I started a list of all the issues I needed to revisit. Borrowed cars. Different names. And where in the world had Andrew Braxton been hiding before he officially checked into the Inn on Main Street? Who was he?
I cleared my plate from the dining table and took it to the sink. Gazing out the kitchen window, I saw Mac’s door open. My heart fluttered foolishly and I was about to run outside to say hello when a tall, stunning woman backed out of his doorway. Her arms were wrapped around Mac’s neck and she was kissing the living daylights out of him. She was supermodel thin yet sexy, with long, wavy blond hair tumbling down her back.
I couldn’t help it. I cracked the window open to hear their conversation.
Mac detached her arms from his neck. “Good night, Vivi.”
“But—”
“Go now.”
“I want to stay.”
“I have to work.”
She rubbed against him. “Sure I can’t convince you?”
He chuckled. “Go.”
She giggled and jogged away, clambering down the stairs and disappearing from sight.
It was stupid to feel this shattered. I’d known all along that Mac Sullivan had dated supermodels and sports figures and anchorwomen. His name had been linked to dozens of those ultrafabulous types.
I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I took a few deep breaths, pointedly ignored the ache in my chest, and went back to work. In my office, I got my laptop and brought it out to the dining room table to give myself more space. I wanted to check the online version of our town newspaper to see if Palmer had obtained more information on Andrew Braxton. The fact that a stranger had been spying on Mac and me inside Jesse’s house that night was deeply disturbing. The fact that he’d been murdered was even worse, but why? Had he been caught photographing someone who made him pay the ultimate price?
I scrolled down the search results for Andrew Braxton and decided to read his hometown obituary first. He was raised in Long Beach, California, outside Los Angeles. He attributed his success in life to his father, who was his hero growing up. They quoted a few lines from Andrew’s touching eulogy at his father’s funeral. I wanted to read more, so I clicked the link to Andrew’s father, Harold Braxton, to see if I could learn more about him and his family.
An hour later, I rubbed my computer-weary eyes. I’d fallen down a Google-created rabbit hole, following one link after another, and another, but eventually I unearthed some chilling results.
It turned out that Harold Braxton had been a respected physician who patented a lifesaving product and made a ton of money. His wife, Joan, died when his boys were young and he remained a widower for almost twenty years until he met and married “the woman of my dreams,” as one source quoted him saying.
That woman’s name was Althea Mulligan.
“Wait. No.” I shoved my chair back from the table to catch my breath. “Hold on a minute.” I began to pace back and forth across the dining room. I needed to figure this out.
Andrew Braxton’s father, Harold, had married a woman named Althea. Did that mean that our Althea was Andrew Braxton’s stepmother?
I knew there were other women named Althea out there in the world, but this had to be the same Althea who’d been dating Jesse. I’d stopped believing in coincidences halfway through playing the Scooby-Doo game with Mac.
“Wow.” I shook my head and sat down again. And wondered. Had Andrew Braxton killed Jesse because the old guy had been dating his stepmother? He’d somehow gained access to Jesse’s house and had been spying on me and Mac and Jane and God only knew who else all this time. Why? Had Althea told him about the necklace? Or was he jealous of any other man making a life with Althea other than his own father?
Despite my burning eyeballs, I spent another hour searching more names and checking more backgrounds. When I was finally ready to shut down my laptop, I had to ask myself whether the police knew any of this. Because if they did, there might have been an arrest made days ago and maybe a life could’ve been saved.
It was almost midnight. All the lights were off in Mac’s upstairs apartment—not that I would disturb him. Not after seeing him with Vivi. He’d told her he had to work, but maybe he’d been too tired. Maybe she’d worn him out.
“Shut up,” I muttered, pulling my hair back from my face. I shoved the image of Mac and Vivi away and tried to figure out what to do with the information I’d found. It was too late to call Eric. Instead I wrote all the information out in a document and sent it to his police e-mail address. I would contact him tomorrow morning, right after I checked on one more detail.
*
The next morning, I drove down the coast and discovered exactly what I was hoping to find. On my trip back to town, I called Eric to tell him what I’d just learned, but he wasn’t answering his cell, so I left him a hurried message. I’d been afraid to mention anything earlier for fear that he would think I was so off base it was laughable. But now I was bubbling with excitement.
I called Jane and asked her to meet me at Jesse’s house.