Page 97 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"Dash?" Miranda opened the door, clearly surprised. "I didn't hear the gate. Did Cecil let you in?"

"The gate’s wide open. You might want to have Cecil check it."

"What are these?" She smiled at the bouquet. "It's not my birthday. And you brought barbeque too? Is there a party happening that I don’t know about?"

"Can't a man bring a beautiful woman flowers for no reason?" Dash asked. “And I’m starving. Thought y’all might be too.”

"Come on in, hon. Cecil's watching TV."

"Actually, I'm here to see you."

She eyed him, curious. "Is that so? It must be really important. Showing up here unannounced with some of my favorites …"

"Maybe I missed you."

"Maybe you're a terrible liar, but I’m glad you’re feeling better. Let me find a vase for those and then we can sit down and you can tell me the real reason you're here."

Dash followed her into their enormous kitchen, stopping along the way to pet their two Golden Retrievers, Ace and Flash. Miranda artfully arranged the stems into a beautiful crystal vase and placed it right in the center of the island. She grabbed a bottle of what she knew to be Dash's favorite beer along with a Diet Coke for herself from the fridge and motioned for him to follow.

The dogs followed them out onto the patio. Miranda stretched out on a chaise and Dash pulled a chair up beside her. They popped the tops of their drinks at the same time and tapped them together in a wordless toast. Dash started in on a sliced brisket sandwich. Miranda reached into her pocket and pulled out a slim silver case, one which Dash knew contained a single cigarette and a skinny lighter. Miranda's one guilty pleasure, one that she and Cecil had argued over for years. They'd tried everything to get her to quit, finally conceding with one smoke a day.

"Those will kill you, you know." He took the lighter and lit the end for her.

"Not unless the aspartame in this diet drink kills me first."

"Have you always been this hard-headed?"

"I'm not hard-headed. I'm unyielding and determined," she said, flexing the muscle in her left arm.

"I rest my case." He took a long pull on his beer.

They enjoyed the quiet for several minutes, Dash noshing his food while Miranda relaxed beneath a halo of smoke.

"When did you get back from Nashville?” she asked.

“Just now.”

“Interesting. So, Mr. Benning, to what do I owe this most unexpected but clearly urgent appearance?"

Dash swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. He studied the label of his bottle for a moment before locking eyes with her. "Well, I've been giving it some thought, and I'd really like to take piano lessons from you."

"Piano lessons?" She gave him a hard look. "You drove all the way over here, bearing flowers and smoked meats to ask for piano lessons?"

"Pretty perfect, huh? How can you possibly say no?"

"Why?" she asked, her tone filled with suspicion.

He thought for a moment. "As humans, shouldn't we be in a constant state of self-improvement? To embrace new endeavors, explore our artistic side, and venture outside our comfort zone?"

Miranda held his gaze for several seconds, letting his words sink in. "That's the biggest load of horseshit I've ever heard, but I’ll play along for now. Follow me.”

Dash followed her into what he considered the best room in their stately home: the conservatory. Cecil had surprised his wife with a complete renovation many years before, converting several rooms into Miranda's own private miniature Carnegie Hall. She sat down at her prized Steinway and dove headfirst into a demonic piece—part war hymn, part funeral march. Dash leaned against the entrance to her musical lair and watched her play. Her expression tensed as she concentrated on note after forceful note. She played for a couple of minutes before stopping abruptly. The space fell silent and she turned to him with a satisfied look.

"What the hell was that?" Dash asked.

"Shostakovich."

" Shostawhovitch?"