Page 17 of Homeport

“We’re all in this for glory,” Elizabeth corrected with a small smile. “Why pretend otherwise? If your theory proves out, you’ll have plenty of it. If it doesn’t, and you’re premature in your statement, you’ll damage your reputation. And mine, and that of this facility. That, Miranda, I won’t allow. Continue the document search.”

“I intend to.” Miranda turned on her heel and stalked out. She would gather up a pile of books, take them back to the hotel, and by God, she told herself, she’d find the link.

At three A.M., when the phone rang, she was sitting up in bed, surrounded by books and papers. The two-toned shrill jerked her out of some colorful dream of sunny hillsides and cool marble courtyards, musical fountains and harpsong.

Disoriented, she blinked against the glare of the lights she’d left burning and groped for the phone.

“Pronto. Dr. Jones. Hello?”

“Miranda, I need you to come to my house as soon as possible.”

“What? Mother?” She stared bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I’m perfectly aware of the time. As is the assistant minister who was awakened some twenty minutes ago by a reporter who demanded to know the details of the lost bronze by Michelangelo.”

“What? But—”

“I don’t choose to discuss this over the phone.” Elizabeth’s voice vibrated with cold and barely suppressed fury. “Do you remember how to get here?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll expect you within thirty minutes,” she said, seconds before the phone clicked.

Miranda made it in twenty.

Elizabeth’s home was small and elegant, a two-story dwelling typical of Florence, with its yellowed ivory walls and red-tiled roof. Flowers spilled out of pots and window boxes, and were cared for religiously by the maid.

In the dark, the windows gleamed, bright stripes of light leaking through the louvered blinds. It was roomy, as Miranda recalled, an attractive arena for entertaining. It would have occurred to neither mother nor daughter to share the space while Miranda was in Florence.

The door was wrenched open before she could knock. Elizabeth stood, neatly groomed and perfectly presented in a peach-colored robe.

“What happened?” Miranda demanded.

“That’s precisely my question.” Strict control was all that prevented Elizabeth from slamming the door. “If this was your way of proving your point, of exerting your expertise, or of causing me professional embarrassment, all you accomplished was the last.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Miranda hadn’t taken time to tame her hair, and scooped an impatient hand through it to shove it out of her eyes. “You said a reporter called—”

“That’s correct.”

Straight as a general, Elizabeth turned and strode into the front parlor. A fire was laid, but had yet to be lighted. Lamps blazed, shooting shine from polished wood. There was a vase of white roses on the mantel, and nothing else. The colors were all soft, all pale.

Part of Miranda’s mind registered what it always did when she stepped inside this, or any, room in the house. It was more showcase than home, and just as cool.

“The reporter, of course, refused to reveal his source. But he had quite a bit of information.”

“Vincente would never have gone to the press prematurely.”

“No,” Elizabeth agreed coolly. “Vincente would not.”

“Could the plumber—what was his name—have talked to a reporter?”

“The plumber couldn’t have provided him with photos of the bronze, with test results.”

“Test results.” Because her knees were suddenly loose, Miranda sat. “My tests?”

“Standjo’s tests,” Elizabeth said between her teeth. “Despite the fact that you conducted them, it remains the responsibility of my lab. And it’s the security of that lab that has been breached.”

“But how . . .” It hit home then, the tone, the look in her mother’s eyes. She rose slowly. “You think I called a reporter and fed him information? Secured photos and test results?”

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