Secret Agent Santa. Carol Ericson
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