Little Girl Lost. Shirlee McCoy

willing to take her place in the family business.

      “We’re in the drawing room.” Aunt Winnie called out from the room to the right of the front door as Portia stepped into the house, and Portia felt a twinge of guilt. Winnie had been so good to her, so good to all of them. Who was she to complain about what she hadn’t had when what she had received from her aunt had been so rich in affection?

      “We’re coming.” She pasted on a smile and followed Rissa across the foyer, hoping no one inside the drawing room would sense her melancholy mood.

      “You okay?” Mick pulled her to a stop outside the door, his words just for her.

      “I’m great.” She met his gaze, keeping the smile in place even as his light blue eyes speared into hers. Could he see what she was hiding? The part of herself that wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now? “We’d better go in before Father comes looking.”

      ‘“Father?”’ He cocked his head, letting his gaze travel from her fluffy pink earmuffs to the mukluks that covered her feet.

      “What?”

      “You don’t look like the ‘father’ type.”

      “What type do I look like?”

      “Dad, Pops, something a lot less formal.”

      He was right. If she’d lived in a different house, with a different father. She turned away, not wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “We’re a formal family.”

      “Yeah, I sense that.” Mick let his gaze wander the oversized foyer they were standing in. Marble tiles glistened beneath his feet, a crystal chandelier hung overhead and a large round table took center stage. A vase of red roses added color, but did little to soften the museum-like feel of the place. It was a far cry from the comfortable, lived-in Queen Anne he’d grown up in, or the well-worn Cape Cod he now owned. A far cry from what he imagined Portia’s home looked like.

      He stepped into the drawing room behind her, watched as she sat on a wide velvet ottoman in a corner of the room. She could have taken a seat on the couch next to her twin and Delia, a rocking chair between the chairs Bianca and Juliet were seated in, the loveseat where her father and his newest girlfriend sat or the wing-backed chair that matched the ones Miranda and Winnie were in. Instead, she’d taken a place just on the edge of the circle created by her family, her shoulders tense as if ready to do battle. Interesting.

      “Good. We’re all finally here. Let’s get this over with. Alannah and I have plans for this evening.” Ronald’s voice whipped out, filled with impatience, and Mick turned to the older man.

      “This won’t take long, Mr. Blanchard.”

      Ronald shrugged, his black eyes giving away nothing of what he felt. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell us why you’re here. You said something about a private investigator?”

      “As I told you earlier, Garrett McGraw was killed two weeks ago. I’m investigating his death.”

      “And?”

      “He was murdered.” Mick kept his voice even and his tone neutral. He wasn’t here to make accusations. Yet.

      “So my daughters told me, but I don’t see what that has to do with my family.” He was lying. Mick could see it in the subtle shifting of his eyes, the quick glance he shot Bianca’s way.

      “I have reason to believe Mr. McGraw had business dealings with one of your daughters.”

      “Any dealings he had with my family are private, Detective.”

      “They might have been before Garrett’s murder. Now things have changed.”

      “I’m afraid we’re going to have to agree to disagree.” Ronald stood, his obsidian eyes flashing a challenge. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

      “We’ve got nothing to hide, Father.” Bianca cut in, shooting Ronald a look that might have been a warning. “No reason not to tell the detective what we know.”

      When she turned her attention to Mick, she was all business, her expression cool and unperturbed. “I hired Garrett McGraw to find information about our mother. I’m sure you’ve seen the story in the local papers.”

      “I have.”

      She nodded. “Then you know he found evidence that our mother might be alive.”

      “And that some people are claiming her death was an elaborate cover-up, that the family might not have wanted to admit she had mental-health issues. Yes, I know.”

      “Cover-up! What kind of newspapers are you reading?” Ronald’s face reddened, his hands fisting at his sides.

      “Specifically? The one that paid him several thousand dollars for his story.”

      “And you believe that garbage?” Ronald shook his head, apparently disgusted, though Mick was sure he saw fear in the man’s eyes.

      “What I believe is that Garrett McGraw was working for your family. He found information that you might have preferred to keep hidden. Now he’s dead. According to his weekly planner, he was to meet with someone in your family two days before his death. I’m wondering if that meeting took place.”

      “It did. I paid him for the information he’d found.” Bianca spoke quickly, as if afraid her father might say something that disagreed with her account.

      “And he didn’t ask for more?”

      “More money? No. I asked him to continue investigating. He agreed.” Bianca looked puzzled, and Mick was sure she knew nothing of McGraw’s reputation. Most people didn’t. Which was the way McGraw had wanted it and the way Mick felt obligated to keep it.

      “So you had no idea he was planning to sell your family’s story to the tabloids?”

      “Of course not.”

      “If you’re implying that my sister knew what Mr. McGraw planned to do and committed murder to keep him quiet, you’re way off.” Portia spoke up, her voice quiet but firm, her dark eyes staring into his as if she could read whatever motive he might have.

      “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking.”

      “And I’m telling you that Bianca would never commit a crime. I doubt she’s ever even gotten a parking ticket.”

      “I’m not that perfect, Portia.” Bianca smiled at her younger sister, and Mick saw the affection between them. Obviously, it wasn’t Portia’s relationship with her sisters that had her sitting at a distance. So maybe it was her father that she had a problem with. Or his girlfriend.

      “I didn’t say you were perfect. I said you weren’t a murderer.” Portia rose and paced across the room, tiny bells jingling at her wrist as she swept a hand over her hair.

      “My questions are standard. I’m not accusing anyone here of murder.” And if he were, Bianca wouldn’t be the one he’d target with his allegations.

      “If you were, the accusation wouldn’t go far. I was out of town at Westside Medical Center the day Mr. McGraw died. I didn’t hear about his death until I returned home,” Bianca answered.

      “Can I have the phone number to verify that?”

      “Of course.”

      “Did anyone else in the family know Mr. McGraw was working for you?”

      Bianca hesitated, her eyes straying to the chair where Miranda sat. The silence stretched for a moment too long. Then Miranda spoke, her voice calm. “I knew. And I don’t have an alibi. I was here alone the night he died. My father and Aunt Winnie were both at a charity auction.”

      “You don’t need an alibi. No one would ever suspect you of such a horrible thing!” Portia shot Mick a look filled with worry and frustration, but there was nothing he could say to ease her concern. His investigation