Читать книгу Secret Agent Santa - Carol Ericson - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Claire fluffed Ethan’s hair as she sat on the edge of the bed where she’d spent a sleepless night next to her squirmy son. If Mike had let her fling open the door, she might’ve caught Spencer in the act of eavesdropping.

And then what? He’d be alerted to her suspicions. Right now he suspected her only of nosing around his finances, and she wanted to keep it that way. Mike had been right to stop her.

But did he have to stop her by kissing her silly? She traced her mouth with her fingertips. Not that she’d minded.

Her son fluttered his long lashes and yawned.

Typically, Ethan woke up with the early birds, but last night’s commotion had him sleeping late. Commotion? Was that what you called the murder of a CIA director by the man who would replace him? She had no doubt that was what had gone down. Now she just had to convince Mike Becker.

She hadn’t trusted Spencer Correll since the fourth or fifth year of his marriage to her mother. She’d been in college at Stanford when her mother married Spencer. Claire hadn’t given him much thought. He was the type of man her mother had dated since Dad’s death—charming, a few years younger, in need of some financing.

Despite her wariness, nothing set off any alarm bells until that phone call and then her mother’s accident.

“Mommy?”

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” She skimmed her fingers through Ethan’s curly brown hair. “It’s late.”

His eyes grew round. “Can I look at the accident now?”

“I think that’s been all cleaned up.” At least she hoped to God it had been. “Let’s have some breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.” He smacked his lips. “Is Mr. Brown eating breakfast, too?”

“You remember Mr. Brown from last night?” She tilted her head, wrinkling her nose. Mike must’ve made quite an impression on Ethan, which meant she couldn’t get her son out of here and with his grandparents fast enough. She didn’t want to confuse him or get his hopes up.

“Mr. Brown was giant, like Hercules.” Ethan raised his hand over his head as far as he could.

“Yeah, he’s tall.” She grabbed him under the arms and tickled. “Now let’s go eat.”

The smells of bacon and coffee coming from the kitchen lent an air of normalcy to the house after Claire had made her way through the cleaning crews in the great room. The giant Christmas tree she’d lit up with a thousand bulbs last night had shed its gold ornaments in the blast and now stood in the corner, a forlorn reminder of the Christmas spirit.

Ethan had shoved through the dining room doors first and came to a halt in front of Mike, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and Jerome’s flaky biscuits.

Mike eyed Ethan over the rim of his coffee cup. “Who are you, the cook?”

Crossing his arms, Ethan stamped his foot. “I’m Ethan. I saw you last night.”

“Oh.” Mike snapped his fingers. “You looked a lot smaller in bed. I thought you were a little boy, but you’re not. You’re a big boy.”

Claire pulled out a chair with a smile on her face. Mike must have kids of his own, and if he wasn’t divorced, he should be after the way he’d kissed her last night. No happily married man would be kissing a woman he’d just met like that—assignment or no assignment.

Ethan climbed into the chair next to Mike’s, studied his plate and proceeded to ask Liz, the maid, for the same food Mike had.

Claire tilted her head at her son. “Are you sure you can eat that much?”

“I’m hungry.” Ethan patted his tummy.

“How’s your nose? Any sniffles or coughing?”

“Nope.”

She turned to Mike. “Ethan’s been having some problems with allergies, and the doctor is thinking it might be asthma.”

“He looks good to me.” Mike winked at Ethan.

“Ms. Chadwick, do you want anything besides coffee this morning?” Liz poured a stream of brown liquid into her cup.

“Just some orange juice.” When Liz finished pouring the coffee, Claire tipped some cream into her cup and dipped a spoon into the white swirl.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep despite everything?” Mike broke open a biscuit, and steam rose from the center.

Did he mean despite the murder of the director, or the kiss? She watched his strong hands as he buttered one half of the biscuit, then tore off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. “I didn’t get much sleep at all. You?”

“Slept like a baby.” He winked at Ethan again, who giggled.

“You’re not a baby.” Her son jabbed a fork in Mike’s direction.

Claire drew her brows together as she glanced at Ethan’s eyes, shining with clear hero worship. Since he’d started kindergarten a few months ago, Ethan had been asking more questions about his father and had become more aware of the absence of a father in his own life. She didn’t want him getting too attached to Mike, especially since he’d seemed to form an immediate liking for him.

Like mother, like son.

“I don’t even know why anyone would say they slept like a baby when they slept well.” She pinched Ethan’s nose. “Because you certainly didn’t sleep all through the night when you were a baby.”

Ethan giggled again and Mike added his loud guffaw just as Spencer walked into the dining room.

He raised his brows. “What a nice family scene, especially on a morning like this.”

Claire jerked her head around, her finger to her lips. “Shh. Not now.”

Spencer shrugged and refilled the coffee cup in his hand. He took a seat across from her. “When do you plan on telling him?”

“In our own time, Spencer.” She sent Mike a look from beneath her lashes. “Did you learn anything more about what happened last night?”

“The Security Council had an emergency meeting this morning, and the FBI gave us an initial report.”

She folded her hands around her cup, trying hard not to break it. “Anything you can pass along? Has anyone claimed credit?”

“Not yet.” Spencer slurped at his coffee. “Too bad this had to spoil your visit, Mitch.”

Mike reached across the table and curled his fingers around Claire’s. “I don’t plan on letting it ruin my visit. Of course, it’s a tragedy, and I’m sorry it happened in front of your house, at Claire’s event, but nothing can get in the way of our happiness.”

She sent Mike a weak smile. He was really laying it on thick.

“My house?” Spencer folded his arms on the table. “Is Claire hiding assets from you already?”

“Sir?” Mike’s fingers dug into her hand.

“This house belongs to Claire.” Spencer spread his arms. “This house and everything in it.”

“Mitchell and I haven’t gotten around to detailing our assets yet.” Heat crept up her chest and she took a gulp of chilled orange juice to keep it in check. She and Mike should’ve been covering this ground last night. Nothing much got past Spencer.

“Our—” Mike slid a glance at Ethan, busy marching his dinosaurs over a mound of scrambled eggs on his plate “—courtship was fast.”

“I have to admit, when you showed up last night, it was the first I’d heard of you, but then, Claire plays it close to the vest. So your announcement didn’t surprise me in the least, and it was quite welcome.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Mike gave her fingers one last squeeze before releasing her hand. “Are we still on for sightseeing today, or did the...accident change our plans?”

“I don’t see any reason why your plans should change.” Spencer pushed back from the table. “You might find a few monuments closed for security reasons, and you might have to drive through a few security checkpoints.”

“Maybe we’ll take a drive down to Virginia, Mount Vernon.” She tugged on Ethan’s ear. “You’re going to Mallory’s birthday party today.”

Ethan dropped his dinosaurs. “She’s gonna have cupcakes. She told me at school.”

“And pony rides.” She handed Ethan a napkin. “Wipe your face and I’ll help you get ready to go.”

Mike placed his own napkin by the side of his plate and smiled at Ethan. “Will you bring me a cupcake?”

“Yes. What color?”

“Surprise me.”

Spencer hunched forward and whispered, “I think we should send some security with Ethan and Lori to that party. Just to be on the safe side.”

She nodded. One more reason to get Ethan out of this town—and away from Spencer; not that her stepfather would ever hurt her son, but his connections might not be so sensitive.

* * *

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Claire was staring out the car window at a gray sky threatening another dusting of snow. She shivered and wound her blue scarf around her neck.

“Are you cold?” Mike’s fingers hovered at the dial of the car heater. “I can turn it up.”

“I’m fine.” She crossed her arms. “I’m just thinking about my stepfather sitting at that security meeting this morning, blood on his hands.”

“How can you be so sure he’s responsible, Claire? A few overheard conversations and a few suspicious emails don’t prove anything concrete, and we need concrete.”

“Be patient. You’re here, aren’t you? What I told Lola must’ve been convincing enough for her husband to send you out here to investigate.”

His gaze narrowed. “Do you want the truth?”

“Considering you’re my fiancé, that would be nice.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“Funny.” He turned down the heat. “The truth is, you’re Lola’s friend. She’s worried about you.”

She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping. After a few deep breaths, she smoothed her hands over the pressed denim covering her thighs and then clasped her knees. “Are you telling me that none of you believe my stepfather is up to his neck in something nefarious? The CIA director was just murdered—in front of my house on his way to our party.”

“Which may or may not have anything to do with Spencer Correll.”

A sharp pain stabbed her between the eyes, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you here to help find evidence against my stepfather, or to play fiancé and protector to the poor, addled widow?”

“A little of both.” He held up his hand when she took a breath, clenching her fists in front of her. “Nobody thinks you’re poor and addled—especially not poor.”

“You’re insulting.” She blew out a breath and flicked her fingers in the air. “Turn around. The engagement is over, and you can leave.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That was insulting? I admit I’m brusque, comes from living in a world of subterfuge and secrets. When I have the opportunity to tell the truth, I take it. You want the truth, don’t you?”

“Lola doesn’t believe me?” Her nose stung. Lola Coburn was one of her oldest and best friends. She knew Lola had been concerned about her after Shane’s...death, but Lola had sounded so sincere on the phone.

“Lola believes you have every right to suspect Spencer of complicity in your mother’s death.”

“But not that he’s involved with a bunch of terrorists?”

“Nobody is dismissing that out of hand, Claire, and yes, the director’s murder is convenient for Senator Correll.”

“But...”

“No buts. I’m here to look into everything.”

“Including my mental health.” She scooted forward in her seat and tilted her head at him. “Why did Jack Coburn send one of his agents on what could very well be a wild-goose chase?”

“The truth again?”

“Why not? We seem to be on a roll.”

“I’m retiring. I’ve been in this business too long, and I’m on my way out.”

She scanned the touch of gray in the black hair at his temples and the lines in his rugged face. “So Jack asked if you’d mind checking in on the poor, addled widow on your way out?”

He reached out as quickly as a cat and chucked her beneath the chin. “Would you stop calling yourself that? You’re not poor or addled.”

“I know, I know, especially poor.”

Tapping the car’s GPS, he said, “Are we still going to Mount Vernon?”

“Why not? I just want to get out of DC, and Mount Vernon’s as good as anyplace. Besides, I’m supposed to be showing you the sights.”

“It’s going to be a madhouse in DC for the next several weeks. Director Haywood’s death is going to affect us, too.”

“I think his assassination serves many purposes. I have no doubt that it was to put Spencer in position, but there must’ve been another reason. Maybe the director knew something.” She squeezed her eyes closed trying to remember the last time her stepfather and Haywood had met.

“This is a lot bigger than you now, Claire. You’re not going to discover anything the CIA or FBI isn’t going to discover.”

“Is that your way of telling me to back off?” She gripped her knees, her fingers curling into the denim of her jeans. “If the CIA and the FBI had anything on Spencer, they would’ve made a move by now. I know things those agencies don’t know.”

He glanced at her as he veered off the highway, following the sign pointing toward Mount Vernon. “That’s why I’m here.”

They rode in silence as he maneuvered the car to the parking area. He swung into a slot, leaving a few spaces between her car and the next one over. “Not very crowded today.”

“Too cold, and maybe people don’t want to be hanging around tourist areas after last night.”

“Do you want to head inside the mansion or get a cup of coffee at the Mount Vernon Inn so we can talk?”

“Since I dragged you out here so we could talk away from prying eyes and pricked ears, let’s get some coffee.”

Claire opened her door and stepped onto the parking lot, the heels of her knee-high boots clicking dully against the asphalt. The bare trees bordering the lot gave them a clear view of the mansion and the shops and restaurant next to it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so empty here.”

“That’s a good thing. The last time I visited, I couldn’t get a table at the restaurant.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have that problem now.” She shoved her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders. “Shall we?”

Mike locked the car and joined her, his own hands concealed in his pockets. They passed just two other parties making their way to the mansion.

Mike opened the door of the restaurant and ushered her into the half-empty room with its Colonial decor. A hostess in Colonial dress, a little white mob cap perched on her curls, smiled. “Do you have reservations?”

Raising his brows, Mike’s gaze scanned the room. “No. Do we need one? We just want some coffee.”

“Just checking. You don’t need a reservation today.” She swept her arm across the room. “We’ve had several cancellations. I think it’s because of that awful business last night.”

“You might be right.” Mike nodded. “Can we grab that table by the window?”

“Of course.”

They sat down and ordered their coffees, which their waitress delivered in record time.

Mike dumped a packet of sugar into the steaming liquid and stirred. Then he braced his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around the mug of coffee. “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning.” Claire swirled a ribbon of cream in her coffee and placed the spoon on the saucer with a click. “It all started when Spencer Correll came out of nowhere, married my mother and then killed her.”

“Your mother fell down the stairs.”

She took a sip of her coffee and stared at Mike over the rim of her cup. “He murdered her.”

“You think he pushed her down the stairs? That’s hardly a surefire method for murder. People can and do survive falls like that.”

“He pushed her and then finished the job by smothering her with a pillow.” Her eyes watered, and she dabbed the corners with her napkin.

“And you know this how?”

“I saw the pillow.” She dashed a tear from her cheek.

“Lying next to your mother’s body? What did the police think about it?”

“No, no.” She took a deep breath. “That’s just it. There was no pillow there. I noticed my mother’s pillow on her bed later—with her lipstick on it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mike cocked his head, his nostrils flaring.

“My mother was meticulous about her beauty regimen.” As Mike shifted in his seat, she held up her index finger. “Just wait. She never, and I mean never, went to bed with makeup on. She’d remove it, cleanse, moisturize. I mean, this routine took her about thirty minutes every night. There is no way there would be lipstick on her pillow, no reason for it.”

“Let me get this straight.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother loses her life falling down some stairs, you see lipstick on her pillow and immediately believe your stepfather murdered her?”

“It wasn’t just the pillow.” She glanced both ways and the cupped her mouth with her hand. “It was the phone call.”

“You just lost me.” He drew his brows over his nose. “What phone call?”

“A few years before Mom’s so-called accident, a woman called me with a warning about Spencer Correll. She said he was dangerous and that he’d killed before and would do so again to get what he wanted.”

“Who was the woman?”

“She wouldn’t give me her name.”

“Did you inform the police?”

“At the time of the call?” She widened her eyes. “I thought it was a prank, but I told them about it when Mom died.”

“They dismissed it.”

“Yes, even after I showed them the pillow.”

He rubbed his knuckles across the black stubble on his chin. “Did the cops tell Correll about your suspicions?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear from this woman again? After your mother’s death?”

“No.”

He dropped his spikey, dark lashes over his eyes, but not before she saw a glimpse of pity gleaming from their depths.

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t expect him to believe her, but she didn’t want to be pitied. People generally reserved their pity for the crazy or delusional. Neither applied to her—anymore.

He huffed out a breath and took a sip of coffee. “So, you believe your stepfather killed your mother, but how in the world does that link him to terrorists?”

Pursing her lips, she studied his lean face, his dark eyes bright with interest. At least he hadn’t called for the little men in the white coats yet. “I didn’t say the murder had anything to do with terrorism, but it prompted me to start nosing around his personal effects.”

“What did you discover?” He gripped the edge of the table as if bracing for the next onslaught of crazy.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope containing the picture, the picture she’d taken from the video she rescued from the trash can on Spencer’s computer. She pinched it between two fingers and removed it from the envelope. Then she dropped it on the table and positioned it toward Mike with her fingertip.

Picking it up, he squinted at the photo. “It’s your stepfather talking to another man. Who is he?”

“He’s the terrorist who killed my husband.”