Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Read online

  The waiter came by with the teapot and she shook her head.

  He nodded but looked annoyed.

  Davinia speed dialed her phone for about the fifth time and held it to her ear. After a few moments she shook her head. “Still going to voice mail.”

  Miranda tapped her foot and eyed the emptying café. Someone was going to kick them out of here pretty soon.

  She took a deep breath. “Why don’t we try to go look for her?”

  Davinia considered that a moment. “Do you think we can find her?”

  Miranda shrugged. “She said she was going around the corner. Can’t be far.” She hoped.

  “Very well.” Davinia paid the bill, leaving Gabrielle’s uneaten cake and the two of them headed back out to the street.

  They picked their way over the cobblestones, past shoppers, bike riders, an iron barrier filled with flowers. At last, they reached the spot where Gabrielle had parked her white Mercedes. A red Peugeot sat in its place.

  Lady Davinia uttered a dignified moan. “This was where we parked, wasn’t it?”

  “If not exactly here, it was near here. I don’t see a white Mercedes anywhere.”

  “She drove off somewhere.” Davinia sounded like a lost child. A stately, well-mannered one, but still lost.

  Miranda chewed her lip. This wasn’t good. It had all the earmarks of foul play. But wasn’t she supposed to be the victim of some devious plot here? Maybe she’d had it all wrong. Anyway with someone as fickle as Gabrielle, for all they knew, she was back at Selfridges trying on more dresses.

  She huffed out a breath. “Let’s keep looking.”

  They plowed across the street and trudged down the next sidewalk. Miranda was glad this block had normal cement rather than the cobblestone. They marched under multicolored flags waving overhead, past quaint bistros with colorful awnings, through outdoor cafes where people sat, having their tea under umbrellas.

  Miranda eyed the patrons, peered into the store windows, especially the dress store window. But she didn’t see Gabrielle Eaton’s red-gold curls anywhere.

  The sky was clouding over and the temperature was dropping. Miranda wished for a coat and hoped it wouldn't rain. Especially now that she had Lady Davinia to take care of. The aristocrat might melt in a downpour.

  They stepped off another curb to cross the next street.

  Davinia looked up at the sky. “Our brollies are in the car, of course.” She sounded like she wanted to curse. When they reached the opposite corner she came to a halt and Miranda saw the strain on her face.

  “Perhaps we should ring the police?” The woman was losing her nerve.

  Miranda folded her arms and thought about it. She wasn’t eager to have Inspector Wamble or one of his ilk involved in this hunt. What if Gabrielle was off chatting with a friend somewhere like she’d said? It would be embarrassing.

  But she knew Davinia was more worried than she showed. “I’ll call Parker,” she said at last, hoping that would satisfy her.

  Davinia nodded and Miranda stepped into a nearby niche for some privacy, and dialed.

  “Parker,” he answered being unnecessarily formal. It was still comforting to hear his voice.

  “It’s me. Can Sir Neville hear what I’m saying?”

  “No. What’s wrong?”

  “Lady Gabrielle’s missing.”

  “What do you mean?” The stiffness in his voice turned to concern.

  “We were having tea. She got a call and said she had to step out for a few minutes and would be right back. It’s been over half an hour and we haven’t seen her.”

  “Where are you?”

  “It’s probably nothing. She probably just forgot the time.”

  “Where are you?” he repeated in his firmest take-charge voice.

  “Soho.” She looked up at the street signs and gave him the crossroads.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “We’ll be in the area. We’re going to keep looking.”

  “I’ll find you.” He clicked off.

  She stepped out of the recess and gave Davinia a forced grin. “He’s coming to help look.”

  The woman exhaled. “That’s a relief. What should we do?”

  It started to mist. Miranda considered the options and pointed left. “Let’s try down that way.”

  They made their way down another block and a half until they reached a Tudor style building that looked like it had stood there since the Middle Ages. Between it and the next building a low tunnel had been wedged. It had a sinister air to it.

  “Let’s try down here,” Miranda said, plowing forward.

  “All right,” Davinia replied as if she had a choice and followed her down the sloping sidewalk.

  The tunnel was undecorated and damp smelling. Raw brick and bare pipes lined its close walls. It was short, maybe twenty feet long. Still a good place to get rid of an enemy in the middle of the night. But it was daylight now.

  Maybe she was imagining things.

  At the end of the tunnel, they turned a narrow corner and were hit by a mishmash of multi-cultural food scents flavoring the air. Hispanic, Asian, Lebanese. Once again Miranda peered into the eating establishments as they went along.

  No Gabrielle.

  They passed a movie theater, a storefront with a “We Buy Gold” sign in the window, an import and export wholesaler, a place with a gunmetal facade and Asian and English characters. The ones she could read spelled out “Bar Shu.”

  Chinatown.

  Could Gabrielle have gone this far? For all they knew, she could be back at the restaurant where they’d had tea, fussing at the waiters for letting them leave.

  Miranda stopped. She looked up the road they were on, then down it. The sky was getting darker, the mist heavier.

  “What is it?” Davinia wanted to know.

  “Try Gabrielle’s cell one more time.”

  Davinia’s frown was skeptical, but she took out her phone and dialed again.

  They waited.

  It rang. Once, twice. Softly, somewhere in the distance synthesized tones with a funky, syncopated beat played. Then stopped.

  “Voice mail.” Davinia’s eyes went wide. “Where did that ringtone come from?”

  “Dial her again.”

  She did and the music played once more. Miranda followed it, a hound on a scent. The sound stopped. “Dial again,” she barked.

  “Yes, yes.” Davinia trotted after her.

  The music started again. She hurried down the sidewalk to a narrow side street. The tone got louder. She rounded the corner—and let out a gasp.

  There in front of an empty storefront with Asian characters over a window nobody had bothered to translate, sat the Mercedes.

  Miranda hurried to it. The car had been pulled up on the sidewalk. The passenger side had been rammed into the wall. The driver’s door hung open. The cell phone lay on the pavement.

  She ran up to the vehicle, peered inside.

  Nobody there.

  She rushed around the front fender. And stopped.

  Damn.

  Her whole body began to quake at the sight on the pavement, as if of its own accord the stones were cracking and breaking into pieces beneath her feet like in some end-of-the-world horror flick. Her lungs felt like they were suddenly flooded with the smothering mist in the air. The crab she’d had for lunch cracked through her stomach lining and clawed its way up her spine, scrapping her nerve endings as it went.

  No, it wasn’t the crab. It was that damn, annoying sensation she’d been feeling. The one she hadn’t been paying enough attention to. The one she thought she could do without on this case. The one that always led her to scenes like this. She’d thought this case would be boring, unchallenging, not worth the effort. Hardly.

  She stared down at the clump of white silk with the silver bangle-bling that lay tangled over the body. The long arms and legs in distorted positions seemed to pool over the pavement along with the blood. Lots of blood.

  Her fa
ce was turned in an unnatural way, the green eyes that had glittering with life not an hour ago were now open, unseeing, a look of horror frozen on them. And in the middle of her back, the source of all that blood was—the Marc Antony dagger.

  Guilt suddenly flooded her. Because she’d thought this case would be boring, unchallenging, not worth the effort, Gabrielle Eaton was dead.

  She heard bells ringing. Big Ben clanging out the time. Gradually she became aware of a whining sound beside her. Slowly it grew louder. Louder. Turned into audible words.

  “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.”

  Lady Davinia.

  Miranda forced herself to snap out of her stupor and her lungs to suck in air. She tiptoed around the body, avoiding the blood, trying not to contaminate the scene. She bent down and laid two fingers along the neck for good measure. For the dictates of her training. She knew what she’d feel.

  Nothing.

  She glared at the open car door. Gabrielle had been driving. Maybe she’d gotten jacked. She tried to escape by ramming the Mercedes into the wall. Then she jumped out and ran for her life. But the killer caught her.

  One scenario. But what was a random carjacker doing with the Marc Antony dagger?

  She got up, made her way back to Davinia, and grabbed the hysterical countess.

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either.” Forcibly, she turned the woman around so she wasn’t facing the scene any longer.

  That was when she saw the man. And the woman beside him.

  “Who the hell are you?” she barked.

  “We saw you run down here. Has there been an…accident?”

  Somehow Miranda managed to shake her head in answer. “There’s been a murder.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The man, or somebody, called 911. It wasn’t really 911, it was 999 or something like that. Miranda didn’t know.

  All she knew was that she felt almost giddy when Parker showed up just before the police. He broke through the crowd of gawkers that had gathered, his face as hard as iron.

  He took in the scene and turned toward where he’d emerged. “Stay back,” he barked. But he wasn’t addressing the crowd.

  Then she saw Sir Neville coming up behind him. That’s who he was talking to.

  Ignoring Parker’s command, Sir Neville took a few steps toward the scene and stopped. His face turned as white as the vehicle. “Merciful Heavens! What on earth happened?” There was heartbreaking terror in his gentle voice.

  Miranda was afraid the frail man might have a heart attack on the spot.

  Davinia burst forward and threw herself into her husband’s arms. “Oh, Neville, Neville. What are we to do? It’s our Gabby? Our Gabby.”

  Blinking in confusion, “Gabby? Is that Gabby?”

  He must not have seen it was her on the ground. Miranda was glad for the gawkers blocking the view.

  “Yes. Oh, God. Yes.” Davinia pressed her face into his chest and sobbed.

  As if he didn’t know what to do, Sir Neville gingerly wrapped his arms around his wife, stroked her back to soothe her, though that was impossible for either of them. “What happened?” he asked again, his voice empty and lost.

  Miranda gave Parker a steady gaze. Up to her to explain. “Lady Gabrielle got a call when we were having tea,” she told him. “She said she was going to see a friend for a few minutes but she didn’t come back. We went to look for her and found…this.”

  “Stand back. Let us through.” The police were here, thank God.

  Officers began pushing back the crowd and cordoning off the crime scene. It wasn’t until then that Miranda noticed a redheaded young man dressed in the museum uniform, bracing himself against a wall with one hand. His mouth gaped open and his face was smeared with tears. He bent forward, holding the other hand to his middle as if he had a bad stomachache.

  And then she realized his jaw was moving and she heard his screams. “All my fault. All my fault.”

  Was that the intern they were going to interview? She looked at Parker.

  He read the question on her face and nodded. “We got a break in the case. Unfortunately it seems to have come too late.”

  She wanted to know what he’d learned, but there was too much commotion.

  “You should take Lady Davinia back to the car,” Parker said quietly to Sir Neville.

  He nodded and began guiding his wife back through the crowd. Just as they disappeared a team of CSIs—or whatever they were called here—showed up. They assembled around the gory scene and began to examine the car and the body.

  There was more shouting. Behind them the crowd parted and tall, lean Inspector Wample appeared with Assistant Chief Officer Ives in tow, both of them wearing the same raincoats she’d met them in.

  Miranda felt Parker tense beside her.

  Wample gave them a look of indignation when he spotted them and marched over. “You two sticking your noses in where they don’t belong again?”

  Resisting the urge to punch the guy in the stomach, Miranda repeated her story about the tea, the call and the hunt for Lady Gabrielle.

  Wample nodded. “I’ll need a statement from you.”

  “Be happy to give it.”

  Without making a move, Parker gave the man a cold, steady gaze. “Perhaps now, Inspector,” he said, “you’ll be more willing for us to work with you.”

  Wample stared at him a moment as if it had he suddenly dawned on him that might not be a bad idea. But instead of welcoming them aboard, he spat out a scoff and strode over to the crew to inspect their work.

  He peered over the technicians crouched around the body. Miranda watched his thin-lipped mouth drop open. “Is that—?”

  “Yessir,” said a young woman snapping a photo of the blood on the pavement. “It’s Lady Gabrielle Eaton.”

  “I heard who the victim is.” He jerked his hand at the body. “It that the relic that was stolen from the museum?”

  “It appears to be, sir.”

  Miranda leaned close to Parker to whisper. “He’s going to call this case closed. Parker, we have to find out who did this whether Wample wants our help or not.”

  He didn’t say anything. He only gave his head one quick determined nod.

  “Let me through. For heaven’s sake, let me through!” It was Sir Neville. He was back without Davinia this time.

  Miranda hoped he’d taken her to the car. The poor woman was beside herself with agony.

  He fought his way over to the inspector. “My wife told me…she said…the dagger?” He couldn’t see it before for the gawkers.

  Wample turned and regarded him with both frustration and compassion. “Yes, Sir Neville. It seems we’ve recovered it.”

  An officer tried to keep him back, but Sir Neville managed to position himself to get a clear view of the body. “Oh, my God. My God! My God!”

  His cries broke Miranda’s heart. He shouldn’t have to look at that scene. She marched across the pavement to him, took his arm. “Sir Neville, why don’t you go back to the car?”

  “Yes. Lady Davinia needs you now.” With the same intention Parker had come around to his other side.

  He shook them both off, glaring down at the dagger, a crazed look in his eyes. “I need to see it. I need to see it.”

  What was he doing? Trying to punish himself for this? It wasn’t his fault. Not one little bit. “You really shouldn’t.”

  Miranda stared down at Lady Gabrielle’s lifeless body and realized one of the CSIs was carefully removing the murder weapon from the victim. Its golden hilt, littered with ancient Egyptian markings in exotic blues and greens, glinted in the light. The blade, red with blood, looked razor sharp, despite its age. Would have to be to use it like that.

  “I must see it. Inspector, I must insist on examining that dagger.”

  Inspector Wample rose from where he’d been crouching and regarded the man. He could have called an officer to take Sir Nevil
le away. Instead he turned to one of the technicians. “Get him a pair of gloves.”

  Someone responded and Sir Neville pulled on the gloves.

  At Wample’s direction, the tech cautiously handed the dagger to the museum director. He took it in his hands as if it were a newborn baby. He stared at it a long while then turned it over. He seemed to study every millimeter of the artifact.

  “The Marc Antony dagger,” he began after steadying himself, “was discovered over two years ago in Cleopatra’s mausoleum off the Alexandria coast.” Not news to anyone who’d followed this case, but they were all humoring the poor man. “I was there when they recovered it. It was documented in my presence. I wrote the provenance myself.”

  Miranda looked at Parker. His expression was wary.

  With a gentle move, Sir Neville turned the blade over and pointed at the broad piece of gold just below the hilt. “Right here, on the quillon was an inscription in the hieroglyphics of the time. Roughly translated, it read, ‘Be victorious in every battle, my love.’”

  Wample began to fidget, shifted his weight. He wasn’t enjoying the ancient history lesson. “What are you trying to tell us, Sir Neville?”

  Sir Neville looked up at him, his eyes as glassy as if he’d just woken out of a dream. Or a nightmare. “The inscription isn’t here. This dagger is a fake.”

  Miranda felt a little dizzy. That wasn’t the Marc Antony dagger? Not the priceless piece stolen from the museum’s storeroom? She guessed this case wasn’t closed after all.

  The thought must have struck Wample at the same time. His mouth opened in a distorted gape, and his gaze fixed on Sir Neville as if he were holding a deadly cobra. Whether he saw his position or his pension or just his pride crumbling before his eyes, Miranda couldn’t tell.

  But he knew this thing was a lot bigger than he’d thought.

  Slowly he cocked his head toward her and Parker, the snake look still in his eyes, and spoke in a strained voice through gritted teeth. “Mr. Parker, Ms. Steele, Scotland Yard requests your assistance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  While they waited for the inspector to finish up, Miranda and Parker worked their way through the crowd, which had only grown bigger, and helped Sir Neville back to the car. Parker arranged for their things to be brought back to the hotel where they were going to stay in the first place, while she went back to collect Toby Waverly.