The Fiance Thief by Tracy South Page A

of paper out of her desk and wrote “Find Scott” on it. There, that was a start. She underlined the phrase. Scott…Scott who? She opened up her desk drawer, hoping Alec had replaced her copy of the Miranda Craig biography, but it wasn’t there. She went to his desk and rifled through the drawers, but didn’t see it there, either. Now how was she supposed to find out Scott’s last name?
    “I need your help,” she told Hank.
    “I’m not aiding and abetting this crime you’re trying to pass off as an act of friendship,” he said.
    “Don’t be melodramatic.” Lissa relished being able to say that to someone else. “You know that seminar we were supposed to go to, the one where we learned how to do researchfrom data bases? Remember how I met that cute stockbroker at registration and never quite made it there? Well, now I need to know how to find something.”
    Everyone had a weak spot. As she’d hoped, Hank wasn’t able to resist an appeal to his skills and his knowledge, and he turned over his terminal. Caught up in the challenge of tracking down the information, he seemed to forget his concerns about the wisdom of what she was doing. Fortunately, Lissa remembered the year Miranda dropped Scott, and they were able to locate stories about her using that date and Scott’s first name.
    Hank called up a full-text version of one of the stories. Lissa, reading over his shoulder, stopped when she came to the flagged term “Scott.”
    “Scott Granville,” she read. “I remember that now.”
    With a few expert maneuvers, Hank got out of the data base. “Of course you remember, now that we’ve spent all this time on a fifty-dollar-an-hour data base.”
    “It’s for a good cause,” Lissa said. “Now what do I do?”
    Hank sighed. “Do you think he still lives in New York City?” At her nod, he suggested she try directory assistance. “I doubt he’ll be listed, though. If I were Miranda Craig’s ex, I wouldn’t be.”
    “Don’t you see? That’s exactly the reason I’m going to find him waiting by the phone.”
    And he was. Picking up after one and a half rings, Scott seemed eager to listen to Lissa’s spiel. Quickly she explained who she was and how she knew Claire. Then she went for the zinger, telling him how glad she was she caught him before he left for the retreat.
    “Claire and our editor are going to be interviewing the attendees there, but I’m trying to get a few comments from people before they go, you know, in case they can’t talk freely once they arrive,” she said.
    He was quiet for a second. “Retreat? This is the first I’ve heard about it.”
    Lissa feigned shock. “You aren’t invited? But you’re such an integral part of Miranda’s history. You’re the authority on that whole struggling actress era of her life.” She sighed. “Please say you aren’t mad at me for calling you and unearthing all this painful old history. I never dreamed you weren’t invited.” She went for the clincher. “I know for a fact that Claire expected you to be there.”
    Hank went into a hysterical coughing fit. Scowling, Lissa put her fingers on her lips and mimed cutting her throat.
    “She did? And she was still going to go?” Scott said after a long pause.
    “Yes,” Lissa lied. “I think she was looking forward to seeing how you’d changed.”
    “I’ve changed for the better,” he said. She found herself kind of touched by his boyish tone. “I’m not the same guy who ran off with Miranda.”
    “I’m sure Claire would like to hear that. If only you were going to be there.”
    Across the telephone wires, she could practically see the little cogs in his brain whirling. “You know, there’s got to be some way I can go. If I crash the thing, the worst Miranda can do is throw me out. And that’s going to look kind of bad for her, especially if she knows there’s a reporter there.”
    “There you go,” Lissa said. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been back