Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery)

by Linsey Lanier

  Draped in a long black gown, with her elegant grace, she floated from group to group. She looked like she knew just what to do and say, though her face was pale and her makeup thick with a futile attempt to cover her red, swollen eyes.

  She spotted Miranda, politely finished her conversation and came toward her. “Ms. Steele, it’s so good of you to come.”

  “I felt I had to.” That wasn’t the right thing to say. She didn’t do funerals well. If only Parker were here. He knew how to handle any situation with polish and sensitivity. “I’m so sorry.”

  Davinia pressed her lips together and nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Then she collected herself. “Let me introduce you to some of Gabrielle’s friends.”

  She presented her to several dukes and duchesses, half a dozen countesses, and other friends and acquaintances of the family. Finally Miranda met Albert DeVere, Marquis of Camden and Lady Gabrielle’s father.

  Lord Camden was a large man with an imposing figure and a deep bass voice.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Lord Camden,” Miranda told him as she shook hands.

  “Thank you, Ms Steele.” He looked back at the raised platform along the side of the room where the casket had been placed for viewing. “I think she would have been pleased with the turn out. She was such a social gadfly, my little girl.”

  He was right. Gabrielle would have loved the attention.

  “It doesn’t seem so long ago that I had to say good-bye to her mother. And now I must to her.” His eyes teared up. “Please excuse me.” He turned away.

  His words tore at Miranda’s heart. That bastard Shrivel had taken so much, caused so much pain. How could they let him get away with it?

  Beside her Davinia squeezed her hand. “I need to see her, Ms. Steele. Will you come with me?”

  To view the body? She didn’t think she was up for that. “I wasn’t—I’m not—”

  But Davinia’s face was full of pleading. “Please.”

  Okay. She could be strong for this woman who suddenly needed her. She couldn’t undo what had happened. She couldn’t bring Shrivel in. But she could do this.

  She nodded. “All right.”

  Two stairs led up to the platform where the elaborate coffin sat. The family standards hung on poles on either side. Wreaths of roses and lilies and carnations were symmetrically placed in the background and along the steps.

  Miranda forced her gaze away from the surroundings and down. At Lady Gabrielle’s lifeless form.

  She looked peaceful. Much better than when she’d found her yesterday. Undertakers were known for working such magic. But the life that had once brightened her girlish face was missing. The light in her glistening green eyes was gone forever.

  Miranda noticed they’d put her in the red lace dress she’d picked out on her final shopping trip.

  “I thought she’d want to wear that frock,” Davinia said, her grasp still tight on Miranda’s hand.

  “Yes, she would have.”

  Then Davinia did the unthinkable. She leaned forward and touched the body’s red-gold curls. “Oh, Gabby, Gabby. Why did you have to be so headstrong? Why couldn’t you have talked to me? Why did you have to go to—?” She put a hand to her mouth and reached for Miranda as she straightened again. “Oh, Ms. Steele I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  Miranda didn’t know either. And she didn’t have words for the woman. She didn’t have words for herself. All she knew was she couldn’t stand here another moment longer looking at the woman she hadn’t even known a week ago.

  It was as if Gabrielle were blaming her for what had happened. As if she were telling Miranda she “must” find her killer.

  If only she could.

  “I need to sit down,” Davinia said in a whispered gasp.

  Miranda nodded. “I need to find a ladies’ room.” She gave the woman’s hand another squeeze and turned away.

  As Davinia went in the opposite direction, she hurried down the platform steps, searching for a hall to a bathroom or somewhere she could pull herself together. She couldn’t last another minute. As soon as she found Parker and he finished making his condolences, they were out of here.

  She passed a circle of young men gathered under a gold framed landscape. They parted as she approached and she saw Lionel on a tufted bench, his head in his hands.

  She stopped in her tracks. She didn’t even like the guy and her heart went out to him, just like the rest of the family.

  Not seeing her, he raised his head and stared at the coffin as if he didn’t know how he could ever let it go.

  She couldn’t run off. She had to speak to him first.

  Get this over with and get out of here, Miranda told herself. She took a deep breath, straightened her jacket and strode toward him, hand extended. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Lord Eaton.”

  He frowned and squinted at her as if he couldn’t figure out where she’d come from. Then he came to himself and stood. He knew who she was. “Thank you, Ms. Steele. It’s kind of you to be here.”

  Again, she didn’t know how to reply to that so she just nodded.

  The bereaved husband was wearing a meticulously tailored black suit, his Van Dyke beard expertly trimmed. Only his demeanor and the hitch in his perfect British accent told her he was truly grieving.

  He let out a long, helpless sigh. “A room full of people and I feel completely alone. Even my best friend has abandoned me tonight.”

  The dude who had been with Davinia at the polo match. “Isn’t his name Sebastian...something?”

  His manicured brows rose as if he was surprised she knew the name. “Yes. Sebastian Fairfax. He called earlier and gave me his condolences. He apologized profusely, said he had to be out of town on business. He’s a moody chap. I think he simply couldn’t face...all this.” He gestured around the room.

  Miranda drew in a breath. She didn’t want to think about whatever Davinia had been doing with Sebastian. She was tired of secret trysts and betrayals. But still she felt for the man. “I know it must be very hard on you.”

  “I deserve it. I should have gone to the police.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He cast an uncomfortable look around the room. “It’s no secret that I’ve never approved of my mother’s marriage to Neville Ravensdale.”

  “No.” His snide remarks the night they’d had dinner would have told her that if everyone else hadn’t.

  “Two nights after the Marc Antony dagger was stolen, Gabrielle tried to console me. She told me I’d be happy soon because the theft might make my mother leave him.” He closed his eyes. “I brushed off her words. I thought she was being foolish. I was riding in the match the next day and I didn’t want to think about it. Then when that incident happened with my horse...I wondered if she could have been involved in the theft somehow. I should have gone to the police and told them. If I had, she might still be alive.” He pinched his nose between his fingers to stave off tears.

  Miranda reached out and patted the grieving man’s arm. She wondered how much he knew about Jewell and his letter. Surely he was aware the barrister was dead.

  “She was already involved,” she reminded him as softly as she could. “I’m afraid she got in over her head. I don’t think anyone could have saved her at that point.”

  He nodded, and jutting out his chin with fierce control, slowly turned his head as if he were forcing himself to look at the platform again. “My poor, poor, childish wife. I neglected her. I treated her so badly and she just kept on loving me. Why is it you don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone?” He put his hand to his mouth to stifle another sob. Control was fleeting when you were in that much pain. “Please excuse me. I must collect myself.” He turned away and marched down a short hall and into a room, closing the door behind him.

  The room she’d been heading for.

  With a sigh Miranda looked around the chamber again. There was no one left to speak to. She certainly wasn’t in the mood for small ta
lk with strangers. Her gaze wandered to an elaborate antique clock against the wall. She blinked.

  Was that the right time? It was past nine. Where the hell was Parker? She spun around and circled the crowd, searching for him.

  He wasn’t at the casket. He wasn’t speaking to Lady Davinia or Sir Neville or the Lovelaces or the Duchess of Oxham. She slipped down a few of the adjacent halls where guests had broken away to talk. He wasn’t in any of them. She began asking total strangers if they’d seen a good-looking man in a dark blue suit. An American.

  No one had.

  She left the viewing room and made her way back to the front door where she found a doorman. “Did Mr. Wade Parker come in this way?”

  “The investigator from America?”

  At least he knew who Parker was. “Yes.”

  “I say, you’re Ms. Steele, his partner, aren’t you?”

  That damned reporter’s story again. “Yes,” she snapped. “Have you seen Mr. Parker?”

  He blinked at her and pulled at his coat awkwardly. “No, m’um. As far as I know he hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Hasn’t arrived yet? Hasn’t arrived yet? He’d arrived with her over an hour ago.

  She turned away, stomped back down the hall and into the main room, barely seeing where she was going. Her chest started to heave. Her head started to pound. It was all she could do to keep the lid on the rage bubbling over inside her.

  Let’s see, she thought. Where could Parker be right now? Taking an evening stroll along the Thames? A visit to Westminster? An audience with the Queen?

  Hell, no. She knew damn well where he was. He went to Tottenham—without her.

  He wasn’t going to let this case lie. He didn’t think it was over. He didn’t think they’d done all they could. No, he felt the same way she did. He was going to see this through. He was going to finish it. He was going after a killer.

  He was putting himself in danger and he didn’t want her in on it. He was protecting her again, sheltering her, dropping her off in a safe place while he went out to do battle. She didn’t know if she could ever forgive him for that.

  Her mind a blur, she found Davinia and said goodbye. She hurried back down the hall and told the doorman to tell Mr. Parker where she’d gone if he returned. Then she headed out on foot, down the castle steps, over the century-old walkway, her fury building like a raging wildfire with each step.

  How dare Parker leave her behind like this? If Scorpion or Shrivel didn’t kill him, she might do it herself.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Parker sat nursing his German lager in the far corner booth of The Winking Owl, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door.

  The place seemed darker than the night they’d followed Shrivel here, but definitely not as crowded. The jukebox was off and only the monotonous voice of the soccer announcer contended with the conversations of the patrons under the low green-globed lights.

  It was mostly men tonight. Tough-looking workingmen with bitterness in their eyes. And non-working types with even more bitterness. The type he’d seen in the bad parts of almost every city he’d worked in during his career. The type who might slit your throat for a few dollars. Or in this case a few pounds.

  But perhaps he was reading too much into the clientele because of the one he’d come here to meet.

  The two barmaids on duty looked more worn out tonight, though their workload was lighter. As she wiped down surfaces and cleaned glasses behind the bar, Winnie Waverly seemed particularly tired and distressed.

  She hadn’t waited on him, but he’d seen the sneer of recognition she’d given him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He’d also seen her slip off with her cell phone in hand. Calling Shrivel to tell him he’d arrived and was alone?

  He hoped so.

  He glanced down at his watch. Winnie had made her call twenty minutes ago, and Shrivel had agreed to meet him ten before that. He was making him wait.

  Shrivel was being careful. Or he was getting the money together.

  Parker had told him on the phone he had information about the dagger, which he would exchange for a sum he had named. He planned to get him into his car on the pretense of taking him to where the dagger was. He would use the voice recorder on his phone without Shrivel’s knowledge and get a confession from him. Then drag him to the nearest police station.

  Then back to Quinton Castle, pay his respects, pick up Miranda, head home.

  The business with Shrivel would be tricky, though. And risky to get into a vehicle with a man who had just hijacked a car and killed the driver, but he planned to frisk him first. If the young man didn’t comply, he’d simply take him into a nearby alley and force him to cooperate. And then drag him to the nearest police station. But he knew he had to keep his head if he wanted to help the courts get an unquestionable conviction.

  The door opened and two large men strolled in and found a table. Parker looked down at his watch again. Forty minutes late. Had Shrivel changed his mind? Or was he smart enough to see through this ploy?

  Parker took a slow draw from his beer. He wouldn’t have thought so.

  His cell rang.

  He stared at it a moment then picked it up. “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “We agreed to meet at the pub.”

  “Too many customers. I can’t afford to show my face.”

  Parker stiffened, nerves alert. Was he trying to play him? “Should I assume you’re not interested then?”

  An ugly laugh trickled through the phone. “Oh, I’m interested all right. Meet me ’ere.” He gave him the address, not knowing Parker already had it.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.” He clicked off and set the phone down on the table.

  So Shrivel was smarter than he’d thought. But was he really at home when the police hadn’t been able to find him there?

  This was a setup. The question was what to do with it.

  He could get in his car and drive to the local police station without Shrivel. Have them send someone over to pick the murderer up. But if Shrivel was in fact in his house the sight of police cars would make him run and destroy any further chance of bringing the degenerate in.

  Parker got to his feet, tossed a few bills on the table and went out the front door.

  He stood in the shelter of the corner entrance, eyeing the street.

  A group of about five men in leather and chains loitered across the street to his left. They didn’t seem to notice him. He saw nothing on the road to the right where his car was parked.

  Shrivel might be at the auto repair shop. He’d drive over to Shrivel’s street and ride past the house to see if there were any sign of him there, then give him another call. After that, he’d try the shop.

  Eventually he would talk him out of his hiding place and into taking a ride with him.

  Parker strode to the rental car and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He bent to put the key into the driver side door.

  Just as it clicked open he felt a body press up beside him. And cold metal against his temple.

  “I thought you were at home.”

  The only reply was a low laugh.

  With a well-practiced move Parker twisted, brought up his arm fast, and knocked Shrivel’s gun hand away. The swine still held onto the weapon. Parker lunged toward him and gave him a hard jab to the stomach.

  Shrivel doubled over with an oof.

  Parker reached out to take the gun from him. His fingers were inches away when someone caught his arm from behind, gave him a sharp punch to the ribs that took his breath, forced him against the hood of the car with a slam.

  He turned his head and caught the outline of a tall, bulky figure. He tried to get an elbow free, to get a foot around his leg to bring him down, but the hulking mass pressed in closer. He had no leverage.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Parker growled.

  The big man yanked his arm behind his back. “I wouldn’t make any funny moves if I was you, septic.”
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  Parker gritted his teeth at the sudden pain. “I came here to make a deal. What do you want?”

  “We wants you to take us for a little drive,” the man hissed in a thick accent. Then he reached for the handle and jerked the car door open. “Get in.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  This was a hell of a mistake.

  After she’d left the castle, Miranda had raced out into the street and had to ask five different people directions, like some lost tourist. They all told her there was only one mode of transportation to Tottenham so she ended up having to take one of those jolly red buses.

  Now she was bouncing along trapped inside while the bus took its sweet time with a winding path that seemed to stop at every corner to let passengers on and off. She checked her watch, glared out the window, counted the passing streets.

  “Parker, what were you thinking?” she muttered under her breath over and over. How could he do this to her?

  After an ulcer-inducing hour-long ride, the bus finally came to a halt on a street in the Tottenham neighborhood.

  Hoping Parker wasn’t heading back to Camden by now, she got off and hiked the few blocks to The Winking Owl.

  As she walked toward the pub, she scanned the curbs. Several empty parking spots. There weren’t as many people out as when they were here before. But she didn’t see the rental car anywhere.

  She strolled past the pub’s corner entrance where a couple was making out in the shadows and tried the side street.

  Still no rental.

  She went all the way down that street and stopped at the far corner. Shrivel’s house was that way. He’d walked here the night they’d followed him. She shook her head. He wasn’t at home or the police would have nabbed him already. That left only one other possibility she knew of.

  With a sinking feeling, she realized where Parker was.

  She turned around and headed back to the pub. At the corner entrance, she crossed the street and turned the other way, hurrying along, moving as fast as she could without looking vulnerable.

  The gold chain Parker had given her felt cold against her skin. Good grief.

  Pretending to scratch the back of her neck, she reached behind her, undid the clasp, and slipped it into her pocket. Some people around here would cut your throat for something like that.