Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery)
Heart Wounds
by
Linsey Lanier
A Miranda and Parker Mystery
Book 2
Copyright © 2014 Linsey Lanier
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Miranda Steele probes the British upper crust in the second Miranda and Parker mystery.
In the London Museum of Antiquity, a heart-breaking event occurs. Someone steals the priceless, newly acquired Egyptian dagger used by Marc Antony to kill himself over Cleopatra. Beside himself, the museum director calls in Parker and Miranda to investigate.
Miranda realizes someone could kill for a relic valued at over five million pounds. And that the first victim might be—her. The threat sets Parker’s nerves on edge and he doesn’t hesitate to show it. And Miranda doesn’t hesitate to flare up.
Can the detectives work out their issues before the theft escalates to murder?
Edited by
Editing for You
Gilly Wright
http://www.gillywright.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
More Books by Linsey Lanier
Excerpts
Chapter One
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Leo Tolstoy
If all went as planned, it promised to be a most monumental day.
Sir Neville Ravensdale sat on the wide rear portico of Eaton House in Surrey, England breakfasting with his wife of nineteen years. He was dressed in his best silk suit, an Ascot cravat of cobalt blue arranged carefully at his neck, a color Davinia once told him made his eyes sparkle.
He had barely touched his croissant or his single poached egg. He hadn’t heard the warblers singing in the hawthorns or smelled the fragrance of the blossoming bluebells or noticed the neoclassical design of the hedgerows, which he greatly admired.
All he could think about was the dagger.
It was Egyptian, just as his years of study told him it would be. The gleam of its ornate hilt flashed in his mind just the way it had when he’d first seen it two years ago on the excavation site, the foreign dust in his throat, the sun’s heat forming sweat beads on his brow, his heart racing madly with excitement of the discovery and trepidation of what might lie ahead.
Just the way it did now.
He rested his fork across the Eaton china plate and picked up his teacup. “Positively everyone will be there, Davinia. I do wish you’d come.”
Not even a flinch.
Wearing a pale chiffon morning dress, her dark hair pulled back in an artful chignon at the nape of her swanlike neck and looking as graceful as the statue of Artemis in the Louvre, his beloved wife stared out at the gardens studying her climbing roses with an empty gaze. They had bloomed too late for Chelsea but would be in time for the Hampton Court Palace flower show.
But Davinia probably wasn’t thinking that far ahead. No, she was thinking of how she’d show off the flowers during her Wildlife Rescue Charity meeting tomorrow.
At any rate she wasn’t giving a thought to what was before him today. For the hundredth-and-first time in what seemed like so many years, he forced himself to admit the truth.
The love of his life no longer cared for him.
“I still can’t believe my good fortune in acquiring such a find. Imagine. The very dagger Marc Antony used to do away with himself in 30 BC. And this morning, the museum shall have it on display.”
Again Davinia’s only response was a sip of tea.
What did he expect? She hadn’t taken an interest in any of his projects in years. And why should she? She had been Lady Eaton before the Earl passed. She’d been born the daughter of a duke. Why she had chosen a lowly museum curator as her second husband, he’d never know.
He was far beneath her.
“Don’t you agree that the excavation in Alexandria was a godsend? Think of it. The very instrument the Roman leader used to attempt suicide. Found right in Cleopatra’s mausoleum. It will bring the museum to the public’s attention once again.” The institute had suffered from financial difficulties in recent years. After today that would change. “Can’t you share in my enthusiasm just a little?”
Davinia sat up. “Oh. Yes, very nice, dear.”
She hadn’t heard a word. Her look of sheer boredom was as painful as what Marc Antony must have felt from that dagger when he sliced open his own abdomen.
To be sure, they’d fallen in love when they’d met. Deeply, passionately in love. But after three or four years of marriage the fervor had died away. The only explanation he could think was Davinia had come to regret having wed a mere commoner. And now with her at fifty-seven and him at sixty-two, there was little hope for rekindling any romance.
Pushing away his breakfast, Sir Neville rose to his feet. “Well, my sweet. I must be off. Cannot be late, you know. Not today.”
He strode across the terrazzo floor to give her a peck on the cheek.
She smiled thinly, her first natural response to him this morning, and lifted her hands to straighten the Grand Cross pin on his lapel. His knighthood several years ago was a poor substitute for real noble blood. “Do make sure you look your best, Neville.”
His best. Of all things in life Davinia cared most about keeping up appearances. He returned her lean smile. “Yes, dear. I’ll do that.”
And with that, he left and headed out for the car.
The drive to London was uneventful and when the chauffeur dropped him off at the museum’s rear entrance and Sir Neville stepped out of the car, his heart swelled.
He inh
aled a deep breath of city air as he smiled up at the tall ionic columns, the Greek Revival gables and cornices, the expansive wings of the sprawling building. The London Museum of Antiquity. This place was much more of a home to him than Eaton House. That was Davinia’s domain.
The museum was his. And today would be his greatest coup to date. The acquisition of a dagger worth millions of pounds, though its historical significance was much more important than money. The story of Antony and Cleopatra, the two star-crossed lovers, had been revived in the media and all the country was abuzz with anticipation.
This was something he would be remembered for.
His dreary home life forgotten for the moment, he hurried up the steps with a spring in his gait.
Inside, the first person to greet him was his Chief Collections Manager, George Eames.
“Sir, I’m so relieved you’re here.”
The man was as much as a friend as a colleague, ever since their days at Cambridge together. He had a sturdy frame some people would call big-boned. Taller than Sir Neville with a heartwarming rounded belly stretching the waist of his worsted wool suit, he had the deep-set eyes and heavy jowls of an old English bulldog.
His thinning brown hair was neatly combed, his brows trimmed, his suit pressed. But he looked tired. Well, he’d been working late here last night.
Sir Neville wished he could have been with him. He should have been here last night. But Davinia had insisted on going to the philharmonic and as usual, he’d given in.
“Everything in order, George?”
“Yes, yes. Of course. The reporters are assembled in room seventeen, the designers, the security staff, everyone is there. We’ve just been waiting for you to check everything out before the presentation.”
“Excellent.” He followed his man down the labyrinth of corridors, down two short flights of stairs, and into the holding area of the storeroom.
There in the center of the large expanse, among other deliveries, stood a cart covered in black velvet. Perched atop it was a small crate.
“Is that it?” Sir Neville whispered with reverence.
Toby Waverly, a young intern with longish, curly red hair nodded with his broad, friendly smile. “It is indeed, sir.” He looked very smart this morning in his dark vest and crimson necktie.
A woman in a severe, dark blue skirt suit consulted her clipboard. “The plan is to roll the crate out first, then you’ll be introduced, sir.” The pleasant hint of her Indian accent under the crisp British reassured Sir Neville of the efficiency he relied on.
“Very good, Emily.” Sir Neville gave the nod and followed his staff through the large double doors and inside the lift. When it opened, two workers rolled the cart across the Great Hall and into Room Seventeen, the Special Exhibitions room.
He waited at the door and peeked inside.
There among the hieroglyphics, the ancient coins, the busts of assorted pharaohs, and the newly constructed replication of Cleopatra’s mausoleum, stood a crowd of people.
Friends, patrons, and reporters. Everyone from the BBC to the London News.
Excitement coursed through his veins as George made some introductory remarks that were far too flattering. Then George gestured to him and Sir Neville entered the room to loud applause.
The press of the crowd combined with the smell of artifacts made him feel a bit dizzy. No, it was what that crate held that was doing that. The most important acquisition of his career. If only Davinia were here to share this feat.
“Thank you,” he said smiling brightly. “On behalf of all of us on the museum staff, thank you all for coming today. As you know, it’s been over a year and a half since the artifact we’re receiving today was first discovered.”
Briefly, he detailed the difficulties of the excavation, the tedious negotiations with the government, the rivals who demanded the piece be put up for auction. “But in the traditional British spirit, we have carried on and weathered those storms. Thus we stand here today about to put this historic find on display for all to see. And so, without further ado, I give you, Marc Antony’s dagger.”
Emily handed him a hammer and he worked the claw against the metal braces, loosening them one at a time. One, two, three. His heart soared. He thought of the Roman legions, the ships of ancient Egypt. Antony and Cleopatra at the helm, then the lovers being driven into a tomb.
He could feel antiquity at his fingertips as the last brace came loose. He handed the brace and the hammer to Emily, and lifted the wooden lid.
The container was filled with Styrofoam peanuts as was usual. Emily showed him a plastic bag she was holding open. He nodded and began to scoop the peanuts into the bag. One handful. Two. Three. When he’d emptied half the crate, he stopped.
The dagger should have been in the middle of the crate encased in bubble wrap for additional protection. He shot a frown of concern to George. His brow was always furrowed but just now, the creases were deeper.
Perhaps the packers weren’t exact. The dagger must be somewhere. He scooped out more peanuts. More. More. He could see the bottom of the box. Surely he hadn’t missed it.
Emily handed the peanut bag to Toby and began frantically searching her clipboard. “The bill of lading is right here,” she whispered, showing it to Sir Neville.
He scanned it. Everything looked intact.
And then his heart stopped as he realized what had happened. The troubled excavation, the rivals, the publicity. Spasms of confusion and panic and embarrassment reverberated up his legs, into his torso, through his chest.
Merciful heavens, was he having a heart attack?
The crowd began to murmur as he reached for the side of the box to steady himself. He gasped for air.
George rushed to his side. “Sir, are you all right?”
Sir Neville reached out for the man’s hand and whispered in his ear. “Call Scotland Yard. The dagger has been stolen.”
George’s eyes went wide with shock, but he knew it was true. “Take care of the crowd,” he said to Emily and began to lead Sir Neville out of the room.
She nodded and turned to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems there’s been a slight mishap.”
As Emily’s voice rang in Sir Neville’s ears and his head spun wildly with bewildered dismay, another thought stuck him.
By the time they had crossed the Great Court he knew, in addition to the police, he had to make another call to an old friend. To his friend’s son, actually.
Wade Parker.
Chapter Two
Miranda Steele leaned against the boards of the high-domed skating rink in Marietta, Georgia, watching a young fourteen-year-old girl go round and round on the ice, her skates making measured slicing noises.
The girl wore a simple lime green skirt over a black leotard and had her long dark hair—which was now streaked with golden highlights—pulled back in a ponytail. With one leg extended behind her, she glided along gracefully, her breath soft wisps in the cold air.
Wendy Van Aarle had come a long way since Miranda had first met her. But then so had she. And though she shivered in her lightweight coat and work clothes, Miranda couldn’t suppress the warm glow in her heart as she overheard remarks of approval from some of the parents who were watching. Why shouldn’t she be proud?
She’d once thought Wendy was her daughter.
Movement caught her eye and Miranda turned and smiled at the figure coming toward her from the spot along the rail where she’d been shouting coaching advice.
Another girl of the same age, dressed in solid black skinny jeans, ankle-high boots and a dark suede jacket. Her thick, almost black hair hung in soft waves to her shoulders, and she had a teal angora scarf around her neck that brought out the color of her eyes.
She walked with a slight limp from her injury eight months ago. Wounds she’d received the same time Miranda got hers. They were both on the tail end of recovery. Physically anyway.
As she neared, Miranda’s heart went from a warm glow to a tight cle
nch—an almost painful mixture of joy and anxiety—as the pretty young girl who was really her daughter reached her side.
“Hello, Mother.” She smiled back and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you, Mackenzie.” Miranda let herself embrace the girl a moment, then let her go. It had been over eight months since she’d discovered this girl was her daughter—almost as long as she’d carried her. But the fact that she’d found her after searching for thirteen years still made her head spin. And their relationship was still…gelling.
“I’m so glad you could come.”
“I decided it was about time.” Miranda hadn’t been to the rink in months, but today she’d ditched work early to come here. She nodded toward the ice. “Wendy’s doing great.”
Mackenzie smiled sweetly. “She needs to work on her crossovers and her sit spins really need improvement.” Same move Mackenzie had had trouble with even when she was in her prime.
“Do you have to be so critical? Wendy hasn’t been skating as long as you.” Mackenzie had started when she was five or so, Miranda had been told.
“We’ve got to get her ready for the Atlanta Open. It’s a tough competition.” She drew in a mature breath, as if she were reining herself in. The people who had raised Mackenzie had ensured she had good manners. “But you’re right. She’s really come a long way.”
“Under your expertise.”
She nodded, a tinge of sadness on her face. The memory of what had stalled her skating career and changed the direction of her young life was still fresh for both of them. “Mother…”
“What?”
“Do you remember…I don’t know how to say this.”
Miranda watched her pretty face, the brows twisted with teenage stress. Probably something about a boy. Miranda had been dreading the time when either Wendy or Mackenzie might ask her for advice on the opposite sex. There wasn’t much help she could give them in that department.
But she straightened her shoulders like a good mother and said, “Just spit it out. We don’t have to hold things back from each other after what we’ve been through.”
“I’m glad you said that.” She picked at one of her fingernails. “Do you remember the first time you came to see me?”
Miranda frowned with apprehension. Why would she want to talk about that? The day Miranda had gotten into the Chatham mansion by posing as a skating coach? The day they’d both screamed at each other? The day Mackenzie had denied with all her being she was related to the likes of Miranda Steele?