I had a great time writing this story and I'm so excited to share it with my readers. Below is an excerpt from the first chapter.
Right now, I'm hard at work on the third book in the series. Next time, Miranda and Parker are going to Texas. Can't wait to see what they'll get into there. We're planning a fall release for book 3, so stay tuned.
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Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) #2
Fulfilling your destiny…one killer at a time.
Miranda Steele probes the British upper crust in the second Miranda and Parker mystery.
In the London Museum of Antiquity a heart-breaking event occurs. Someone steals the priceless, newly acquired Egyptian dagger used by Marc Antony to kill himself over Cleopatra. Beside himself, the museum director calls in Parker and Miranda to investigate.
Miranda realizes someone could kill for a relic valued at over five million pounds. And that the first victim might be—her. The threat sets Parker’s nerves on edge and he doesn’t hesitate to show it. And Miranda doesn’t hesitate to flare up.
Can the detectives work out their issues before the theft escalates to murder?
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Chapter One
“Happy
families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Leo
Tolstoy
If all
went as planned, it promised to be a most monumental day.
Sir
Neville Ravensdale sat on the wide rear portico of Eaton House in Surrey,
England breakfasting with his wife of nineteen years. He was dressed in his
best silk suit, an Ascot cravat of cobalt blue arranged carefully at his neck,
a color Davinia once told him made his eyes sparkle.
He had
barely touched his croissant or his single poached egg. He hadn’t heard the warblers
singing in the hawthorns or smelled the fragrance of the blossoming bluebells
or noticed the neoclassical
design of the hedgerows, which he greatly admired.
All he
could think about was the dagger.
It was
Egyptian, just as his years of study told him it would be. The gleam of its
ornate hilt flashed in his mind just the way it had when he’d first seen it two
years ago on the excavation site, the foreign dust in his throat, the sun’s
heat forming sweat beads on his brow, his heart racing madly with excitement of
the discovery and trepidation of what might lie ahead.
Just
the way it did now.
He
rested his fork across the Eaton china plate and picked up his teacup. “Positively
everyone will be there, Davinia. I do wish you’d come.”
Not
even a flinch.
Wearing
a pale chiffon morning dress, her dark hair pulled back in an artful chignon at
the nape of her swanlike neck and looking as graceful as the statue of
Artemis in the Louvre, his
beloved wife stared out at the gardens studying her climbing roses with an
empty gaze. They had bloomed too late for Chelsea but would be in time for the
Hampton Court Palace flower show.
But Davinia
probably wasn’t thinking that far ahead. No, she was thinking of how she’d show
off the flowers during her Wildlife Rescue Charity meeting tomorrow.
At any
rate she wasn’t giving a thought to what was before him today. For the
hundredth-and-first time in what seemed like so many years, he forced himself
to admit the truth.
The
love of his life no longer cared for him.
“I
still can’t believe my good fortune in acquiring such a find. Imagine. The very
dagger Marc Antony used to do away with himself in 30 BC. And this morning, the
museum shall have it on display.”
Again
Davinia’s only response was a sip of tea.
What did
he expect? She hadn’t taken an interest in any of his projects in years. And
why should she? She had been Lady Eaton before the Earl passed. She’d been born
the daughter of a duke. Why she had chosen a lowly museum curator as her second
husband, he’d never know.
He was
far beneath her.
“Don’t
you agree that the excavation in Alexandria was a godsend? Think of it. The
very instrument the Roman leader used to attempt suicide. Found right in
Cleopatra’s mausoleum. It will bring the museum to the public’s attention once
again.” The institute had suffered from financial difficulties in recent years.
After today that would change. “Can’t you share in my enthusiasm just a little?”
Davinia
sat up. “Oh. Yes, very nice, dear.”
She
hadn’t heard a word. Her look of sheer boredom was as painful as what Marc Antony
must have felt from that dagger when he sliced open his own abdomen.
To be
sure, they’d fallen in love when they’d met. Deeply, passionately in love. But
after three or four years of marriage the fervor had died away. The only
explanation he could think was Davinia had come to regret having wed a mere
commoner. And now with her at fifty-seven and him at sixty-two, there was
little hope for rekindling any romance.
Pushing
away his breakfast, Sir Neville rose to his feet. “Well, my sweet. I must be
off. Cannot be late, you know. Not today.”
He strode
across the terrazzo floor to give her a peck on the cheek.
She
smiled thinly, her first natural response to him this morning, and lifted her
hands to straighten the Grand Cross pin on his lapel. His knighthood several
years ago was a poor substitute for real noble blood. “Do make sure you look
your best, Neville.”
His
best. Of all things in life Davinia cared most about keeping up appearances. He
returned her lean smile. “Yes, dear. I’ll do that.”
And
with that, he left and headed out for the car.
###
The drive to London was uneventful and when the chauffeur
dropped him off at the museum’s rear entrance and Sir Neville stepped out of
the car, his heart swelled.
He inhaled a deep breath of city air as he smiled up at the
tall ionic columns, the Greek Revival gables and cornices, the expansive wings
of the sprawling building. The London Museum of Antiquity. This place was much
more of a home to him than Eaton House. That was Davinia’s domain.
The museum was his. And today would be his greatest coup to
date. The acquisition of a dagger worth millions of pounds, though its
historical significance was much more important than money. The story of Antony
and Cleopatra, the two star-crossed lovers, had been revived in the media and
all the country was abuzz with anticipation.
This was something he would be remembered for.
His dreary home life forgotten for the moment, he hurried
up the steps with a spring in his gait.
Inside, the first person to greet him was his Chief Collections Manager, George Eames.
“Sir, I’m so relieved you’re here.”
The man was as much as a friend as a colleague, ever since
their days at Cambridge together. He had a sturdy frame some people would call
big-boned. Taller than Sir Neville with a heartwarming rounded belly stretching
the waist of his worsted wool suit, he had the deep-set eyes and heavy jowls of
an old English bulldog.
His thinning brown hair was neatly combed, his brows
trimmed, his suit pressed. But he looked tired. Well, he’d been working late here
last night.
Sir Neville wished he could have been with him. He should
have been here last night. But Davinia had insisted on going to the
philharmonic and as usual, he’d given in.
“Everything in order, George?”
“Yes, yes. Of course. The reporters are assembled in room
seventeen, the designers, the security staff, everyone is there. We’ve just
been waiting for you to check everything out before the presentation.”
“Excellent.” He followed his man down the labyrinth of
corridors, down two short flights of stairs, and into the holding area of the
storeroom.
There in the center of the large expanse, among other
deliveries, stood a cart covered in black velvet. Perched atop it was a small
crate.
“Is that it?” Sir Neville whispered with reverence.
Toby Waverly, a young intern with longish, curly red hair nodded
with his broad, friendly smile. “It is indeed, sir.” He looked very smart this
morning in his dark vest and crimson necktie.
A woman in a severe, dark blue skirt suit consulted her
clipboard. “The plan is to roll the crate out first, then you’ll be introduced,
sir.” The pleasant hint of her Indian accent under the crisp British reassured
Sir Neville of the efficiency he relied on.
“Very good, Emily.” Sir Neville gave the nod and followed
his staff through the large double doors and inside the lift. When it opened, two
workers rolled the cart across the Great Hall and into Room Seventeen, the Special
Exhibitions room.
He waited at the door and peeked inside.
There among the hieroglyphics, the ancient coins, the busts
of assorted pharaohs, and the newly constructed replication of Cleopatra’s mausoleum,
stood a crowd of people.
Friends, patrons, and reporters. Everyone from the BBC to
the London News.
Excitement coursed through his veins as George made some
introductory remarks that were far too flattering. Then George gestured to him
and Sir Neville entered the room to loud applause.
The press of the crowd combined with the smell of artifacts
made him feel a bit dizzy. No, it was what that crate held that was doing that.
The most important acquisition of his career. If only Davinia were here to
share this feat.
“Thank you,” he said smiling brightly. “On behalf of all of
us on the museum staff, thank you all for coming today. As you know, it’s been
over a year and a half since the artifact we’re receiving today was first
discovered.”
Briefly, he detailed the difficulties of the excavation,
the tedious negotiations with the government, the rivals who demanded the piece
be put up for auction. “But in the traditional British spirit, we have carried
on and weathered those storms. Thus we stand here today about to put this
historic find on display for all to see. And so, without further ado, I give
you, Marc Antony’s dagger.”
Emily handed him a hammer and he worked the claw against
the metal braces, loosening them one at a time. One, two, three. His heart
soared. He thought of the Roman legions, the ships of ancient Egypt. Antony and
Cleopatra at the helm, then the lovers being driven into a tomb.
He could feel antiquity at his fingertips as the last brace
came loose. He handed the brace and the hammer to Emily, and lifted the wooden
lid.
The container was filled with Styrofoam peanuts as was
usual. Emily showed him a plastic bag she was holding open. He nodded and began
to scoop the peanuts into the bag. One handful. Two. Three. When he’d emptied
half the crate, he stopped.
The dagger should have been in the middle of the crate
encased in bubble wrap for additional protection. He shot a frown of concern to
George. His brow was always furrowed but just now, the creases were deeper.
Perhaps the packers weren’t exact. The dagger must be
somewhere. He scooped out more peanuts. More. More. He could see the bottom of
the box. Surely he hadn’t missed it.
Emily handed the peanut bag to Toby and began frantically
searching her clipboard. “The bill of lading is right here,” she whispered,
showing it to Sir Neville.
He scanned it. Everything looked intact.
And then his heart stopped as he realized what had
happened. The troubled excavation, the rivals, the publicity. Spasms of
confusion and panic and embarrassment reverberated up his legs, into his torso,
through his chest.
Merciful heavens, was he having a heart attack?
The crowd began to murmur as he reached for the side of the
box to steady himself. He gasped for air.
George rushed to his side. “Sir, are you all right?”
Sir Neville reached out for the man’s hand and whispered in
his ear. “Call Scotland Yard. The dagger has been stolen.”
George’s eyes went wide with shock, but he knew it was
true. “Take care of the crowd,” he said to Emily and began to lead Sir Neville
out of the room.
She nodded and turned to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,
it seems there’s been a slight mishap.”
As Emily’s voice rang in Sir Neville’s ears and his head
spun wildly with bewildered dismay, another thought stuck him.
By the time they had crossed the Great Court he knew, in
addition to the police, he had to make another call to an old friend. To his
friend’s son, actually.
