Magic Moment Read online

  Magic Moment

  Angela Adams

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Angela Adams

  Previously published by F+W Media

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781503974098

  This title was previously published by F+W Media; this version has been reproduced from F+W Media archive files.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chaprter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Watching Whitney

  Chapter One

  “Laura. Laura Roberts.” The deep, detached voice came from behind her.

  Laura swiveled on the round, brown vinyl-covered stool, meeting the hard eyes and two dour faces. Her last name was Roberts, but she didn’t reply, didn’t even nod. Neither man looked familiar. Who were they?

  “Special Agent Ross Saunders, FBI,” the grimmer of the two said, waving a badge and I.D. before her eyes.

  She stared at the men. FBI?

  Sanders tucked the folder inside his jacket pocket. “This is Special Agent Ed Phillips,” he said with a quick nod to the man standing to his left. “We’d like to ask you some questions. Come with us please.”

  Laura had seen the two men enter the diner. Identical navy suits, both appeared to be in their forties, graying crew cuts, and equally sour expressions. Although not the customary Rita’s Diner patrons, or Food Mall clientele for that matter, Laura had turned her attention back to her iced tea without giving them a second thought. Now they stood in front of her, flashing badges and identification cards too quickly to read, let alone give her time to note if the picture matched the face.

  “FBI? There must be some mistake.” She offered with a polite smile. “I’m Laura Roberts, but I doubt you’re looking for me.”

  Saunders’ brow crinkled. “Laura Ann Roberts?”

  Ann had been her mother’s name. Laura’s cordial manner disappeared and anxiety crawled through her. “Yes.”

  Saunders pushed the glass out of her reach.

  “What — ”

  He grasped her fingers. “You’re the one. Come with us.”

  Laura yanked from his grip. The other agent cupped her elbow, sliding her off the stool.

  “Miss Roberts, don’t make a scene,” Saunders whispered. “Come with us. It will only take a few minutes.”

  Laura glanced around the nearly filled-to-capacity diner. The customers, although employed by different proprietors, worked in the Food Mall. Those who hadn’t been gawking, suddenly stopped their conversations and meals to take notice. This was a popular lunch hour, and she was now the afternoon’s gossip.

  “Laura, everything okay?”

  She recognized the male voice and managed to stifle her plaintive groan. Could this calamity get any worse?

  Chase Donovan had joined the fracas. Dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket, he was tall and athletic, in his mid-thirties, with a wavy mixture of light, nearly blond, and medium brown hair.

  He was also her boss’s son.

  A bewildered expression covered Chase’s handsome, chiseled features. He stood so close that as Laura jerked from Phillips’s hold, her elbow nearly whacked Chase in the stomach.

  Saunders identified himself to Chase. “We need Miss Roberts at headquarters to answer a few questions.”

  “I’d like to see some I.D,” Chase said firmly.

  Saunders arched a dark, hairy eyebrow. “And you are?”

  “Chase Donovan.” He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. Laura stiffened at his touch, unaccustomed to Chase putting a hand on her, even if in a protective manner.

  “Laura works for my father,” Chase said. “If I don’t see some identification, she’s not going anywhere with you.” To prove his point, his hand moved downward and his fingers wrapped gently around her forearm.

  Chase also worked for his father, although what his role was within the business was generally debatable among the clientele. This was so embarrassing. In the three years Laura had worked as Dick Donovan’s bookkeeper, her conversations with his son had been work-related or cordial exchanges about the weather. If there was any chance of the floor opening up and swallowing her, she considered now the perfect time.

  She turned to Chase. “Thank you for your concern. I’ve seen their identification.” She didn’t mention the hasty badge flip. “They have me confused with someone else. I’ll take care of the error, and get back to the office as soon as I can.”

  “Let me go with you.” Chase tossed the men a wary glance. He still held her arm. “You should have an attorney.”

  Laura winced, truly mortified. There was no need for an attorney or involving Chase Donovan in calling one. She had done nothing illegal. “I’m fine.”

  Saunders grew impatient. “Miss Roberts.”

  She eased from Chase’s hold. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  She grabbed her purse from the counter and noticed the plate with her turkey on rye sandwich had arrived.

  “I need to pay for my lunch.” She looked down the counter for the waitress. “Dinah, I need my check.”

  “Miss Roberts, today,” Saunders snapped.

  Laura whirled, glaring. “You can’t expect me to leave without paying for my lunch.”

  “Laura, go ahead,” Chase said. “I’ll take care of the bill, and the office. Don’t worry about anything.”

  Already a bit unnerved by the two intimidating agents, she turned and stared into Chase’s mesmerizing blue eyes, adding to her lopsided equilibrium.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Following the agents through the diner, she stopped and pulled her coat from the wall hook. Sandwiched between the two men, she walked to a brown sedan parked outside the Food Mall’s chain-link gated area. A white cardboard “FBI OFFICIAL BUSINESS” sign rested on the front dash. Saunders opened the vehicle’s back door and waved Laura in before sliding next to her on the ivory-colored cushioned seat. Phillips adjusted himself behind the steering wheel.

  “That couldn’t have gone better,” Phillips said and shoved the key into the ignition.

  “Yeah. That guy was the kid.” Saunders frowned at Laura. “We’ll take you to headquarters fo
r a few questions, and then you can go. This is no big deal for you.”

  Laura smirked at the man. No big deal? Maybe not to him, but try to convince her wounded pride and tainted reputation.

  • • •

  The Food Brokers Association Market Mall was one long Philadelphia city block. Known as simply the “Food Mall” to the locals, the conglomerate was a smorgasbord of warehouses. Proprietors supplied produce, fish, meats, poultry, dairy, cheeses, and fresh fruit to restaurants, supermarkets, street hucksters, or even the average consumer who purchased bulk merchandise wholesale.

  Chase strode along the cement walkway. He took the steps to Warehouse 106, The Produce Market, and maneuvered his way through stacks of apple boxes and lettuce crates. Several of the men stopped counting boxes when they saw him and shouted greetings. But instead of stopping for his usual postmortem on last night’s basketball game, Chase simply waved and continued toward the office area.

  He pushed through the double glass doors and stepped into the suite’s reception area. Two black six-foot metal double-door cabinets. A photocopier. A square table with a fax machine. Three desks with computers. A small refrigerator, and a stand with a microwave, toaster oven and coffee maker. Chase’s glance strayed to an unoccupied desk, Laura’s desk. An opened manila folder held a stack of papers. Green numbers glared from the computer monitor.

  Rachel, his father’s twenty-something secretary with bleached blonde spiked hair, sat at her desk, telephone receiver pressed against an ear. Chase recognized a conversation with her sister, embellishing last night’s date.

  He didn’t wait for a response to his hurried rap on the varnished wood door, and pushed into his father’s private office. Even with the accepted dress code of jeans or business casual, Dick Donovan had dressed as a professional from the day he stopped being warehouse foreman. Today, wearing a richly designed charcoal suit, he resembled more of a trial attorney than a produce salesman.

  In his sixties, and tall like his son, Dick’s eyes were overcast gray rather than his son’s vivid blue. The only signs that Dick soon qualified for withdrawals from the company pension plan were the intensely receding hairline, the silver gray hair that remained, and telltale lines of good living forming around his eyes and lips.

  “I went to the diner for a sandwich, and the strangest thing happened.” Despite his father’s lack of acknowledgment, Chase continued. “The FBI came in and took your bookkeeper away.”

  This time Dick’s head popped up from his green and white lined computer sheet. “My bookkeeper? Laura?”

  “You got another?” Chase replied with a touch of sarcasm.

  Dick arched an eyebrow. “What does the FBI want with Laura?”

  “They want to ask her a few questions.” Chase paused. “She said it’s mistaken identity.”

  “Laura and the FBI,” Dick mused aloud, more bewildered than concerned. “It’s hard to believe she’s involved in anything illegal. I can’t imagine Laura even jaywalking.”

  Chase suppressed a cringe. The sound of his father’s voice had always grated on his nerves, like the sound of fingernails scratching on a blackboard. Dick Donovan forced his vocal timbre to sound like that of an English aristocrat rather than a member of the South Philly working-class neighborhood he was born into.

  Dick paused. “But we don’t know what Laura does, or who she sees, in her private life.” He shrugged. “Who knows what goes on outside this office? Or in her home?”

  “I offered my services as an attorney, but she refused.”

  “You?” Dick laughed. “With the FBI sniffing around her, the woman already has problems.”

  Chase flinched. “Okay, I can’t find my way around a courtroom,” he admitted soberly. The politics of being a practicing attorney had disillusioned him years ago. “I still keep up my license. Those guys just walked in and grabbed her like she was a modern-day Bonnie Parker.” He stopped, recalling how Laura’s forlorn expression had torn at his heart. “I wish she had accepted my offer. She wouldn’t be alone. She’d have someone advising her.”

  Dick exhaled a deep breath. “Chase, don’t get involved. Sometimes you have your mother’s overly kind heart.”

  “As opposed to your screw ’em attitude.” Chase never appreciated his father’s remarks toward the late Michelle Donovan. As if his mother’s kindness toward others had been a bad attribute.

  Dick ignored his son’s comment. “Laura is an employee. Granted, a good one, but still an employee. If the FBI made a mistake, and I’m sure they have, she’ll return to work. And this will all be forgotten. I repeat — let’s stay out of it.”

  Chase silently conceded his father’s point. He, too, found it difficult to believe Laura was involved in any illegalities, but he really didn’t know much of her personal business and liked it that way. Chase tended to keep his distance from the female staff. On the other hand, being forced to admit his father was right galled him.

  “I doubt if she’ll be back today,” Chase said. “Have Rachel shut down her computer.”

  “I’ll tell Rachel there was a family emergency, and Laura had to go home.” Dick paused. “Although Laura doesn’t have any family. I remember her once saying her father was killed in a car accident when she was a little girl. Her mother died a few months ago. Stroke, I think.”

  Laura’s mother had passed away on Thanksgiving Eve. Chase remembered Rachel asking him to sign a check to a charity in the woman’s name. Years earlier, Chase’s own mother had passed away a few days before his birthday and as he had signed the check in memory of Ann Roberts, he recalled feeling badly that Laura’s mother had died near a holiday. He knew well that in the following years, an occasion that should be happy would have a dismal overcast.

  “I don’t care what you tell Rachel as long as it’s not the truth.” Chase frowned. “Gossip is Rachel’s national obsession.”

  Dick relaxed back in his brown leather chair and picked up his computer printouts. For Chase, it was a familiar signal that their conversation was finished and he was dismissed.

  “I’m heading down to Atlantic City.” Chase walked toward the door. “If you hear anything on Laura, call my cell phone.”

  • • •

  The Food Mall residents considered 8:00 A.M. mid-day. Workers, dressed in overalls and wearing thick padded gloves, loaded crates of apples, spinach, blocks of cheeses, and other edibles from the various warehouses onto the customers’ vans and massive freight trucks. The atmosphere was loud, full of activity and rambunctious.

  Beneath her beige wool coat, Laura was dressed in a simple black long-sleeved knit dress with red trimming around the crew neck collar and cuffs. As she took the stairs with tentative steps, she did her best to quash the butterflies in her stomach. The previous day’s mortifying meeting with Special Agent Ross Saunders, still etched in her mind, had kept her tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling all night.

  Inside the office, she didn’t take off her coat and go straight to the coffeemaker as she generally did. When she switched on her computer, she didn’t immediately click into her email. She called up a blank screen, sat down, and typed.

  Through the closed door, she heard Dick Donovan’s hushed voice. He was on the telephone. Dick Donovan, if he didn’t have someone in his office, was always on the telephone. Laura printed and signed the letter, and waited until she was certain he had finished his call. She took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and knocked on the wooden door. This had to be done quickly.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Her boss pored over the spreadsheets that indicated how his business was profiting. Seeing Laura, Dick looked up and broke into what she thought might be a relieved smile. As always, he wore an impeccable Italian designer suit, this one a deep blue.

  “Laura.” He stood, and walked around to the front of the desk covered with finan
cial spreadsheets. “Sit down. I’m glad to see you.” He pulled out the straight-backed chair. “Chase told me what happened yesterday.”

  “There’s no need for me to sit down,” she said with as much grace as she could muster. “Before I forget, Chase was very considerate yesterday. Please thank him for me.”

  “We were both worried.” Dick sat on the desk’s corner edge. “What’s going on? Is it something you can discuss? Something I can help with?”

  Laura gave a brief smile and shook her head. “It was all a mistake.” She sort of lied. It was a mistake if anyone assumed her involvement in criminal activities. “Something has come up, and I need to resign.” She handed him the folded paper.

  Dick’s gray eyes widened. “Resign?” His words rushed out. “Laura? Why? Are the hours too long? Salary and benefits not competitive?”

  Laura shoved each hand in a coat pocket. “No, that’s not it,” she said, shaking her head. Instinct told her to say something positive. “I’ve enjoyed working here. It’s a pleasant atmosphere, the salary and benefits are more than fair.” Rattled nerves threatened her poise. “It’s in the letter.”

  “If this has anything to do with yesterday,” Dick said. “I understand a lot of Food Mall people were in the diner. I’m sure you feel awkward. Let’s talk — ”

  “Read the letter,” she said with more snap than she had intended.

  He unfolded the paper and read aloud. “Dear Mr. Donovan. Due to an unforeseen personal situation, I must resign from my position as bookkeeper, effective immediately. Thank you for the opportunity to work for The Produce Market. Sincerely, Laura Roberts.” He refolded the paper, breathed deeply, and looked up. “I don’t understand, and definitely don’t know what to say.”

  Her heart beat rapidly. She just wanted to leave and blurted out whatever words popped into her head. “I have this — issue.” Her thoughts came in a rush. “I’ll need so much time off, and it’s not fair to your business.”

  “We can talk about a leave of absence.”

  A cold sweat formed on her brow. “A leave won’t do. Resigning is best.”