Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 9

  The whole field was full of spectators now, everyone kicking at the clods of dirt and putting them in their places. Peppy music played from the loudspeaker and people were cackling and joking and having a jolly good time with the task.

  Some of them had had a little too much to drink and Miranda thought Gabrielle might be one of them.

  They made their way over the field, divot by divot.

  Gabrielle spread her arms out to steady herself as she stomped one, trying to imitate Miranda’s. She broke into peels of giggles. “Isn’t this a lark, Ms. Steele? It’s my favorite part of the game.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Aristocrats doing manual labor for no pay? It did have a certain charm, but not one that appealed to Miranda. At least not at the moment.

  Gabrielle hurried over to another clump with cute, mincing steps. “Davinia and I are going shopping after the match in Chelsea. Come with us?”

  A shopping trip? That was where Miranda drew the line. Be polite, she reminded herself. “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve got to be at—”

  Her eyes went wide and her lip quivered in that pouty expression again. “Oh, you must. You simply must.”

  Good grief. Miranda was really getting tired of this spoiled little girl telling her what she “must” do. She was about to tell her off when she had another thought.

  Three women alone on a shopping spree in the city. What could be more intimate? What could be more inductive to idle conversation about their private lives? Maybe she could find out who that Sebastian dude was and why Davinia was hanging around him. Or better yet, what secrets Gabrielle was hiding.

  “All right,” she said. “But I’ve got another appointment first.” At the museum. “Maybe I can meet you somewhere later?”

  The pout turned to a smile of rapture. “Oh, that would be smashing. I’ll give you my mobile number.”

  Mobile. That meant cell. Already regretting the commitment she’d made, Miranda pulled her phone out of her pocket. She gave the woman her number then keyed in the one Gabrielle rattled off. It was a weird pattern she wasn’t sure she’d gotten right.

  She read it back.

  No answer.

  She looked up. Gabrielle was gone. Where’d she go? Miranda sighed. What a spacey chick.

  She stopped stomping and shielded her eyes with her hand, feeling like a hen looking for her lost chick. She was near the far edge of the field where riders were warming up their steeds for the next chukker. The crowd was dense and noisy. If she didn’t find Gabrielle in a few minutes, she’d forget the divot stomping and the shopping trip and head for the museum with Parker and Sir Neville.

  She tried to turn back, but she felt like a trout trying to swim upstream.

  Suddenly a small blur of white blazed over the grass and jumped the low divider.

  “Come back, Sissy!” a woman cried.

  A cat.

  Then there was a loud shriek. A horse’s shriek. Miranda had heard that sound before.

  “Lookout!” someone shouted.

  “It’s number three’s pony.”

  There was the sound of galloping hooves and people started screaming and running every which way. Hunting for a spot where she wouldn’t get trampled, Miranda spun around.

  And froze.

  The hazy image of a shiny chestnut coat with bridle and riderless saddle danced before her eyes. The loud whinny seemed to pierce her eardrums. The earthy odor of horse filled her nostrils. She blinked hard and the image cleared.

  The animal was bucking and rearing up only a few feet from her. Its body lifted off the grass, forehooves pawing the air like a crazed orchestra conductor. She thought she caught the glint of a horseshoe.

  The shouts around her became a dull muffle. She’d seen this before. But not this close.

  The dancing hooves hovered in the air for what seemed like ten minutes. Right over her head.

  Then down they came. Down. Down. Down. Closer. Closer. Closer.

  Just before they reached her, she snapped out of her daze and instinct kicked in. She ducked and rolled as if she were avoiding a karate kick.

  She kept rolling.

  She didn’t stop until she heard a man cry. “I’ve got him. It’s all right now.”

  She raised herself up on her elbows and caught sight of Lionel’s thin body in jodhpurs, boots and team jersey, holding his pony’s bridle, his pointy beard bobbing as he reamed out some assistant on the other side of it.

  The assistant led the animal away and he hurried over to her. “Ms. Steele. Are you quite all right?”

  She glared up at the man.

  She jerked her head to the sidelines where dozens of people were murmuring to each other and staring at her. Squinting into the crowd, she spotted Gabrielle patting the white cat in the flustered owner’s arms while an official seemed to be lecturing her that pets were not allowed on the field.

  Behind the spectators a host of riders stood. And behind them she saw Trenton Jewell, towering over them with his tall frame, a look of sheer horror on his face.

  Angry suspicions flooded her.

  She’d seen something like this happen on a case last year. Someone had killed somebody with a riled up horse to make it look like a freak accident. And this time? It would have been hard to kill her on the open field. But if she were injured she couldn’t very well keep on investigating this case, or so someone might have been thinking. And that someone probably assumed Parker would be at her side and drop the case as well.

  She took a deep breath. It was a theory, anyway. Nothing she could prove. Not yet, anyway.

  She looked up and saw Parker pushing his way through the crowd.

  He rushed to her side, alarm streaking his handsome face. “Miranda. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” Now she sounded like Sir Neville. She got to her feet. “Just a few grass stains on my dress.” She looked a mess.

  “Good Lord, what happened?”

  Hell if she knew.

  She waved her arms at the ground where she’d rolled. “But look at all the divots I packed down.”

  The people around her laughed at her joke, the way folks do when they discover a tragedy has been avoided.

  Parker took her arm and gently led her away. “Would you like to go back to Eaton House?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s get to the museum. And let’s get out of here before Lady Gabrielle tells me I ‘must’ stay for the second half.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The vision of horse’s hooves pawing the air still playing in her head, Miranda climbed into Sir Neville’s limo and the three of them rode back to the museum in silence.

  The driver dropped them off in the rear when they arrived and they went in through a back way just as Big Ben rang out, announcing it was noon. Inside they negotiated a winding, twisty path of narrow halls to a room that was his office.

  Ever thoughtful, Parker had packed a bag with a change of clothes for both of them. How she loved that man.

  After Sir Neville showed them to a small storage room next to his office and left them alone to change, Miranda dug into the bag, wanting to squeal with delight at the sight of a pair of comfortable dress slacks, even if they weren’t jeans.

  Parker leaned against an antique writing table and watched her wriggle out of her dress, a patchwork of mud and grass stains over the red-and-white fabric, her lean body framed against the background of dusty old volumes and maps behind her.

  He shook his head.

  His headstrong, adrenaline-junkie wife, who loved fast cars, roller coasters, and food three times as spicy as he himself could handle. Why, no matter where they went, did she always end up in some sort of danger? When would she ever stop giving him near heart attacks? What in the world was he going to do with her?

  Miranda tossed her dress over an old chair and pulled on the white cotton blouse Parker had packed. She buttoned it up and was about to step into the charcoal slacks when she looked up and saw him staring at her. “What?”

 
; Slowly he shook his head. Uh oh. She knew that look. “Why did you let that woman drag you onto the field?”

  She frowned at him. “Lady Gabrielle? I didn’t let her drag me out there. I just let her think she did.”

  He inhaled in that strained way that let her know he was upset. “Very well. Why did you go with her?”

  Her own temper rising, she waved her hands. “Why do you think? To get information out of her.”

  “And what did you get?”

  He had her there. She’d gotten more out of her when they were at the clubhouse. She zipped up her slacks and reached for the matching jacket. “I don’t know. She’s a really good divot stomper?”

  His gray eyes went dark. “You could have been killed. Or injured.”

  So that was it. Of course, it was. His overprotective side was rearing its ugly head again. “But I wasn’t.”

  “Thank God you have excellent reflexes.”

  “Yes, I do.” She pulled out shoes from the bag and slipped them on. “And you know, that’s what I learned from going out on the field.”

  “What? That someone wants to hinder our investigation?”

  If only his mind didn’t go in the same direction as hers. She knew he’d rather leave the case unsolved than risk injury to her. Chivalrous of him, but she didn’t think it was a good idea. “It might have been an accident. A cat ran onto the sidelines and spooked Lord Eaton’s horse.”

  “Or it might have been orchestrated.”

  As she put her ruined dress in the bag, she thought of the faces she’d seen along the sidelines. Lionel, Gabrielle, the cat owner. And after all, Gabrielle had loaned her a hat with a big red ribbon that the horse might have seen as a target. Still…

  She shook her head. “Gabrielle’s not as dumb as she lets on but I don’t think she’s capable of something like that.”

  His eyes narrowed as he grew thoughtful. “It wasn’t a very successful attempt.”

  “You mean if someone was trying to injure me?”

  “Yes.”

  She cocked her head at him with a grin. “They weren’t counting on my excellent reflexes.”

  He didn’t smile back. “But they will next time.”

  Did he really think there’d be a next time? He could be right. Or it could have been an accident.

  She handed the bag to him. “If someone was trying to stop our investigation—”

  “Then we won’t let them,” he finished, taking the bag from her.

  She was glad to hear that.

  “But Miranda,” he reached for her, held her by the shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. “From now on, I want you to be very careful.”

  Parker finished dressing and opened the door.

  Miranda stepped into Sir Neville’s office and found him at his desk, a heavy piece of furniture that must have been made two centuries ago. It was covered with clutter. On the parquet floor before it lay a dark rug with an elaborate floral pattern. A few potted plants sat in the windowsill.

  The walls were polished wood with more bookshelves filled not only with old tomes, but also with small replicas of ancient things from the Middle East. Tarnished vases, cat figures, a small sphinx, and a figure of a winged beast with a man’s head.

  She turned to their client.

  He sat in a big leather chair staring at the phone, looking wearier than ever. “I just got off the phone with Inspector Wample. George hasn’t been released.”

  Miranda looked at Parker. His brow creased, probably with the same thought she had. What was Trenton Jewell doing at the polo match when he should have been getting Eames out of there?

  “Have they charged him yet?” Parker asked.

  “Apparently they’re about to.”

  Miranda thought of Parker’s advice for Eames to try to think who on the staff had been acting strange lately. If he’d thought of anyone, he’d have contacted Jewell, who would have told them. Right? Or he would have called Sir Neville.

  She wondered how many phone calls you got when you were being held by Scotland Yard. They could go down there and talk to him again, but if any of the staff had been involved in the theft, it would be better if she and Parker talked them soon.

  Parker had the same idea. He strode over to the desk and laid a soothing hand on the old gentleman’s shoulder. “Sir Neville, Miranda and I need to speak to your staff.”

  His silver white brows knitted together. “What’s that, Russell? Who?”

  “As many as are in today. It may take a few hours. And if we may use your office, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  Good move. Be a lot more intimidating to be in the director’s office.

  “It’s noon. Don’t you want some lunch?” He was avoiding the request.

  Parker looked at Miranda. “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ll eat later.”

  Sir Neville got to his feet with a huff and strode to the window. “You can’t be thinking anyone had a hand in this dreadful business with the dagger.”

  Parker’s voice was gentle. “We have to eliminate them ourselves. Someone may know something. May have seen something. They wouldn’t necessarily be involved.”

  He almost had her convinced.

  Sir Neville’s narrow shoulders rose with a heavy sigh. “Very well. I don’t suppose you’ll be needing me here then. I’ll go check on the silk paintings Imogen and Graham are setting up.” He glanced at his watch. “I usually lunch in the café on the main floor. Perhaps we can have something together when you’re finished?”

  “We’ll meet you there,” Parker said. “Do you have a list of staff members?”

  Worry creased the poor man’s gentle face, but he straightened his shoulders and nodded. “My administrative assistant can provide you with the names. I’ll speak to her.” He turned and left the room.

  “He took that well,” Miranda said dryly.

  “He’s loyal to his staff. I don’t blame him for feeling offended.”

  “No, I guess not. Do you want to take them separately? I can go in the room next door.”

  He shook his head. “I want you with me.”

  She raised a brow. Did he want her professional opinion, or did he not want her to leave his side so some polo pony wouldn’t come flying through the window and trample her?

  He gave her a narrow look and read her mind. “I want us to do this together. We’re a team.”

  “Okay.” She’d take that as a peace offering of sorts. For now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Miranda never imagined it took so many people to run a museum.

  Security people, guards, greeters at the entrances, clerks in the gift shop, maintenance people for everything from the plumbing to keeping the restrooms clean. Not to mention the registrars and managers, or the programs and exhibition designers and curators for the Middle East collection, the Ancient Asia collection, the Greek and Roman collection and, of course, the Egyptian collection.

  “We’ll never get through all these in a day, Parker,” she sighed, scanning the long list the admin had given them. The police couldn’t have questioned them all, either. They’d gone for the low hanging fruit of George Eames.

  Parker’s brow creased with concern. He always liked to be thorough, but there were only the two of them. “We’ll take representatives from each department and focus on those with the highest security clearance.”

  That sounded reasonable and maybe even doable.

  They checked off a dozen or so names and Parker asked the admin to bring them in one by one.

  Parker took Sir Neville’s chair in an obvious power play, while Miranda leaned on the edge of the desk, hovering like a bird of prey, while the interrogatee sat in a small chair on the other side of the carpet.

  There seemed to be people of every race, hair color and body type, each with their own accent, each wearing uniforms or casual clothes with a name badge and a deep red necktie or scarf to identify them as someone who worked here.

&nb
sp; They questioned each employee about their typical routine and where they were the evening the dagger was delivered.

  The replies were what you might expect. The security guards made rounds and kept an eye on visitors. The gift shop people sold their wares and went home at the usual time. The restroom attendants cleaned the johns. Everyone had a reasonable alibi for the time span between the delivery and the presentation of the dagger.

  It would take a long while to check each one.

  Everyone knew the dagger was coming. No one claimed to know exactly what time. No one was on the premises at the time it had arrived except a few guards, who were in other parts of the building.

  They worked their way down the list and finally got to Emily Chopra, the Curator of Egyptian Art.

  The woman sat in the leather chair with an almost military posture her gaze moving from Parker to Miranda and back again. “This is about the Marc Antony dagger? I thought the police had already made an arrest.”

  Parker gave her a steady gaze. “We’ve been asked to conduct a separate investigation.”

  She laced her fingers, unlaced them, laced them again. “Well, I don’t think Mr. Eames is the thief if you want my opinion on the matter.”

  “Do you have any idea who might be?”

  Her dark eyes went wide. “No, I don’t.” She had skin the color of cocoa and was small and delicate. Dressed in a severe black suit, her dark hair parted in the middle and twisted into a tight bun in the back, she could have been a cross between an Asian princess and a nun.

  Miranda looked down at the clipboard with the names the admin had given them for effect. “Chopra,” she said after waiting enough time to make anyone uncomfortable. “That’s an Indian name, right?”

  “Yes. Northern India.” She spoke with a clipped, almost artificial accent. A British accent with just a hint of exotic.

  “But you’re English?”

  She re-laced her hands again, tightly this time, her face strained. “Of course. I was born here. My grandfather was from New Delhi. But both my parents were born here in London, as was I. And if you’re wondering about my loyalty to the museum, all I can say is that this institution is my life. Sir Neville Ravensdale can vouch for that.”