by Nora Roberts
“With that Yankee spine of yours? You’ll do just fine. I’ll be with you. We’re in this together.”
She nodded, put the book in a drawer and locked it. Forty-eight hours, she thought. That was all the time she had to decide whether to make the book public, or to burn it.
It’s going to be perfect. I know exactly how it will work now. It’s all in place. Miranda put it all in place for me. All those people will be there, admiring the great art, sliding champagne down their throats, stuffing all the pretty canapés in their mouths. She’ll move among them, gracious and cool. The brilliant Dr. Jones. The perfect Dr. Jones.
The doomed Dr. Jones.
She’ll be her own centerpiece, basking in the compliments. A brilliant exhibition, Dr. Jones. A glorious display. Oh yes, they’ll say it, and they’ll think it, and the mistakes she made, the embarrassment she caused will fade into the background. As if all my work was nothing.
Her star’s rising again.
Tonight, it falls.
I’ve planned my own exhibit for tonight, one that will overshadow hers. I’ve titled it Death of a Traitor.
I believe the reviews will be very strong.
twenty-eight
N o one knew her stomach was alive with manic butterflies wielding tiny scythes. Her hands were cool and steady, her smile easy. Inside her mind she could see herself jittering with every step, stuttering through every conversation. But the shield was up, the unflappable Dr. Jones firmly in place.
She’d chosen to wear a long column of midnight blue with a high banded collar and sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs. She was grateful for the amount of flesh it covered, because she felt cold, so cold. She hadn’t been warm since Ryan had given her the book.
She watched her mother, elegant as an empress in a gown of petal pink, working the crowd—a touch on the arm there, an offered hand or cheek. Always the right thing to say at the right time to the right person.
Her husband was beside her, of course, dashing in his tuxedo, the well-traveled adventurer with the interesting air of a scholar. How handsome they looked together, how perfect the Joneses of Jones Point appeared on the surface. Not a flaw to mar the polish. And no substance beneath the gloss.
How smoothly they worked as a team when they chose, she thought. They would choose for the Institute, for art, for the Jones reputation as they had never chosen for family.
She wanted to hate them for it, but she thought of the book and all she felt was fear.
She turned away from them and moved through the archway.
“You belong in one of those paintings behind you.” Ryan took her hand, shifting her around moments before she approached another small group. “You look magnificent.”
“I’m absolutely terrified.” Then she laughed a little, realizing that only a few months ago she wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what was inside her. “I always seem to be in crowds.”
“So we’ll pretend it’s just you, and just me. But one thing’s missing. You need champagne.”
“I’m sticking with water tonight.”
“One glass, one toast.” He handed her one of the flutes he’d taken from a roaming waiter. “To the very successful results of your work, Dr. Jones.”
“It’s difficult to enjoy it.”
“Fall into the moment,” he reminded her. “This is a good moment.” He touched his lips lightly to hers. “I find your shyness endearing.” He murmured it against her ear, causing more than one eyebrow to rise. “And your skill in masking it admirable.”
The clouds in her eyes lifted. “Were you born with that talent or did you develop it?”
“Which? I have so many.”
“The talent of knowing exactly the right thing to say at precisely the right time.”
“Maybe I just know what you need to hear. There’s dancing in the Center Hall. You’ve never danced with me.”
“I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Maybe you’ve never been properly led.” It made her eyebrows lift in mild disdain, just as he’d hoped. “Let’s find out.”
He kept a hand at the small of her back as they maneuvered through the groups. He knew how to work a crowd as well, she noticed. How to charm with a few words, and keep moving. She could hear the faint strains of a waltz—piano and violin—the murmur of conversation, the occasional trill or rumble of laughter.
She’d had the Center Hall decorated with trailing vines and potted palms, all glittering with the tiny white Italian lights that reminded her of stars. Fragrant white lilies and bloodred roses speared out of crystal vases draped in gold ribbon. Every individual drop of the antique chandelier had been hand-washed in vinegar water for a brilliant waterfall sparkle.
Couples circled, pretty pictures in their formal dress, or stood sipping wine. Others gathered on the staircase, or sat in the chairs she’d had dressed in rose damask.
At least a dozen times she was stopped, congratulated. If there were occasional murmurs about the Fiesole Bronze, most people were discreet enough to wait until she was out of earshot.
“There’s Mrs. Collingsforth.” Miranda nodded to a woman with an amazing stack of white hair in a gown of maroon velvet.
“Of the Portland Collingsforths?”
“Yes. I want to make sure she has everything she needs—and to introduce you. She’s very fond of attractive young men.”
Miranda wound her way through to where the widow was sitting, keeping time to the music with her foot. “Mrs. Collingsforth, I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Lovely music,” she said in a voice like the caw of a crow. “Pretty lights. It’s about time you put some punch into this place. Places that house art shouldn’t be stuffy. Art’s alive. Shouldn’t be stored like corpses. And who might this be?”
“Ryan Boldari.” He bent down to take her hand and kiss the gnarled knuckles. “I asked Miranda to introduce us, Mrs. Collingsforth. I wanted to thank you, personally, for your generosity in lending the Institute so many wonderful pieces from your collection. You’ve made the exhibit.”
“If the girl threw more parties instead of burying herself in a laboratory, I’d have lent them to her sooner.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He beamed at Mrs. Collingsforth, making Miranda feel superfluous. “Art needs to be celebrated, not simply studied.”
“Keeps herself glued to a microscope.”
“Where one often misses the big picture.”
Mrs. Collingsforth narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips. “I like you.”
“Thank you. I wonder, madam, if I could impose on you for a dance.”
“Well.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’d enjoy that, Mr. Boldari.”
“Please, call me Ryan,” he requested as he helped her to her feet. He tossed Miranda one wolfish grin over his shoulder as he led Mrs. Collingsforth into the music.
“That was smooth,” Andrew murmured at Miranda’s shoulder.
“As grease on a tree limb. It’s a wonder he doesn’t slide off and break his neck.” Because the champagne was still in her hand, she sipped. “Did you meet his family?”
“Are you kidding? I think every other person here is related to him. His mother collared me, wanting to know if we’d ever considered holding art classes for children here, and why not, didn’t I like children? And before I knew it she was introducing me to this child psychologist—single, female,” Andrew added. “She’s great.”
“The psychologist?”
“No—Well, she seemed very nice and nearly as confused as I was. Ryan’s mother. She’s great.” His hands were in his pockets, then out, wrapped around the carved newel post, fiddling with his tie.
Miranda took one of them and squeezed. “I know this is hard for you. All these people—Elise.”
“Sort of a minor trial by fire. Elise, the parents, me, and cases of free booze everywhere.” He glanced toward the entrance again. Annie hadn’t come.
“You need to keep busy. Do you want to dance?”
�
��You and me?” He shot her a stunned look, then dissolved in easy and genuine laughter. “We’d both end up in the ER with broken toes.”
“I’ll risk it if you will.”
His smile went tender. “Miranda, you’ve always been a high point in my life. I’m okay. Let’s just watch people who know what they’re doing.”
Then his smile stiffened. Miranda didn’t have to shift her gaze to know he’d seen Elise.
She came up to them, a sleek fairy in filmy white. Even as Miranda wanted to resent, she saw the nervousness in Elise’s eyes.
“I just wanted to congratulate you, both of you, on a wonderful and successful exhibit. Everyone’s raving about it. You’ve done a fabulous job for the Institute, and the organization.”
“We had a lot of help,” Miranda said. “The staff put in long, hard hours to make this happen.”
“It couldn’t be more perfect. Andrew.” She seemed to take a deep gulp of air. “I want to apologize for making things difficult. I know my being here is awkward for you. I won’t be staying much longer tonight, and I’ve decided to go back to Florence tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to change your plans for my benefit.”
“It’s for mine too.” She looked at Miranda then, struggled with a smile. “I didn’t want to leave without taking a minute to tell you how much I admire what you accomplished here. Your parents are very proud.”
Miranda goggled before she could control it. “My parents?”
“Yes, Elizabeth was just saying—”
“Annie.” Andrew said the name, almost like a prayer, and Elise broke off to stare up at him. “Excuse me.”
He moved away, making his way toward her. She looked lost, he thought, in a sea of people. And so lovely with her shining hair. Her red dress glowed like a flame, throwing off heat and life among all the sober and conservative black.
“I’m so glad you came.” He caught her hands like lifelines.
“I don’t know why I did. I already feel ridiculous.” The dress was too short, she thought. It was too red. It was too everything. Her department store earrings looked like cheap chandeliers—and what had possessed her to buy shoes with rhinestone buckles? She must look like a slutty Pilgrim.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said again, and ignoring the raised eyebrows, kissed her.
“Why don’t I just grab a tray, pass drinks? I’d fit in better that way.”
“You fit in fine. Come over and talk to Miranda.” But when he turned, his eyes locked with Elise’s. She stood exactly where he’d left her. He saw Miranda touch her arm, murmur something, but Elise only shook her head, then hurried away.
“Your wife looked upset,” Annie commented as acid churned in her stomach.
“Ex-wife,” Andrew reminded her, grateful to see Miranda making her way toward them.
“Annie, it’s so good to see you. Now I know who Andrew’s been looking for all evening.”
“I wasn’t going to come.”
“I’m glad you changed your mind.” It was rare for Miranda to follow impulse, but she did so now, bending down to press her cheek to Annie’s. “He needs you,” she whispered, then straightened with a smile. “I see some people I think you’d enjoy meeting. Andrew, why don’t you introduce Annie to Mr. and Mrs. Boldari.”
He followed the direction of her nod and grinned. “Yeah, thanks. Come on, Annie, you’re going to love these people.”
It lifted Miranda’s heart, that warm glow she’d seen in Andrew’s eyes. Her spirits rose, so much so that she allowed Ryan to pull her into a dance.
When she caught a glimpse of Richard, his nose all but pressed to a painting of the Holy Family, his eyes intent behind his glasses, she simply turned away.
She’d take Ryan’s advice—this time—and live in the moment.
She was considering another glass of champagne and another dance, when Elizabeth found her. “Miranda, you’re neglecting your duties. I’ve spoken with several people who said they’ve yet to have a word with you. The exhibition isn’t enough, you have to follow through.”
“Of course, you’re right.” She handed the champagne she hadn’t yet sipped to her mother and their gazes held for one long moment. “I’ll do my duty. I’ll do what has to be done, for the Institute.” She stepped back.
No, she realized, she was also going to do what needed to be done, for herself. “You might have said—just once tonight you might have said to me that I’d done a good job. But I suppose it would have stuck in your throat.”
She turned, walked up the stairs to mingle with the guests on the second level.
“Is there a problem, Elizabeth?”
She flicked a glance over at her husband as he came to her side, then looked back up at Miranda. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to find out.”
“Senator Lamb would like to see you. He’s a big supporter of the NEA.”
“Yes, I know who he is.” Her voice was a shade too sharp. Deliberately she smoothed it out. “I’ll be happy to speak with him.”
And then, she thought, she was going to deal with Miranda.
She lost track of Ryan, assumed that Andrew was making Annie comfortable with the Boldaris. For an hour, Miranda concentrated on her role as hostess. When she finally slipped off into the ladies’ room, she was desperately relieved to find it empty.
Too many people, she thought, leaning against the counter a moment. She just wasn’t good with so many people. Conversations, small talk, weak jokes. Her face was stiff from holding a smile in place.
Then she shook herself. She had nothing to whine about. Everything was perfect. The exhibit, the gala, the press, the response. It would all go a long way to repairing the recent chinks in her reputation.
She should be grateful for it. She would be grateful for it if she knew what to do next.
Decisions were for tomorrow, she reminded herself. Tomorrow, after she’d confronted her mother. That was the only answer, she decided. The only logical step. It was time the two of them faced off.
And if her mother was guilty? Part of a conspiracy of theft and murder?
She shook her head. Tomorrow, she thought again, and reached in her bag for her lipstick.
The explosion of sound had her hand jerking. The slim gold tube clattered onto the counter. Her eyes, locked on their twins in the mirror, went wide with shock.
Gunshots? Impossible.
Even as the denial raced through her, she heard the high, horrified sound of a woman’s scream.
She rushed to the door, knocking her bag off the counter and scattering its contents behind her.
Outside people were shouting, some were running. She shoved through, using hands and elbows. She broke free and ran for the steps just as Ryan rounded the lower landing.
“It— From upstairs. It came from upstairs.”
“Stay here.”
He might have saved his breath. She hiked up her skirt and was pounding up behind him. He knocked aside the velvet rope that blocked the third-floor office level from the party area.
“You check that way,” she began. “I’ll look down—”
“The hell you will. If you won’t stay put, then you’ll come with me.” He took a firm hold of her hand, doing his best to block her body with his as he started down the hall.
More footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them. Andrew leaped the last three. “That was a gun. Miranda, go downstairs. Annie, go down with her.”
“No.”
Since neither woman was going to listen, Ryan gestured to the left. “You check that way. We’ll go down here. Whoever fired the gun is probably long gone,” he said as he cautiously nudged open a door. “But you stay behind me.”
“What are you? Bulletproof?” She reached in under his arm and flicked on the light. He simply shoved her back and stepped into the room himself to do a quick sweep. Satisfied it was empty, he pulled her in.
“Use this office. Lock the door and call the police.”
“I�
�ll call them when I know what to tell them.” She elbowed him aside and strode down the hall to the next room.
He all but wrenched her arm out of its socket. “Try to be a little less of a target, Dr. Jones.”
They worked their way down until he spotted a faint light pooling under the door leading to her office. “You changed for the party here. Did you leave your light on?”
“No. And the door should be locked. It’s not quite closed.”
“Take off your shoes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take off your shoes,” he repeated. “I want you to be able to run if you have to, not break an ankle in those heels.”
Saying nothing, she leaned against him long enough to remove them. It should have been funny, she thought, the way he took one, holding it spike out like a weapon as they approached the door.
But her hand was going damp in his, and she couldn’t find the humor.
He eased to the side of the door, nudged it. It opened another two inches, then bumped into an obstruction. Once again, Miranda reached under his arm to turn on the overheads.
“Oh my God.”
She recognized the lower half of the filmy white gown, the soft glitter of silver shoes. Dropping to her knees, she pushed at the door with her shoulder until she could squeeze inside.
Elise lay crumpled, facedown. Blood trickled from a wound at the back of her head and slipped over her pale cheek. “She’s alive,” Miranda said quickly, when she pressed her fingers to Elise’s throat and found a fluttery pulse. “She’s alive. Call an ambulance. Hurry.”
“Here.” He shoved a handkerchief into her hand. “Press that against it. See if you can stop the bleeding.”
“Just hurry.” She folded it into a pad, wanting the thickness, and applied pressure. Her gaze skimmed over, rested on the bronze Venus she kept in her office. A copy of the Donatello Ryan coveted.
Another bronze, she thought dully. Another copy. Another victim.
“Miranda, what—” Andrew pushed in the door, then jerked to a stop. “Jesus. Oh Jesus, Elise.” He was on his knees, fumbling at the wound, at her face. “Is she dead? Oh sweet God.”