Until You

by Sandra Marton

  "Miranda didn't care for the place," she said.

  "Too strict?" he asked politely.

  "So she claimed." Eva's mouth thinned. "But I was at my wits' end. She'd already been expelled from other schools for various infractions."

  Drugs? Booze? Boys? He waited, saying nothing.

  "Broken curfews. A disrespectful attitude. Marijuana. And finally, some unpleasantness about a boy in her room when the rules clearly said—"

  "So you sent her to Miss Cooper's as punishment?"

  "I sent her there so she could learn to curb her excesses." Eva shot to her feet, marched to the bar and refilled her drink. "And a lot of good it did me."

  "But did it do your daughter any good?" Conor heard himself ask. He frowned as Eva spun towards him. "I mean, did she change?"

  Eva smiled bitterly. "Indeed she did, Mr. O'Neil. She gave up the small stuff and went for the brass ring. A month after she turned seventeen, she seduced her roommate's cousin, the Count Edouard de Lasserre. He was thirty-two years old, a sophisticated man of the world, but he was no match for Miranda. She ran off with him to Paris."

  Conor rose to his feet as Eva walked past him and flung open the door. He put down his untouched drink and followed her into the foyer, to the portrait on the wall.

  The painting couldn't have changed. It had to be his perception of it that had undergone a subtle shift. Yes, Miranda was smiling but he was certain now that her smile was tinged with sadness.

  "She was sixteen when that painting was done," Eva said, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. "Spoiled, self-centered... just look at her face and you can see what she was like."

  Conor looked. Was Eva right? Was that sadness he saw in the curve of Miranda's lips, or was it smug satisfaction?

  "Of course," Eva said, "I flew to Paris the moment I found out what had happened but I was too late. Miranda had talked Edouard de Lasserre into marrying her. Well, of course, I knew she was far too young to marry anyone, let alone a man so many years her senior. I agonized over how I'd get her out of his clutches." Eva smiled tightly. "I needn't have worried. By the time I caught up to them, de Lasserre had come to his senses. He was more than eager to grant Miranda a divorce. For the right price, naturally."

  "How much did it cost you?"

  Eva's breathing grew ragged. "Everything," she whispered.

  He turned and looked at her. Her eyes were wet with tears; her face was pale.

  "His price was exorbitant, hundreds of thousands of dollars, but what mother would do less for her child?" Eva clasped her hands to her bosom. "And do you think Miranda thanked me? No, she did not! She turned on me in a rage, furious that I'd interfered."

  Conor looked at the portrait again. "Did she love him that much?"

  "Love him? Miranda?" Eva gave a brittle laugh. "She never cared for anyone but herself. She hadn't seduced the man or married him for love. She just wanted to be free of me and my attempts to turn her into a responsible young woman. That was why she'd run off with him, because she knew she could twist him around her finger and live a life she preferred."

  A wild life, Conor thought, a life on the edge, and for reasons he didn't pretend to understand or want to dwell on, his gut twisted. But when he spoke, his voice gave nothing away.

  "It must have been a difficult time for you," he said.

  Eva laughed bitterly. "It was hell."

  "So, your daughter convinced Edouard de Lasserre to change his mind?"

  "To keep her and give up half a million dollars, you mean? Not a chance. The Count was pleased with our arrangement. But Miranda—Miranda told me she never wanted to see me again."

  "I don't understand. I thought you said she was a minor."

  "She was." Eva turned, walked back into the library and headed straight for the bar. Conor gave the painting one last glance, then followed after her. "But she was no longer a child. That was what she told me in the taxi en route to the airport. I told her I was taking her home, that we'd work things out together. But Miranda said she was a woman now, not a little girl, and that she liked Paris and was going to stay there."

  "A seventeen-year-old girl? And you let her?"

  Eva spun towards him. The vodka in her newly freshened drink sloshed over the top of the glass.

  "You're damn right I let her! She called me the most terrible names, said the most cruel things..." Tears glittered on her lashes. "You cannot know what it's like to have a child you've loved and nurtured turn on you! What could I do? Fly her back in chains? Lock her in her room when we got home?" Her chin rose. "I had already given more of myself to my daughter than she deserved. It was time for me to think of my husband. Of Hoyt. 'You want to stay in Paris?' I said, 'very well. Stay! I'll send you money each month and when you've had enough, let me know and I'll send you a ticket home.' "

  "You've supported her, then, all these years?"

  "Yes, of course. Well, until she became a successful model."

  "She never wanted to come home?"

  Eva shook her head. "Never," she said, her voice breaking. "I should have known that Miranda would never have enough of the kind of life she leads."

  "And your husband knows all of this, Mrs. Winthrop?"

  "Certainly. There are no secrets between Hoyt and me. He knows. And he agrees that I did the right thing."

  Conor thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "You told the FBI none of this," he said softly.

  "No." She smiled thinly. "They didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer it. What mother would be proud of such failure? Besides, I didn't see that it was important but now, I suppose..."

  "Now, you think your daughter's somehow involved in this."

  Eva's eyes flashed. "She moves in decadent circles. I'm sure she knows people who'd think nothing of trying to embarrass me."

  "You could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you'd told me this last night, Mrs. Winthrop."

  "And I tell you again, what mother would be proud of talking about such awful failure?" Eva pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. It crossed Conor's mind that he'd never seen a woman take out a lace handkerchief except in an old movie. "Why, Miranda wouldn't even talk to me on the phone until just a year or two ago... " She began to weep, very quietly. "I'm sorry, Mr. O'Neil, but I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to leave."

  "Of course." Conor took out his wallet, pulled a card from it, reached past her and put it down on the bar. "If you think of anything more to tell me, Mrs. Winthrop, please give me a call."

  He shut the library door after him, walked to the chair where he'd left his coat and scooped it up. The FBI investigation hadn't turned up the story of Miranda's elopement but he wasn't surprised. The incident was years old; Eva had moved quickly to hush it up and she'd succeeded. Besides, the investigation had centered on Hoyt Winthrop, not on his stepdaughter.

  What did surprise him was the performance he'd just witnessed. And he was almost certain that was exactly what it had been. But why? Was there more to the story than Eva claimed?

  Was she putting on an act in hopes of keeping him from digging any further?

  He turned around slowly and stared at the portrait. The Mona Lisa was supposed to have the most mysterious smile in the world.

  Then again, the odds were damn good that whoever had come to that conclusion had never laid eyes on this painting of Miranda Beckman.

  Chapter 3

  Eva had told him the truth...

  About her husband knowing the details of Miranda's elopement, anyway. Conor's unannounced visit to Hoyt Winthrop's Wall Street firm the following day confirmed it.

  The building that housed Winthrop, Winthrop and Winthrop was one of lower Manhattan's tallest and most impressive. Hoyt's company filled the top three floors; his private office took one enormous corner of the upper two. Thanks to its size and to two walls made almost entirely of glass, walking into it was like walking into an aerie.

  Hoyt rose from behind a massive mahogany desk to greet
him.

  "Mr. O'Neil," he said, rounding the desk with his hand outstretched, "it's good to see you again."

  "Thank you," Conor said politely.

  "Sit down, please." Hoyt gestured to a group of chairs clustered around a marble-topped coffee table. "Can I get you anything?"

  "Nothing, thank you." Conor sat and Hoyt settled across from him. "Mr. Winthrop, I was wondering if we could discuss your daughter."

  "Stepdaughter," Hoyt said with a little smile.

  "Yes, of course, sir. Your stepdaughter. Would you describe your relationship with her as close?"

  Hoyt sighed. "It was, when I first married her mother. Miranda was, what, six or seven, I guess." He smiled. "A beautiful little girl, Mr. O'Neil, and the sweetest child imaginable. Eva and I had our concerns, you know, that it might be difficult for her to adapt to having a stepfather—her own father had died when she was only a baby—but she took to the new arrangement like a fish to water. Why, it was only weeks before she asked if she might call me Daddy."

  "And you said...?"

  "I said it would be fine. I'd waited a bit longer than most men to marry, you see. The thought of having an instant family was most appealing."

  Conor nodded. "So, you and Miranda got along well."

  "Yes." Hoyt's aristocratic forehead wrinkled. "We did, until Miranda changed."

  "Changed, sir?"

  Hoyt rose to his feet and paced to the wall of glass that looked out over the Hudson River.

  "At first, we thought it was simply prepubescent nonsense. You know the sort of thing. Temper tantrums, disobedience... we were sure she'd grow out of it."

  Conor rose, too, and walked towards Winthrop. Far out on the river, toy boats chugged their way upstream.

  "But she didn't?"

  "If anything, her behavior got worse. She began to lie, to cheat at school. Well, they wouldn't put up with that, of course, so we took her out and placed her elsewhere. Not that it did any good. She was asked to leave that school and the one after that. And the next, if I remember correctly." He looked at Conor and shook his head sadly. "To be honest, I've lost count of how many places she was in and out of before she finally went to Miss Cooper's."

  "You agreed with your wife's decision to put her into a school as strict as that?"

  "Certainly. It was what she needed."

  "And?"

  "And, as my wife has already told you, Miranda disgraced herself completely at Miss Cooper's, enticing her roommate's distinguished cousin into an escapade only she could have devised."

  "You hold your stepdaughter responsible, then?"

  "I wish I could say otherwise, but I know Miranda."

  "How do you mean that, sir? Did she have a history of promiscuity?"

  Hoyt swung around and looked at Conor. "Promiscuity, and of orchestrating things to suit herself. She wanted freedom from Miss Cooper's and from parental control."

  "And she thought eloping with a man almost old enough to be her father would provide that freedom?"

  "That's my assumption. It was not a practical decision but then, practicality was not Miranda's strong suit."

  Conor nodded. "You didn't accompany your wife to Paris, to confront the girl?"

  "No." Hoyt sighed deeply. "I regret it, to this day. I wonder if things might have gone any differently if I'd been there to give Eva support."

  "You don't agree with how she handled things, then?"

  "Offering Count de Lasserre money for an annulment, you mean?"

  "Buying it from him, yes."

  Hoyt went to his desk and sat down. "I suppose she did the only thing that seemed appropriate."

  "Then, what did you mean when you said things might have gone differently if you'd been with your wife?"

  Hoyt reached out and picked up a double silver picture frame that stood on his desk. Eva Winthrop smiled out from one side; Miranda looked out from the other. With a little start of recognition, Conor realized it was a photo that must have been used as the basis for the painting in the Winthrop foyer. There were the same wide, shadowed eyes, the same tremulously curving mouth.

  "I mean," Hoyt said, looking at the picture, "that if I'd been along, perhaps things might not have ended so badly between Eva and Miranda." He shook his head as he put the picture down. "It's damn near broken my wife's heart, you know, this long estrangement."

  Conor thought of the coldness in Eva Winthrop's eyes and voice when she'd spoken of her daughter, the way she'd snapped at him for having seemed surprised that she'd left a seventeen-year-old girl to her own devices on the streets of Paris.

  "I'm sure it has," he said smoothly.

  "Then again, Eva always had much more influence over Miranda than I. If she couldn't convince her to return home, no one could have."

  "Aside from the issue of estrangement, how did you view your wife's decision to let the girl remain in Paris on her own?"

  "I agreed with it."

  "Despite the fact that Miranda was a minor?"

  Hoyt laughed. "A minor? Miranda was an accomplished liar. A cheat. She'd managed to seduce a man old enough, worldly enough, one would think, to have resisted her. No, Mr. O'Neil. My stepdaughter was a minor only in the eyes of the law."

  "You think she was capable of handling herself in a strange city, then?"

  Hoyt Winthrop's eyes narrowed. "I know she was," he said coolly. "Furthermore, I don't care for your implication."

  "I'm not implying anything, Mr. Winthrop."

  "I think you are. I think you're suggesting my wife erred in finally admitting the girl was beyond our help. And I resent it."

  Conor smiled tightly. "I can't help what you feel, Mr. Winthrop. I'm only trying to get at the facts."

  "What facts? Your assignment, as I understand it, is to determine who sent Mrs. Winthrop that note."

  "And that's exactly what I'm trying to do."

  Hoyt blink. "You mean, you think Miranda...?"

  "Maybe."

  "But why? What reason would she have for doing such a thing?"

  "I'm not sure." Conor reached across the desk, picked up the double silver frame and looked at it. "Maybe just for kicks. Then again, considering the circle she apparently moves in, one of her pals might have sent that note." He looked up and smiled. "You can never tell what passes for humor with some people."

  "For...?" Hoyt's mouth tightened. "I see what you mean, Mr. O'Neil. But I can't imagine—well, I mean, I suppose I can, but still..."

  "That painting of your stepdaughter. Was it done from this photo?"

  "It was."

  "Who took the photo, do you know?"

  "I did." Hoyt smiled as Conor looked at him in surprise. "I did the painting, as well."

  "You, Mr. Winthrop?"

  "Painting has been my hobby for years. I did the picture as a gift for my wife just a month or so before Miranda ran off."

  Conor nodded. Why should the news seem so unexpected? The portrait had been well done but he'd known right away that it lacked true skill. He glanced down at the photo.

  "I take it Miranda wasn't happy to pose for you," he said.

  Hoyt laughed. "An understatement, if ever I heard one, but what tells you that?"

  "Well, the look on her face. That sad smile."

  "Sad?" Hoyt frowned and took the picture frame out of Conor's hands and put it back on the desk. "Seems to me she was in one of her rare good moods the day I took this. In fact, she looks quite happy to me, Mr. O'Neil—but then, if you'd ever met my stepdaughter, she'd probably confuse you, too. Miranda wasn't one to give away how she was feeling," he said, shoving back his chair and rising to his feet. "And now, if you'll forgive me, I've a meeting in a few minutes."

  "Of course." Conor put out his hand. "Thank you for your time."

  "Thank you for handling this matter so promptly and with such discretion." Winthrop clapped Conor lightly on the back and strolled with him to the door. "It's just pitiful that Miranda would stoop to sending upsetting notes to her mother."


  "That's if she's the person who sent it."

  "Well, of course, but now that you've suggested it, it makes perfect sense. It's just the sort of childishly sly thing she'd do. But I must admit, I'm relieved." He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "At least it means we can forget about the note, can't we?"

  "I'm almost certain you can, sir."

  "Almost," Hoyt said, and smiled. "What will it take to convince you?"

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Conor slammed the door of his rental car and looked up at the rambling stone buildings of Miss Cooper's School for Young Ladies.

  This was what it would take, he thought as he followed a sign towards the administrative offices, a visit to the school Miranda Beckman had attended, though he wasn't quite certain what he expected to find here. Closure of some sort, enough to satisfy Harry Thurston and himself that the note was nothing but a tasteless joke.

  The headmistress's office was on the first floor. It was a cold place, smelling of chalk dust, mice, and, Conor thought, childish despair.

  Agnes Foster was a stereotypical old-maid schoolteacher if ever he had seen one. She shook his hand, seated him in a chair almost as angular as herself, listened politely as he flashed her his most charming smile and explained that he was trying to get some information about a former student named Miranda Beckman. The name made her thin lips compress into an even thinner line but she smiled frostily and assured him that it was her policy never to discuss students, past or present, with anyone.

  So much for charm, Conor thought. He turned off the smile, replaced it with what he thought of as a Washington face, and dug into his pocket for the leather case with the gold-plated shield and the picture ID that bore the initials of a government agency that had never existed.

  "Perhaps I should have said that I'm here on official business."

  It worked like a charm, as it always did with people like Agnes Foster. She looked at the shield, the official-looking seal and his photo and turned into a cooperative citizen.

  "Of course," she said. She came out from behind her desk, carefully shut her office door, and pulled open the bottom drawer of a battered metal file cabinet. "Beckman," she muttered, as she leafed through the contents, "Beckman... Yes, here is the girl's record." She tossed a file folder on the desk in front of Conor and sat down opposite him again. "Not that I've forgotten anything in that file, sir. One does not forget the Mirandas of this world."