€œEver the optimist.” She smiled fondly at the relative she had never met until little over a year ago. He had saved—well, if not her life, at least her sanity.
    There hadn’t been any more hang-up calls for more than a week now, and the single letter could have been a fluke. Probably one of those automated envelope stuffers that couldn’t tell when the ink ran out on the printer.
    Oh, sure. The hang-up calls were wrong numbers,and the blank letter was a computer glitch. And L. J. Beckett was a friendly IRS agent, trying to find out if she had stashed away any unreported ill-gotten gains.
    â€œStorm looks like it’s headed this way. Too far out to tell yet.”
    â€œLord, not a rainy Labor Day weekend, that would be awful for everybody’s business.”
    â€œFeet don’t hurt, leastways no more’n usual. Maybe she’ll sheer off. Feller said to give you this.” Without looking away from the screen, her uncle fished out an envelope and handed it over.
    Liza stared at it as if it were a copperhead poised to strike. “Do you know what it is?”
    â€œSaid he owed you some money.”
    â€œHe doesn’t owe me a darned thing. I’ve never even met the man before today.”
    â€œSeen a lot of folks in my life. This one don’t strike me as a fool or a crook. He says he owes you money, it’s ’cause he does. Or thinks he does. Any rate, you might’s well open it, long’s he left it here.”
    Liza could tell her uncle was burning with curiosity. Another batter struck out, and he didn’t even turn to watch. “All right, I’ll open it, but that doesn’t mean…” The bills fell out in her lap. Ten of them, each featuring a portrait of Grover Cleveland. Nausea clenched like a fist in her belly.
    â€œCash money, huh? Know what that means? Means we don’t have to report it.”
    When she could catch her breath again, she said,“Uncle Fred, stop joking. I can’t take this money. The man’s out of his mind.”
    â€œWho says I’m joking? I’ve not got many more miles left in me, but I wouldn’t mind seeing me a ball game at Turner Field. Might even take in a race or two while we’re down that way.”
    Liza stared down at the Federal Reserve notes scattered on her lap. Ten thousand dollars. Nobody owed her so much as a single dollar, much less ten thousand of them.
    â€œI’ve got to find him and give it back. Did he say where he was going?”
    â€œBack to the motel, I reckon. Not much else he could do around these parts.”
    â€œHe’s staying at the beach?” She didn’t look forward