Murder in the First Edition

by Lauren Elliott

  She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Serena, what in most every movie or novel is a secret agent called?”

  Serena frowned and shrugged her shoulders.

  Simon whirled an eggy spatula about. “A spy?”

  “No, a ghost.” Addie clapped her hands together. “That’s it. I have to talk to Marc.” She snatched two more pieces of bacon and raced out of the kitchen.

  “But what about breakfast?” Serena called.

  “Enjoy it,” she hollered back over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time. In record time, Addie washed, dressed, grabbed her purse and keys, and flung the front door open. “Jonathan? Catherine?”

  “Morning, Addie,” Jonathan nodded. “I hope you don’t mind us dropping by. Paige said you were running late today, so we might still catch you here.”

  “No, come in.” She stepped back from the door. “The more the merrier,” she mumbled, closing the door behind them.

  Simon walked out from the kitchen. “Good morning, Catherine,” he nodded, “and . . .”

  “Simon, this is Jonathan, David’s father.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir.” Simon shook his hand. “Are you hungry? There’s lots of food. Come on back to the kitchen, Serena’s already in there.”

  Addie waited for her uninvited guests to wander off to the kitchen and then whispered, “Glad you’ve made yourself so comfortable in my home.”

  “You gave me a key and said I was welcome to use your kitchen anytime, remember?”

  “Yes . . . but for emergencies only. It’s not my fault your new apartment comes with nothing but a cook plate in it.”

  “Well, this was an emergency. You needed a proper meal, and I needed to see you.” He kissed her brow.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his finger over her lips. “And as far as me inviting them in, I was just being friendly. You might try it some time.” He kissed her gently on the nose this time.

  She screwed up her face and gave him a sidelong glance.

  A laugh bubbled up in his chest and he swatted her butt. “Come on, your guests look hungry.”

  “Your guests,” she mumbled under her breath, and followed him into the kitchen.

  Serena had already set the kitchen table with two more settings and directed Jonathan and Catherine to their seats. “You guys sit here.” She glanced at Addie and Simon as they entered and then produced serving plate after serving plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, flapjacks, and toast.

  Addie’s eyes widened with each platter deposited. “This is really too much food, Simon. How will we ever get through it?”

  “I don’t know about you”—Jonathan took a forkful of pancakes from the platter—“but I’m starving.”

  “This looks wonderful.” Catherine buttered a slice of toast. “Talk about perfect timing to drop by.”

  Addie set her fork down. “Jonathan, did you happen to speak with Marc this morning?”

  “I did”—Jonathan popped a slice of bacon into his mouth—“and everything’s fine. All cleared up.”

  “All cleared up, huh?”

  His hand stopped, a scoopful of eggs trembling in midair. His eye slightly twitched at the corner. “Yes, all cleared up.” He dropped the eggs onto his plate.

  “That’s good to hear.” She went back to her plate, trailing the food in circles around it with her fork. “I was just worried because—”

  “Like I said,” his tone sharpened, “all cleared up.”

  How had such a great man like David come from the loins of the . . . the . . . Addie couldn’t think of a harsh enough word, but still wondered on David’s paternity. The lively conversation around her pulled her from her funk. Simon and Jonathan appeared to hit it off, and Serena and Catherine had a tug-of-war going on between the two of them over who could mother hen the group best. Addie’s eyes darted back to Jonathan whenever he laughed or spoke. What was it about him that bothered her? She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t shake the feeling.

  Finally, when coffee was served, Addie couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “So, Jonathan, tell me. When you were having coffee with Teresa in her office, did she show you the copy of A Christmas Carol?”

  “Why, yes, she was most proud of it. Very excited about the rather large donation, too. Why?” His gaze never wavered from hers.

  “It’s just that the book is in such fantastic condition. I know you’d appreciate seeing it.” Addie fidgeted with her napkin on the table. “It’s just too bad that it’s gone missing now.”

  “It has?” His jaw flinched.

  “Didn’t Marc mention that when you saw him?”

  Jonathan looked back at her. “No, he didn’t. Perhaps they found it.”

  “Yes, that must be it.” She returned his hardened gaze.

  He pushed his chair away from the table. “Are you done, my dear?” He held his hand out to Catherine.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She set her coffee cup down.

  “I think then we’d best be off. We’ve kept these good people long enough, and I’m sure they all have their real jobs to get to.” He glanced at Addie. “It’s been wonderful, truly.” He looked at Simon and Serena. “Thank you. I can’t say how long it’s been since I’ve had such a fantastic home-cooked meal with such pleasant table companions.”

  Simon glanced sideways at Addie, who made no effort to rise. “Um, I’ll walk you out, then.”

  The trio made their way out of the kitchen door.

  “What just happened?” Serena whispered. “Why did he nearly bolt out of here?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Chapter 6

  Addie drummed her fingers across the front counter. She peeked around the corner into Marc’s office. He sat hunched over his computer, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. She maneuvered around the empty reception desk and rapped on his partially open door.

  “Miss Greyborne, what can I do for you?” The corners of his lips lifted in a smile.

  “Hi, sorry to drop by, I was just on the way to my store. If you’re busy, I can come back.”

  “No.” He waved her in. “Come in, please. Have a seat.”

  “I was wondering if”—she blew out a quiet, pent-up breath and settled on the edge of a chair—“if Jonathan had come in this morning to talk to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did want to talk to you about him. There are a couple of things we need to clear up.”

  “Okay . . .” She eyed him. “But I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “It’s what I know now”—he pulled a file from the basket on his desk—“and I thought I should tell you since he is . . . kind of family to you.”

  “I must admit I am surprised to hear he actually did drop in and see you. He told me this morning he had, but sometimes I’m not sure whether to believe him or not.”

  “He did. First thing, too, and it’s all good now.”

  “That’s exactly what he said. What was his explanation for the missing years of his life?”

  “It appears to be an ongoing problem he’s had.”

  “How so?”

  Marc leaned back. “Well, I guess his earlier records were filed under a misspelling of his name, and it wasn’t corrected until 1977.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “He called his lawyer and had me speak with him to confirm. It sounded legit, so I guess, yeah, it does happen.”

  “He dialed the lawyer or you did?”

  “He did. Why does it make a difference? I spoke with him.”

  “Could you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Check out the number and the lawyer.”

  He crossed his arms and studied her face. “What’s up, Addie?”

  “Nothing, just my stomach acting up again, I guess.”

  “Acting up like in one of your gut feelings?” His gaze dropped to her lips, being chewed quite diligently. “Okay, I will, but it won’t lead to anything. I can tell you that
right now.”

  “Yes, but how can you be certain you spoke with his lawyer, and it wasn’t someone pretending to be his lawyer?”

  “Because he gave me his Bar Association number along with other credential information, and after we’d hung up, he e-mailed me all the records I needed. Jonathan’s birth certificate, school records, driver’s license, everything we couldn’t find before showing Hemingway with two m’s and then the 1977 correction to one m. Mystery solved.”

  “That’s very convenient of him to have all those at his fingertips, don’t you think? Are they real government-issued documents or forgeries?”

  “As real as the government seals stamped on them.”

  “Marc, I know that forged seals on scanned copies can easily pass as legitimate ones when you don’t have the original document to compare it to. My father came across it plenty of times in his work. Unscrupulous brokers and criminals do it all the time on certificates of sale and authenticity and Lord knows what else.”

  “I do know how to do my job.” Tiny shivers raced up her spine. The piercing look in his eyes on hers told her she’d overstepped. “But if it makes you feel better.” He shrugged. “I’ll dig deeper. I have a friend with the FBI who I can call.”

  She blew out a silent breath of relief. “What about the phone number, do you still have it?”

  “He made the call on his phone.” Marc tapped his pen on the desktop.

  “Can you run a trace on his phone?”

  “I can, but I’d need a court order to do that.”

  “See if your friend at the FBI can help with that, too?”

  “Addie.” He leaned forward across the desk, his eyes searching hers. “I think you’re looking for villains where there are none.”

  “Maybe, but I think I might be on to something. I think he’s a spy or a secret government agent.”

  Marc’s grin matured into a full-blown smile. “Look at it this way, Miss Snoopy. If he were a government agent, why would his target objective be a local charity foundation coordinator who poses no threat to national or international security?”

  “We don’t know that for sure, do we?” She shifted in her chair.

  His smile grew, and he sat back. His fingers interlocked behind his head. “You’ve been reading those Jason Bourne novels again, haven’t you?”

  She ignored his comment. “But if not that, then maybe he’s part of an international crime ring. I have wondered about that before with all his jobs.” She quashed his sigh with a glare. “That fellow you spoke with on the phone might have been a mob lawyer trying to cover Jonathan’s true identity.” She sat back, crossing her arms. “Did you think about that, Mr. Smarty-pants?”

  “He was David’s father, and if the David you loved was anything like him, I doubt he’s a bad guy or a spy, whatever it is you’re thinking. It’s nothing more than a simple clerical error.”

  At the mention of David’s name from his lips, again Addie gulped, and looked past him out of the window, biting the inside of her cheek so the sting in his words didn’t develop into tears in her eyes.

  “Addie, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be, you’re right. Like father like son. I suppose it’s just my imagination running wild again. Forget what I said.”

  Without saying a word, he rose and walked around the desk, dropped into the chair beside her, and took her hand in his. Goose bumps erupted on her arms. After all this time, she couldn’t believe this man still had the same effect on her. She took a deep breath to try to put her erratic beating heart back where it belonged: in her chest.

  He leaned closer. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  There it was again, the wild pounding in her throat. If they were as they had been before, she’d have a witty comeback, but now . . . she had nothing. “Um, yes.” She turned to him, their eyes locking. Heat crept up from under her collar as her mind attempted to come up with something that would give her a reason to stay and wouldn’t break this moment between them. “Do you have the results of Teresa’s toxicology screen back?”

  He dropped her hand. “Isn’t that a question you could have asked Simon, your boyfriend?”

  Not the response she’d hoped for. “I’ve told you before, he’s my friend, not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.” The words burned in her throat.

  He stood up and perched on the edge of his desk. “Does he know that?” His eyes never wavered from hers.

  “What does that mean?” She studied the wood grain in the armrest.

  “Nothing.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “The tox screen.” He reached behind him and picked up a file, flipped through the papers, and pulled a page out. “Here it is. Tell me, why should I share this with you?”

  She squared her shoulders. “If I remember correctly, I was consulted in another case the DA felt you needed my help with”—his mouth dropped open—“and if I’m not mistaken, I am still on your suspect list for this one, at least I haven’t been told otherwise.”

  “Which is exactly why I can’t share the contents of this report with you.” His eyes bore into hers.

  “I see.” She picked up her purse and stood up.

  “Wait.” He raked his fingers through his hair, causing brown tufts to stand straight up. “I will tell you she had been drinking as you suspected when you found her body.”

  “Really, so it was an accident? Am I cleared, then?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He tossed the file back on his desk.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m just telling you everything I can right now, and by the way, as it stands, this is still not a murder investigation until proven otherwise.”

  “I see. So, for now, I remain on your potential list in case you do discover it to be murder?”

  His jaw flinched. She headed for the door and stopped. “Did you find the book by chance?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What did Patrick say about it?”

  “He said the last time he saw it, it was in the case in her office.”

  “When was that?”

  “Yesterday morning”—he walked toward her—“before he went downstairs to coordinate the convention room setup.”

  “He doesn’t know if she moved it?”

  “No, he has no idea where it might be.”

  “Did he know where she kept the key for the case?”

  “He said she always had it with her and wore it on the key ring on her wrist, the same one that was found in the case. If that’s all, then?” He motioned to the door, his eyes softening.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she could only nod. She opened the door and then paused. “Did you check all her locked file cabinets and—”

  “Of course.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m a trained police officer.” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “unlike you,” but she couldn’t be certain and decided to ignore his pouting anyway.

  “I know you are, but . . . I have to be certain. That book is worth a lot of money. Did you find any notes in her office about it, something in her desk drawer, anything that might lead to a special hiding place she might have had in the office or at home?”

  “Are you insinuating that you, an amateur detective, knows the job better than my highly trained crime-scene investigation team does?” The corner of his lip twitched.

  A cough came from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at Jerry, one of Marc’s officers, red-faced, sitting in the desk sergeant’s seat. She leaned her hand against the doorframe and glared at Marc. “Of course not. Your team is excellent, but I think that book has been stolen because there are too many coincidences. Like Jonathan with his mysterious past showing up and him being an old friend of Teresa’s, and now she’s dead. On top of all that, a sixty-thousand-dollar book has been stolen.”

  Mark let out a long, slow breath. “First, the mystery around Jonathan has been answered. Second, Teresa had been drinking, and she obviously took a fall d
own the stairs. Third, we don’t know if the book has been stolen, or if it’s just missing because the key ring she always wore was in the lock. She probably moved it because there is no proof to the contrary.” His hand scoured through his hair. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  She shook her head. “My gut tells me Teresa’s fall wasn’t an accident, and Jonathan’s arrival in the Harbor a week and a half before the auction is all connected to the missing book.”

  “Your gut feeling again?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, but for once and for all, please leave police work up to the police. Have a good day, Miss Greyborne.”

  “Well, I never,” she huffed out a breath as his office door closed. She glanced sideways at Jerry, who sat silently watching her and leaned over the desk. “You know,” she whispered, “what I said was in no way implying you and your team—”

  “I know, miss.” His lips twitched up at the corners.

  “You’re a great officer and very good at your job. I just don’t want there to be any hard feelings.”

  “No worries, miss.”

  “Good.” She pulled her gloves on and headed for the door.

  “Miss Greyborne,” he called out behind her, coming around the desk. He glanced around the empty waiting room and at Marc’s closed door before leaning toward her. “There were two coffee cups.”

  “I know.” She frowned. “I saw them on the desk.”

  He shook his head. “Not the ceramic ones. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, either, but there were two paper cups in the waste basket under her desk.”

  “So, she liked coffee. I do, too.”

  “The interesting thing is one cup had the same red lipstick markings as the one on the desk, but the other one . . .”

  “Yes, what are you saying, Jerry?” she prodded.

  “That it also had lipstick marks on it, but it was a different color. It reminded me of the shade my wife wears.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to her. “When I went home, I smeared some of my wife’s on this napkin. Apparently, the shade is Dark Honey-Peach. Although I’ve never seen a honey peach before. Have you?”