Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4)

by Arlene Kay

  I could tell that the discussion had tired Vesna. Her lids drooped, and her speech slowed.

  “You`ve been so generous with your time,” I said. “Thank you.” I reached into my tote and retrieved five of my books. “These are a gift from me. I`d be honored if you would read them.”

  “Thank you,” she said, clutching the scrapbook. “Here. Take this for your research.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I promise to take good care of it.”

  Vesna shook her head. “Return it when you`re finished. It really tells the whole story of Sorrel’s life far better than I could. I have no children, but he was closer to me than any son could ever be.”

  She showed us to the door and kissed both of us goodbye. “At my age,” Vesna said with a wink, “I never turn down the chance to hug a handsome man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “WHAT DO YOU make of that?” Deming asked. “Aunt Vesna is a hot ticket, but she had no use for Sonia, that`s for sure.”

  I moved closer and pinched his cheek. “She had plenty of use for you though, pretty boy.”

  Although women had pursued him all his life, Deming Swann still blushed at the thought. “Ah, come on. Cut it out. She`s just a nice old lady.”

  I checked my iPhone for our next appointment. “It`s all background material anyway. Okay, let`s head downtown. We`re meeting Sonia’s best friend next. Her former best friend from high school, I guess. Branca Enos. She works at a place down by the waterfront. Some kind of restaurant.”

  “Good! I`m starved.” Deming brushed back a wing of thick black hair. “Enos—Portuguese name I think. Not surprising. This area has one of the largest Portuguese populations in the country.”

  “Right you are, smarty pants,” I said. “I think the restaurant is Portuguese too. I love their soups, especially the kale ones.”

  Deming’s chipper mood faded as we approached the churrascaria. The street was down at the heels, I admit, but waterfront places are known for that. It`s part of their seedy charm.

  “Good thing I came with you,” he muttered. “This place is a crime in the making.”

  Fortunately, the sun was bright and the streets were filled with couples, families, and only a smattering of louts. Best of all, a parking space right in front of the restaurant opened up.

  “There. You can watch over your baby,” I teased. “Besides, their rotisserie chicken is famous. Boston Magazine raved about it.”

  Deming harrumphed, but his interest was piqued. When we opened the door, the heavenly aroma that wafted out totally captivated him.

  `Things are looking up,” he murmured, inhaling deeply.

  It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dark interior. I was reminded of a grotto more than a restaurant, but judging by the merry crowd of patrons, the churrascaria was the real deal.

  “Watch yourself, Eja. You`re accident prone.” Deming clutched my arm and guided me down a hidden step.

  When the hostess appeared, I sensed that she was on the lookout for us. Admittedly the nametag “Branca” was another clue.

  “Ms. Kane?” Her smile was as toasty warm as the room temperature.

  “Hi. This is my husband Deming Swann.”

  Branca’s smile never faltered as her dark, dancing eyes surveyed my husband from stem to his particularly toothsome stern.

  “Welcome, both of you. Please, follow me. I`ve got a booth in the back where we can talk.”

  Branca was about the same age as Sonia and me, but hard work and long hours had taken their toll. Her dark hair was lifeless, and her complexion showed more than a few wrinkles, especially around the eyes. Some of them were laugh lines, but most were probably attributable to tough times. Despite everything there was an air of joy and contentment about Branca that Sonia had never shown.

  Deming positioned himself at the end of the booth and consulted the menu. “Is everything I`ve heard about your chicken true?”

  “Absolutely. Specialty of the house. Let me place your order.” Branca looked my way. “How about you, Ms. Kane?”

  “Eja, please.” I ignored my deep desire for poultry and made the prudent choice. “I`ll try the vegetarian Kale soup. Sounds delicious.”

  “Good choice. I`ll just be a minute.” Branca slipped out to the kitchen without missing a beat.

  Deming cleared his throat. “Well. First impressions?”

  “Seems like a nice lady.”

  He nodded. “You take the lead while I eat. That way you won`t grab my lunch.” Deming knew me all too well. I have the appetite of a stevedore and the metabolism of a snail. Just looking at food piles on the calories. He, on the other hand, has an insatiable appetite for food and other sensory pleasures. Judging by his trim body, Deming has never paid the price for overindulgence.

  “Back again,” Branca said as she slid in beside me. “You want to discuss Sonia, right?”

  “You and she were best friends. Tell me about her.”

  Some of Branca’s joy ebbed as she considered her answer. “We were close in high school. Very close.” She shrugged. “Not so much since then. Sonia was destined for bigger things. She went straight to college, but I stayed around here, got married. You know the whole kids and family routine.”

  Deming leaned forward. “Doesn`t sound like you have any regrets.”

  “Not really.” Branca reached into her pocket for her phone and tapped the photo icon. “These are my kids. The joy of my life.” She shared images of a handsome preteen lad and a pretty child in ballet attire. “I wouldn`t trade them for two college degrees.”

  She turned sideways, using the phone as a shield. It was a futile gesture, both defiant and poignant. Obviously at some level Branca resented Sonia’s success as if it reflected poorly on her own choices. Schadenfreude.

  “Sonia was a great student, I suppose?”

  “Not particularly. Look, you met her. Male teachers in high school panted over her. Sonia got As for just showing up. The rest of us had to struggle.”

  I wanted to probe, to ask the big question but couldn`t figure out how to do so tactfully. Branca might clam up if I got too personal. It took Deming to explore that issue.

  “We poor males don`t have a chance against girls like that,” he said with a laugh. “Grading on the `curves` we called it.”

  Branca nodded. “I must sound terrible, but it`s all true. Sonia scraped by without cracking a book. Sorrel wrote her papers for her. We all knew that.”

  I suddenly went on alert. “But she was a talented writer, at least when she got to University.”

  Her bottom lip quivered. “People change. Believe it or not, I planned to go to college too. Be a teacher.”

  “What happened?” Deming asked.

  “Life and a faulty condom. I dropped out my senior year and got married.” Her cheeks flushed. “No regrets. The marriage was a bust, but I got my kids out of it.” Branca met my eye. “I got my GED eventually, and I`m taking classes at Umass-Dartmouth. I`ll be a teacher some day. Wait and see.”

  Deming’s smile made her relax. “Sounds like you`ve got a plan. I admire strong, determined women. Eja’s just like that. Sonia too, wouldn`t you say?”

  Branca tensed. “Something happened during our senior year right before I dropped out. Another girl was ahead of Sonia for valedictorian, and it made Sonia crazy. Someone sent an anonymous letter to the principal, saying that this girl cheated. They disqualified her, and Sonia won.”

  “Sonia did that?” I tried to hide the shock in my voice.

  She shrugged. “There was no proof, but Sonia was the only one to benefit. I`ve always believed that she did it.”

  Deming’s hazel eyes brimmed with sympathy. That stare was hard to resist, and Branca’s eyes filled as she turned away.

  I patted her hand. “Yo
u were that girl, weren`t you, Branca?”

  “It was my one chance to get out of here,” she sobbed. “Sonia got the prize and the scholarship. The rest is history.”

  At that moment our food arrived, giving her time to regroup. Deming ignored both of us as he inhaled half a chicken, mounds of rice, and the restaurant`s special sauce. From the moans and groans he made, I assumed that it tasted fine. Orgasmic. My kale soup was tasty too and very filling. Enough said.

  As we were leaving, Branca handed me a bag of chicken scraps for Cato.

  “The little fellow might need a snack on the way home,” she said.

  Naturally, that thoughtful act cemented my good feelings about her. Deming frowned but maintained a stiff upper lip until we exited the restaurant. He insisted that Cato eat his treat outside to avoid the inevitable grease stains on the precious Porsche carpet. For once we were in complete accord.

  “I was thinking,” I said, as we exited downtown New Bedford and sped up the highway ramp.

  “That usually means trouble. Okay, let me have it.” A grin snaked up the side of his face.

  “The Swann Foundation sponsors scholarships, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Wouldn`t it make sense to award one to someone in Sonia’s hometown? A woman with the grit and ambition we`re trying to encourage. Someone interested in public service.”

  This time his grin came full circle. “Have anyone in mind, Mrs. Swann?”

  “I was thinking of a full ride—tuition, books, and a living expense stipend. Enough to allow the recipient to stop working and go full-time. Naturally we would call it the Sonia Reyes Grant.”

  “Naturally.”

  Deming pulled over to the curb and threw his arms around me. “You know, I considered the same thing. Funny how we think alike sometimes.”

  “Besides, we need dedicated teachers,” I said. “I`m sure Sonia would approve.”

  I SPENT THAT evening analyzing the information I had gathered. Sonia was a mass of contradictions—that much was clear. She aroused strong emotions in almost everyone she encountered. Duff and Nadia adored her; Paskert feared her; and Gabriel and Sorrel loved her. On the other hand, Melanie, Zarina, and Branca despised her. Even Aunt Vesna was firmly in the enemy camp. I believed that the answer lay in the character of Sonia, a complex woman who yearned for fame and played a deadly game.

  Anika added another perspective. I phoned her as soon as we returned and gave her a quick summary of our findings. She listened carefully to Keegan’s reaction and my description of Aunt Vesna and Branca. When I mentioned the scholarship, she cheered.

  “Absolutely, Eja. What a wonderful idea. It`s one of the privileges of great wealth, you know. Helping to transform lives. I`ll speak with Bolin right away.”

  That was typical Anika, always respectful of her husband even though anything she suggested was fine with him.

  “I`m really conflicted about Sonia,” I said. “Frankly, she was a bitch, and I refuse to present her as some kind of saint just to sell the book. It`s true crime, not a novel. No HEA ending for this one.”

  Anika sighed. “Happily ever after rarely happens. For what it`s worth, Bolin and I have met most of the movers and shakers in this country and elsewhere. That duality of character you mentioned—they all have it to some degree. The drive that allows them to achieve great things takes a toll elsewhere. Perhaps you`re being a tad idealistic, Eja.”

  She was right—Anika usually was. Trying to force-fit my own notions of propriety on Sonia was a mistake. And yet . . .?

  “Bolin’s not that way,” I cried. “He`s the kindest, most considerate man I know other than Deming.”

  Anika paused. “I can`t argue with that, but remember—Bolin built one of the country`s great fortunes by brains and hard work. That doesn`t just happen. Climbing the ladder leaves others behind and inevitably leads to resentment. Even Bolin has his detractors.”

  I gave that a lot of thought. Gabriel had ample reason to be jealous of Sonia and the means and opportunity to spike her throat spray or bop her on the head. She toyed with his heart, beat him at his own game, and surpassed him professionally. He wasn`t used to that.

  Even though he had thrust me into Sonia’s messy life, Gabriel was the last person I could ask for an objective assessment of her intellectual gifts. For that, I had to rely on her immediate supervisor, Fess Paskert. I found his card and sent him an email asking for some time on Monday to discuss Sonia’s professional status.

  I had never abandoned a project midway, but this saga might become the first. Unless Sonia’s murder was solved, which seemed unlikely, there wasn`t much point in continuing. All I had gotten for my pains was the portrait of a ruthless woman who clawed her way through the academic jungle and paid for it with her life.

  Duff Ryder’s character was even more elusive. Her friends praised Duff’s loyalty, ethical standards, and tenacity, worthy but essentially boring qualities. That was hardly enough to inspire more than a paragraph in a book unless I found a link between Duff’s death and Sonia’s murder. Initially I believed that one had led to the other, but now I was less certain. Beneath his surliness, even Keegan seemed clueless and dispirited.

  Rather than brood, I joined Deming for a cozy night around the fireplace watching television. As in all things we compromised. First up was his choice of a PBS episode of Frontline, followed by my personal fav, an episode of Sherlock, the most recent variant of the Holmes legacy. The dour detective’s brilliant mind and uncanny observations have always fascinated me. Tonight I yearned for inspiration but settled for pure entertainment.

  “You`re hot for Holmes,” Deming said, giving me the fish eye. “Should I be jealous?”

  I brushed my lips over his and whispered. “Hmm. With a deerstalker and cape you`d be a dead ringer for him. Dark, brooding, hopelessly intellectual. Good qualities in a man, especially a husband.”

  “I`m leaving for Manhattan on Monday,” he said. “That gives you two whole days of freedom. Should I be worried?”

  I`m hopeless as a coquette, and my sex appeal is largely limited to words on the printed page. Still, I gamely played the vamp by fluttering my eyelashes and licking my lips. Predictably, the strategy backfired. Deming’s deep bellowing laughter ended in a paroxysm of coughing that shook the couch and spilled me onto the floor.

  After picking me up, he pulled me close saying, “Maybe you should help me pack my clothes.”

  “Why so early? You`re not leaving until Monday.”

  “It might take a while. Turn off the lights.”

  “What about Cato?” I asked. “He has to go out.”

  “Not a problem.” He rang the concierge, requesting that someone give our little devil a nice long walk. “Now, any other obstacles?”

  “I can`t think of any.”

  “Good,” Deming said. “Hand over the little monster and meet me in the bedroom.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  FESS PASKERT WAS unavailable. He made that clear in a return email that was brief to the point of curtness. That made me very curious. Why would the old codger avoid me unless he was hiding something? Surely it was nothing personal.

  My response was sweeter than honey. I suggested two other days and mentioned that Mrs. Anika Swann would also accompany me. It was a craven but effective strategy that produced results. Within the hour he agreed to a Tuesday afternoon meeting.

  With Deming gone, I spent Monday puttering aimlessly about the house, trying to strategize. Cato had other ideas and made them abundantly clear. I harnessed him, grabbed his gear, and asked myself why I succumbed to his every whim. Such weakness didn`t bode well for impending motherhood. I envisioned obstreperous baby cygnets ruling the Swann roost and racking up jail time in the process—a nightmare, not a dream.

  After our first lap around the Common, my
iPhone rang. Frankly the interruption was welcome. Cato sets a lively pace that exhausts those of us not inclined to vigorous exercise. I plopped down on an unoccupied bench and listened.

  “Eja! You`re out of breath. Hope I didn`t interrupt something personal.” Only Gabriel Mann could leer over the phone. It`s his special gift.

  “Nope. Just getting my morning exercise. How can I help you?”

  “I need a favor.” Glib as ever, Gabriel sounded confident of the outcome.

  “What is it? You`ve used up your favor quotient for the century.”

  His cheerfulness irritated me, but I played along anyhow. Gabriel interpreted silence as consent.

  “Ha, ha. You were always a card, Eja. That`s why I thought of you for this.”

  My patience had stretched to the breaking point. “For God’s sake, Gabriel, spit it out! I`m busy.”

  Cato was tired of delays too. He launched into his macho act, lunging at passersby and generally playing the fool.

  Gabriel cleared his throat. “You`ve heard of Story Club Boston, I presume? I`m one of the sponsors.”

  I feigned disinterest. Story Club was an offshoot of Improv Boston, a trendy Cambridge product frequented by literary hipsters. Although I had never gone there I knew it mixed open mic, live theatre, and quirky stories told in eight-minute chunks.

  “Congratulations. I`m hanging up, Gabriel.”

  “Wait! We mix amateurs with professional writers for eight-minute segments. It`s really cool! Good publicity, too. You know, noblesse oblige. Published authors extending a hand to the great unwashed.”

  “Sorry. I gave at the office.”

  No one ever accused Gabriel of being a quitter. He was persistent if nothing else.

  “Ah, come on. The gang from Concord University will all be there. You`ll have fun. What`s one evening out of your schedule? I`ll bet Deming would like it.”