Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  I found myself alone, abandoned by Deming and ignored by the locals. It was fine, nothing that another cocktail couldn’t fix. That’s when my plan failed. As I reached for a glass, an explosion of fur upended the tray. A martini plopped in my lap as Ibsen wagged his doggy way into the room, grinning sheepishly.

  “Here. Let me help.” Meeka’s companion, the man I’d dubbed the “swarthy stranger,” leapt to my aid, armed with an oversized linen napkin. He corralled Ibsen and gently guided the big dog toward the door while I soaked the cloth with Perrier and mopped my dress.

  Hmm. Useful as well as decorative. My savior was Deming’s age and height with the broad shoulders of a linebacker and the taut muscles of an Olympic athlete. He rejoined me and extended his hand.

  “Now that we’ve met, I should introduce myself,” he said. “Raylan Smith, police chief.” His large, dark eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Rescuing damsels in distress is one of the best parts of my job. I’m also a crime buff, Ms. Kane. Your mysteries always intrigue me.”

  It was my turn to blush, but Chief Smith didn’t seem to notice. He embarked on a lengthy discussion of my first book, focusing on several of the major plot points.

  “Are you here researching another novel?” he asked. “I’d be glad to answer your questions if I can. I admire anyone with imagination and talent. Unless, of course, he’s a criminal.”

  For some reason, I felt at ease with the man, even though he was a stranger.

  “Actually, I was hoping to speak with you. About Dario.” I scanned the room to ensure that we were alone. “Persus is convinced it wasn’t an accident.”

  Raylan sipped his drink and studied me. “I’m very fond of Mrs. Cantor. She’s a real lady. The old-fashioned kind who treats everyone with respect.”

  I nodded, liking both the comment and the man. “We’re worried about her. Deming—my fiancé—and me. She’s all alone and vulnerable. If Dario was murdered . . .”

  Before Raylan answered, a strong arm snaked around my waist, and Deming materialized at my side. “There you are, my darling.” His eyes connected with the lawman’s, telegraphing a male message about property rights. “We’ve never met,” he said. “Deming Swann. Persus is my great aunt.”

  “Of course. I’ve met your parents several times. I’m sorry about your cousin. He was quite a character.” They shook hands, and it occurred to me that despite their differences, these two were more alike than not. They shared a rare brand of self-assurance based on strength, mental agility, and a whopping dose of testosterone. The room fairly steamed with it. That pleasurable digression made me lose focus and miss most of their discussion. I applied the mental brakes and forced myself to concentrate.

  As the guys swapped memories of Dario, I noticed something. An intricately wrought wolf’s head dangled from a braided silver chain around Raylan’s neck.

  “Something wrong, Ms. Kane?”

  Busted! Chief Raylan Smith had me dead to rights. Deming emitted his dragon stare and inched closer to me.

  I shouldn’t stammer. I’m an accomplished professional and a feminist to boot. After hemming and hawing like a stage-struck ingénue, I got to the point.

  “That’s a beautiful piece of jewelry. Are you Native American, Chief?”

  Deming leapt into the breach. “They prefer the term Native People, Eja. It’s more culturally sensitive.”

  I shot him a sour look. Since when had Deming Swann, Eurasian prince of Boston, become politically correct not to mention sensitive?

  “Either term is fine,” Raylan said with an easy smile. “I’m Wampanoag. Cape Cod lifer. My family has lived around here since before the Pilgrims arrived.”

  That explained the coppery glow of his skin and those devastating cheekbones. It didn’t explain or excuse Deming’s bad behavior, but that was an issue for another time.

  I’d once researched the Wampanoag tribe, and their history had captivated me. This was a rare opportunity to insert a Native American character into my novel and portray him accurately.

  “Well, that beats my family by about 300 years,” I said. “They slipped through Ellis Island in 1892. Steerage.” I’d often heard the family saga about my great-great-grandparents and their journey from the old country. My parents stressed their work ethic and perseverance as a teachable moment for me. Needless to say, whining about schoolwork or chores got me nowhere.

  Krister suddenly appeared at the door and signaled to Pert. I could tell by the anxious look on her face that someone or something was amiss. Breeding and class triumphed however, and promptly at 8:00 p.m., she announced that dinner was served. Good thing. Our little group had munched and crunched through every hors d’oeuvre in sight. Further delays might have imperiled the fine woodwork.

  Pert held her arm out to Deming, while the rest of us paired up. I hoped to continue my discussion with Chief Smith, but it was not to be. Sadly I drew the dour Mordechai Dale as my dinner partner. Meeka claimed Laird Foster, and it was Paloma, the merry widow, who clutched Raylan’s arm.

  “Ms. Kane,” Mordechai intoned, offering me his scrawny elbow. “Charmed.”

  As we marched lockstep into the dining room, I resigned myself to an evening of tedium. Only the prospect of a catfight between Meeka and Paloma offered any hope of diversion.

  Pert’s dining room was an elegant space, ablaze with candles and crowned by a spectacular chandelier and matching candelabras. Baccarat, unless I missed my guess. Even the jingoistic Lars had apparently bowed to the superiority of French crystal.

  We were seated by place cards, which doomed me to a scintillating night with Morde Dale on my right side and Laird on my left. Deming flashed me a snide look that said I deserved my fate. Easy for him: he’d launched a charm offensive that left both Aunt Pert and Meeka all smiles. As Krister wheeled in the soup, our sedate little group got a jolt.

  Merlot Brownne, the picture of unflappability, strolled into the room. She was perfectly coiffed and clad in a luminous silk caftan that caught the candlelight. Before speaking, she stood calmly at the head of the dinner table and surveyed her fellow guests.

  “Forgive my tardiness, Persus. An urgent matter arose.” Her gray eyes darkened, matching the flannel of Morde’s sober suit.

  Laird Foster leapt up with the agility of a much younger man. “Here. Take my seat, Ms. Brownne.” His unctuous grin never faltered even as the psychic looked beyond him.

  “Thank you, but I really can’t stay.” She waved away the chair he offered her.

  Before Laird reacted, Deming glided over, exuding Swann Magic.

  “Nonsense. Dinner has barely started, and I’ve been waiting all evening to meet you. Plus my aunt will be devastated if you leave.”

  “Oh, yes, dear. Please stay.” Persus’s sunny smile was a golden ray among the storm clouds. The sudden appearance of her favorite psychic swept away her prior restlessness. One thing was certain: the unexpected arrival caused dinner chitchat to halt. All eyes were on Merlot Brownne as she took her seat.

  “So sorry to disrupt your dinner.” Merlot paused and turned to her hostess. “I really had no choice. You see, I was speaking with Dario.”

  Chapter Seven

  THE REACTION WAS immediate and volcanic. Pert clutched her throat and lost all color; Laird gasped; and Paloma squealed. Mordechai Dale showed very little emotion, but that didn’t surprise me. He always looked ossified. The coolest cucumbers around, excluding Deming and me, were Meeka Kyle and Raylan Smith. She said nothing, but the sardonic gleam in her eyes spoke volumes. He calmly pushed back his chair and sat on its edge, as if poised to render aid.

  Deming signaled to Krister, and when the wine had been poured he pressed the glass against Pert’s lips.

  “Drink up, Aunty. Just one sip.”

  Pert accepted the drink and smiled tremulously. The color that stained h
er cheeks might have been emotion rather than alcohol. She clutched Merlot’s arm, took several short breaths, and pleaded.

  “Tell us. What did Dario say?”

  The psychic broke Pert’s hold and leaned back in her chair. “It’s a private matter for your ears only, Persus. His words weren’t meant for everyone.”

  “Why not?” Laird asked. “You’re among friends here. Every one of us loved Dario.”

  “Liar!” Paloma’s words cracked like a whip. “You fought with him the day he died. I heard everything.”

  Laird’s smooth veneer of civility cracked around the edges. He recovered quickly and managed a pained smile. “Just a difference of opinion. We parted as friends. If you were there, you know that, Paloma.”

  I made a mental note to quiz Paloma about the incident. She was a dim bulb, but when it came to Dario, her instincts were right on target. As Mrs. Dario Peters, she’d swanned around Bayview, playing the grand lady. Her manner had more Becky Sharp than gentry in it, a fact noted with some asperity by her detractors. Still, Paloma had been a power-player when Dario was alive. Now she was yesterday’s news, pitied rather than reviled by those who bothered to think of her at all.

  Others may have harbored similar thoughts. Meeka raised her eyebrows, and Chief Smith donned his blank, impenetrable cop face. Mordechai Dale looked as dyspeptic as ever.

  “We’d all like to hear from Dario.” Deming’s tone was one inch short of snide. “Enlighten us, Ms. Brownne.”

  After a brisk nod from Pert, Merlot spoke. “I was meditating. Worried about what happened yesterday.”

  Heads swiveled with puzzled expressions, but the psychic ignored them. “Dario confirmed something that Persus already suspected.” She paused for dramatic effect. “He said that one of you murdered him.”

  This time, silence spoke more eloquently than noise. I locked eyes with Deming and scanned the faces around us. Reactions ran the gamut from puzzled to petulant, but nowhere did I see guilt.

  Mordechai Dale finally recalled his legal training. He wagged a bony finger at Merlot and made like a lawyer. “Listen here, Ms. Brownne. This commonwealth has severe penalties for defamation. I warn you . . .”

  “Oh, stuff it, Morde.” Laird leaned forward, his whitened knuckles gripping the chair’s carved walnut arms. “Let’s hear her out. I for one have nothing to fear.”

  “And I do? Watch yourself, Laird, unless you’re up for a slander suit.”

  I expected steam to spew from Mordechai’s tufted ears. It didn’t happen, but the thought was comforting in a way. At least some blood flowed through those patrician veins.

  “Laird! Morde! Stop this, please.” Pert rose and put her arm around the psychic. “Such poor manners! It’s ungentlemanly.”

  Both men lowered their eyes like truant schoolboys. Persus Cantor never raised her voice, but her condemnation rang in our ears. Poor manners at a dinner party! There was no more egregious crime. Excluding murder, of course.

  “Did Dario furnish specifics?” Deming asked. “Any details that Chief Smith might need?”

  This time it was Merlot who averted her eyes. “Dario just said that it was someone close to him.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “A friend or family member. He didn’t say which.”

  She was lying. I knew that as surely as I knew Deming’s shoe size. Merlot Brownne hadn’t fabricated the entire tale. No sir. There were threads of truth in what she said, strands of fact, entwined with enough speculation to rattle a murderer’s cage. A prelude to blackmail, perhaps, or something else? It was a dangerous game, one that could easily turn deadly. That didn’t deter Merlot one bit. A woman who regularly bilked the bereaved wouldn’t shrink at the chance for a big payoff.

  Pert trembled as she faced her friend. “Oh, Merlot,” she sobbed. “I’m so frightened for you.”

  THE GATHERING WENT downhill from there. Merlot’s performance robbed everyone of an appetite for perfectly grilled tuna or polite conversation. Fortunately, I managed to book a coffee klatch with Meeka and a conference with Raylan Smith for the next day. The rest of Pert’s guests slunk off as soon as they decently could, leaving only Merlot to join us in the living room for a postprandial brandy from Lars’ excellent cellar.

  Paloma curled up in a wing chair, legs folded beneath her, lips pressed firmly together. She studied Merlot warily through eyes that radiated suspicion.

  “Why would my husband contact you? You didn’t even know him.”

  Merlot leaned back against the velvet Recamier, took a healthy sip of brandy, and ignored her. “This is heavenly, Persus. Armagnac, isn’t it?”

  Aunt Pert glowed at the opportunity to mention her beloved husband. “Yes, Lars adored Gelas Armagnac. His wine merchant was an absolute wizard about finding it. This is vintage. It was bottled the year that Lars and I first met, over sixty years ago.» Pert closed her eyes and smiled. “It is very special.”

  I did some quick math and gasped. Good Lord! Lars was quite the cradle robber. Persus couldn’t have been more than fifteen when they met.

  Deming cocked his head to one side. “You were just a baby, Aunty.”

  Pert flushed. “I was fifteen when I met Lars. He was older. Almost twenty, but that didn’t matter. Love at first sight, that’s what it was.” She giggled at the frozen look on my face. “Oh, don’t worry, Eja. We waited three years. The day I turned eighteen, we were married and never apart until he passed.”

  Paloma made a rude noise that startled us all. She crouched as if waiting to pounce on our psychic guest. “Answer my question, Miss High and Mighty. How did you know Dario?”

  “I met him through his grandmother.” Merlot’s tone was minimally pleasant, as if good breeding imposed a heavy burden. “His aura was strong. Such a life force, virile and energetic.”

  “What did he tell you about me? I have a right to know. I’m his wife.”

  Typical Paloma. Forget the social graces. Even in death, everything was about her.

  “Hmm,” Merlot said. “Let me think. You must understand that spirits are very independent. Dario . . . well, he knew his own mind. He focused on his grandmother, worried about her.”

  “Whatever for?” Pert asked. “That dear, sweet boy needn’t have bothered about me.”

  Deming gave his symphony wave. It was a peremptory flick of his fingers, suitable for conducting the Boston Pops or dismissing the peasantry. “Hold on. Dario told you he was murdered. Or did I get that wrong?”

  Merlot nodded.

  “Okay. Who did it?” Deming relished the occasional star turn as a prosecutor even though he practiced corporate law. He’d overdosed on courtroom dramas in his youth.

  “That’s just it,” Merlot said. “Dario faded out. He said they did it. Set the mantrap, then attacked him after he fell.”

  I was thankful for Merlot’s tact. Persus would collapse if she’d heard Cheech Saenz’s version of events. The vision of a killer bashing in Dario’s skull would have haunted his loving grandma to her grave. As it was, Persus leaned back on the loveseat, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “Chief Smith seems intelligent,” I said. “You’ve shared your theory with him, I presume.”

  Merlot’s fleeting smile mixed condescension with contempt. “Not at all. We understand each other, you see. His mother was a shaman. The Wampanoag are very spiritual people, but he is a cop. That trumps everything.” Her eyes darted to Deming. “Strange. Raylan seemed quite taken with Eja. He’s usually reticent around strangers.”

  I met her glance and summoned my “aw shucks” grin. “Really? That’s flattering. He’s a mystery buff who likes my books.”

  “Eja has so many admirers,” Pert gushed. “Beautiful women with brains are irresistible to most men. Right, Demmy?”

  Deming nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve learned to sleep w
ith one eye open when I’m with her.”

  “Meeka Kyle was interesting,” I said, turning to Merlot. “What’s your take on her?”

  The psychic smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her silken gown and shrugged. “Another brainy woman. Bayview is full of them, it seems. Meeka was keen on Dario’s plans for the town. Especially the community bike program. They always had their heads together discussing it.”

  “She studied Urban Planning, you know. Even got her doctorate. Dario and I flew to Michigan for her graduation.” Pert beamed at the memory. “Ann Arbor is such a delightful town.”

  Paloma, an alumna of the school of hard knocks, growled something unintelligible and leapt out of her chair. “I’m tired,” she said. Before anyone responded, she swept out the door and disappeared.

  “Oh, dear. I hope I didn’t upset her.” Merlot spoke without a trace of sincerity. She rose gracefully and turned to her hostess. “I’d better leave now. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  “We’ll speak tomorrow,” Persus said. Once again, a conspiratorial look passed between them. I was certain that it hadn’t escaped Deming.

  Some might dismiss Merlot as a small town fraud, but that explanation was too facile. She was shrewd and sophisticated, not someone to be trifled with. Unless I was mistaken, Merlot Brownne didn’t miss much that went on in Bayview. My challenge was to outmaneuver her and find out what she knew.

  As soon as his aunt excused herself, Deming took my hand and led me to the stairwell. “Come along, Ms. Kane. We need to have an attorney-client conference.” He bent down and unfastened the clasp on my necklace.

  “Very becoming, I must say. Fine jewelry suits you.” He lifted my hair and brushed his lips up and down my neck, slowly, sensuously. “Check your biology text, missy. Swanns mate for life. They don’t share what they love. I’m no good at it, especially where you’re concerned. Make sure your new admirer knows that.”