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blue eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth snapped shut.
    Embarrassment suffused the apple-cheeked face and the hands that held the document in its cheap black frame fell to her sides, but not before Miranda took in the stubby, unpolished fingernails. These hands, at least, had not been photographed on her husband’s butt.
    “Good morning, Carly.”
    The young woman swallowed and wiped her free hand on her navy skirt. The diploma still dangled from the other. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith. I was expecting . . .”
    “Yes, I know. But Mr. Smith won’t be in today.” She didn’t add the “or ever” that flew to her tongue. “What do you have there?”
    “My college diploma. It took me a while, but I did it.” The blonde raised her chin, along with the document that bore the name of a small commuter college two towns away.
    Carly Tarleton was somewhere in her mid-twenties, and to Miranda’s knowledge was the first of the Tarleton clan to earn a degree of any kind. Several of them had barely made it out of grade school; a few of the men were languishing in prison. The women had a reputation for reproducing, with and without benefit of marriage. If Miranda remembered correctly, Carly had a young daughter and no evidence of a husband.
    “Earning a college degree is a great accomplishment. Congratulations.”
    “Thank you.” Carly looked around the room. “So when will Mr. Smith be back?”
    “I’m not sure. He’s still in China.” She swallowed. “I think he’s moved out of Hong Kong, gone farther, um, inland.”
    Carly’s gaze swung back, interested. “Do you think he’s found any new suppliers?”
    Miranda felt a flash of annoyance that this young woman with her illegitimate child and poorly framed diploma knew more about what her husband might or might not do than she did.
    “I, uh, don’t know.” But she thought it unlikely, unless they were supplying G-strings in Big & Tall Men’s sizes.
    Miranda studied the chunky blonde with the earnest blue eyes. “Did you book Tom’s flight and accommodations for this trip?”
    “Yes.” Carly studied her back. “He was booked from Atlanta to San Francisco and then on to Hong Kong. With a return two nights ago.”
    Miranda looked down at her own fingernails for a moment. “Was anyone traveling with him?”
    Miranda could hear her heart beat in the silence. She forced herself to look up into the appraising blue eyes.
    “Not that I know of,” Carly said. Then she hesitated. “But he could have dealt directly with the airline.”
    “Who do we book through?”
    “The Delta ticket office in Claymore.”
    “Will you get them on the line for me, Carly? And please tell Helen St. James I want to see the latest financial statements along with all our receivables and pertinent client files immediately.”
    Surprise washed over Carly’s face. She opened her mouth then closed it. With a nod, she turned and left the office, closing the door softly behind her.
    Two minutes later Miranda was talking to the agent who had booked Tom’s flights.
    “I booked him through San Francisco just like I always do,” the woman said.
    “Yes, yes, and I know he was very happy with the flight.” Miranda coughed. “Um, did you book just the one ticket?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Was he traveling alone?” Miranda was prepared to describe the woman’s manicure if necessary, but she never got the opportunity.
    “Who is this?”
    “This is Miranda Smith. His wife.”
    What followed was a really dead silence, which Miranda hastened to fill.
    “What if you just tell me whether you sold the seat next to him to anyone else.”
    The woman did silence better than anyone Miranda had ever encountered. If keeping quiet were an Olympic sport, this woman would be taking home the gold.
    “Right, then.” Miranda chose another tack. “Can you tell me if the seat next to him was occupied at all?”
    “No.”
    “How about telling me whether he actually
used
his ticket to Hong