Homeport

were married. The house was Miranda’s now. The new Dr. and Mrs. Jones were going house hunting as soon as they got back from their honeymoon.
    He was going to take her to Venice.
    He was still grinning as he struggled to tug out his studs. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a blur of motion. Pain exploded in his head, a burst of red light behind his eyes. His knees buckled as he tried to turn, tried to strike out. The second blow had him crashing into a table and falling into the black.
     
    The storm broke. Miranda was still a mile from home when the rain flooded over her windshield. Lightning slashed so close that its companion burst of thunder shook the car. It was going to be a mean one. She forced herself to slow her speed though she wanted nothing more at that moment than to be home, to be dry and warm and inside.
    Fog was sneaking along the ground, masking the shoulder of the road. To narrow her concentration, she switched off the radio, shifted forward in her seat.
    But her mind played it all back.
    The call from Florence, then the mugging. John Carter flying out while she was delayed. The bronze had been in the safe in her mother’s office. Who had access to the safe? Only Elizabeth.
    But if Miranda’s association with Ryan had taught her anything, it was that locks were made to be picked.
    Richard had run tests; therefore, he had gained access to the bronze. Who had worked with him? Who had brought the gun to the Institute and used it?

    John? She tried to imagine it but kept seeing his homely, concerned face. Vincente? Loud, friendly, avuncular Vincente? Could either of them have pumped two bullets into Richard, have struck Elise?
    And why in her office, why at an event with hundreds of people wandering the lower levels? Why take such a risk?
    Because it had impact, Miranda realized. Because it once again put her name in the paper in a scandal. Because it had ruined the opening of the exhibit and overshadowed all the effort she’d put into it.
    It was personal, it had to be. But what had she done to create that kind of animosity and obsession? Who had she harmed? John, she thought. If she was disgraced beyond repair, if she was forced to resign from the Institute, he would be the logical choice for her replacement. It would mean a promotion, a larger salary, more power and prestige.
    Could it be that simple?
    Or Vincente. He’d known her the longest, been the closest to her. Was there something she’d done to cause resentment, envy? Was it a matter of money to buy the jewels, the clothes, the big, splashy trips that made his young wife happy?
    Who else was left? Giovanni and Richard were dead, Elise was in the hospital. Elizabeth . . .
    Could that lifetime of resentment have bloomed into this kind of hate?
    Leave it for the police, she told herself, and rolled the worst of the tension out of her shoulders when she pulled the car to the front of the house. In less than thirty-six hours she would pass this nasty ball over to Cook.
    It meant spending most of her evening working out every step she could tell him. And all the steps she couldn’t.
    She picked up her briefcase. Richard’s book was inside it, and she intended to read it cover to cover tonight. Maybe she’d missed something on the one quick skim she’d had time for.
    The fact that her umbrella was in the trunk rather than on the seat beside her only proved her thoughts were too scattered and distracted for logical reasoning. She used the briefcase as a shield, holding it over her head as she made a dash to the porch.
    She was soaked through anyway.
    Inside, she dragged a hand through her hair to scatter the rain, and called out for Andrew. She hadn’t seen him since she left the hospital the night before, but his car was parked in its usual spot. It was time, she’d decided, they too had a talk.
    It was time she told him everything, trusted him enough for that.
    She called out again as she started upstairs. Damn it, she wanted to get out of her wet clothes, take a hot bath. Why wouldn’t he at least answer?
    Probably sleeping, she thought. The man slept like the dead. Well, he was going to have to do a Lazarus, because she wanted to tell him everything she could before their mother arrived.
    “Andrew?” His door wasn’t quite closed, but she gave it a perfunctory knock before nudging it open. The room was pitch-dark, and though she imagined he would curse viciously, she reached for the light switch that would turn on the