to all the theatergoers at Ford’s Theatre the night Lincoln was killed. How many people saved theirs? There’s probably dozens of them in private collections.”
“But wouldn’t Agent O’Reilly know if it belonged to the Archives?” Stacy said, frowning.
“Not necessarily,” Mackenzie replied and repeated what the agent had told her about how documents were inventoried at the Archives. “Just because a document doesn’t have any stamps or file numbers doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong to the government.”
“So he can’t be sure that the playbill belongs to the Archives, either,” John said. “If that’s the case, why is he going after you?”
Mackenzie had been asking herself that ever since she’d kicked the irritating man out of her shop. “I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is that he suspected Dad because he spent so much time at the Archives. Then when he checked eBay and saw that I had sold documents, he assumed they were ones stolen from the Archives.”
“But he doesn’t even know what’s missing,” Stacy pointed out indignantly. “It sounds like a witch hunt to me.”
Mackenzie couldn’t argue with that. “He’s wasting his time,” she assured her. “I know I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m going to prove it.”
“It’s not for you to prove your innocence. He has to prove your guilt, and that’s going to be a tough thing to do since you’ve never done anything illegal in your life. Just don’t talk to him again without your attorney present. Or show him your records! Okay?”
Mackenzie grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Smart-ass.” She chuckled. Holding her hand out to her husband, she grinned. “Help me up, sweetheart.”
He took her hand, but only to gently tug her to her feet so he could sweep her up into his arms. “John!” she laughed. “Put me down!”
“When we get to the car. You need to go home and put your feet up.”
Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck and grinned at Mackenzie. “It looks like I have to go home now. If you hear from Agent O’Reilly again, call me immediately. Okay? This is serious, Mac. Don’t deal with him by yourself.”
“I won’t,” she promised, stepping over to give her and John a quick hug. “I’m sorry I had to drag you back here. You didn’t even get to eat dinner, did you?”
“Don’t worry about it.” John chuckled. “We’ll go through a drive-thru on the way home.”
“John!”
“Say good-night, sweetheart, and I’ll buy you an ice cream sundae, too.”
Fighting a grin, she eyed him calculatingly. “Make it hot fudge, and you’ve got a deal.”
“Hot fudge it is,” he said promptly.
“Good night, sweetheart,” she repeated obediently, winking at Mackenzie. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Enjoy your sundae,” she called after her, laughing, as John carried her outside. “Have one for me.”
“I just might,” she replied. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out tomorrow.”
Mackenzie was still grinning as she locked the door behind them, but her smile quickly faded as her thoughts shifted back to Patrick O’Reilly. She wasn’t a thief, and even though Stacy insisted that it was O’Reilly’s responsibility to build a case against her, she didn’t intend to leave anything to chance. The next time she saw the man, she’d be ready. She’d hit him with records on every item she’d ever sold.
Her blue eyes gleaming in anticipation, she strode into her office to start searching her records for receipts. Oh, yes, she was going to enjoy proving him wrong!
Chapter 3
The sun peeked over the horizon the following morning, ending the longest night of Mackenzie’s life. Too worried to get more than three hours of sleep, she’d spent most of the night searching through her father’s records for the playbill’s receipt. It was like looking for fairy dust. There were loose papers literally everywhere—stuffed in the pages of books, on shelves, all over the shop’s private upstairs apartment, even in the kitchen, for heaven’s sake! And that was only the tip of the iceberg. The attic was overflowing.
Overwhelmed and so tired she could barely stand without swaying on her feet, she sank into a chair in front of the fireplace and fought the need to cry. She’d found plenty of receipts, but none that had anything to do with the playbill from Ford’s Theatre. And that horrified her. What if Patrick O’Reilly was right about her father? Over the course of the last three months, she’d sold hundreds of historical letters and maps and rare books she’d inherited along with the shop. How many of them had been stolen?
Her blood chilling at the thought, she tried to convince herself she was overreacting. She was tired and obviously wasn’t thinking straight. Just because she hadn’t found any records didn’t mean they didn’t exist. She just hadn’t come across them yet.
She would, she grimly promised herself. Even if she had to tear the shop apart. She just couldn’t do it today. She had reserved a booth at a Civil War collectors’ show that opened in Arlington in two hours, and she still had to pack her van and take a shower. Groaning at the thought, she pushed to her feet and hurriedly started filling a cardboard box with Civil War memorabilia for the show.
An hour and a half later, when she arrived at the collectors’ show and started setting up her booth, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the wonders of a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee. She was still tired—nothing short of some serious sleep was going to change that—but things didn’t seem nearly as bleak as they had a few hours ago.
And there was nothing she loved more than historical collectors’ shows. The history buffs who attended the shows lived and breathed American history and made no apologies for it. They always had a story to tell, a new collectible to show off, a research question they were hungry to have answered.
And then there were the rare books and private historical letters that the exhibitors sold at their individual booths. Invariably, someone always had a newly discovered map, letter or document for sale that no one else had even suspected existed, and it became the talk of the show. She couldn’t wait to see what the buzz would be about today.
Setting up the last of her own exhibit, she checked to make sure everything was in its place, then turned, intending to take a quick tour of the room before the show opened to the public. She’d only taken two steps, however, when a pair of irritatingly familiar green eyes met hers across the room.
Agent Patrick O’Reilly.
Surprised, she frowned. What was he doing there?
Maybe he’s following you to make sure you don’t sell any more stolen documents.
The thought came out of nowhere, catching her off guard. Stunned, she told herself she was just being paranoid. He had better things to do than follow her around to shows and examine everything she sold. After all, he had no proof that she’d done anything unethical, let alone illegal. Was he here to harass her?
The
