Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  “Oh.” His indignation made me smile. I’d grown accustomed to females fawning over Deming everywhere we went. Turnabout was fair play for once. Truth be told, I was flattered even though Cheech was a giant step down from my fiancé. On the other hand, the bicycle man radiated a type of raw, earthy charm that had a certain appeal. I’d take admiration where I could get it and not complain.

  “Do you really know all that bike stuff? Impressive.”

  He shrugged. “Ah, you know, you pick up the lingo by osmosis. I’m strictly a recreational rider.”

  “Twelve thousand dollars? That’s a lot of recreation.”

  Deming narrowed his eyes. “It’s a conduit to Dario’s world, and besides he’d already paid half the bill. Cheap at the price.” As we rounded a sharp turn, he held out his arm crossing guard style. “Hold on. There’s the cross. Be careful in case that mantrap is still there. You know how often you fall.”

  He was right of course, but I resented it. I’m not the most graceful creature in the world, but I manage to get the job done. I’m a writer, and a pretty damn good one if I do say so myself. Deming’s comment dredged up every ounce of insecurity within me. Suddenly I felt ponderous, more plodding rhino than the saucy temptress I’d been at the bike store.

  Deming kissed my forehead and gave me a vigorous hug. “I didn’t mean anything. I just worry about you. Is that such a crime?”

  His arms felt good, and the faint scent of Creed tickled my nostrils, causing all manner of lustful thoughts to sail through my brain. There were worse fates than being cosseted by a major hottie like Deming. My own insecurity and fear—fear that he’d vanish if he knew how much I cared—gnawed at me like a sick tooth. A shrink once told me that I deserved Deming only if I realized it. Sound advice no doubt but very much a work in progress.

  “Hey, what’s this? You’re not sad, are you?” Deming spun me around until we were eye-level. “Think about what I said. We can fly to Vegas tomorrow and get married. After all, you’ve already had one extravaganza. A big blow-out doesn’t interest me at all.”

  I smiled with patience born of long-suffering. Deming was obsessed by my ill-fated first marriage. That chapter in my life slammed shut a decade ago, and he had absolutely no reason to pick at it. After all, my unlamented ex had dumped me for a sophomore Phys Ed major whose breasts far exceeded her brains.

  He wrapped his arms around me again. “Come on, let’s do this. Look for clues, survey the terrain—all that detective stuff you love. See! Even Cato’s on the case.”

  Cato seemed more intent on fertilizing the ground than playing sleuth. I dutifully captured the refuse in a potty bag and stared at Dario’s memorial. Floral tributes and the ubiquitous stuffed animals ringed the shrine. I read the messages, most of which had been obliterated by the elements. “Miss you,” “Love you forever,” mundane things with kiss-stained lip-prints, nothing even mildly imaginative. Still, someone had cared about Dario, and the same hand had penned them all. Were these tributes from a heartbroken wife? Perhaps Paloma had more depth than I’d credited her with.

  The mantrap, a hole deep enough to gobble either humans or machines, was now spotlighted by a bright orange cone. It was a modest, half-hearted response to the tragedy, a sad case of too little, too late. Bayview had done little else to rectify the situation or the hazards it imposed.

  “Look! Jewelry.” Deming plucked something gold from the ground.

  It was tiny, a lion’s head charm, glittering proudly in the morning sun. I’d seen its cousin only yesterday suspended from a chain around Merlot Brownne’s neck. Not surprising, I reasoned. After all, the poor woman found Dario’s body. Lions had special significance in the occult world, especially the Tarot. They symbolized strength and bravery. Was this a commentary about Dario or a victory lap by Merlot?

  “Well? What do you think?” Deming watched me closely, his eyes radiating suspicion. “You’re hiding something, Eja.”

  “No big deal. It’s just that Merlot wore a similar charm yesterday.”

  He stiffened at the mention of the psychic’s name. “Maybe some of my aunt’s fifty thousand bucks paid for it. I’ll ask this so-called seer if she dares to show her face tonight.” Deming curled his lip in a particularly sexy snarl.

  “Tut, tut. Remember your manners. Aunt Pert dotes on Merlot. Besides, she’ll probably avoid both of us if she has any sense at all.” I touched his cheek and felt a tremor sweep through my body. It was still foreign to me, this mindless, visceral response to a man. Some say it’s a sign of weakness. Let them. I happily shed my inhibitions and basked in the heat of the moment.

  Right on cue, Cato spoiled everything by launching a bid for freedom. His lead flipped upward as the demonic spaniel scampered toward a copse of pitch pines on the far side of the trail. He ignored my pleas and Deming’s stern commands with a practiced air. I finally corralled the little imp when he circled ’round and burrowed into a spot fifty feet from Dario’s memorial.

  “Ugh! Cut it out! It’s disgusting, a nicotine nest. Looks like someone smoked half a pack here.”

  Deming bounded up and toed the pile with his shoe. “These are soggy. Peculiar, isn’t it? This place is drier than the proverbial bone. All kinds of fire alerts up. They made a big thing of it on the news.” His jaw tightened. “Matter of fact, I don’t think Bayview’s had any rain since the night of Dario’s accident.” He gingerly picked up one of the butts and examined it. “Hmm. Our smoker has expensive tastes. Deadly, but exclusive.”

  “What are you saying?” My muscles clenched as I awaited his answer.

  He waited awhile, sifting through that pile of tobacco as if it told a tale. “Easy to see you’re not a smoker.” Deming stroked my hair. “Those are Gitanes, very French, very exclusive. These are the real deal—Brunes.”

  “So what?” I hate it when he gets pedantic. If he weren’t so big, I’d shake him senseless.

  “Gitanes Brunes are the strongest, darkest, and most potent. No many smokers can tolerate the unfiltered kind, but this guy obviously dotes on it.”

  A deep crimson stain on one of the butts caught my attention. Was it lipstick, or a product of my fevered imagination? As I scooped it up, several scraps of paper, secured by shells, fluttered in the breeze. More tributes to Dario but these were penned by a very different hand, and unlike the soggy cigs, they were bone dry. Oddly enough the crimson butt was also dry.

  “What’s the matter?” Deming asked, moving my way. “We’re not archeologists, missy, or forensic scientists, for that matter. I’m sure the police force here is very competent.”

  My absorption was so complete that his words barely registered. I was focused, obsessed, by the scraps of paper in my hand.

  “Look,” I said, handing them to Deming. “These passages are from Shakespeare. Modified, of course, to describe a man.”

  I closed my eyes, striving to recall the origin of each, repeating the phrases until they leapt out, vivid and heart wrenching.

  “One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun never saw his match since the world begun.” I’d done my senior thesis on “Love and Agony in Shakespeare.” This was obviously adapted from Romeo and Juliet. Adapted by a loving, literate person who ached for Dario Peters. I had more difficulty with the second one. It stayed at the recesses of my mind, lingering there, tantalizing me beyond endurance.

  “Eja, for Christ’s sake, snap out of it! Are you in a trance or what?” Deming, the sensible lawyer, had little patience for poetry or inspired prose. He gathered the cigarette butts and put them into a small plastic baggy.

  My eyes snapped open, and with it came the answer. Of course. Both passages were from Anthony and Cleopatra, an underrated triumph of the Bard. “He wears the rose of youth upon him.” How appropriate to describe Dario, that eternal juvenile.

  The words that followed had a more mil
itant ring, almost a promise of retribution. “None but Dario should conquer Dario.” The parallels between Dario and the valiant Mark Antony were a bit strained, but the message was clear. Someone who loved Dario believed he had been murdered and intended to do something about it.

  “These quotes are different from the others,” I said. “Shakespeare versus bubble gum patter.”

  Deming shrugged and examined the crimson stained remnant. “One other thing, Sherlock. This cigarette is different from the others too. Filtered.” He held it to his nose and inhaled. “Menthol, too, if my olfactory senses are still intact.”

  “Most women smoke menthols,” I added. “This person came here after Dario’s death and left these tributes.”

  Neither one of us mentioned the obvious: someone might have been stalking Dario, waiting for him to take his nightly ride on the path. Someone who smoked pricey French smokes. Someone who wanted him dead.

  I BARELY RECALLED our trip back to Brokind. My mind was muddled, filled to overflowing with dark thoughts of Dario peddling to his death on a lonely Cape Cod trail, while an evildoer sucked cancer sticks. It was weird. None of my close friends smoked anymore. Even on television, cigarettes were the preserve of the villainous and the damned. Surely that alone would make the killer stand out in an upscale enclave like Bayview.

  “Hey, we’re back.” Deming reached over and patted my shoulder. “Come on, sleepyhead, tonight’s the dinner party. Just think—a menu filled with potential suspects. That should perk you up!”

  I’d been dozing, woolgathering as my mother used to say. For all we knew, Dario’s death might still have been an accident. After all, even a methodical, determined killer couldn’t count on Dario hitting that mantrap. Another cyclist might easily have been injured instead. Maybe some crazed killer was on the loose, and Dario was a random victim. I envisioned the headlines: Bayview basher strikes again!

  Pert had been vague about the police report as she always was when she was trying to obfuscate. I made a mental note to check with the Barnstable authorities the next day, while Deming filed Dario’s will for probate. We hadn’t discussed it, but I supposed that Dario had a sizable estate. According to Deming, Lars Cantor had trussed up his own holdings tighter than a hangman’s noose. Still, Pert’s inheritance plus bequests to Dario must have been staggering.

  Like many wealthy people, the Swanns were tightlipped about finances. Anika described her aunt’s situation as comfortable. Deming just shrugged. Unless I was mistaken, Paloma the widow would never have to serve another cocktail. Cheech Saenz was right on the money: she stood to inherit a bundle!

  Chapter Six

  “I HAVE A SURPRISE for you,” Deming said. “Come on, guess what it is.”

  He was hiding something behind his back, giving me a Huck Finn grin that really didn’t suit him. Innocence is quite foreign to my sizzling sweetie although he aced Duplicity 101 in law school. He rarely tries it and seldom succeeds. I didn’t have the heart to tease him, so I played along.

  “How many guesses do I get?” I edged closer, making a mad grab for the package. Deming’s reflexes are far faster than mine. He pivoted, executing a deft paso doble just in time.

  “Hey! You cheater!” He held the parcel high above him, well beyond my wingspan. That didn’t deter me. I do plucky better than anyone. I leapt at that treat like a SeaWorld porpoise angling for fish.

  “Okay, you win.” Deming thrust the package at me. “I saw this in a shop window yesterday, and it reminded me of you.” His slow, easy smile showcased a fetching chin cleft. “I figured you’d need something special for dinner tonight.”

  Gifts are magical but embarrassing too. Some women instinctively manufacture the squeals and groans of pleasure that gift givers expect. I fail miserably at it even when the magnificence of the offering takes my breath away.

  “May I open it?”

  Deming sighed and ruffled my curls. “Go ahead. I hope it’s the right size.”

  He was joking. I found that out after tearing headlong into the beautifully wrapped parcel. When I spied the contents, I had no problem reacting.

  “It’s gorgeous! Exquisite! Oh my goodness, where did you find this?” The delicate multi-hued necklace was crafted to resemble the petals of a flower. I recognized strands of platinum and gold dusted with diamonds and precious stones. The effect was at once elegant and incredibly subtle.

  He shrugged. “There’s a goldsmith on 6A whose work I like. He does custom pieces.”

  “But it’s too much,” I protested, praying that he’d ignore me.

  Deming scooped the necklace into a velvet pouch and kissed my cheek. “Get used to it, kiddo. I can afford it. Now let’s get ready for Aunty’s party.”

  THAT EVENING, Persus Cantor showed that she too knew a few tricks about jewelry. The neckline of her simple blue gown was festooned with a sparking garland of diamonds and pearls that brightened her skin and enlivened her pale blue eyes. As for the diamonds—they really were a girl’s best friend.

  “You look beautiful, Eja,” Pert said. “Red is absolutely your color. And that necklace! Isn’t it some of Ross’s work?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You always could spot the good stuff.” Deming bent down and whispered in my ear. “She’s right, of course. You’re quite a knockout, Ms. Kane.”

  A grown woman has no right to blush when she gets a compliment. Nevertheless, that’s what I did. Would my febrile quest for approval ever end? Probably not. I resolved to give myself a stern lecture at the earliest opportunity. Some day soon.

  I wasn’t the only one who looked spiffy. Tuxedos burnish the image of every male, but Deming Swann, gorgeous since birth, was off the charts. He had that long, lean, and lethal look all sewed up, and he quaked my soul to its core. I suppressed the urge to lose control and strip him naked. It would be unseemly, a vulgar display from a gently raised female and alumna of Brown University. It was also impracticable in a room soon to be filled with guests.

  Deming scooped up Pert and twirled her around. “What’s the matter? I’m all dressed up too. Don’t I look beautiful, Aunty? You’ll hurt my feelings if you’re not careful.”

  “You are a rogue, Deming Swann,” Pert said. “As if you need an old woman’s compliments to boost your ego. Put me down. Our company’s almost here.” She turned to me. “He’s imitating Lars. These big men always let you know how strong they are, don’t they, Eja?”

  I have nothing against big, strong men. In fact, the sight of sculpted muscles turns me to mush. Pert was probably right. I knew for a fact that Deming hadn’t learned that move from his own father. Elegant Bolin Swann playing caveman—no way!

  “Boys,” Pert gushed. “So silly. Demmy and Dario started this nonsense when they were teenagers.” She bit her lip as if those sweet memories now tasted of wormwood and gall. Her voice dropped, becoming more dirge than chatter. “Those were happy times for us.”

  Deming hugged his aunt and gently placed her on the ground as a pall descended upon us. We walked silently, single file, to the salon looking more like mourners than merrymakers.

  MY PARENTS’ HOME didn’t have a salon. To us, salons were the spot for a shampoo and set. A living room suited our communal needs although the one in our modest Cape could have been tucked quite comfortably into a corner of Pert’s palatial residence. Despite my Trotskyite upbringing, I had to admit that unbridled wealth was less of a hardship than I’d imagined. Apparently our dinner companions agreed. They seemed perfectly at home in the lap of luxury, sipping cocktails and nibbling canapés furnished by the ever-vigilant Krister.

  After greeting everyone, I glossed over Paloma, Mordechai Dale, and Laird Foster and focused on the newcomers. They stood apart from the others, engrossed in heated conversation. The female had to be Meeka Kyle; I had no idea who her companion was.

  Meeka was a stunner, that’s for sure. She was
tall for a woman, closer to Deming’s height than my own, with braided black hair and beautiful café au lait skin. As Meeka turned to greet us, her full lips curved into a smile. “Quite an eclectic group you’ve assembled, Persus. Should be a lively evening.”

  “Oh, Meeka, I’m so glad you were free. I did so want you to meet my nephew and his lovely fiancée.” Pert waved her arm toward us. “Deming Swann and Eja Kane. Deming is Anika’s son, and Eja is a famous mystery writer.”

  Meeka arched her brow slightly at the word famous, but who could blame her. Eja Kane was not exactly a household name. Not yet, anyway. Her eyelids flickered as she did a subtle appraisal of Deming. Like most women, she seemed pleased by what she saw.

  “Ms. Kyle.” Deming nodded politely. “I’m surprised we’ve never met before. Aunt Persus says you virtually run this town.”

  A becoming flush stained his aunt’s cheeks, giving her the look of an ingénue. “Oh, Demmy, you’re such a tease. Meeka worked closely with Dario, you know. He respected her judgment. We all do.”

  I stole a glance at Paloma. She’d abandoned any pretense of wearing widow’s weeds, opting instead for the look of a downscale cabaret artist. Her eyes, alight with malice as she beamed a death ray toward Meeka, suggested that the Widow Peters had a very sharp axe to grind. It was also evident that when measured against the urbane Ms. Kyle, Paloma came up short on everything except her skirt.

  “I heard tales about you from Dario,” Meeka said, giving Deming an eye roll. “I was at Wellesley while you two were raising Cain in Bayview. Glad I missed it.” She winked and pivoted my way. “Tell me about your writing, Eja. I’m a voracious reader.”

  We spent a few minutes chatting idly about the sad state of the publishing industry and the demise of independent bookstores. Although she was courteous, it was plain that Meeka’s attention was elsewhere. She angled her shapely body sideways, never losing sight of Paloma. At the first opportunity, Meeka excused herself and stalked out of the room like a woman on a mission.