Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  He checked the door and pressed the lock. “I don’t want unexpected visitors hearing this. It’s messy. Okay. Dario was universally disliked by the townies, at least the ones brave enough to discuss him. Apparently, he made no secret of his plans to ‘modernize’ Bayview and change its backward ways. You can imagine how that rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, especially the environmental set.”

  Hmm. I’d always considered Dario more dilettante than doer. Crusades require energy and strategic skills, but despite his many financial advantages, Dario was no intellectual. In fact, he was a rather dim bulb who’d gotten into the Ivy Leagues as a legacy. Test scores were meaningless when compared with family pedigree and old money.

  “Are you saying that Dario hatched some grandiose scheme on his own? That doesn’t sound like him.” My inner skeptic reared her pointy head. Dario was an idea guy, a dreamer who never followed through on anything. Execution simply wasn’t his thing. He was on to the next project as soon as his enthusiasm waned.

  Deming shrugged. “You probably don’t know the whole story, and Aunt Pert glosses over it. Dario was a hellion as a teenager and not much better as an adult. All kinds of scrapes from brawls to speeding to forged checks. Fortunately for Dario, Persus bailed him out of everything. Lars would have let him rot.”

  “Really?” My portrait of the deceased grew some warts. No wonder the locals gave mixed reviews about Dario. His attraction to Paloma also made more sense. “Maybe this cycling stuff straightened him out. It sounds wholesome enough.”

  Deming rolled his eyes as if it was unlikely. “We’ll pursue it tomorrow if the weather cooperates. I got some leads today.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Deming loves exercise. He’s an inveterate gym rat with the lean, lithe body to prove it. Unfortunately he’s also a zealot, Savonarola in spandex, anxiously seeking converts. I approach exercise reluctantly, doing the bare minimum to stave off flab. In my view, sweat is vastly overrated. Let Deming wax eloquent about endorphins. They’ve never paid me a single visit.

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked warily.

  “Bayview is full of nature trails. Trails that we’ll explore, just as Dario did.” Deming was a cagy lawyer who knew just how to bait a trap. “We might even rent bikes. Take in the sea air. It’ll be good for us.”

  “Suppose it rains?”

  His long, lazy grin kicked my hormones into overdrive. “Then we’ll just have to improvise.”

  SUNSHINE SUFFUSED every crevice of Bayview that next day, adding the prospect of fresh air and sweat to my dance card. We gathered at the breakfast table, Pert living up to her name in a crisp linen frock, Deming, wearing a navy jogging suit that hugged his manly parts, and Paloma, giving new meaning to the art of being Paloma. I’d done my best by donning a cashmere twin-set and pair of faded jeans. Next to Paloma, I looked like the prim village school marm in a ’50s sitcom.

  “Did you sleep well?” Persus asked, her voice as bright as the sky above. “Sea air is so bracing.”

  I studied my plate, avoiding Paloma’s probing stare. I’d slept well, but sea air had little to do with it. Sheltered by Deming’s arms, I’d slumbered blissfully until he’d awakened me with a warm caress and some vigorous calisthenics. With those benefits, any woman would sign on to the Swann exercise program.

  “First rate, Aunt Pert.” Deming’s response didn’t fool anyone. It was guilt-laden and several shades too hearty, a byproduct of some twisted Scandinavian ethic. Sexual shenanigans always affected him that way.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Paloma?” Persus asked. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

  Paloma stared straight ahead and sipped her tea. “Last night was awful. I had nightmares, and Dario reached out to me.” She shivered. “Besides. I don’t want to get fat.”

  “Not much danger of that,” Deming said. “We’re going out to burn off some calories if you want to join us.”

  Paloma shot him a look oozing with guile. “No, no. I have my yoga class today. Some other time. I’ll show you some sights you’ve never seen before.”

  I considered decking her, but Deming shrugged it off. He’d spent a lifetime spurning unwanted advances from women. To him it was the norm—no big deal.

  “Have you made your wedding plans yet, children?” Pert’s lips trembled.

  “If it were up to me, we’d fly to Vegas today,” Deming said. “Eja and my parents have other ideas.”

  “I know it’s old-fashioned, but Brokind has seen lots of weddings. Dario and Paloma used it. Why, your parents had their ceremony right on the front lawn, Demmy. Five hundred guests! It’s available if you’re interested. I’d be delighted.” Pert’s eyes filled, and she dabbed them with her handkerchief.

  “That’s very generous of you,” I said. “Let me discuss it with Anika.” I rather liked the idea of a Cape Cod wedding, but Deming loathed Bayview in general and the Cantor estate in particular. The prospects for a seaside wedding were remote.

  He pushed back his chair and touched my hand. “Thanks for breakfast. It’s time Eja and I got going.”

  “Don’t forget,” Persus said. We’re having guests for dinner tonight. Meeka Kyle, Laird, and Morde. And of course, Merlot if she feels up to it.”

  “Who is Meeka Kyle?” Deming asked. “That name’s new to me.”

  Paloma surprised us all by sneering. “Just some nosey rich bitch with her hand in everything. She gave Dario fits. Wouldn’t leave him alone for a second. Thinks she knows it all too.”

  Pert flashed her patient smile. “You know how he was. Dario wanted everything yesterday. Forbearance was never his strong suit, especially when he had a project. So high spirited, even as a boy.”

  “Meeka is a town official?” Deming asked.

  “She’s the mainstay of almost everything.” Pert smiled. “Her family has lived here forever. Why, the zoning council never makes a move unless Meeka okays it. She was away at school when you used to visit.”

  “Sounds like a lively group,” Deming said, taking my hand. “We’ll look forward to it. Can we drop you somewhere, Aunt Pert?”

  “No thanks, dear. Don’t bother. Krister can take me to the bank.”

  I’m no clairvoyant, but something clicked in my mind. I knew with certainty that Pert’s trip to the bank was linked to Merlot Brownne and yesterday’s séance. Deming or even Bolin might have a way to access Pert’s bank records and verify my suspicions. Then again, maybe the easiest way was simply to ask.

  After Paloma flounced out of the room, I saw my chance. Persus Cantor wouldn’t lie, and she had asked for my help. Insisted on it, actually. She owed me an honest answer.

  “Merlot seemed upset yesterday,” I said. “Money troubles, I bet.”

  Persus cocked her head and stayed silent; Deming swiveled around and stared.

  “Eja, what the . . .?”

  “That’s okay, Demmy. I have nothing to hide. Of course, I help out Merlot. She provides a service, and I pay for her expertise. Things are difficult for her now, so I’m helping her out.” Pert’s shoulders stiffened, and her speech became more formal. “There’s nothing nefarious about it, Eja. It’s a business proposition. Plus, Merlot is my friend.”

  “How much has this service cost you?” Deming asked, his voice a silky purr.

  Pert paused. “Oh, let me think. About fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Fifty thousand!” Deming’s roar startled both of us.

  I gasped at the psychic’s audacity and the pure meanness of defrauding a grieving grandmother.

  “Don’t worry,” Pert said with a tight smile. “It’s a loan. Mostly. Just to tide her over.”

  “She signed a promissory note, I suppose.” Deming returned his evil genie to the lamp, and his voice grew preternaturally calm. He’d tried this tactic with me, and it never w
orked. A scheming lawyer is as obvious as a rampaging bull elephant. Still, it was interesting to observe, especially since it gave me the chance to ogle his perfect profile and obscenely taut abs.

  “Kindness between friends is just that, Deming. I refuse to reduce it to a mound of paper. I know you mean well.” Pert’s eyes blazed. Despite her diminutive stature, she seemed ten feet tall as she stared down her nephew.

  “You’re family, Pert, but I’m also your attorney. We should discuss things like this.”

  She waved him off and edged toward the door. “Of course. Some other time. Please excuse me, children. I must find Krister.”

  I forced myself to remain silent until Pert left. Sometimes, Deming Swann, litigator and imperial prince, was hard for even me to take. Pert needed a gentle touch, not an inquisition. Bolin would have instinctively realized that.

  “What’s wrong?” Deming asked. “Come on. Spit it out.”

  “Not your finest hour, Counselor. Remember, Persus used to diaper you.”

  “Phooey!” he said. “Let’s get out of this tomb and work up a sweat.”

  Chapter Five

  BAYVIEW BIKES WAS a ramshackle establishment situated on the fringes of downtown. The complex nestled near the mouth of the bike and nature trails where hikers, cyclists, and tourists could scarcely miss it.

  “Follow my lead,” Deming said. “We’ll get what we want. Dario was one of their best customers and everyone knew him.”

  “Do we have to rent something? I’d rather walk than bike. Besides, what about Cato?”

  He grabbed my hand and nudged me toward the door. “Cato can stay in the car. Stop whining and play along. Some detective you are.”

  We were the only customers on this fine May morning, but the proprietor seemed untroubled. He ignored the door chimes and continued to apply polish to the brass railing. He was mid-thirties, about our age, with the kind of muscular build that required serious exercise.

  Deming was unaccustomed to being ignored. It irked him. He fumed as the rail polisher slowly and methodically completed his task without acknowledging us. When the man finally whirled around, he beamed in on me like a laser.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like the bike business just improved.” He extended his hand and grinned, exposing perfect teeth and twinkling brown eyes. “I’m Charles Saenz. Cheech to my friends. I certainly hope I can help you, miss.” Cheech turned my way, showcasing a fetching pair of dimples. He gestured toward the clothing racks on the left side of the room. The items were skimpy, heavy on spandex, and full of neon shine. I got the unspoken message and so did my beloved.

  Deming glided toward Cheech in a gesture that presaged battle.

  “Deming Swann,” he said, his words spilling out like gunfire. “That’s my fiancée, Eja Kane.” When he acted that way, I half expected him to paw the ground like the stallion he truly was.

  Cheech Saenz nodded dismissively as if Deming were the unwanted third in a tight twosome. He stood half a foot taller than my 5’5” but well under Deming’s height. That didn’t seem to faze him one bit.

  “You’re new around here,” Cheech said. “Trying to grab some fresh sea air, I bet.”

  “We’re staying with my Aunt Persus. You probably know her.” Deming beamed a blistering Swann stare his way.

  “Oh!” Cheech finger-combed his crop of thick brown hair. “Yeah, sure I know her. Dario’s grandma. Man, that was a shame. Dario was a great rider. A real champ.”

  I’m not a coquette, but occasionally I rise to the challenge. I gave Cheech the big-eyed look and said, “Poor Aunt Pert. She’s devastated. Paloma too, of course.”

  He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Paloma. Sure. Course now that she’s rich, she can leave this dump. Move into a big city. Not everyone’s cut out for the quiet life, especially a chick like her. Dario, he never got that. Paloma needs the bright lights.”

  “Rich?” Deming tensed like a predator circling his next meal. “What makes you say that she’s rich?”

  “Rumors, man. Trash talk.” Cheech shrugged it off and gestured toward a rack of bikes. “You in the market to buy or rent today? We got trail bikes, racers . . . the whole magilla. Dario, he was into racing big time. Man, that’s all he lived for.”

  Deming’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed those hunks of shiny metal. Boys and their toys. Age was no barrier to that.

  “I’m partial to Italian models. Like that one.” He pointed toward a sculpted steel creation with sleek lines that even I admired. “What’s that one—Pegoretti or Bianchi?”

  Cheech whistled in either amazement or admiration. “Guess good taste runs in your family, yo. That’s the top of the line—hand made by Pegoretti himself. Dude only makes six freaking bikes a year. Can you believe it?” He shook his head. “Deming Swann. Oh yeah, Dario mentioned you once or twice. He was usually all business around me. No messing with the help, I guess.”

  I know nothing about bicycles. The awesome display of chrome, steel, and rubber made my head spin. If this was Dario’s world he was welcome to it. I just needed to master the basics.

  “How come some of them have fat tires?” I asked, calculating that Cheech would respond to a befuddled female. Deming’s scowl told me he knew exactly what my ploy was and didn’t appreciate it.

  Cheech slapped the fender of a muscular blue bike and grinned. “These here are mountain bikes, Ms. Kane. Big tires. Pros like Dario wouldn’t touch one of these babies.”

  Deming trained his eyes on the Pegoretti. It was his cousin’s legacy, or more accurately his obsession. Was it the key to his murder, too?

  “I’m surprised he wasn’t riding this bike the day he died,” Deming said, stroking the shiny red surface. His mood shifted from combative to nostalgic. “Red, Dario’s favorite color. Even as a kid, he insisted on bright things.”

  “That’s what’s really spooky,” Cheech said. “Your cousin was totally jazzed about this Pegoretti. Never took delivery, though. That mantrap got him the day before they unloaded it.”

  Mantrap? My thoughts immediately went to Paloma. Was Cheech accusing her of murder? My eyes widened at the possibility, and this time, I didn’t have to feign confusion.

  “I don’t understand. Who got Dario?”

  Cheech flashed those perfect teeth again. They made a nice contrast to his honey-colored skin and wavy hair.

  “Nah, Ms. Kane. It’s what not who. Mantrap is just a biking expression for a hole that totally fucks up a rider or his bike.” He blanched at Deming’s frown and apologized. “Excuse the language. No disrespect meant.”

  “None taken.” I thought about it for a moment. “Wouldn’t Dario have avoided that mantrap thing? I mean, he rode these trails a lot, and I presume it was still daylight.”

  Cheech scratched his ear as an odd expression flitted across his face. “If he’d seen it, he would have. Leaves and stuff were covering it. No one would have noticed. Not on a trail you ride every day. I warned him. It was getting dark and that spot was narrow. Dario, he wouldn’t listen to me. Said it was no big deal: he had reflectors and a headlamp too. Always the best of everything. He would have been careful though. The boy was serious, not suicidal.”

  Deming tore himself away from the sensuous Italian machine and made like a lawyer. “You mean Bayview doesn’t groom those trails? That’s a hazard. What about liability?” The prospect of litigation seemed to arouse him as much as our encounter last evening had.

  “Hey man, peace.” Cheech held up his hands. “I’m just jawing. See, I rode that trail the day before, and it was primo. I’m not an expert but still . . . A few death cookies but nothing major.”

  I felt disoriented, as if someone were speaking in a foreign tongue. “Death cookies?”

  “Rocks, Eja.” Deming waved away my protests. “How about letting me try this machin
e out? I used to ride with Dario, and it might suit me.”

  That perked Cheech up immediately. “We’d have to adjust it, you know. You’re lots taller than he was, and this is strictly for racing. These custom jobs are tricky. Dario waited six months for it. Came in every week bitching about it, like I could speed things up. Paid for most of it too.” He waved an invoice our way. The price gave me sticker shock: $12,000.

  “No problem,” Deming said. “Let me put her through her paces. If everything works, I’ll pay the balance.” He held his hand out to me. “Eja and I want to walk that trail. Any idea where it happened?”

  I admired his composure. Deming cloaked his feelings under a bland, impenetrable game face. I knew that his cousin’s death had affected him, but a stranger would have never even guessed. His hazel eyes, that gift from Anika, were clear and emotionless as he studied the trail map.

  “Okay. I think I’ve got it. Those landmarks will be helpful.” Deming put his arm around me, herding me toward the door.

  I stopped and clutched the door handle. “One more question, Mr. Saenz. Who found Dario?”

  Cheech swallowed hard. “That psychic chick, Merlot Brownne. Told everyone his spirit called out to her, but I don’t believe that bunk.” He fiddled with papers on his desk. “She put a cross there in case you get turned around.”

  I STRUGGLED TO keep Cato on track and match Deming’s blistering pace. For some unfathomable reason, he seemed angry and impatient with me. I’d had years of experience with the mercurial Mr. Swann, and my instincts said to ignore him.

  “You certainly made a hit, Ms. Kane. Hope I didn’t cramp your style.”

  “Huh?” Hiking was one of my least favorite pursuits, especially when my companion turned it into an endurance test. Cato strained at his lead, adding to the confusion.

  “That man—Cheech Saenz—practically salivated over you. Spandex indeed!”