Page 54 of Homeport

“I didn’t say there was, but I think there is.” Cook rose. “Could be we’ve got a thief with what you could call an eclectic taste in art. Me, I like that Georgia O’Keeffe stuff. It’s bright, looks like what it is. I appreciate your time.” He turned away, turned back. “I wonder if I could borrow that datebook of yours, Dr. Jones. And if the two of you would have written records of the year before. Just to help me put it all in order.”

Miranda hesitated, again thought of lawyers. But pride had her standing and holding the slim leather book out to him. “You’re welcome to it, and I have calendars for the last three years stored at my office at the Institute.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll just give you a receipt for this.” He tucked her book away and took out his own to scrawl the information and his signature.

Andrew rose as well. “I’ll have mine messengered over to you.”

“That would be a big help.”

“It’s difficult not to be insulted by this, Detective.”

Cook raised his eyebrows at Miranda. “I’m sorry about that, Dr. Jones. I’m just trying to do my job.”

“I imagine you are, and once you put my brother and me off your list of suspects, you’ll be able to do it with more speed and efficiency. Which is why we’re willing to tolerate this sort of treatment. I’ll show you out.”

Cook nodded at Andrew and followed her into the foyer. “Didn’t mean to put your back up, Dr. Jones.”

“Oh yes you did, Detective.” She wrenched open the door. “Good afternoon.”

“Ma’am.” A quarter-century on the force hadn’t made him immune to the sharp tongue of an angry woman. He ducked his head and grimaced a bit when the door shut loudly at his back.

“The man thinks we’re thieves.” Fuming, she stalked back into the parlor. It annoyed her, but didn’t surprise her, to see Andrew pouring himself a drink. “He thinks we’re bouncing around the country breaking into museums.”

“Would be kind of fun, wouldn’t it?”

“What?”

“Just trying to relieve the tension.” He lifted his glass. “One way or the other.”

“This isn’t a game, Andrew, and I don’t care to be smeared on a slide under a police microscope.”

“There’s nothing for him to find but the truth.”

“It’s not the end that worries me, it’s the means. We’re under investigation. The press is bound to get ahold of some of this.”

“Miranda.” He spoke softly and added an affectionate smile. “You’re sounding dangerously close to Mother.”

“There’s no reason to insult me.”

“I’m sorry—you’re right.”

“I’m going to make a pot roast,” Miranda announced as she walked toward the kitchen.

“A pot roast.” His mood lifted dramatically. “With the little potatoes and carrots?”

“You peel the potatoes. Keep me company, Andrew.” She asked as much for herself as to get him away from the bottle. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Sure.” He set the glass down. It was empty anyway. And slipped an arm over her shoulders.

The meal helped, as did the preparation of it. She enjoyed cooking, and considered it another science. It was Mrs. Patch who had taught her, pleased that the young girl had shown an interest in kitchen work. It had been the warmth of that kitchen, and the company, that drew Miranda. The rest of the house had been so cold, so regimented. But Mrs. Patch had ruled in the kitchen. Even Elizabeth hadn’t dared to intrude.

More likely she hadn’t cared to, Miranda thought as she prepared for bed. She’d never known her mother to fix a meal, and that simple fact made learning how herself more appealing.

She would not be a mirror of Elizabeth.

The pot roast had done its work, she thought now. Good solid meat and potatoes, drop biscuits she’d made from scratch, conversation with Andrew. Maybe he’d had more wine with dinner than she liked, but at least he hadn’t been alone.

It had been almost a happy time. They’d tactically agreed not to discuss the Institute, or the trouble in Florence. It was much more relaxing to argue over their diverse views on music and books.

---