Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  “Laird Foster,” the man said, extending his hand. “I was just on my way to see Pert. Head up to the house and leave your car in the driveway. The houseman will handle everything.” He loped away at a pace that belied his age.

  “Pretty spry, isn’t he? Think he’s Aunt Pert’s beau?”

  “Beau! For Christ’s sake, Eja, that’s obscene. Persus is almost eighty!”

  I shrugged and pinched his cheeks. “You’re on notice, buster. Age is no barrier to steamy sex. Be prepared.”

  “Humph!” Deming grunted, but his eyes brightened at the prospect. “Bad enough my parents act like teenagers.”

  Bolin and Anika Swann were the best examples of wedded bliss that I’d ever seen. Their emotional and physical intimacy raised my hopes for the future. Our future. Their son was embarrassed; I was envious.

  As we drove up the winding lane, Deming fumed. “Pretty pushy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Eja, keep up! That geezer—acted like he owns the place.”

  I shrugged without reminding him that when it came to most things, he was the king of pushy. It was easier to concentrate on the beautifully landscaped hedges, stonework, and gardens that captured my imagination. Pert’s holdings must fatten the coffers of half the landscapers on the Cape! We drove past a secluded alcove on the far side of the property where I glimpsed a stone monument surrounded by a black wrought iron fence.

  “Ooh, a cemetery. How weird is that?”

  Deming shifted into supercilious mode. “Not at all. People with means frequently choose private burial sites. Uncle Lars is buried in that crypt along with his dog Gunnar. Dario too.”

  We’d attended Dario’s memorial service in Boston, but Persus insisted on a private, “no fuss” interment at her estate. Only Anika, Bolin, Paloma, and the ubiquitous Merlot Brownne were invited.

  “What’s the deal with that anyway?” I asked. “Is this psychic a family member now? Surely Dario’s friends would have paid their respects. It’s sad having such a small gathering.” I closed my eyes, thinking of CeCe’s very private ceremony. Half of Boston would have gladly attended her funeral if only to ingratiate themselves with the Swanns. CeCe’s parents accommodated her many friends by hosting an elegant celebration of her life. Final farewells were restricted to the handful of us who truly loved her.

  Deming parked the Porsche in the flagstone driveway and hopped out. “Aunt Pert feels one of those townspeople probably murdered her grandson. Said it would make a mockery of Dario’s service to entertain his murderer.”

  While Deming wrestled with our luggage, I hoisted Cato out of the car and took him for a brief comfort stop. Aunt Pert had never replaced her beloved Gunnar, but I knew she had pets of some kind. I’d have to watch Cato’s every move if cats were on the prowl. He’d already had several unfortunate encounters with felines.

  “Oh, darlings, you’re here!” Persus stretched out her arms like a child and enveloped me in a hug. “Don’t carry those things, Deming. Krister is on his way. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Krister, a dignified septuagenarian with cropped blond-grey hair, was the Swedish equivalent of Po. He’d served the Cantor family since Lars made his first million and had chosen never to leave.

  He appeared on cue, meticulously dressed in white livery and accompanied by a humongous canine. Cato sized up the competition and immediately retreated behind my legs.

  “Who is this?” I asked as the pony-sized dog approached, wagging his bushy tail. I knew immediately that he was a Leonberger, one of the rare giant breeds. “He’s gorgeous!”

  Krister issued a brisk command that stopped him in his tracks. “This is Ibsen.”

  “Ah,” Deming said. “I forgot about Ibsen.” He turned to me. “He was Dario’s dog. I figured he’d be with Paloma.”

  Persus sighed. “No, poor girl. She’s too overwhelmed to deal with him. You understand.”

  I strongly suspected that Paloma was selfish, not overwhelmed. “May I pet him?” I asked, approaching the giant with my palm upturned. “I love animals.”

  Cato growled his opinion of traitors and skulked into the bushes, thoroughly cowed.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Deming said. “This beast weighs as much as I do.”

  Persus lasered in on him with her radiant smile. “Your tea is ready, Demmy. I’ve got cream cakes.” She linked arms with both of us as Krister juggled the dogs and luggage. “I know how you young people are. You probably want to freshen up and unpack. Krister will take you upstairs. Then we’ll have our refreshments and make plans.”

  “Now, Aunt Pert.” Deming fought a losing battle. “Don’t you have a visitor?”

  “Laird’s busy upstairs, but I understand, dear. You’re the professional. Don’t worry. I won’t interfere one bit. After all, murder is your bailiwick.”

  Deming sputtered helplessly all the way into the house.

  Chapter Three

  AFTERNOON TEA WAS a formal affair in the Cantor household, so I spent time primping. Krister showed us to beautifully appointed bedrooms with en suite baths, deposited luggage, and dispensed with Cato.

  “Separate rooms,” Deming groused. “Quaint.” His scowl had the effect of hiking my thermostat to the stratosphere. Maybe it was those dark brows crashing over angry hazel eyes, or the superbly toned muscles in his forearms. Deming was a long, lean panther, dangerous and waiting to pounce. I was his hapless but willing victim.

  “She’s nearly eighty for heaven’s sake. Give Pert a break.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Besides, think how much fun you’ll have sneaking into my room each night. Krister will die!”

  Deming harrumphed. “Don’t joke like that. At his age he could pop off at any time.” He peered into a gilt mirror and adjusted the soft folds of his jacket. His sister had often joked that Narcissus had kissed him in the cradle. Deming wasn’t vain—not really—but he had a healthy regard for his appearance. I on the other hand am no fashion plate. A quick touch of lip gloss and flick of a comb through my curly locks satisfied my needs for primping.

  “Remember, we’re not here to encourage Pert’s fantasies. We’ll listen politely and head back to Boston as soon as we can.” Deming shuddered. “This place always gave me the creeps, even as a kid.”

  “Really?” I said. “I think it’s charming. Very atmospheric. Enough material for five gothic novels.”

  He curled his lip in a semi-sneer. “Forget it. This is familial duty—period. Don’t go running off on some crusade about Dario. Nothing extraordinary here unless you count the fortune teller, and I don’t.”

  Unlike Deming, I had a different agenda with Merlot Brownne. Whatever powers she possessed or claimed to have, the psychic had a powerful hold on Pert. Deming branded all psychics, mediums and fellow travelers as charlatans, but I remained neutral. If Merlot knew anything about Dario or his death, I wanted a chance to interrogate her. After all, both Anika and Persus were counting on us.

  “You’re daydreaming, Eja.” Deming herded me out the door and down the corridor. “We won’t sit around the table long. Think up some excuse.”

  A door in the turret room creaked, emitting a sliver of light. I elbowed Deming and nodded toward the room. “Hush. Someone’s watching us.”

  Deming narrowed his eyes, enveloping me in a bone-crushing hug. “Let’s put on a show. Can’t disappoint.”

  I tried to stop him, but it took some time. He’s so much stronger than I am.

  By the time we reached the sunroom, I managed to subdue my passions and breathe normally. We tiptoed in, murmured an apology, and quietly took our places.

  Pert sat at the head of the table surrounded on each side by admirers. On her right, Laird Foster oozed oleaginous charm as he listened raptly to every word. I recoiled from him despite his handsom
e face and amiable air. He was polite, presentable, and up to no good. I sensed a cold, hard chill at his core. After all, Persus Cantor was a tempting target, a mega-rich widow made vulnerable by her recent loss. Laird Foster didn’t look like a gigolo, but who could say?

  I accepted a steaming cup of Earl Grey and studied the stranger across from me. He was a man of middle years whose stiff, unyielding posture was disturbingly corpse-like. From the crisp cut of his three-piece suit, I surmised that he was a lawyer, banker, or bureaucrat. The term “hanging judge” also came to mind, for he was a humorless fellow who never cracked a smile.

  “Forgive me, Eja,” Persus said. “This is Mordechai Dale, a dear friend of mine. He and Dario were in business together or planned to be.” Her eyes grew moist and she turned away.

  “I understand you write,” he said in sepulchral tones, as if pronouncing a death sentence. He stared at me with unblinking eyes of faded blue, awaiting my response.

  I nodded. “And you?”

  “Attorney. Corporate.” Mordechai was a man of few words. He was also cautious. I could tell that by the way he sipped his tea in slow, measured steps.

  Persus patted his arm. “Oh, Morde—so modest. He’s the engine that drives all of Bayview, Eja. Our parks, conservation lands, bike trails . . .” Her voice faltered as if recalling Dario’s accident. “Why, he’s been wooing me for years, not for me but for my land.”

  “I lead Bayview’s Conservation Trust,” Dale admitted. “We have quite an aggressive program. Focus on the future, you see.”

  Laird Foster’s smile grew sickly like a man fighting a long battle with dyspepsia. “I’m still head of the pack, Pert. Think of the happiness you could bring to some deserving families.”

  Deming’s eyes narrowed just before the fireworks started.

  “You’re a land developer, aren’t you, Foster? Funny. I never considered that a charitable endeavor.” Deming Swann, Esquire was in full battle mode.

  A honking sound like the call of a mating moose split the air. Mordechai Dale was laughing. Guffawing actually. “That’s telling him, Swann. Laird thinks that building ten more mini-mansions will solve Bayview’s problems. His idea of good works.”

  Just as hostilities escalated, Paloma Peters slithered into the room, folding gracefully into the chair next to Deming. Truth will out: that girl knew how to make an entrance. I would have tumbled on those strappy six-inch stilettos, but Paloma pulled it off quite gracefully. Her fashion sense was less successful. Although her thigh-high skirt was black, the fishnet hosiery screamed trollop, not grieving widow. She coiled around Deming like the serpent in the garden—lithe, limber, and lethal. He didn’t fight her. In fact, he seemed pleased at his good fortune. I studied the design on the flocked silk wallpaper and gave myself a mental pep talk. Before we’d gotten together, Deming had been the scourge of East Coast beauties from Long Island to Palm Beach. Despite everything, he loved me. An engagement ring didn’t magically erase a wandering eye or provide guarantees, but he chose me. He was no eunuch—far from it. Let him look as long as he didn’t touch.

  “Paloma dear, how are you feeling?” Pert gifted her with a gentle smile. “You remember Dem’s fiancée, Eja.”

  Deming got another bosom-crushing hug from Paloma; I was given a limp handshake and a quick backslide into anonymity.

  “He won’t leave me alone,” Paloma whined. “Can’t you make him stop?”

  Pert’s eyes looked blank. “Who, dear?”

  “That beast. The one with the funny name. Dario’s slobbery dog.”

  Now I had another reason to loathe her. Poor Ibsen was grieving for his master, but Paloma was too selfish to care about anyone except herself. Plus, she lied. Ibsen was a Leonberger, and I knew for a fact that they weren’t droolers.

  Paloma stamped her hoof and angled her chair so that her head nearly rested on Deming’s shoulder.

  For one instant, it seemed that even Pert had exhausted her store of goodwill. “Have some tea, dear. You’ll feel better.” Persus flashed a plucky grin and drained her cup. “The Brits sealed those stiff upper lips with tea, you know. Tons of Earl Grey. Works a charm.”

  “Huh,” Paloma sniffed. “It’s boring here without Dario. No one likes me.”

  Even sexy widows become tedious when they sulk. Deming did a quick appraisal and moved his chair my way. “What’s on your agenda today, Aunt Pert? Anything we can do to help?”

  She checked her watch and gave a start. “Oh my goodness! I almost forgot. My appointment with Merlot is today.” Pert’s eyes twinkled. “I especially want both of you to meet her. She’s such a comfort.”

  I watched the eye contact between Mordechai and Laird. Something—a message I couldn’t decipher—passed between them.

  Mordechai spoke first. He cleared his throat as if he were preparing to deliver a sermon. Self-important men love to pontificate, and it maddens me.

  “Now Persus, you know I want only the best for you. But I can’t condone what this . . . this woman . . . does. You’ll only get hurt or worse if you cling to her cockeyed theories. False hope I call it.”

  “I concur, Pert,” Laird said. “She’s a predator. Preys on the bereaved.”

  A shard of steel flashed through Pert’s eyes. She cloaked it with the kind of feminine hooey that had probably bamboozled poor Lars for decades. “You boys are just so sweet. Don’t you worry, Deming and Eja came here to sort things out.”

  Mordechai Dale sputtered. “Writers? What good can writers possibly do?”

  Deming masked his disdain with a charming smile. “Unfortunately, I have no literary talent. I’m only an attorney.” He nudged me. “My fiancée is the sleuth. I just play cleanup.”

  The gulf between Pert’s guests and us rapidly became a chasm. After a few more minutes of small talk, Laird and Mordechai took their leave accompanied by Paloma.

  While Krister cleared the table, Persus leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Forgive them, children. They mean well, but they’re so . . .”

  “Stodgy?” I asked.

  “Well, I was going to say traditional.” She wagged her finger at me. “Anika told me you were shrewd. Brave and smart, too.”

  “Just a minute. I agree she’s all that with one addition—impetuous. Eja almost died stalking my sister’s murderer, and she dragged my mother into it, too!” Deming gave me his Perry Mason stare. “No more.”

  My weapon of choice was silence. I’m normally a chatterbox, so as the occasional weapon, silence serves me well. Works every time.

  “That was in the big city, Demmy. We take care of each other in Bayview.” Persus’s eyes sparkled. “Anika said it was the best therapy around. Avenging her daughter. Danger didn’t bother her one bit.”

  Deming pushed back his chair and threw up his hands. “Fine. Whatever. Just know this: I plan to stick to both of you like Gorilla Glue. Understood?”

  “Lovely,” Pert said.

  FOR A PSYCHIC nubie like me, dress code was a puzzle. Deming was no help at all, and Aunt Pert told me to wear something that reflected my aura! I opted for a black on black outfit festooned with a gauzy scarf that lent an air of mystery. Upon reflection it resembled a Gasparilla Day costume more than a serious attempt to project my inner core. The unheralded fashionista in me shrugged and gave up.

  Deming followed his aunt’s lead by choosing routine preppy gear. In deference to the occasion, he combed his thick black hair straight back, donned aviator shades and a hoop earring. The effect was stunning enough to quake my nether parts.

  “You’ll relax immediately,” Persus said. “Merlot treats everyone like family.”

  I elbowed Deming before he said something rude.

  “She must be something special if you’re so fond of her,” I said. “Is it okay to ask questions?”

  Pert lit up like t
he Hall of Mirrors. “Of course! Oh, I knew you’d understand. She’s so clever, even the name of her place is magical. Another World. That’s what Merlot calls it.”

  “Maybe I should skip this,” Deming said. “You know, prowl around the local hangouts.”

  “Yeah, you’ll blend right in,” I said. “Lose the earring for heaven’s sake, or they’ll lock you up.”

  He pinched my cheek and loped off before I reminded him of his pledge. So much for Gorilla Glue!

  Pert and I locked eyes and shrugged.

  “Poor boy, he feels uncomfortable. Most men distrust the supernatural. Don’t scold him, Eja. You know how sensitive he is.”

  Sensitive, my foot! Deming Swann was often pushy and frequently arrogant with testosterone levels that were off the chart! Little wonder he roiled my passions and made my blood boil. I pinched myself to banish the insecurity that gnawed at me. I couldn’t believe that a man like Deming would ever love me. It was irrational. I knew that. Like most women I focused like a laser on my every flaw. Men—especially ones like Deming—were shielded from that malady.

  “Oh, he adores you, Eja. So sweet.” Persus smiled, sunny side up, and patted her hair. “You mustn’t worry. In some ways Deming reminds me of my Lars, pumped full of energy like a racehorse.” She sighed. “That intensity comes in handy at times. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I was dumbfounded, unable to frame a suitable reply. Pert’s vivid imagery made me ready to sprint, longing to be at the starting gate right then! It also painted a bold portrait of her conjugal joy with Lars.

  DEMING’S DESERTION turned out to be a blessing. My plans for Merlot Brownne required subtle but deft interrogation. I’d have much more luck quizzing her if I were alone. Scoffing lawyers tend to stifle the flow of conversation. Besides, Deming was a Bayview regular. He might pick up useful information by smoozing with old cronies.

  After some debate, we decided to walk the mile or so to the center of town. Pert was a firm believer in the healing powers of exercise, and I was too cowardly to challenge her. By the time we reached our destination, a foot massage seemed more desirable to me than a séance.