Until You

Hoyt went to his desk and sat down. "I suppose she did the only thing that seemed appropriate."

"Then, what did you mean when you said things might have gone differently if you'd been with your wife?"

Hoyt reached out and picked up a double silver picture frame that stood on his desk. Eva Winthrop smiled out from one side; Miranda looked out from the other. With a little start of recognition, Conor realized it was a photo that must have been used as the basis for the painting in the Winthrop foyer. There were the same wide, shadowed eyes, the same tremulously curving mouth.

"I mean," Hoyt said, looking at the picture, "that if I'd been along, perhaps things might not have ended so badly between Eva and Miranda." He shook his head as he put the picture down. "It's damn near broken my wife's heart, you know, this long estrangement."

Conor thought of the coldness in Eva Winthrop's eyes and voice when she'd spoken of her daughter, the way she'd snapped at him for having seemed surprised that she'd left a seventeen-year-old girl to her own devices on the streets of Paris.

"I'm sure it has," he said smoothly.

"Then again, Eva always had much more influence over Miranda than I. If she couldn't convince her to return home, no one could have."

"Aside from the issue of estrangement, how did you view your wife's decision to let the girl remain in Paris on her own?"

"I agreed with it."

"Despite the fact that Miranda was a minor?"

Hoyt laughed. "A minor? Miranda was an accomplished liar. A cheat. She'd managed to seduce a man old enough, worldly enough, one would think, to have resisted her. No, Mr. O'Neil. My stepdaughter was a minor only in the eyes of the law."

"You think she was capable of handling herself in a strange city, then?"

Hoyt Winthrop's eyes narrowed. "I know she was," he said coolly. "Furthermore, I don't care for your implication."

"I'm not implying anything, Mr. Winthrop."

"I think you are. I think you're suggesting my wife erred in finally admitting the girl was beyond our help. And I resent it."

Conor smiled tightly. "I can't help what you feel, Mr. Winthrop. I'm only trying to get at the facts."

"What facts? Your assignment, as I understand it, is to determine who sent Mrs. Winthrop that note."

"And that's exactly what I'm trying to do."

Hoyt blink. "You mean, you think Miranda...?"

"Maybe."

"But why? What reason would she have for doing such a thing?"

"I'm not sure." Conor reached across the desk, picked up the double silver frame and looked at it. "Maybe just for kicks. Then again, considering the circle she apparently moves in, one of her pals might have sent that note." He looked up and smiled. "You can never tell what passes for humor with some people."

"For...?" Hoyt's mouth tightened. "I see what you mean, Mr. O'Neil. But I can't imagine—well, I mean, I suppose I can, but still..."

"That painting of your stepdaughter. Was it done from this photo?"

"It was."

"Who took the photo, do you know?"

"I did." Hoyt smiled as Conor looked at him in surprise. "I did the painting, as well."

"You, Mr. Winthrop?"

"Painting has been my hobby for years. I did the picture as a gift for my wife just a month or so before Miranda ran off."

Conor nodded. Why should the news seem so unexpected? The portrait had been well done but he'd known right away that it lacked true skill. He glanced down at the photo.