Zinnia by Jayne Castle

Zinnia would say if she could see the hidden office and the secret drawer. Typical matrix-talent. Obsessive. Secretive. Probably paranoid.
    The truth was, in his business, it paid to be cautious and careful. Besides, there was an old saying to the effect that even paranoid matrix-talents had enemies.
    He removed the two small white cards he had retrieved from Morris Fenwick’s address file. He had waited until Zinnia’s back was turned the previous night before he had taken them. He suspected she would have disapproved of him removing anything from the crime scene.
    He studied the neatly typed address cards. One contained his own name and the number of his private phone line. It had been no surprise to discover it in Fenwick’s file. He had given his number to the book dealer, himself. But with Fenwick dead it seemed only prudent to remove the record from the file. The fewer people who had access to his private phone number, the better.
    What he had not anticipated was the name on the address card that had been filed directly behind the one that contained his own private phone number. Orrin Chastain. President of Chastain, Inc. Brother of Bartholomew Chastain.
    Nick’s uncle.
    He knew for a fact that Orrin had no interest in rare books. There was only one reason why his name would have been in Fenwick’s files. Orrin was after the Chastain journal.
    The discreetly embossed name on the plate in front of the formidable-looking receptionist read M RS. H ELEN T HOMPSON . She took one look at Nick and managed to appear both disapproving and polite at the same time. A neat trick, Nick thought.
    â€œDo you have an appointment with Mr. Chastain?” she asked, coughing discreetly. “Mr. Chastain?”
    â€œNo.” Nick glanced at the closed door of Orrin’s office. “But he’ll see me, Helen. Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œI’m afraid he’s in conference this morning.” Helen’s expression was tight with reproof. “He does not wish to be disturbed.”
    Nick smiled. “But, I’m family, Helen. Of course he’ll see me.”
    He started around her desk without waiting for a response.
    â€œWait.” Helen surged to her feet when she saw that Nick was halfway to the closed door. “Come back here, Mr. Chastain. Where do you think you’re going?”
    â€œHold his calls, Helen. This won’t take long.” Nick opened the door and walked into his uncle’s office.
    Unlike Chastain’s Palace, Chastain, Inc. had been decorated with Restraint and Good Taste. Everything was done in muted shades of beige and gray. It was a model of corporate elegance. In fact, it had been featured in a recent issue of Architectural Synergy magazine. Nick had read the entire article. He was studying Good Taste these days. It was part of his five-year plan to become respectable.
    â€œYou know, Uncle Orrin, this place could use a touch of red.”
    Orrin was seated at his desk, speaking into the phone. At Nick’s words, he swung around, scowling.
    â€œGet back to me on that as soon as you get the numbers from Riker, understand? Fine. Do it.” Orrin dumped the phone back into its cradle and glared at Nick. “I see you’ve managed to drag the Chastain name into the papers. The least you could have donewas stay clear of Chastain, Inc. until the worst of the fuss blows over. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”
    â€œHow long have you been looking for the journal, Uncle Orrin?” Nick sank down into one of the gray leather chairs. Orrin hated to be reminded of their biological relationship, so Nick made it a point to drop the word “uncle” into the conversation as often as possible whenever he visited.
    In truth, there was not much of a family resemblance. Nick had been told that he looked very much like his father, Bartholomew. Orrin, on the other hand, had the light brown hair, hazel eyes, and sturdy build