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“Don't fuss. Sitting outside and sketching isn't going to relax me. If we're going to pull off this display, I should be working on that.”

“You'll be putting your nose to the grindstone soon enough.”

Resigned, she stepped out on the porch. April had decided to make its entrance gently, bowing in balmy breezes and sunny skies. It could change, she knew, in a surprising instant to wet spring snow and high winds. It was part of the appeal, she supposed, the caprices of coastal weather.

“Just sit.” He gave her a brotherly kiss on the brow. “I'll handle this part.”

“Well then, I just won't worry my pretty little head.”

He laughed and took out his cell phone. “The only thing little about you, Dr. Jones, is your tolerance level. But somehow I find that alluring. What's your mother's number?”

She adjusted her thoughts, accepted that he was innately skilled at arousing and annoying—often simultaneously. “That's her home number,” she told him after she'd recited it. “With the time difference, that's most likely where you'll find her.”

As he punched it in, she looked out over the lawn. He would charm Elizabeth, Miranda decided. His talent with women was inarguable, and something it didn't suit her to consider too deeply. He would know just how to appeal to Elizabeth, as he'd known just how to appeal to her
daughter. With enough time, she doubted there was a woman on the planet he couldn't convince to eat the menu selection of his choice right out of his talented hands.

She sighed, hearing the way his voice flowed over her mother's name as the connection was made. Then she blocked it out.

The shattering blue of the sky, the glimpses of sea and rock that sparkled under the sun only made her lawn look shabbier. She could see the paint peeling on the porch rail, and winter-browned weeds poking up through the chipped surface of the flagstones that formed a walkway to the cliffs.

Her grandmother had tended the house and the grounds as a mother tends beloved children, she remembered. Now she and Andrew had let it go, ignoring the small details, shrugging off what they considered the more tedious responsibilities.

Major repairs and maintenance were simple. You just hired someone to deal with it. She didn't think either she or Andrew had ever mowed their own lawn, raked leaves, pruned a bush, or yanked a weed.

It would be a good change, she thought. Something they could share. The manual labor, the satisfaction of seeing the improvements would be good therapy for him. And, she decided, for her. One way or another, the cycle her life was in just now would end. When it did, she would need something to fill the hole.

Casting her mind back, she tried to remember how the side garden had looked when she was a child and her grandmother had still been fit and well enough to tend it.

Tall spiky flowers, she recalled, with deep purple and deep red blooms. Something butter yellow and daisylike in a flower with stems that bent gracefully under the weight. Her pencil began to move as she brought it back into her mind. Clumps of green with a slender stem shooting up and ending with an upturned white cup. There was a scent too, from flowers that looked something like carnations with red and white blooms and a strong spicy fragrance.

Others with rich blue trumpets. Yes, and snapdragons.
She was ridiculously thrilled she finally put a name to a variety.

While Ryan made his pitch on the phone to the mother, he watched the daughter. She was relaxing, he noted, smiling a little as she drew. Fast sketching, the kind that took innate talent and a good eye.

Her hair was tousled, her fingers long, the nails neat, short, and unpainted. She'd taken her glasses out of her pocket and put them on. Her sweater bagged at the shoulders, her trousers were the color of putty.

He thought she was the most stunning woman he'd ever seen.

And because thinking that, he lost his thread, he turned away and wandered to the far end of the porch.

“Please, call me Ryan. I hope I may call you Elizabeth. I'm sure you know just how brilliant and how delightful your daughter is, but I must tell you what a tremendous impression she made on me. When I learned she'd taken a leave of absence, well, disappointed is a mild term.”

He listened for a moment, smiling to himself. He wondered if Miranda was aware her voice had that same upper-crust pitch when she was trying to disguise annoyance.

“Oh yes, I have no doubt there are members of the staff at the Institute who could take the basic idea and implement it. But I'm not interested in working with the second line. Although Lois Berenski at the Chicago Art Institute—you know Lois, I assume. . . . Yes. She's very competent and quite interested in this proposal. I've promised to get back to her within forty-eight hours, which is why I'm taking the liberty of bothering you at home. My preference is the Institute and Miranda, but if this can't be accomplished before my deadline, I'll have to . . .”

He trailed off, grinning openly now as Elizabeth began a hard sell. Getting comfortable, he swung a leg over the rail, straddling it while he let his gaze sweep the coast, watch the gulls swoop, and allowed Elizabeth to wheel and deal until she gave him exactly what he wanted.

It took forty minutes, during which time he wandered into the kitchen, made himself a small snack plate of
crackers, cheese, and olives, and carried it back outside. When it was done, he and Elizabeth had agreed to have drinks the evening before the gala—he was calling it a gala now—and raise a toast to their mutual project.

He hung up, popped an olive in his mouth. “Miranda?”

She was still sketching, well into her third angle on her proposed garden. “Hmmm.”

“Answer the phone.”

“What?” She glanced up, vaguely annoyed with the interruption. “The phone's not ringing.”

He winked. “Wait for it,” he told her, then grinned when the kitchen phone pealed. “That'll be your mother. If I were you, I'd act surprised—and just a little reluctant.”

“She agreed?”

“Answer the phone, and find out.”

She was already leaping up, dashing into the house to snatch the phone off the hook. “Hello? . . . Hello, Mother.” She pressed a hand to her speeding heart and listened.

It came as a demand, but that was to be expected. More, it was outlined as a fait accompli. Her leave was to be terminated, immediately, and she was to contact the Boldari Gallery and make arrangements to proceed. Her schedule was to be adjusted, this was to be priority, and the display would be conceived, planned, erected, and completed the second weekend in May.

“That's barely a month. How—”

“I realize it's a short amount of time for something of this scope, but Mr. Boldari has other commitments and conflicts. He'll work with Andrew of the publicity for the gala, with Vincente pitching in. Your only concern for the next four weeks is the display. He expects a great deal from you, Miranda, and so do I. Is that understood?”

“Of course.” Absently she slipped off her glasses, hung them by the earpiece in her pocket. “I'll start right away. Giovanni—”

“The service was very lovely. His family appreciated the flowers. I'll be in close touch with you on this matter, Miranda, and expect to arrange my schedule to come in the
first week of May, if possible, to supervise the final touches. Be sure to send me the proper reports.”

“You'll get everything. Goodbye. . . . It's done,” Miranda murmured as she replaced the receiver. “Just like that.”

“I didn't mention Giovanni,” Ryan told her. “That can't come from me. You'll have the idea for this tomorrow, and after running it by me and securing my agreement, you'll send her a memo.”

He set his plate on the counter, chose a cracker for her and topped it with cheese. “Out of that will come the notion that all key staff members from all Jones organizations will attend the event in a show of unity, support, and respect.”

“They'll come,” she murmured. “My mother will see to it. But I don't see what good this does.”

“Logistics. Everyone connected in one place, at one time.” He smiled and ate another cube of cheese. “I'm looking forward to it.”

“I have to get to work.” She pushed both hands through her hair. “I have an exhibit to design.”

“I'll be flying in from New York tomorrow.”

She paused at the doorway and glanced back. “Oh, will you?”

“Yes. Morning flight. It's going to be a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jones.”

twenty-three

“I
t's good to
have you back.” Lori set a steaming cup of coffee on Miranda's desk.

“I hope you feel that way by the end of the week. I'm about to run you ragged.”

“I can handle it.” Lori touched a hand to Miranda's arm. “I'm so sorry about Giovanni. I know you were friends. We all liked him so much.”

“I know.”
His blood's on your hands.
“He'll be missed. I need to work, Lori, to dive in.”

“All right.” She walked to a chair, poised her pencil over her notebook. “Where do we start?”

Deal with what needs to be done, Miranda told herself. One step at a time. “Set up meetings with carpentry—get Drubeck. He did good work on the Flemish display a couple of years ago. I need to talk to legal, to contracts, and we'll need to pull someone out of research. I want someone who can check data quickly. I'll need ninety minutes with Andrew, and I want to be notified the moment Mr. Boldari arrives. Arrange for lunch to be set up in the VIP lounge—make it for one o'clock and see if Andrew can join us. Check with restoration. I want to know when works in
progress of our era will be completed. And invite Mrs. Collingsforth to be my guest any day this week for tea—again we'll use the VIP lounge.”

“Going after her collection?”

The avaricious look sharpened Miranda's eyes. “I think I can convince her she'd enjoy seeing her paintings in this showing, with a nice, tasteful brass plaque saying ‘on loan from the collection of.' ”

And if she couldn't convince Mrs. Collingsforth, Miranda thought, she'd sic Ryan on her.

“I'll need measurements of the South Gallery. If they aren't on record here, get me a tape measure. I want them today. Oh, and I want to see a decorator.”

Lori's busy pencil paused. “A decorator?”

“I have an idea for . . . atmosphere. I need someone inventive, efficient, and who knows how to take orders instead of giving them.” Miranda drummed her fingers. Oh yes, she knew what she wanted, right down to the last inch of fringe. “I'll need a drawing board in here, and one delivered to my home. Send a memo to Andrew, requesting that I be copied on all steps of the publicity and all conceptions for the fund-raiser. Mr. Boldari is to be put through at any time and is to be accommodated in his wishes whenever possible.”

“Of course.”

“I'll need to talk to security.”

“Check.”

“In four weeks, ask me for a raise.”

Lori's lips curved. “Double check.”

“Let's get started.”

“One thing.” Lori flipped her book closed. “You had a message on your machine. I left it on. It was in Italian, so most of it was lost on me.”

She rose, moved over to click back the counter on Miranda's machine, punched it in. Immediately there was a flood of excited, emotional Italian. Mildly irritated, Miranda stopped the recording and began again with her mind adjusted to translate.

Dr. Jones, I must speak with you. I try to reach you here.
There is no one else who will believe me. I am Rinaldi, Carlo Rinaldi. I found the lady. I held her. I know she is real. You know this is true. The papers, they said you believed in her. No one will listen to me. No one pays attention to a man like me. But you, you are important. You are a scientist. They will listen to you. Please, you will call me. We will talk. We know what we know. It must be proven. No one listens. Your mother, she tosses me out of her office. Tosses me out like a beggar or a thief. The government, they think I help make a fraud. This is a lie. A terrible lie. You know this is a lie. Please, we will tell everyone the truth.

He recited a phone number, twice, and repeated his plea.

And now he was dead, Miranda thought as the message ended. He'd asked her for help, but she hadn't been there. Now he was dead.

“What was it?” Concerned by the devastated look on Miranda's face, Lori reached out to touch her arm. “My Italian's limited to pasta orders. Is it bad news?”

“No,” Miranda murmured. “It's old news, and I was too late.”

She clicked the delete button but she knew the message from the dead would play in her mind for a long time.

 

It was good to be back in the saddle, to have specific tasks and goals. Ryan had been right about that, she decided. She'd needed action.

She was in restoration, checking out the progress of the Bronzino personally, when John Carter came in.

“Miranda. I've been trying to track you down. Welcome back.”

“Thanks, John, it's good to be back.”

He removed his glasses, polished them on his lab coat. “It's terrible about Giovanni. I can't take it in.”

She had a flash, the sprawled body, the staring eyes, blood. “I know. He had a lot of friends here.”

“I had to make the announcement yesterday. The lab's like a morgue.” He puffed out his cheeks, blew out a breath. “I'm going to miss the way he'd perk things up
whenever he came in for a few days. Anyway, we all wanted to do something. We came up with a few ideas, but the one everyone liked best was having a tree planted in the park. A lot of us take our lunch break there in good weather, and we thought it would make a nice memorial.”

“I think that's lovely, John. Something he would have liked very much.”

“I wanted to clear it with you first. You're still lab director.”

“Consider it cleared. I hope the fact that I'm management doesn't mean I can't contribute to the fund.”

“Everybody knows you were friends—that comes first.”

“You, ah, spent time with him when he came here, and whenever you went over to Standjo.”

“Yeah, he used to say I was a branch in the mud.” Carter smiled wistfully. “He meant stick, but I got such a kick out of it, I never corrected him. He'd talk me into going out and sharing a bottle of wine or a meal. He'd say how he was getting me out of my rut, how he'd teach me to flirt with the pretty girls. Then he'd ask to see the latest pictures of my kids.”

His voice thickened, his eyes glistened with moisture before he turned away and cleared his throat. “So I'll, ah, arrange for the tree.”

“Yes, thank you, John.” She turned away herself, ashamed that she'd let Ryan's suspicions lure her into probing into the man's grief.

“Meanwhile, um, I hope you'll get back to the lab soon. You're missed.”

“I'll be swinging through, but I've got a priority project for the next few weeks.”

“New Renaissance display.” He managed a smile again when she looked back at him. “If you could tap the grapevine around here, you'd have a hell of a potent wine. A major exhibit like that's just what we need after the bad taste we've got in our mouths over the break-in. Nice thinking.”

“Yes, we'll . . .” She trailed off, spotting Detective Cook as he wandered in. “Sorry, John, I'd better deal with this.”

“Yeah. . . . I don't know why.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He makes me nervous. Looks like he suspects everybody of doing something.”

With barely a nod for Cook, he scurried out, his dusty shoes scarcely making a sound.

“Detective? What can I do for you?”

“This is some setup you've got here, Dr. Jones.” Rather than take out what he thought of as his close-up glasses, he squinted at the painting. “That's the real thing, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's a Bronzino. Sixteenth-century Italian Renaissance artist. The Institute is very pleased to have it. The owners have agreed to lend it to us for display.”

“Mind if I ask what she's doing there?”

The restorer barely glanced at him, giving him one flick of a look from behind her magnifying goggles. “The painting was part of a collection, long neglected, of a recluse in Georgia,” Miranda said. “This piece, as well as several others, suffered some damage—dirt, damp, direct sunlight for an unfortunate period of time. It's been cleaned. In itself that's a slow, careful process. We can't risk damaging the work, so it takes a great deal of time and skill. Now we're attempting to repair some damage to the paint. We use only ingredients which would have been available when the painting was created, so as to preserve its integrity. This takes research, talent, and patience. If we've done our job, the painting will be as it was when the artist finished it.”

“A lot like police work,” he commented.

“Is it?”

“It's a slow, careful process—you can't risk damaging the case. You only use information that comes through it. It takes research, a kind of talent,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “And a hell of a lot of patience. You do it right, you got the whole picture when you're done.”

“A very interesting analogy, Detective.” And one that made her incredibly nervous. “And are you getting the whole picture?”

“Just bits and pieces, Dr. Jones. Just bits and pieces.” He dug around in his pocket and came up with an open pack of Juicy Fruit. “Gum?”

“No, thank you.”

“Quit smoking.” He took out a piece, carefully unwrapped it and put the paper and the foil into his pocket again. “Still driving me nuts. Got this patch on, but it's not all it's cracked up to be, let me tell you. You smoke?”

“No, I don't.”

“Smart girl. Me, I used to suck down two packs a day. Then it got to be you can't smoke here, you can't smoke there. You're catching a couple drags in some closet or going outside in the rain. Makes you feel like a criminal.” He smiled again.

Miranda barely resisted shifting her feet, and instead imagined herself tapping her foot, snapping her fingers. “I'm sure it's a difficult habit to break.”

“An addiction's what it is. It's a hard thing to face up to, an addiction. It can take over your life, make you do things you wouldn't do otherwise.”

He knew about Andrew's drinking. She could see it in his eyes, and thought he wanted her to see it. “I never smoked,” she said flatly. “Would you like to go to my office?”

“No, no, I won't keep you long.” He drew a breath of air that smelled of paint and turpentine and commercial cleaner. “Didn't think I'd run into you at all, since I'd been told you were out on leave. Took a little vacation?”

She started to agree. She wasn't sure if it was instinct or simple fear that stopped her. “I'm sure you're aware that I was told to take leave, Detective, due to the break-in here, and some difficulties that came out of my trip to Florence last month.”

She was quick, he thought, and not easily tripped. “I heard something about it. Another bronze piece, right? You had some trouble authenticating it.”

“I don't think so. Others do.” She moved away from the painting, well aware ears were pricked.

“It caused you some trouble anyway. Two bronzes. Funny, don't you think?”

“There's nothing funny to me about having my reputation on the line.”

“I can understand that. Still, you only had to stay out a few days.”

This time she didn't even hesitate. “It would have been longer, but we're beginning an important project that falls into my specific field of knowledge.”

“Somebody mentioned that to me. And I heard about your man in Italy. The murder. That's a rough one.”

Distress came into her eyes, made her look away. “He was a friend. A good one.”

“Got any idea who'd take him out that way?”

She looked back now, coldly. “Detective Cook, if I knew who had crushed my friend's skull, I'd be in Florence, talking to the police.”

Cook moved the gum to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “I didn't know they'd released the fractured skull.”

“My mother was informed,” she said in the same chilly voice, “as was Giovanni's family.” She could only pray that was true. “Are you investigating his murder, or our burglary?”

“Just curious. Cops are curious.” He spread his hands. “I came in because your brother's got a theory on how maybe the two incidents are connected.”

“Yes, he told me. Do you see a connection?”

“Sometimes you don't see it until you're on top of it. You also authenticated the, ah . . .” He took out his notebook, flipped through as if to refresh his memory. “Bronze
David,
sixteenth century, in the style of Leonardo.”

Though she felt her palms go damp, she resisted rubbing them on her trousers. “That's correct.”

“Nobody can seem to lay their hands on the paperwork for that, the reports, documents, pictures.”

“Andrew told me that as well. I can only assume the thief took the authenticating documents as well as the bronze.”

“That makes sense, but he'd have to know just where to look, wouldn't he? Camera blips only put him inside for . . .” He flipped pages again. “About ten minutes. He'd have to be fast as greased lightning to have added a trip to
the lab for records. I did the route at a fast walk myself. Takes a full minute. That doesn't seem like much, but when you put it into an eight-to-ten-minute time span, it's a chunk.”