Page 47 of Homeport

“One o’clock, Dr. Jones.”

“Fine. Send a memo to my sister. I’d like her to work with publicity on a statement. Inform any and all reporters who call that we’ll be issuing a statement by end of day and have no comment at this time.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Jones, Detective Cook would like to speak with you again as soon as possible. He’s downstairs.”

“I’ll go down shortly. We need to draft a letter to Dr. Standford-Jones and Dr. Charles Jones, detailing this incident and its current status. They—” He broke off at the knock on the door, then turned when Miranda stepped in.

“I’m sorry, Andrew. I can come back if you’re busy.”

“That’s all right. We’ll save Ms. Purdue a memo. Can you work with publicity on a statement?”

“I’ll get right on it.” She could see the strain around his eyes. “You talked to Florence.”

He smiled thinly. “Florence talked to me. I’m going to draft a letter, telling the sad tale, and copy her and Father.”

“Why don’t I do that?” The shadows under his eyes were too dark, she thought, the lines around his mouth too deep. “Save you a little time and trouble.”

“I’d appreciate it. The insurance investigator will be here shortly, and Cook wants me again.”

“Oh.” She linked her hands together to keep them still. “Ms. Purdue, would you give us a moment?”

“Of course. I’ll set up the staff meeting, Dr. Jones.”

“Department heads,” Andrew told Miranda when the door closed again. “One o’clock.”

“All right. Andrew, about Cook. He’s going to want to know about last night. Where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. I told him we left here together about seven, and that both of us were home all night.”

“Fine.”

Her fingers twisted. “Were you?”

“What? Home? Yes.” He angled his head, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“I didn’t know if you’d gone out or not.” Unlinking her fingers, she rubbed her hands over her face. “I just thought it best to say you hadn’t.”

“You don’t have to protect me, Miranda. I haven’t done anything—which according to our mother is the problem.”

“I know you haven’t. I didn’t mean that.” She reached out, touched a hand to his arm. “It just seemed less complicated to say you’d been home all night. Then I started thinking, what if you had gone out, and you’d been seen . . .”

“Bellied up to a bar?” Bitter resentment coated his voice. “Or skulking around the building?”

“Oh, Andrew.” Miserable, she lowered herself to the arm of a chair. “Let’s not snipe at each other. It’s just that Cook makes me nervous, and I started to worry that if he caught me in a lie, however harmless, it would just make it all worse.”

With a sigh, he dropped into the chair. “Looks like we’re in shit up to our knees.”

“I’m up to my waist,” she muttered. “She ordered me to take a leave of absence. I refused.”

“Are you standing up for yourself, or just kicking at her?”

Miranda frowned and studied her nails. How does it feel to be a failure? No, she wouldn’t give in to that. “I can do both.”

“Be careful you don’t fall on your butt. Last night I would have agreed with her—not for the same reason, but I’d have agreed. Today changes things. I need you here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He patted her knee before he rose. “I’ll go talk to Cook. Send me a copy of the press release, and the letter. Oh, she gave me Father’s address in Utah.” He tore a piece of notepaper from the pad on his desk and handed it to her. “Overnight the letters. The sooner they have it in writing, the better.”

“I’ll see you at one, then. Oh, Andrew, Ryan said to tell you goodbye.”

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