Finding Miranda

by Chacon, Iris

  Carlo lifted an old double-barreled shotgun he had been holding behind one leg. He leveled it at Reggie’s mid-section and BOOM, fired one barrel. A red crater opened in Reggie’s diaphragm.

  “That’sa for my brother, Pietro,” Carlo said calmly. Then BOOM, he fired the second barrel. “And that’sa for Dave.” A second, overlapping crater appeared, centered on what might have been Reggie’s heart, if he’d ever had one.

  Expression faded from Reggie’s face and the light went out in Reggie’s eyes. Carlo walked calmly back to the limousine, got in, and started the engine.

  Reggie’s body slid slowly down the side of the Jaguar and came to rest on the pavement. A wide crimson path glinted on the door of the car, from the window to the rocker panel. Carlo didn’t see it. By that time, the security guard was waving Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse’s limousine out of the gate. The guard in his air-conditioned gatehouse never heard a sound from the far-off garage.

  22 THE RENAISSANCE

  Miranda dozed in a waiting room chair on the fourth floor of Montgomery Memorial Hospital. She didn’t hear the bell of the arriving elevator, but she woke suddenly at the sound of her name. A cloud of disorientation and fatigue lifted gradually, and she recognized the two people standing before her.

  “Where is he? I want to see him,” the imposing woman said.

  “He’s sleeping,” said Miranda. “We can see him at noon, when they wake him to eat something.”

  “I’ll see him now,” the woman said. “I’m his mother.”

  Miranda pushed against the arms of the chair, slowly raising her body upright. She faced the woman like a badger squared off to battle a bison. She was still covered in soot, dirt, sweat, and even blood, from the preceding night. She looked like an extra in a zombie apocalypse film.

  “Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse,” Miranda said, bristling with authority and confidence, “Shepard had a horrible, tragic night. He will recover. But he needs rest in order to heal. He is going to sleep until it is medically advisable to wake him, and he will receive visitors when it is medically and emotionally advisable for him to receive them. I called you because you are his mother. As such, you are welcome to wait here until the staff directs us to enter Shepard’s room. If you try to enter his room before that time, I will personally restrain you and, if necessary, incapacitate you until security guards arrive to take you away. Shepard needs your love and reassurance at the appropriate time. He does not need—and will not be subjected to—your grandstanding, officiousness, overprotective hovering, or interference. I believe you have the mental acuity to comprehend what I am telling you, do you not?”

  Hermione Montgomery-Krausse stared at Miranda. Hermione shifted her vintage Chanel handbag from one gloved hand to the other and back again. Her mouth opened as if to speak, then closed. With her lips pressed together, Hermione dropped her eyes from Miranda’s face. Then Shepard’s mother walked around Miranda and took a seat in one of the uncomfortable waiting-room chairs. Hermione had never seen the zombie apocalypse, but she knew a scary woman when she met one.

  Miranda turned to the man in black who accompanied Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse. “Good morning, Hanson.”

  “Good morning, miss,” said Hanson, with rather more energy than he had expended on Miranda in the past. “May I get anything for yourself or for madam?”

  “I’m dying for coffee, please. I believe Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse would prefer a cup of tea.”

  “Right away, miss,” said Hanson with a slight bow. He caught the next elevator and left the women alone.

  Miranda eased down into her chair. She lowered her chin to her chest and closed her eyes.

  Hermione waited, looking straight ahead. After several minutes, she spoke to Miranda without looking her way. “Thank you for telephoning me.”

  “You love your son,” Miranda said weakly. “You needed to know.”

  Hermione waited, then said, “They truly meant to kill Shepard?”

  “They tried their best, yes.”

  “Does Shepard know about his friend and about the... about his dog?”

  “He knows. That’s the worst of it for him, I think. Physically, he’s strong; he’ll bounce back quickly. Emotionally ... who knows?”

  Hermione looked at Miranda and evaluated her condition. Leaves and twigs clung to her hair. Bruises dotted her arms and legs, scratches and patterns of dried blood crisscrossed her face, neck, hands, and feet. Her skin was soot-stained, her dress ragged and dirty, and she wore only one shoe.

  “Forgive me, my dear, but you need to go home, get a bath, and have a rest, yourself,” said Hermione, not unkindly.

  Miranda’s eyes flew open and her chin jerked up stubbornly. “I’m not leaving,” she said.

  The women stared into one another’s eyes. Miranda’s eyes showed no hatred, no anger, no rancor. They also promised no placating, no fear, no backing down.

  Hermione blinked first. She admitted to herself, if not to anyone else, that she respected Miranda’s commitment to Shepard’s wellbeing. Hermione also knew that Miranda had saved Shepard’s life. Indeed, they seemed to have saved one another.

  “Miss Ogilvy,” Hermione said, “if I can arrange for fresh clothing and a room here where you can shower and dress, will you make use of it?”

  Miranda examined Hermione’s face and found something new there. “Yes,” said Miranda, nodding. “I would appreciate that very much.” Miranda extended her right hand toward Shepard’s mother.

  Hermione removed her glove and clasped Miranda’s hand. “I’ll call my assistant and have her make the arrangements,” Hermione said.

  When Hanson returned with coffee and tea for the ladies, he found Miranda dozing in her chair and Hermione talking earnestly and efficiently on her phone. Hanson placed the beverages on a table near the chairs, then he took a seat across the room and settled down to wait.

  Ninety minutes later a prim middle-aged woman in a conservative business suit stepped off the elevator and approached Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse.

  “Yes, Rebecca?” Hermione said.

  “Everything is ready, madam. Family suite three-E. Here is the key.” Rebecca handed an electronic key card to Hermione. Hermione waved it aside and directed Rebecca toward Miranda.

  “Pardon?” said Miranda, opening her eyes to find the key card thrust at her.

  “The hospital keeps a few suites for families of VIP patients,” said Hermione. “This is Rebecca. She will escort you to the suite we have reserved. Rebecca has purchased clothing and toiletries for you. Go. Shower and dress. Take a nap. If you need anything, Rebecca will get it for you.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. She accepted the key card and murmured “Thank you” at Rebecca. Then she looked at Hermione with suspicion. “You aren’t getting rid of me so you can sneak into Shepard’s room, are you?”

  Instead of responding to Miranda, the older woman addressed the butler, who sat across the waiting room.

  “Hanson!”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I order you to prevent me from entering my son’s hospital room unless and until I am accompanied there by Miss Ogilvy. I grant you immunity from prosecution or reprisal should you be required to use physical force to accomplish this. Do you acknowledge and accept this directive?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Hermione looked at Miranda. “You see? Hanson will not permit me to violate your ban on visitors. Rest assured that Hanson holds Shepard in very high esteem and will do whatever is necessary to protect him—even from me. Now, go with Rebecca.”

  Miranda looked from Hermione to Hanson to Rebecca and back to Hermione. “Thank you,” Miranda said. “You’re very kind.” Miranda stood and gestured to Rebecca to lead the way. Before boarding the elevator, Miranda turned again toward Hermione and said, “I’ll be back before noon.”

  After the elevator departed, carrying Rebecca and Miranda away, Hanson left his chair and crossed the room. He sat down beside Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse. “A formidable
young lady,” he said.

  “Indeed,” said Hermione.

  “She reminds me of someone,” said Hanson.

  “Don’t be impertinent, Hanson.”

  “Of course not, madam.”

  ….

  The VIP family suites at Montgomery Memorial Hospital were modest but well appointed. They consisted of a small sitting room, comfortable bedroom, and roomy bathroom. Miranda moved like a sleepwalker through the motions of undressing and stepping into the shower. She emerged shampooed and scrubbed and wrapped in a terry cloth bath sheet. She entered the bedroom to find expensive underwear laid out on the bed and three stunning summer dresses hanging on the closet door.

  “Madam guessed at the sizes, miss,” said Rebecca from the sitting room doorway. “I purchased a size smaller and a size larger in case these do not fit. I’ll unpack the other boxes for you if you need them. Just let me know.”

  Miranda fingered the beautiful undergarments and glanced at the size on the labels. “These should be fine,” she murmured, thinking, they must’ve cost more than I make in a month!

  Rebecca said, “Madam’s stylist is awaiting our call, miss, when you’re ready for him to do your hair and makeup.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Miranda said. I can braid my own hair, and I don’t wear makeup. “But thank you for the offer.”

  “My pleasure, miss. Do you require assistance with your ensemble?”

  “My ensemble? Oh! My clothes, you mean? Ah, no, no thank you. I can, ah, I can get dressed. Thank you.”

  “Of course, miss. I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Rebecca backed out of the room and closed the door.

  Miranda went to sort through the dresses on the closet door. The colors and fabrics were exquisite. The labels were all from big name designers. “Gee whiz gosh golly holy moley!” she whispered. “Cinderella Ogilvy.”

  A quarter-hour later Miranda stepped out of the bedroom into the sitting room. Rebecca looked up from a stack of shoeboxes she seemed to be sorting on the coffee table. “You look lovely, miss,” said Rebecca.

  “Thank you,” said Miranda. “It’s a really nice outfit. I think it would look better if I wore shoes, though.”

  “The shoes have just arrived, miss,” Rebecca replied, gesturing to the boxes on the coffee table. “I used your old shoe to gauge the size. There are several styles for you to choose from.”

  “Thank you ... again,” said Miranda. She looked around the sitting room and through the door into the bedroom. “What happened to my clothes?”

  Rebecca looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry, miss. They were ruined. I disposed of them.”

  Miranda nodded. “Of course. I see.” She sighed. “Well, then.” She smiled at Rebecca. “I’ll reimburse you for all of this. You might have to be a little patient with me, though. A little bit every week, like.”

  Rebecca laughed and waved Miranda’s words aside. “Oh, miss, I haven’t explained properly at all! I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Madam wishes to make you a gift of these items. There is no obligation in the case. Madam is grateful for your ... friendship ... with young Mister Shepard. We’re all very grateful, miss. Myself, Hanson, Carlo, even Cook.”

  Miranda recalled the phone call Shepard had made to Pietro’s brother. It could not be a coincidence. “Who is Carlo?” asked Miranda.

  “Carlo is—was—madam’s chauffeur, miss.”

  Miranda was alarmed. “Was?! Did something happen to Carlo?!” Surely the tragedy was not to be compounded further.

  “Carlo left us this morning, miss. He had a death in the family, and he is returning home to Sicily. That is why Hanson is driving madam today.”

  Miranda began to put pieces together. “Did Carlo have a brother named Pietro?”

  “Pietro was Mister Shepard’s chauffeur, miss. Pietro and Carlo were twins.” Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears, and she produced a linen handkerchief from somewhere to dab at her nose. “I’m sure you know Pietro was killed in the same accident that injured Mister Shepard. We’re all saddened, of course, but Carlo ... Carlo is devastated. And he dreads telling his mother. He feels he must be with her; he can not give her this news by telephone.”

  Tears burned behind Miranda’s eyes. “Of course. I’m sorry for the loss of your friend. Pietro was a wonderful person, and he was much, much more than a chauffeur to Shepard.”

  “They were like brothers—the three of them,” said Rebecca with a sniffle, “all through school together. And then they refused to be parted when Mister Shepard came back to the states. Fine boys. All three of them.”

  Miranda stepped close and opened her arms. Rebecca allowed herself to be enfolded in a hug, and together they wept.

  At noon, when the nurses awakened Shepard to attempt a meal, he was muddle-headed and vague. He was aware of Miranda and of his mother, but he was not clear-minded enough to realize the relationship between the women had radically changed. Miranda helped by feeding him from his lunch tray. The effort of eating exhausted him, and he dozed off before cleaning his plate.

  Miranda declared that she would stay at his bedside until he woke again. Neither Hermione nor any member of the hospital staff was brave enough to suggest Miranda should leave. Miranda Ogilvy, it seemed, was no longer invisible; she had become a force of nature – literally overnight.

  Hermione Montgomery-Krausse retired to the VIP family suite, where she found Hanson conversing with two men in rumpled suits. The men flashed badges and introduced themselves as homicide detectives.

  “Is this about the attempt on my son’s life?” Hermione asked.

  “No, ma’am,” said the senior detective. “I’m afraid we have bad news.”

  23 THE DETECTIVES

  Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse sat ramrod straight and, although obviously emotional, maintained the family dignity with undiminished fortitude. Hanson and Rebecca stood sentinel behind the sofa where she sat, and the two homicide detectives sat in two occasional chairs placed in front of her. One of the detectives jotted notes in a small leatherette-bound notebook as she spoke.

  “He had told me he was going to expose a bid-fixing operation that had gone on for about a year,” Hermione said. Her nose was red, her eyes swollen, but her voice was strong. “He was going to name the guilty parties both inside and outside the governor’s office, even though it might cost him his reputation. His political enemies would, of course, pounce on any opportunity to make Reginald appear corrupt.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the senior detective said, glancing at the notes the other man was taking. “Did the governor ever tell you any of the names of these so-called ‘guilty parties’ he was going to expose?”

  Hermione paused as if to search her memory. “I know one name, if I can remember it. There was a building contractor who held an ownership interest in several companies. His companies always seemed to know what the competing bids were, and they always came in just under the lowest bid. They always seemed to get the contracts. And they always seemed to bill the State for much more than they had quoted in their bid.”

  “Can you recall the name?” said the detective.

  Hermione looked at the ceiling and seemed to think out loud. “What was it? Westinghouse ... Westwood ... Wechsler ... West ... Lake! Westlake! The man’s name was Something Westlake! Is there a building contractor named Westlake?”

  The detectives looked at one another. The one with the notebook paged back through his notes and referred to a scribbled page. “Bertram Westlake? Is that the name?”

  “That’s it!” Hermione said, and she smiled at the men. “But surely you don’t think that man, that Westlake, could have killed the governor? This is a businessman, not a mobster. Perhaps it was simply a robbery. Reginald often carried large sums of cash, and he wore expensive watches and rings and such.”

  One man closed his notebook; both men stood. “It doesn’t appear to have been a robbery, Mrs. Krausse. And a businessman with power and a motive can be as dangerous as a mobster. We’ll certainly c
heck it out.”

  First one and then the other man offered a parting handshake. Hermione sniffled daintily into a tissue provided by Rebecca. “Thank you for coming,” Hermione said.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am. We’re very sorry for your loss,” said one detective.

  “And please give Shep our best wishes for a speedy recovery,” said the other. “We’re big fans of Shep and Dave.”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell him,” said Shepard’s mother.

  Rebecca showed the men to the door of the suite. She asked for and received their business cards. After closing the door, Rebecca retrieved an iPad from a briefcase stowed beneath the coffee table. She added the detectives’ contact information to the device.

  All was silence in the suite until the resonating elevator bell indicated that the detectives had left the sixth floor. Then Hanson asked, “Are you all right, madam?”

  Hermione’s face hardened, her tears dried up, and her jaws clinched. “Westlake and Reggie were up to their beady eyeballs in corruption, but I was willing to look the other way until they tried to kill my son. I would happily shoot Reginald Montgomery myself if it were possible.”

  She turned to Rebecca as if she had been reminded of something. “Did you speak with Carlo?” Hermione asked.

  “Yes, madam,” Rebecca answered. She tapped the screen of her iPad and, after viewing the resulting screen, added, “The wire transfer has been posted to the Credit Lyonnais branch in Milan. The flowers will be delivered to Signora Fratelli late tomorrow, after Carlo arrives home.”

  Hermione nodded. “Hanson, has the other matter been attended to?”

  “It is in the trunk of Mr. Westlake’s personal vehicle,” said Hanson.