by Nora Roberts
“No, she’s alive. Ryan’s calling for an ambulance. Give me your handkerchief. I don’t think it’s deep, but I need to stop the bleeding.”
“She needs to be covered. Do you have a blanket, some towels?” Annie demanded. “You need to keep her warm in case she’s in shock.”
“In my office. There’s a throw. Just through there.”
Annie stepped quickly over Andrew.
“I think we need to turn her over.” Miranda pressed the fresh cloth firmly. “To make sure there’s no other injury. Can you do it, Andrew?”
“Yeah.” His mind had gone stone cold. He reached out carefully, supporting Elise’s neck as he rolled her. Her eyelids fluttered. “I think she’s coming around. I don’t see any blood except for the head wound.” He touched a finger gently to a bruise forming on her temple. “She must have hit her head there when she fell.”
“Miranda.” Annie stepped back into the room. Her eyes were dark, her voice dull. “Ryan wants you. Andrew and I will take care of her.”
“All right. Try to keep her calm if she comes around.” She got to her feet, stopping only when Annie squeezed her arm.
“Brace yourself,” she murmured, then moved over to cover Elise with the throw. “She’ll be all right, Andrew. The ambulance is on its way.”
Miranda stepped into her office. One ambulance wasn’t going to be enough, she thought dizzily. A couple of handkerchiefs weren’t going to mop up all this blood.
It was pooling on her desk, dripping down to soak into her carpet. Splatters of it were on the window behind her desk like sticky red rain.
On her desk, flung onto his back with red spreading over his frilled white shirt, was Richard Hawthorne.
Security kept the press and the curious away from the third floor. By the time the homicide team arrived, the scene had been secured, and Elise was on her way to the hospital.
Miranda gave her statement again and again, going back over every step. And lying. Lying, she thought dully, was becoming second nature.
No, she had no idea why either Richard or Elise would have been in her office. No, she didn’t know why anyone would have killed him. When they finally told her she was free to leave, she walked downstairs on legs that felt as fragile as glass.
Annie sat on the bottom step, hugging her elbows.
“Won’t they let you leave, Annie?”
“Yeah, they said they were finished with me for now.”
Miranda glanced toward the guards flanking the archways, the scatter of police roaming the hall. And sat beside Annie. “I don’t know what to do with myself either. I think they’re still talking to Ryan. I didn’t see Andrew.”
“They let him go with Elise, to the hospital.”
“Oh. He would have thought that was the right thing to do.”
“He still loves her.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s still hung up on her, Miranda. Why wouldn’t he be?” Then she pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “And I’m insane, ashamed, pitiful to be worrying about that when a man’s been shot, and Elise is hurt.”
“You can’t always control your feelings. I didn’t used to believe that, but now I know.”
“And I used to have a good handle on mine. Well.” She sniffled, rubbed her hands over her face, then rose. “I’d better go home.”
“Wait for Ryan, Annie. We’ll drive you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got my heap out there. I’ll be fine. You tell Andrew I hope Elise is okay, and. . . I’ll see him around.”
“Annie, I meant what I said earlier. He needs you.”
Annie dragged off her party earrings, rubbed the blood back into her earlobes. “He needs to count on himself. He needs to know who he is and what he wants. I can’t help him with that, Miranda, and neither can you.”
She couldn’t seem to help anyone, Miranda thought when she was alone and staring down at her hands. Nothing she’d touched, nothing she’d done over the last months had resulted in anything other than disaster.
She looked over her shoulder as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Ryan came down, skirted around her, then saying nothing, brought her to her feet and into his arms.
“Oh God, oh God, Ryan. How many more?”
“Ssh.” He stroked her back. “It was his own gun,” he murmured in her ear. “The same one I found in his room. Someone shot the poor bastard with his own gun. There was nothing you could have done.”
“Nothing I could have done.” She said it wearily, but pulled back to stand on her own. “I want to go to the hospital, check on Elise. Andrew’s there. He shouldn’t be alone.”
He wasn’t. It surprised Miranda to see her mother in the waiting lounge, staring out the window, a paper cup of coffee in her hand.
Andrew stopped pacing when she came in, then shook his head and began again.
“Is there any word?” Miranda asked him.
“They stabilized her down in emergency. X rays, tests—they haven’t come in to tell us the results. The resident on duty downstairs thought concussion, but they want to do a CAT scan to rule out any brain damage. She was out a long time. She lost a lot of blood.”
And some of it, he noted, stained the hem of Miranda’s dress.
“You should go home,” Andrew said. “Ryan, take her home.”
“I’m going to stay with you, just the way you’d stay with me.”
“Okay. Okay.” He rested his brow against hers. They stood linked while Elizabeth turned from the window and studied them. When she caught Ryan watching her, her cheeks pinkened slightly.
“There’s coffee. It’s neither fresh nor palatable, but it’s very strong and hot.”
“No.” Miranda moved away from Andrew, stepped forward. “Where’s Father?”
“I—don’t know. I believe he was going back to the hotel. There was nothing for him to do here.”
“But you’re here. We need to talk.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Jones.”
All three of them turned, made Cook’s mouth twitch. “Guess that’s pretty confusing.”
“Detective Cook.” Miranda’s stomach was quickly sheathed in ice. “I hope you’re not ill.”
“Ill? Oh, oh, hospital, sick. No. I came down to talk to Dr. Warfield once the doctors clear it.”
“To Elise?” Baffled, Andrew shook his head. “I thought you were with robbery. Nobody was robbed.”
“Sometimes these things are connected. The homicide boys will talk to her. Going to be a long night. Maybe you can tell me what you know, give me a clearer picture before I talk to Dr. Warfield.”
“Detective . . . Cook, is it?” Elizabeth moved forward. “Is it really necessary to hold an interrogation in a hospital waiting room while we’re waiting with some degree of distress for test results?”
“I’m sorry for your distress, ma’am. Dr. Jones.”
“Standford-Jones.”
“Yes, Elizabeth Standford-Jones. You’re the victims’ employer.”
“That’s correct. Both Richard and Elise work for me in Florence. Worked for me,” she amended with a faint change in color. “Richard worked for me.”
“What did he do for you?”
“Research, primarily. Richard was a brilliant art historian. He was a fount of facts and data, but more, he understood the spirit of the work he researched. He was invaluable.”
“And Dr. Warfield?”
“She is my lab director in Florence. She’s a capable, efficient, and trustworthy scientist.”
“She used to be your daughter-in-law.”
Elizabeth’s gaze didn’t waver, nor did it flick toward her son. “Yes. We’ve retained a good relationship.”
“That’s good. Most times ex-mothers-in-law tend to blame their sons’ wives for the trouble. You don’t see many who can work together and . . . retain a good relationship.”
“We’re both professional women, Detective. And I don’t allow family difficulties to interfere with work, or with my opin
ion of an individual. I’m quite fond of Elise.”
“Anything going on between her and Hawthorne?”
“Going on?” It was said with such frigid disgust the temperature seemed to plummet. “What you’re suggesting is insulting, demeaning, and inappropriate.”
“My information is that they were both single adults. I don’t mean any insult by asking if they were involved. They were in a third-floor office together. The party was downstairs.”
“I have no idea why either of them was in Miranda’s office, but obviously they weren’t alone.” She moved past him when a doctor in green scrubs came to the doorway. “Elise?”
“She’s doing well,” he told them. “She has a fairly serious concussion, some disorientation, but the CAT scan was clear and she’s in stable condition.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, and the breath she released was shaky. “I’d like to see her.”
“I cleared the police in. They wanted to question her as soon as possible, and she agreed. She became agitated when I suggested she wait until tomorrow. It seemed to ease her mind to talk to them tonight.”
“I’m going to want some time with her.” Cook took out his badge, then nodded toward Elizabeth and Andrew. “I’ll wait. I’ve got plenty of time.”
He waited over an hour, and wouldn’t have gotten in to see her then if once again she hadn’t insisted on making her statement.
Cook saw a fragile woman with a livid bruise on her right temple that spread purple toward her eyes. The eyes themselves were exhausted and rimmed with red.
But the flaws only added to her beauty. Her dark hair was swathed in white bandages. He knew the blow had been to the back of her head, and had bled profusely. He imagined they’d shaved some of that glossy hair to sew her up. Seemed a shame.
“You’re Detective . . . I’m sorry, I can’t remember the name they gave me.”
“Cook, ma’am. I appreciate you talking to me.”
“I want to help.” She winced as she shifted and the pain radiated through her head. “They’re going to give me drugs in a little while. I won’t be able to think clearly once they do.”
“I’ll try to make this fast. Mind if I sit here?”
“No, please.” She looked up at the ceiling as if focusing on moving beyond the pain. “Every time I begin, I think it’s a bad dream. It didn’t really happen.”
“Can you tell me what did happen? Everything you remember.”
“Richard. He shot Richard.”
“He?”
“I don’t even know that, not for sure. I didn’t see. I saw Richard.” Her eyes filled, spilled over, trailed tears down her cheeks. “He’s dead. They told me he was dead. I thought maybe . . . I don’t know—but they said he’s dead. Poor Richard.”
“What were you doing upstairs with him?”
“I wasn’t with him—I was looking for him.” She lifted her free hand to brush at the tears. “He said he’d go back to the hotel whenever I wanted to leave. Richard’s not much on parties. We were going to share a cab. I wanted to leave.”
“Dull party?”
“No.” She smiled a little. “It was a wonderful exhibit, beautifully presented. But I. . . I’m sure you know the background by now. Andrew and I used to be married, and it was awkward. He had a date there.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Warfield, but my information was that you divorced him.”
“Yes, I did, and it was final over a year ago, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling . . . from feeling,” she ended. “It was awkward and depressing for me. I felt obliged to stay for at least two hours. Elizabeth’s been very good to me, and this was important to her. Miranda and I have remained somewhat cautious friends, and I didn’t want to leave the impression that her work didn’t matter. But I wanted to go and I didn’t think anyone would notice by that time.”
“So you went looking for Hawthorne.”
“Yes. He only knew a handful of people there, and he’s not a very social man. We’d agreed to leave around ten-thirty, so I tried to find him. I expected to find him huddled in a corner, or with his nose up against some map. Then I thought he might have gone upstairs, to the library. He wasn’t there. Ah . . . I’m sorry, I keep losing my train of thought.”
“That’s okay. You take your time.”
She closed her eyes. “I wandered around for a while, and I saw the light in Miranda’s office. I started to go back down, but then I heard his voice. I heard him shout something, something like, ‘I’ve had enough.’”
Her fingers began to tug at the sheet in agitated little plucks. “I walked over. There were voices. But I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
“Was it a man’s voice, or a woman’s?”
“I don’t know.” Wearily, she rubbed at the center of her forehead. “I just don’t know. It was very low, only a murmur really. I stood there a minute, not quite sure what to do. I suppose I thought he and Miranda might have come up to discuss something, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Miranda?”
“It was her office, so I just assumed. I thought maybe I’d just go back alone, and then . . . I heard the shots. They were so loud, so sudden. I was so shocked I didn’t think. I ran inside. I think I called out. I— It’s just not clear.”
“That’s all right. Just tell me what you remember.”
“I saw Richard, lying over the desk. The blood everywhere. The smell of it and what must have been gunpowder. Like a burn on the air. I think I screamed. I must have screamed, then I turned. I was going to run. I’m so ashamed, I was going to run and leave him there. Someone—something hit me.”
Gingerly, she reached around to press at the bandage on the back of her head. “I just remember this flash of light inside my head, then nothing at all. Nothing until I woke up in the ambulance.”
She was crying openly now and tried to reach the box of tissues on the table next to the bed. Cook handed it to her, waited until she’d wiped her face.
“Do you remember how long you looked for him?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don’t really know.”
“When you went into the office, you didn’t see anyone?”
“Only Richard—” She closed her eyes so that tears squeezed through her lashes. “Only Richard, and now he’s dead.”
twenty-nine
I t was nearly dawn when Annie opened the door and found Andrew in the hall. He was sheet-pale, his eyes heavy with shadows. He was still in his tux, the tie loose around his neck, the first stud missing. The snowy shirt was marred by creases and blood.
“Elise?”
“She’s going to be all right. They’ll keep her for observation, but she was lucky. Concussion, a few stitches. There’s no sign of intracranial bleeding.”
“Come inside, Andrew. Sit down.”
“I needed to come, to tell you.”
“I know. Come on in. I’ve already made coffee.”
She was bundled in a robe, and had washed the makeup from her face, but he saw how tired her eyes were. “Have you been to bed?”
“I gave it a shot. It didn’t work. I’ll make us some breakfast.”
He closed the door, watched her walk the short distance to the kitchen and open the undersized refrigerator. She took out eggs, bacon, a frying pan. She poured coffee into two thick blue mugs.
The early light played through the narrow windows, made patterns on the floor. The room smelled of coffee and carnations.
Her feet were bare.
She laid bacon in the black iron skillet and soon the room was full of its scent and sound. Solid, Sunday morning sounds, he thought. Easy homey scents.
“Annie.”
“Sit down, Andrew. You’re asleep on your feet.”
“Annie.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her around. “I needed to go with Elise tonight.”
“Of course you did.”
“Don’t interrupt. I needed to go, to make sure she was all right. She was my wife once, so I owed her tha
t. I didn’t handle the marriage well, and handled the divorce less well. I thought about that while I was waiting for the doctor to come out and tell us how she was. I thought about that and what I might have done differently to make it work between us. The answer is nothing.”
He let out a short laugh, running his hands up and down her arms. “Nothing. It used to be realizing that made me feel like a failure. Now it just makes me understand the marriage failed. I didn’t, she didn’t. It did.”
Almost absently, he bent to kiss the top of her head. “I waited until I was sure she was going to be all right, then I came here because I had to tell you.”
“I know that, Andrew.” In support, and with mild impatience, she patted his arm. “The bacon’s going to burn.”
“I haven’t finished telling you. I haven’t started to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“My name is Andrew, and I’m an alcoholic.” He seemed to quiver once, then steady. “I’ve been sober for thirty days. I’m going to be sober for thirty-one. I sat in the hospital tonight and I thought about drinking. It just didn’t seem to be the answer. Then I thought about you. You’re the answer. I love you.”
Her eyes went damp, but she shook her head. “I’m not your answer, Andrew. I can’t be.” She pulled away, started to turn the bacon, but he reached over and snapped off the flame.
“I love you.” He cupped his hands over her face to hold her still. “Part of me always has. The rest of me had to grow up enough to see it. I know what I feel and I know what I want. If you don’t have those same feelings for me, and don’t want what I want, then you tell me. You tell me straight. It’s not going to send me out looking for a bottle. But I need to know.”
“What do you want me to say?” She rapped one frustrated fist against his chest. “You’re a Ph.D. I’m GED. You’re Andrew Jones of the Maine Joneses, and I’m Annie McLean from nowhere.” She put her hands over his, but couldn’t quite make herself draw his away from her face. “I run a bar, you run the Institute. Get a grip on yourself, Andrew.”
“I’m not interested in your snobbery right now.”