Homeport (49 page)

“We had the rooms blocked that way,” she murmured.

“In any case, doing the other rooms first gave him time to settle in. He was out like a light. Did you know your father's been to the Cayman Islands three times in the last year?”

“The Caymans?” She wondered her head didn't simply tumble off onto the floor, by the way it was reeling.

“Popular spot the Caymans. Good for scuba, sunshine, and money laundering. Now all that is idle speculation. But I hit gold in Hawthorne's room.”

“You had a very full night while I was asleep.”

“You needed your rest. I found this.” He took the storage receipt out of his pocket, unfolded it. “He rented this space the day after the bronze was brought to Standjo. The day before your mother called and sent for you. What did Andrew say about coincidences? There aren't any.”

“People rent space for all sorts of reasons.”

“They don't generally rent a small garage just outside of the city when they don't own a car. I checked, and he doesn't. Then there was the gun.”

“Gun?”

“The handgun—don't ask me the make and model. I try to avoid guns, but it looked very efficient to me.”

Idly, he took her coffeepot off the burner, sniffed, and was pleased to find what was left was still fresh. “I think there's a law about transporting weapons on airplanes,” he added as he poured a cup. “I doubt he went through the proper channels to get it here. And why would a nice, quiet researcher need a gun to attend an exhibit?”

“I don't know. Richard and a gun. It doesn't make sense.”

“I think it might, once you read this.” He took the
notebook out of his pocket. “You'll want to read it, but I'll give you the highlights. It describes a bronze, ninety point four centimeters, twenty-four point sixty-eight kilograms. A female nude. It gives test results on said bronze, dating it late fifteenth century in the style of Michelangelo.”

He watched her cheeks drain of color and her eyes go glassy, then held out the coffee until she'd wrapped both hands around the cup. “The date of the first test is at nineteen hundred hours, on the date
The Dark Lady
was accepted and signed for at Standjo. I imagine the lab's closed at eight most nights.”

“He ran tests on it, on his own.”

“It lists them, step by step, giving times and results. Two solid nights' work, and it adds several points of research. The documentation. He found something you didn't, and he didn't tell you about. An old baptismal record from the Convent of Mercy, written out by the abbess on a male child, infant. The mother's name was recorded as Giulietta Buonadoni.”

“She had a child. I'd read there was a child, possibly the illegitimate son of one of the Medicis. She sent him away, most likely for his own protection as there was political tension during that period.”

“The child was baptized Michelangelo.” He saw when the idea struck home. “One might speculate, after his papa.”

“Michelangelo never fathered a child. He was, by all accounts, homosexual.”

“That doesn't make him incapable of conceiving a child.” But he shrugged. “Doesn't mean the kid was his either, but it does make the theory that they had a close personal relationship highly possible, and if they did . . .”

“It helps support the likelihood that he would have used her as a model.”

“Exactly. Hawthorne thought it was important enough to record it in his little book—and to keep the information from you. If they were lovers, even once, or if they had a close enough platonic relationship that she would name her
only child after him, it goes a long way toward concluding that he created the bronze of her.”

“It wouldn't be proof, but yes, it would add weight. It makes it less and less likely that he'd never used her, and we have no documentation of any other sculpture or painting of Michelangelo's that uses Giulietta as a model. Oh, it's good,” she murmured, shutting her eyes. “If nothing else, as a springboard to keep looking.”

“He didn't want you to look.”

“No, and I stepped in line in that area. I left nearly all of the research in his hands. What I did came primarily from sources he gave me. He recognized it, exactly as I did. Probably the minute he saw it.”

“I'd say that's an accurate assumption, Dr. Jones.”

She could see the sense of it now, the logic and the steps. “Richard stole the bronze and copied it. And the
David,
he had to have taken that as well.” Her fisted hand pressed against her midriff. “He killed Giovanni.”

“It wouldn't be proof,” Ryan said, laying the book on her desk. “But it would add weight.”

“We need to take this to the police.”

“Not yet.” He laid his hand on the book before she could grab it. “I'd feel a lot more . . . confident of the outcome if we had the bronzes in hand before we talk to cops. I'll go to Florence tomorrow, check out his garage. If they're not there, they'll be in his apartment, or the record of where they are will be. Once we've got them, we'll work out what to tell the cops.”

“He has to pay for Giovanni.”

“He will. He'll pay for it all. Give me forty-eight hours, Miranda. We've come this far.”

She pressed her lips together. “I haven't lost sight of what this can do for my career, or what it can mean to the art world. And I know we made a deal. But I'm asking you now to agree, to promise, that justice for Giovanni will come first.”

“If Hawthorne's responsible for Giovanni, he'll pay. I'll promise you that.”

“All right. We'll wait until you're back from Florence
to go to the police. But tonight. How can we possibly go through with tonight? He'll be there. He's here now.”

“Tonight goes as scheduled. You have hundreds of people coming,” he went on before she could object. “It's all in place. You just ride the current. The Institute, and my galleries, are too far into it to pull out. You're too far in. And we don't know if he acted alone.”

She ran her hands up and down her arms. “It could still be my mother. It could be any of them.”

There was nothing he could do about the haunted look in her eyes. “You have to handle it, Miranda.”

“I intend to.” She dropped her hands. “I will.”

“Hawthorne's made a mistake. Now we'll see if he—or someone else—makes another one. When I have the bronzes, we'll give him to the cops. I have a feeling he won't want to hang alone.”

She jumped to her feet. “Hang.”

“It's an expression.”

“But—prison or worse. That's what this means. Years, even a lifetime in prison or . . . If it's one of my family, if it's one of them, Ryan, I can't. No, I can't handle it. I was wrong.”

“Miranda—” He reached for her hands, but she tossed them up in panic.

“No, no, I'm sorry. It's not right, I know it's not right. Giovanni, and that poor man with his wife, his children, but . . . if we find out it's one of them, I don't know if I can live with knowing I helped put them behind bars.”

“Just a damn minute.” He grabbed onto her before she could evade, surprising them both with the quick and hot spurt of temper. “Whoever's responsible for this put your life on the line. I'm going to see that they pay for that too.”

“No, not my life. My reputation, the momentum of my career.”

“Who hired that son of a bitch to terrorize you with a knife? Who's been sending you faxes to frighten you, to hurt you?”

“It must have been Richard.” Misery swamped her eyes.
“And if it wasn't, I can't be responsible for sending one of my family to prison.”

“What's your alternative? To let them walk? To leave
The Dark Lady
wherever she is, destroy that book, forget what's been done?”

“I don't know. But
I
need time too. You asked for forty-eight hours. I'm asking you to give me the same. There has to be a middle ground. Somewhere.”

“I don't think so.” He picked up the book, balancing it on his palm as if weighing it. Then he held it out. “You take it, keep it.”

She stared at it, taking it gingerly as if the leather would burn. “How am I going to get through the rest of the day? Through tonight?”

“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.