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“What do you mean ‘nefarious?’”
Henry placed a finger against his lips, furtively eyeing the balcony. “I’ve crashed this party.”
Cameron pointedly dropped his gaze to the hoodie. “You don’t say.”
“Guess I don’t make the most inconspicuous sleuth.”
“Sleuth?”
Henry picked up The Mysterious Affair at Styles. “I’m here to solve a mystery.”
“What mystery?” Cameron palmed the couch and leaned forward, more curious than he should be.
“Who’s behind Ask Austen Studios? For years this place has been abandoned, and—on my walk to the high school where I teach—I used to imagine all sorts of stories why. Then, one morning, there’s a construction crew. My curiosity’s been burning for months. My sister finally made a dare of it after observing half the eighteenth-century trotting their way inside.”
“Is sneaking around the best way to find answers?”
“The producer’s name was handed out at the door.” Henry pulled out the program from his pocket. “But that seems too easy. I want to know who this Cameron Morland is.”
So did Cameron most days. “If you find out, please, share with me.”
“The sight of his desk sparks a few assumptions.”
“I’m fairly sure you walked in with some too.” Why else hadn’t he considered that Cameron was the man he sought?
“I suppose I did. He’d have to have many years’ experience to build something like this. I picture him in his thirties. Probably drives a fancy car, has two kids and a cat.”
That description fit Brandon exactly, minus the kids. Brandon was the better-suited producer, after all.
Henry eyed him thoughtfully, head cocked. “Would you like to join me?”
“Join you, what?”
“Developing a broader picture of this Mr. Morland.”
“What does that entail, exactly?”
“Rifling through his things, of course.”
Cameron knew he should inform the man that he was staring at the executive producer himself, but the embarrassment of it all would torture Cameron. Besides, he was far too interested to hear how this stranger pictured him. To know whether he liked the picture he envisioned.
Cameron pushed to his feet and rubbed his hands together. He gestured to the desk. “What does this tell us? That he’s a fan of old wooden furniture?”
“He seems to have an appreciation for classics. The surface is tidy, so he’s organized. Not a controlling boss—rather a hard worker.”
Cameron stared at his desk, frowning.
Henry caught his confusion and explained. “The position of the desk adjacent to the window instead of facing it? Less intimidating. The restaurant delivery leaflets under his greenstone paperweight suggest he often works late.”
“What else?”
Henry opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box of Smarties. It rattled. “He likes chocolate as a treat but tries hard not to indulge.”
Cameron gaped. Henry wasn’t wrong. “Are you sure?”
Henry tilted the box toward him. “Look here, the color has worn off the lid. It’s been open and shut many times—and it’s such a small box. He probably only eats one at a time.”
Two. He ate two at a time.
“He loves coffee as well.”
True again, but how—
“And he’s environmentally conscious.” Henry held up Cameron’s reusable coffee cup.
Ah.
“What does this say about him?”
Henry chuckled at the framed classic book jackets. “He’s an avid Austen fan.” He turned the desk calendar around—all Jane Austen quotes. “Press the power button on the Sonos?”
Cameron turned on the speaker and radio news blared on.
“Concert radio. An intellectual. He doesn’t have a spare suit, so he likely doesn’t wear one to work. Or self-presentation isn’t as important to him.”
Both. Though now he’d updated his wardrobe, perhaps he had a little vanity in him?
“He’s not a dad, I was wrong about that. No pictures of kids. No toys in case they visit. In fact, I’m fairly sure he’s single.”
Heat scorched Cameron’s neck and he busied himself digging through a filing cabinet.
“Single and possibly gay.”
Cameron froze, staring at script folders. “How could you possibly know that?”
“You’re right. He could also be bi or trans or identify as queer. Or simply support the cause.”
Henry had plucked three rainbow bookmarks from the shelf. His grin was large, cheeky. Rather proud of himself.
“What have you found?”
Cameron pulled out sheets from the filing drawer. “He likes scripts.”
Henry laughed. “One should hope so, working here.” He sat in Cameron’s swivel chair and pulled open another drawer.
“I mean,” Cameron said, confessing something he’d never admitted. Henry was a stranger. No one important. Safe to be honest with. Also, the truth had been slow-burning in his chest for months. “He loves scripts. Some of these might be drafts of his own.” The relief of saying it aloud, no matter how inconsequential, was profound. He felt as light as the tinkering piano music between them. “Maybe he secretly wants to return to a more creative role in the company.”
“Hmmm. Interesting.”
Henry frowned gently at him.
Awareness shot through him, and he straightened. Henry lowered his gaze.
“So . . .” Cameron cleared his throat. “Why do you think he’s single?”
