Hometown Honey

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s in Malaysia on a business trip. Look, what is this about?” Cindy had an unpleasant crawly sensation at the back of her neck.

Sonya sank back in her seat. “Oh, I hope I’m not too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this except to just blurt it out. The man in that photo is not Dexter Shalimar. His name is Marvin Carter and he’s a con man.”

Cindy’s face grew hot. “I don’t know who you think you are or what you’re trying to pull, but Dexter Shalimar is no con man. Would a con man give a woman a ring like this?” She always tucked her three-carat engagement ring into her pocket while she was working. She pulled it out now and flashed the enormous pear-shaped diamond under Sonya’s nose.

Sonya gave the ring a perfunctory glance. “Hmm. It looks a lot like mine.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a ring that was identical to Cindy’s.

“And mine.” Brenna opened her leather backpack and also produced a similar ring.

“I assume you haven’t had it appraised,” Sonya said. “It’s a cubic zirconia. Worth about twenty-eight bucks. I think he buys them by the gross.”

“I don’t believe you,” Cindy said flatly. “He is Dex Shalimar. He drives a Porsche 911. He’s just bought us a million-dollar penthouse. I’ve been there.”

“Oh, the penthouse on Riva Row?” asked Sonya. “That would be my penthouse. Or it used to be mine, until he sold it out from under me, pocketed the cash and skipped town.”

Cindy’s head was beginning to buzz. This couldn’t be true—it just couldn’t be. “I want you to leave,” Cindy said frostily.

“Of course.” Sonya flashed her a sympathetic smile. “I know how hard this is, believe me. But check your bank accounts. If there’s still any money in them, count yourself lucky. And change your account numbers.”

Sonya slid out of the booth. Brenna scrambled after her. They both looked at Cindy sadly, as if she were a puppy they were leaving behind at the dog pound. Then they left the café, Sonya’s heels tapping on the linoleum floor.

Cindy just sat there. Should she try to get in touch with Dex, tell him two mad women were running around maligning him? He’d said he would be out of touch. But surely his company would know how to contact him.

Then an awful, alien thought stirred in her brain. She should call the bank. Just to be sure.

Someone scooted into the booth across from her. She looked up to see Luke Rheems, his handsome face etched with concern. “Cindy? You okay? Who were those women?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine? And those women are nutcases. You should keep an eye on them, Luke. They’re up to no good.” Then she stood up and made a hasty escape before her panic took control of her and she started screaming.

Keeping her gaze straight ahead, not acknowledging any customers’ or employees’ looks of concern, she headed for her office and slipped inside. Both Adam and Micton were napping, thank heavens. Micton was still tiny and slept most of the time, anyway. Adam, however, had just turned fourteen months, and he was getting more active by the minute. Soon he would be too much to handle at work, and she would have to find a full-time babysitter.

She paused a moment to watch her son sleeping, his thumb in his mouth, his favorite blanky clutched in his other hand. He was the light of her life. She’d never expected to enjoy motherhood. But she’d taken to it like a hog to mud, proving that she did in fact have at least one domestic bone in her body, contrary to what her parents had always said.

Enough distraction. She had to call the bank. And then, when she heard everything was as it should be, she could laugh off her momentary worries.

Cindy found the number in her Rolodex, then dialed. She asked for her personal banker, Mary Dietz.

“Oh, hi, Cindy. It’s nice to hear from you. How can I help you?”

Cindy made her request to check the balance in her checking account. It was exactly where it should be, seven hundred and change. She breathed a little easier.

“And my money-market fund?”

There was a long silence. “That account is closed.”

“No, you’re thinking of my mother’s account. I closed that out last year when her estate was settled. I’m talking about my personal savings account. Here’s the number.” She rattled off the long account number.

Another long silence. “Cindy, Mr. Shalimar closed that account last week. I handled it personally. He said you were investing the funds into real estate.”

That buzz was starting up in Cindy’s head again. “Are you sure?” But she knew that was a stupid question. Mary didn’t make mistakes.

“Oh, my gosh, of course,” Cindy said, masking her panic as best she could. “I forgot he was going to do that. Okay, never mind. Sorry I bothered you.” She hung up.

Could it possibly be true, what those women had told her? That Dex wasn’t Dex at all, but someone named Marvin who’d given her a fake ring, shown her a penthouse that wasn’t even his and made off with close to three-quarters of a million dollars—Jim’s entire life-insurance benefit, her parents’ life savings and both her and Jim’s savings?

She picked up the phone again, frantically dialing Dex’s cell number. She got a recording that the number wasn’t valid. She dialed again, thinking she must have misdialed in her haste. But she got the same result.

On a mission now, she pulled the Houston phone book from her bottom desk drawer and looked up the number for Shalimar Holdings. Dex had always told her not to bother calling him at the office, where she would have to wade through layers of receptionists and secretaries to get to him. His cell was always on, always with him and a much easier way to reach him.

She dialed the business number, reached a secretary. “This is an emergency. I really, really need to get word to Dexter Shalimar. Does he have an assistant or someone I could talk to?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Cindy Lefler, his fiancée. I know he’s in Malaysia, but surely you people have a way of getting through to him in an emergency?”

Long silence. “Mr. Shalimar is not in Malaysia. Nor does he have a fiancée named Cindy or anything else. Shall I transfer your call to security?”

Cindy couldn’t speak. She simply hung up the phone.

She had to get out of here, go home, pull herself together. She couldn’t let her customers or employees see her falling apart. She couldn’t let anyone know what was happening until she’d figured it out for herself.

She packed up Adam’s diaper bag and her purse and car keys, then gently picked up Adam from his playpen. He stirred slightly, then opened his eyes and blinked blearily at her.

She cuddled him against her shoulder. Thank goodness he wasn’t a cranky baby. He was very adaptable, willing to sleep anywhere, eat anything, play with whatever was on hand, allow anyone to hold him. He would be a fabulous traveling companion, she’d told herself many times.

She ducked into the kitchen long enough to tell her cook, Manson Grable, that she was going home because she didn’t feel well.

“Is there anything I can do?” Manson asked. He was sixty, portly, round faced and had worked for the Miracle Café his whole adult life. “Can I send you home with some chicken soup?”

“I’ll be fine—just a headache.” She forced a smile and had almost made it out the back door when a booming voice from the dining room snagged her attention.

“I’m looking for Cindy Lefler!”

She considered escaping, then decided it might be important. With a heavy heart, she walked back through the kitchen and out the swinging doors into the dining room.

Standing in the middle of the dining room, looking something like King Henry VIII in madras shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, was the man who’d spoken.

“Hi, I’m Cindy Lefler,” Cindy said, lacking her usual smiling hospitality. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Ed LaRue.”

She looked at him blankly. The name meant nothing to her.

“I’m the new owner of the Miracle Café,” he continued, still grinning. “Soon to be Ed’s Enchilada Emporium!”