HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT: Chapter Three
1:15 P.M.
As Fiona was contemplating whether to order Greek or Thai for lunch, her front door opened again on a whoosh of rain-scented wind and an airy tinkle of chimes.
Putting down the hideously dull software manual she'd been trying to read, she stood and smiled with what she hoped didn't look like desperate relief. "Hello! How may I help you today?"
"Hello," a cheerful, deep male voice responded, and then he turned from the umbrella stand.
Fiona straightened, resisting the urge to run a smoothing hand over her hair or glance at the dusty old mirror behind the desk and make sure she didn't have any lipstick smudges on her teeth.
Incredible. Two drop-dead gorgeous men, in one day. It had to be some kind of divine omen that her luck was on the upswing.
This man was tall and dark-haired. While not as untouchably perfect as her Berlin businessman, he had the sort of friendly, clean-cut, "brainy guy" good looks she'd always found irresistible. He wore round wire glasses, loose-fitting jeans, and a dress shirt with a conservative navy tie. Over that he had on what looked to be a genuine World War II-era flight jacket, which showcased a nice pair of broad shoulders.
His warm smile flashed beneath eyes made all the more blue by his dark hair. "I'm looking for Fiona Kennedy-McMahon."
"That would be me." Her smile faded, but only for a moment, and she walked around the desk toward him. "Can I help you find something? I handle a wide variety of antique books, as well as other collectibles. Are you here for something in particular?"
"I have a client who recently acquired a manuscript that's old and valuable and would like to hire you to evaluate it."
Fiona nodded. After discovering old books, maps, hand-tinted prints, or letters and records in an attic while settling a family estate, people frequently came to her to learn if any of them were worth money. Most of the time the items weren't particularly valuable, but every now and then true treasures turned up.
"Of course. I'd be happy to hear more about your client's manuscript, Mr. ...I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name?"
"Laughton." He smiled again, this time apologetically. "Griffith Laughton."
"Please have a seat, Mr. Laughton, and we'll talk. Can I get you some coffee? Soda? Bottled water?"
"That coffee smells great. I'll have a cup, thank you." He shifted his large, slightly worn briefcase and then sat in one of the two leather wingback chairs to the left of her desk. Most women, and more slightly built men, were swallowed up in the extravagant artifact of Robber Baron days, but Griffith Laughton looked right at home surrounded by all that worn oxblood leather and polished, carved mahogany.
Fiona turned to grab a clean mug. "Do you take cream or sugar?"
"Black is fine." As she was pouring, he asked, "Are you going on a vacation to the Bahamas?"
"I'm planning a trip, yes." Observant fellow. "May I ask your client's name, Mr. Laughton?"
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge that information."
Startled, Fiona nearly spilled the last bit of coffee. This was rather unprecedented. She placed the cup on the edge of the desk near him, regarding him curiously. "Whoever it is must be familiar with me, since I haven't gone by the name Kennedy-McMahon since my husband's death five years ago."
He looked surprised, but quickly recovered. "I apologize for calling you by the wrong name. Is it Ms. Kennedy now?" When she nodded, he said, "My information comes from my client, who is familiar with your work regarding the Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe."
"Ah. That would explain the name, then. I'm no longer in academics, Mr. Laughton. These days I'm in the business of selling books and manuscripts, not researching or writing journal papers on them."
"We're aware of that. However, my client feels you're the most qualified to evaluate this manuscript."
Anticipation, mixed with alarm, tingled through her. "Are you at liberty at least to divulge what kind of manuscript you'd like me to evaluate?"
"Under the condition that you don't speak of our conversation to anyone."
He certainly had her attention now -- and as he leaned closer, she caught the tantalizing smell of wind and rain, old leather and a darkly-scented cologne.
"Any business discussion between us will remain confidential, Mr. Laughton."
"My client has acquired what appears to be a lost manuscript by Christopher Marlowe and would like you to verify its authenticity."
Fiona dropped onto her desk chair with such force that its old springs squeaked in protest. "I don't believe I heard you correctly."
"Yes, you did. A lost Marlowe manuscript has turned up."
Before he even finished speaking, Fiona was shaking her head. "It's not possible. It must be a forgery. Or simply a mistake."
Either way she couldn't help him, and with an effort she squelched that flutter of academic curiosity and excitement -- so long buried, she'd almost forgotten what it had felt like.
"I'm flattered your client considered me for such a project, but as I said, I've been out of the academic loop for some time now, and I don't feel qualified for this sort of work. I could give you the names and numbers of several of my former colleagues, if that would be helpful to you."
Again surprise flashed across his face, and those strangely pale eyes widened behind his glasses. Obviously he hadn't expected her to decline. For that matter, she could hardly believe she had.
"My client doesn't want anyone else. I was given very specific instructions regarding this."
"I repeat, Mr. Laughton, that the chances of this manuscript turning out to be genuine are very slim." She picked up her coffee and took a quick gulp to ease the dryness in her mouth. "It would only be a waste of your client's time and mine. I'm sorry if my response will put you in an awkward position with your employer."
"Ms. Kennedy, no one expects you to be anything but skeptical, and while the circumstances under which my client acquired the manuscript are confidential, I was told to give this to you." Laughton pulled a file from his briefcase and slid it across her desk. "It's a photocopy, but it should give you an idea of what we're dealing with."
Fiona tried not to stare at the file, even as her fingers tingled with the need to pick it up.
A Marlowe...a lost Marlowe.
Poet, playwright, provocateur...Kit Marlowe had been her first crush. She'd lived and breathed the highs and lows of his short life, debated hotly with those who tried to pass off half-baked theories and fantasies as facts. When her school friends were squealing over the latest rock stars and movie idols, pinning magazine pictures on their walls, she'd been obsessed with a man dead for over four hundred years. In many ways, Marlowe had been a part of her life longer than her husband.
Now that the initial shock was fading, she couldn't help thinking it wouldn't hurt to take a quick look at this file. What if the manuscript was real? Could she ever forgive herself if she passed up the chance to see it? Or at least to be the first to see it?
"It has been such a long time." She couldn't keep the wistfulness out of her voice. "I'm afraid I'd be rather rusty at it."
"We're talking Elizabethan lit here, not rocket science." His tone was gently cajoling. "Not much about Marlowe could've changed in the few years since you left the university."
A valid point. And if she argued too much, he'd start asking questions about why she was so reluctant when she should've been leaping at the chance. The last thing she wanted was to dredge up that old scandal again. "All right. I'll look at it these papers you've gone to such trouble to bring to me, but no promises beyond that."
"There's no need to explain yourself to me. I'm just the messenger boy." He smiled again with friendly, wholesome charm. "I'll leave you alone to read this over. You'd probably prefer no distractions."
Not immune to the charm, Fiona smiled back. "Oh, that's not necessary. There's not much to do here and --"
"It's a bookstore, Ms. Kennedy, so I'll look at books."
"Yes, but --"
"And I promise not to touch the expensive ones." His good humor almost twinkled, and how could that be? People didn't really twinkle or sparkle, yet he'd seemed to brighten up the place simply by walking through the door. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
As he turned away, his hold on her snapped. Almost as if she'd been under a spell.
She shook off the odd sensation. Then, steeling herself for the disappointment she was certain would soon follow, she reached for the folder -- and noticed, to her dismay, how badly her hands were shaking.
The file contained only a few sheets of paper: Xerox copies, and not high quality ones. Or else the source material was in very poor shape, which wouldn't be unexpected either.
It took a moment to adjust to the old writing, with its spidery flourishes and quirky spelling; she'd grown used to perfect, computer-generated printouts. Yet it took only a moment before she slipped back into old habits, effortlessly reading the faded text:
Ay, pray for me, pray for me! And what noise soever ye hear, come
not unto me, for nothing can rescue me and my soul is evermore lost to me.
"It's Faustus," she whispered.
And yet, it wasn't. There was an extra line: "And my soul is evermore lost to me" was in neither of the two surviving texts, the A version or the B version.
Leaning closer, frowning in concentration, she quickly skimmed to the ending, which she knew to be significantly different in the A and B versions. Again, this text was different. There were additional lines involving the devils taking Faustus away -- more aggressively than in the A version but not quite the gruesome dismemberment of the B version.
The changes, while small, were significant enough to add new shades of meaning. Nothing immediately screamed "forgery," but the teasingly few pages told her that this matter needed to be handled very carefully.
"Mr. Laughton," she called out, quite proud of how calm she sounded. Considering her pounding heart and sweating palms, she should've been squeaking as if she'd been sucking helium. "I believe I've seen enough."
"All right, then." Muffled by the stacks of heavy old books, his voice sounded distant. "We'll be there in a second."
Fiona raised a brow. "We?"
"I'm being stalked by a big, black cat."
She laughed. "That would be Faustus. Usually he ignores people."
"He's not ignoring me." Laughton emerged from behind the British Aisles and at his heels, trotting with more speed than his girth would seem to have allowed, came Faustus. "I think he's herding me."
Laughton halted, bending down to pat the cat, and Fiona couldn't help but notice how nicely the denim tightened around the hard contours of what her blunt friend Cassie would call "a fine piece of man ass."
"Faustus believes he owns this place and everyone in it," she said. "It's best to humor him."
"Do you bring your cat to the store, or does he live here?"
"I've been bringing him with me to the shop since he was a kitten. I didn't like the thought of him being alone in my apartment." A little embarrassing, admitting she'd been such a hopeless softy. "Fifteen pounds and four years later, Faustus continues to tolerate the kitty cage so he can lord it over the shop."
"And why'd you name your cat Faustus?"
"Because he's black as the depths of hell, with the devil's own curiosity, which gets him into scrapes. Besides, it's the perfect name for the cat of Marlowe fanatic."
Laughton sat again in the wingback chair by her desk, his smile fading to a more serious expression. "And so what's the verdict? Will you examine the rest of the manuscript for my client?"
There was no good reason to say no, despite the little voice warning her she was foolishly getting her hopes up.
"Yes. Marlowe was the great passion of my life -- I'd do anything for him." Knowing how that must've sound, she added, "And on a practical note, the timing couldn't be better. I wouldn't mind extra money for my trip in January."
The consultant fee would undoubtedly be quite nice, since only a very wealthy man could've acquired such a valuable manuscript.
Or a very rich woman.
It suddenly dawned on her how careful Laughton had been not to reveal the gender of his client. He made the omission seem so natural that she'd only now noticed it, but avoiding the casual "he' or "she" in a conversation wasn't natural at all. It required considerable effort.
Catching her questioning look, he asked, "Is something wrong?"
"You can drop the act, Mr. Laughton. You're too well-dressed and well-spoken to be a mere messenger."
"It's not an act. I'm --" He broke off, looking faintly annoyed. "All right, the truth is that I'm a lawyer, but I'm so low on the food chain that I get stuck with the jobs nobody else wants. So in all the ways that matter, I am just the errand boy."
That he was a lawyer would explain the artful turn of speech and the ease with which he'd obscured telling details.
Laughton plucked the folder off her desk. "I'm afraid I can't let you hold on to this. My client wants to keep the manuscript a secret until you've had your chance to determine whether or not it's genuine, so I can't have copies lying around for anyone to see."
With a sharp disappointment, Fiona watched him return the file to his briefcase. "Not that I have legions of Marlowe experts wandering through my shop, but I understand."
Laughton sighed. "I really am sorry...And I'm noticing that I keep apologizing to you. It's kind of embarrassing."
And endearing. Fiona's smile widened. "It's quite all right."
"Good to hear...and I'm glad to see you smile. You know, you have a really beautiful smile."
A warmth of pleasure washed over her, in defiance of her common sense. Hmmm; maybe she could trade in the scuba instructor for a fling with a sexy messenger boy. Griffith Laughton didn't look like the type who'd protest a friendly, discreet overture.
"You're a flirt, Mr. Laughton."
"A natural consequence of growing up with sisters." He grinned, and again the room seemed to brighten around him. "And if our relationship has progressed to that level, you'd better call me Griffith. Or Grif."
"Griffith it is, and you can call me Fiona."
"Just Griffith, huh?"
Still smiling, she added, "I don't believe we've progressed to Grif quite yet, even if you have just bought me like a cheap whore."
He laughed; a rich, chest-deep laugh that warmed her all over. She'd always let the man make the first move before, but maybe it was time to let go that habit as well.
Faustus meowed loudly and twined around Griffith's legs, which was surprising since he was very particular about the people on whom he bestowed his attention.
After Fiona shooed the cat away, Griffith asked, "What time do you close today?"
"At five. Why?"
"How about I meet you here after you close and take you out for dinner? Then you can ask me all the questions you'd like."
So much for her fledgling attempt at being more aggressive. "You seem quite devoted to your job."
He leaned forward with another of those irresistible smiles. "I wasn't thrilled about babysitting a file of papers, but the job's turning out to be much more interesting than I'd expected."
Her innate Irishness -- and plain old female intuition -- told her he was feeding her a line of blarney, yet he was so blatantly flirtatious that it was hard to be annoyed.
"I bet you say that to every antiquarian bookseller you meet."
He laughed again, and she noticed how his eyes crinkled at the corners and his cheeks grooved. "I don't meet many antiquarian booksellers. In fact, you're my first."
"Really? I feel so special."
How deliciously easy it was to flirt with him; something about him invited comfort, familiarity and warmth.
"And you should. You are very, very special." He leaned his elbow on her desk and propped his chin on his palm, those very blue eyes of his amused. "You are the prettiest woman I've seen in a long, long time. I can't get over all those freckles." His smile widened. "Do you have them everywhere?"
A sudden heat suffused her face, and Fiona was certain she was glowing red. "That's a rather personal question."
He had the sense to look sheepish. "Guess it's a guy thing. I can't help wondering if it's possible to count them all."
If anybody else had spoken so outrageously, she would've been alarmed, even angry. But, again, because he was so straightforward, her discomfort faded. Or it could have been that she was just used to this kind of teasing. Richard had often joked about her freckles; once, he'd even tried to count all the ones on her breast. Predictably, he'd gotten distracted and never finished.
"I'm still waiting for an answer about dinner, Fiona."
Hearing him say her name with such familiarity flustered her, but she managed to keep her tone professional. "I'd be happy to go out for dinner with you. It'll take me a few minutes to close the shop down for the night, so you should come back around a quarter-after-five, Mr. Laughton."
"I thought we were at Griffith."
"Until later, Griffith," she corrected herself, smiling. "And please let your client know that I am very grateful for this opportunity and that I hope the manuscript will turn out to be genuine."
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else. Instead, he gave her an odd little half smile. "Consider the message delivered. See you in a few hours."
Fiona watched him walk away, briefcase in hand. He'd been out the door for only seconds when she noticed he'd forgotten his umbrella. She quickly walked around the desk, intending to try to flag him down, but the phone rang.
She glanced from the phone to the door, then sighed and answered. "Hello, Kennedy Antiquarian Books."
There was no answer.
Oh, for...Not again! "This is the third time you've called me today, and my patience with you has reached its limit."
Nothing; only that same low, steady breathing.
"If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, if you call again, I'm contacting the police."
The silence stretched on for a few seconds longer. Just as she was getting reading to slam the phone down, a muffled male voice said softly, "Don't get involved with the manuscript." Then the caller disconnected.
Fiona stared at the phone as alarm prickled across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
"Well," she murmured. "So much for them wanting to keep it a secret."