Uh huh, she thought, watching him make the tricky turn onto Lake Shore Drive while still holding her hand.
“Besides, I took over last time and it was your turn to be in charge. I owe you this opportunity.” He skimmed his lips over her fingers again and gently laid her hand back in her lap.
Miranda fought to catch her breath.
“Last time” was Paris and they had both been on edge. But Parker had done more than take over the case. He’d been cold, distant. She’d thought he knew about those text messages on her phone, then she’d talked herself out of that notion.
Wanting her to handle the case didn’t explain where he’d been last night or how he’d gotten that shiner. Did he know about those messages? Was he trying to find out who sent them? Did he have a lead?
She stared out at the lake and the clusters of sailboats in the yacht club harbors, their masts a forest of matchsticks pointing to the bright blue sky overhead, a mind-bending puzzle that few could unravel. Kind of like the Sutherland case.
Maybe it was just her guilt over hiding those messages from him that was making her paranoid. Maybe he really did have a meeting with a prospective employee last night. Maybe things did get a little out of hand and he got socked—in a friendly way. Men did things like that.
She needed to come clean about those texts.
The car’s A/C purred while the hot midsummer sun burned overhead making the blue lake glisten like jewels. From this vantage point it seemed to stretch as far as the ocean.
She would come clean. She made up her mind. Just as soon as they finished this case and got home, she’d bite the bullet and fess up.
And if Parker was hiding anything from her, maybe he’d fess up, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was just after noon when they reached Evanston and turned down a shady lane in a neighborhood so peaceful Miranda wondered how anything bad could ever happen here.
The quiet streets were lined with elms and neatly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds. Beyond the hedges stood structures that reminded her of Mockingbird Hills back home. European style mansions with tall white columns and cone-topped turrets and majestic balustrades marking upper balconies where the wealthy could sit and watch the world pass by.
A one-eighty from where Lydia Sutherland had lived.
Parker made another turn, drove down a few yards.
“Your destination is on the right,” the GPS announced.
Miranda turned her head and groaned. “Is that it?”
Beyond the sidewalk stretched an overgrown field with nothing but a few brick columns spiking up from the ground.
“Abandoned,” Parker murmured, studying the place.
“Guess we need to take a look.” Disgust rumbling in her belly, Miranda got out and started up the lawn.
The grass had been mowed for about ten feet. Then the yard went wild with tall weeds and dandelions and chunks of debris. Miranda stopped along the border it made and peered into the structure.
Weather and wind had washed away most of the charring. What was left was an ancient looking foundation and a small army of pale brick square pillars that looked like a Lego project gone to seed.
Debris remained scattered over the foundation, and she could see the outline of large rooms and what was left of them. A broken window here, a doorframe there, a small sea of miscellaneous, unidentifiable rubble. A tall oak tree stood near one corner, its branches casting shadows over the remains as if paying homage to its former owner.
With Parker beside her Miranda stood staring at the sight for a long moment, hands on her hips. A warm summer breeze lifted her hair, rustled through the grass. Fourteen years of neglect. Could they find anything here that would tell them where to find Adam Tannenburg?
She doubted it.
She turned around about to tell Parker what she thought when she spotted movement. She squinted hard, shaded her eyes with her hand.
Yep. There it was again.
The house across the street was an austere Victorian style home with flowing steps leading to a half round portico. Beyond the entrance was a row of tall window.
A curtain had been pulled back from one of them.
“I think we’ve got a nosey neighbor,” she said.
Parker nodded. He’d seen it as well. “I think you’re right.”
“Let’s go see if they know anything.”
###
Five minutes later they had been led down a hall by a servant and were inside the nosey neighbor’s front sitting room which was just as majestic as the home’s exterior. Its walls were cornflower blue, its ivory furniture stiff and straight-backed, and its carpet done in a design from the eighteenth century.
Classical music flowed in from somewhere, as soothing as the herbal tea sitting in delicate china on an antique coffee table. Their hostess, whose name they’d learned was Audrey Johnston, was equally austere.
Pale silver hair styled in a smooth up do, a pale beige brocade suit matching pale skin, the requisite pearls around the neck and at the ears. She had to be at least seventy and had the manners of a bygone age. She even held her ornate teacup with pinky extended.
Miranda didn’t think people really did that.
“You grew up in this house, Mrs. Johnston?” Parker asked.
“Of course. I was born here. Three generations of Johnstons have lived in this home. Our family is a rock of the community.” Her voice was a bit shaky from age, in a Katharine Hepburn sort of way.
Just to be polite Miranda forced herself to swallow a mouthful of tea. It tasted like lawn clippings. “I understand the house across the street burned down about fourteen years ago.”
Mrs. Johnston set down her teacup with a tiny clink. “That place is such an eyesore. Mr. Harrison tries to keep part of the lawn mowed but there’s only so much he can do.”
“Mr. Harrison?” Miranda asked.
“The neighbor on the other side in the red brick.” She let out a deep sigh. “It’s in violation of a dozen codes. I’ve called the city, the county. They just keep passing the buck back and forth. They tell me the house was a historical monument. Nonsense. No more than mine is.” She waved an elegant hand at Miranda. “That’s why I thought you were here. I thought you were going to condemn the place and have it torn down.”
“There’s not much left of it,” Parker commented gazing out the same window they’d seen the owner watching them from.
Mrs. Johnston picked up her cup again and nursed it. “Well, they need to tear what is left down and rebuild. I’ve begged the city do to it but there are too many legal complications. I believe Muriel left her personal matters in disarray.”
“Muriel?”
“Muriel Tannenburg.”
Adam Tannenburg’s mother. “She’s the one who died in that fire?” Miranda attempted to confirm.
The lines around Mrs. Johnston’s lips tightened as she realized this pair who’d briefly mentioned they were private investigators when she let them into her home knew more than she thought. “Yes. It was a tragedy. A real tragedy.”
Miranda sat back managing to balance the teacup and saucer on her knee. “How well did you know your neighbor, Mrs. Johnston?”
“We saw each other at social events more than we did as neighbors. She was younger than I, her boy was a baby when my children were starting high school.”
“Were you here when the fire occurred?” Miranda asked.
Mrs. Johnston paused a moment to take a refined sip of tea. “No. We were visiting my younger brother in New York as we do every fall around Thanksgiving.”
“I see.” So the fire was near the end of November. A few weeks shy of the anniversary of Lydia Sutherland’s death. Dr. Bennett was right. “What do you remember about the disaster?”
“Remember? Well, I returned home with my youngest son who was living with me at the time a bit early that year. When we discovered what had happened we were both aghast. The whole neighborhood was. I think it was Mr. Harrison who told me the
funeral would be held the next day. I simply couldn’t believe it.”
“Did the police question you?”
“Yes, of course. They questioned everyone. But no one could tell them much. Muriel always kept to herself. She didn’t have many acquaintances. Not that I knew of, anyway. The authorities determined the fire was an accident. It made you stop and think how fragile life is. She was so young.”
“And what about her son?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Didn’t you mention Muriel had a son?”
“Oh, yes. Adam. A nice looking boy. Thick blond hair and an infectious smile. Very polite. Very bright. I think he earned a music scholarship to Northwestern.”
“He didn’t stay there though, did he?”
The elderly woman raised a carefully manicured brow. “He didn’t? I wasn’t aware. As I said I didn’t have much contact with the Tannenburgs.”
“Was there a Mr. Tannenburg?”
“Oh, yes. He died when Adam was nine, I think. No wonder the boy always seemed so sullen.”
“Sullen?”
“He never seemed to smile much.”
Or maybe he was reflecting his neighbor’s expression when they crossed paths. Or maybe he was mourning his losses. His father, his girlfriend, then his mother.
Mrs. Johnston laid her cup and saucer on an ornate end table as if to say she was done with it and this conversation. “Really, I’m so sorry. But I must be off. I have an afternoon engagement and I’m late.
It didn’t sound like they were going to get much more out of this woman so Miranda got to her feet. Parker rose beside her and their hostess led them to the front door.
Miranda slipped a card out of her pocket and handed it to the lady. “If you can think of anything else, Mrs. Johnston, I’d appreciate it if you gave me a call.”
“Certainly, but there’s nothing more to tell. However—”
“Yes?”
“If you’re not here to condemn the building, what are you here for?”
“We’re investigating another fire Adam may have been involved in.”
Her pale lined face grew a little paler. “Oh, dear.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Adam?”
“Yes. Surely, he’s had to have been around.” Miranda gestured out the front door at the rubble across the street. “He’s the heir, isn’t he?”
“I supposed so. I don’t even know if Muriel had a will.” She lifted a thin hand to the pearls at her neck as if that thought was disturbing.
“So you haven’t seen him recently?”
“No. The last time I saw Adam Tannenburg…was at his mother’s funeral. After that…it was as if…”
Miranda gave the woman her most demanding look. “As if what, Mrs. Johnston?”
The woman lifted her head and straightened her shoulders. “It was as if he disappeared.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Where to next?” Parker asked as they climbed back into the Audi.
Miranda almost didn’t hear him. She had her phone out and was deep into a search for information on the Tannenburg fire.
“Bingo,” she cried a minute later as she held up her screen. “Look. The Trib did a piece on it.”
“On the fire across the street?”
“Uh huh. Muriel Tannenburg was that big of a story. See for yourself.”
The display showed a grainy photo of the austere mansion ablaze in vicious flames.
Miranda glanced at the date and felt a stab of excitement. “Two days before Thanksgiving, fourteen years ago.”
“Interesting coincidence.”
“Isn’t it though.”
She scanned through the text. Interviews with firemen at the scene, the fire marshal, a few neighbors. But there wasn’t anything they didn’t know already.
An idea struck her. “Let’s hit the local library. They’ve got to have archives on the fire with more detail than we can find online.”
Seeming impressed Parker nodded. “Excellent idea. But may I suggest lunch first?”
She looked at the clock. Past one. And her stomach was agreeing with Parker. Breakfast had been a long time ago.
“Okay,” she said. “But let’s make it quick.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Yeah, right.
Hamburgers was her meal choice, though she knew Parker would have preferred something in an upscale restaurant, since they were in an upscale neighborhood. They’d have to come back later for that.
They sat in the library parking lot as Miranda wolfed down the food as fast as she could.
“You’re going to give both of us a case of indigestion,” Parker warned.
“Who cares?” she said with her mouth full. “I want to find out what really happened here.”
He might be indifferent to this case, but she knew she was close to a break. She swallowed her last bite, stuffed her trash in the bag and climbed out of the car.
Parker must have lingered in the car tidying up and gathering the trash to put in the receptacle outside the library. By the time he caught up to her she was already at a table, going through the microfiche.
She waved him to a chair beside her. “Look at this.”
He slid into it in his easy way and peered over her shoulder. “Evanston Times.”
“Uh huh. They’ve got two pages on the fire and a lot more photos.” She studied the shots of the firemen in their garb, hosing down the house.
The article focused on the mood of the neighbors and the town who had lost a prominent citizen so close to the holidays. The tragedy put a real damper on the festivities. There was a more extensive interview with the fire marshall. He told of the men who had spent hours getting the flames under control, of those who had rummaged through the ashes and found Muriel Tannenburg’s body in the great room. Apparently she had fallen asleep on the sofa.
Miranda paged though to the next article on the fire published a few weeks later. A color photo of Muriel Tannenburg headed the piece.
All in black with her clarinet in her lap she must have been in her early thirties when the shot was taken. She was a looker. Wavy golden blond hair, peaches and cream complexion, intense blue eyes. A closer look told her there seemed to be something behind the curious expression in those eyes but Miranda couldn’t put her finger on it.
No photos of her son.
More interviews with neighbors, then the local police chief at the time stated the cause of the fire was determined to be faulty electrical wiring.
“Hmm.” She drummed her fingers on the glossy surface of the library table.
“What are you thinking?” Parker asked when she didn’t say anything else.
“Faulty electrical wiring. Could you do that on purpose? Sabotage the wiring in some way?”
Parker considered that a moment. “It’s possible but you would have to know what you were doing.”
Miranda scanned the piece again. No photos of the son here either.
She read from the end of the article. “Muriel Tannenburg is survived by her only heir, Adam Foster Tannenburg. Mr. Tannenburg was not available for comment.”
Must be the reclusive type. What did Mrs. Johnston call him? Sullen.
She paged forward again and found another piece published a month and a half later. It was shorter. Didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.
She ran her finger under the words as she read. “The property remains deserted and in disarray, waiting for its owner to take possession. That’s the son, right?” She found the answer in the next paragraph. “Yep. Adam Tannenburg is heir to the Tannenburg fortune which this reporter speculates consists of a large trust fund and several bank accounts. However at this time Mr. Tannenburg’s whereabouts are unknown.”
Parker leaned forward, reread the sentences she’d pointed out. “Obviously he never took possession of the property he inherited. Never even turned it over for sale.”
“Nope.” Feeling
triumphant Miranda sat back and folded her arms. “And I bet you your pretty bottom he took the money in that trust fund and ran.”
Parker shot her a sly look. “I’d prefer to keep my bottom for personal use.”
She ignored his innuendo. “Cleaned out those accounts and went on the lamb.”
Parker’s face went dead serious with the expression that told her he was into the case now. At last he yielded a nod. “You could be right. And the fire that killed his mother…intentional?”
“I don’t know. That would be pretty ruthless.”
Maybe he thought he had a reason. They had no clue what kind of woman Muriel Tannenburg was. Not behind closed doors. Miranda’s own mother could present a decent front to outsiders but there were times growing up she’d wished she could have done away with her. She wouldn’t have. But this guy?
“So what are you thinking?” Parker said, throwing the ball in her court once again.
As her thoughts began to gel Miranda inhaled a slow breath. She felt a little giddy. “Two different house fires that killed two different women, both of them close to Adam Tannenburg? Genius musician slash art student disappears shortly thereafter? No one’s heard from him since? He’s on the run, Parker.” She said it with conviction this time.
Slowly Parker nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“And I think we’ve got our man.” She rose from the table, switched off the machine. “Now all we have to do is find him.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
How do you find a guy who’s been missing for fourteen years?
You start with the police. So it was back to the Larrabee station.
Rush hour had kicked up just as they hit Lake Shore Drive so the twelve mile ride only took an hour and ten minutes.
At last Parker pulled up to the curb near the front entrance.
Miranda started to get out when he reached for her. She turned around. “What?”
Guilt shimmered in his sexy eyes. Or at least the semblance of guilt. “I’m so sorry,” he said his voice low and sultry. “Another interview has come up.”
Trial by Fire (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 6) Page 11
