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slow circle, seeking other changes, and froze when she noticed the painting above the mantel. Her hard-won self-control faltered and a knot of anxiety settled in the pit of her stomach. That spot should have been filled with a rather stern-looking likeness of Elmira Torrence. Now it contained the portrait of a young, attractive blonde with amber eyes, delicate facial features, and a figure remarkably similar to that of the plaster statue.
    The soft sound of wood brushing against wood made Diana turn towards the pocket doors that led from the dining room. The woman in the portrait stepped through.
    "Mrs. Spaulding?" she inquired in a soft, pleasantly-modulated voice. Barely five feet tall, she was what gentlemen called a "pocket Venus." Her small, shapely form was clad all in black, her skirt and waist trimmed with folds of English crepe, but a cluster of yellow ringlets tumbled around her face, brushing against pink-tinged cheeks.
    "I am Diana Spaulding," Diana agreed, "but I'm afraid you have the advantage of me."
    "I am Miranda Torrence," the young woman said. Silk swished as she approached. She was, at most, a year or two older than Diana. "Mrs. William Torrence."
    "M-m-mrs. Torrence?" Diana felt the color drain out of her face. The possibility that her father had remarried had never occurred to her, in spite of Senator Tabor and his "Baby" Doe, let alone that he'd have brought his new bride to live in Elmira Torrence's house.
    "I didn't know," she stammered. "I expected . . . someone else."
    "Elmira, I suppose?" Even with an expression of extreme vexation on her face, Miranda Torrence managed to look attractive.
    "Er, yes."
    "Elmira Torrence left this house four years ago when William divorced her and married me."
    Diana heard what Miranda said, but it made no sense to her. Her father had sued for divorce? But that meant he must have charged her mother with adultery. Impossible!
    Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Just who are you, Mrs. Spaulding?"
    Diana had to swallow several times before she could speak. "I told your maid. William Torrence was my father."
    "That girl!" Exasperated, Miranda planted her hands on her hips and glared at Diana. "One cannot find well-trained servants these days. She should have known not to let you in."
    "Were you expecting me?"
    "Why should I be?"
    "Because my father died?"
    Miranda waved a dismissive hand. "He'd cut you off. Years ago. The lawyers told me so."
    "The lawyers did?"
    Tiny frown lines formed around her mouth. "William never spoke of you, except to warn me once that strangers tend to come out of the woodwork any time there's an inheritance to be claimed. It doesn't matter. You don't get a thing. He may once have intended to leave you something, but he didn't. I get it all. Every penny. I've seen the will."
    "He kept his promises," Diana murmured. He'd even, it appeared, kept his vow never to speak her name again. She suppressed a sigh. "I have no claim on his fortune, nor do I want one. As you say, Father disowned me years ago. I only came to this house because I thought my mother still lived here. Since she plainly does not, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where to find her?"
    "If I knew that I'd be a happy woman! She killed William. Murdered him in cold blood."
    "No. That's not possible." Diana took a step closer, desperate to convince the other woman that she must be wrong.
    Miranda's eyes filled with sudden fear. "Stay away from me," she warned, and reached up to yank on the bell-pull used to summon servants.
    Surprised by Miranda's reaction, Diana wasn't sure whether to apologize or pursue the advantage it gave her and try to appear even more threatening. With a sigh, she backed off. "Just tell me where to find my mother and I'll leave."
    "I'll tell you where she ought to be. She belongs in jail, but she got away from that fool of a police chief."
    "She's . . . she's a fugitive?"
    "The U. S. Marshals are looking for her." Miranda jerked on the bell pull a second time,