by Arlene Kay
Deming and I locked eyes. I envisioned those butts surrounding the mantrap, and I knew that the same memory was troubling him.
“No one smokes much anymore,” Pert said. “At least, most of my friends don’t. I’m afraid that’s not much help, Chief.”
Raylan rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “On the contrary, ma’am. That’s very helpful indeed. I’ll let you rest now, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Deming leapt up and bolted out the door close on the heels of the police chief.
“Poor Demmy,” Pert said. “So solicitous. He’ll always take good care of you and your whole family. Such a fine boy.” She dimpled. “Sometimes I forget that he’s a grown man. I’d always hoped that Dario would be more like Demmy. Less self-absorbed, more loving. It was my fault, of course. Lars was so stern, but I indulged the boy, tried to compensate for his loss.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “When my daughter died, it devastated all of us. That’s something a child never truly recovers from, Eja. Losing his mother.” Tears streamed down Pert’s face. “And a mother never stops grieving for her child.”
I turned away before my own tears reached flood stage. My mother had passed five years before. Even though I’d been an adult, I still felt bereft. I would always feel that ache.
“Was he happy with Paloma?” I asked. “She always seems mad at the world, like she has some score to settle. Maybe she just misses him.”
Persus tilted her head to one side and smiled. “You won’t believe this, I’m sure, but Paloma loved my grandson. Passionately. Her life was a fairy tale. You know, impoverished girl whisked away by the charming prince. Then it all vanished and she feels cheated. Understandable, I guess.”
Money. Maybe it all came down to filthy lucre. Without Deming breathing down my neck, I felt emboldened. Time for some straight talk with Aunt Pert.
“She’ll be a wealthy woman now, won’t she? I presume that Dario left her well provided for.”
Pert’s laugh had a musical sound more befitting a girl than a senior citizen. “Forgive me, Eja, it’s just that humor is the antidote to grief, or so I’m told. Paloma will be provided for, of course, but she won’t be wealthy.” A shard of steel poked through the girlishness. “I’ve arranged a lifetime annuity for her, more than she could ever earn, of course, but not enough to tempt anyone. She’ll receive a six-figure income, dispensed through my attorney. Deming Swann.”
My jaw dropped, but somehow I managed to recover. My next question straddled the line between curious and nosey.
“Deming couldn’t tell me this, but I hope you will. It may help us find out who murdered Dario. There’s no polite way to ask, so here it is. With Dario gone, who inherits your estate?”
Persus Cantor had iron self-control, and her poker face could shame a cardsharp. “You’re everything Anika promised and more, my dear, a shot in the arm for an old lady. I should have discussed this with you straight away. I meant to, especially with Demmy here. I’m so old-fashioned. A real fuddy-duddy at times when it comes to money.”
“Did someone mention my name, or is this girl talk?” Deming appeared in the doorway like a spectral image.
“Sit down, dear. You’re always welcome.” Pert offered her cheek for a kiss.
“We’re discussing your favorite subject,” I said. “Money.”
He raised one eyebrow and perched on the foot of the bed. “Okay.”
“Dario was my heir as I think you know,” Pert said. “I have substantial holdings that would have been his—stocks, bonds, investments, those kinds of things. My Lars was an excellent businessman. There was just one stipulation: he loved Brokind and wanted to preserve it intact.” She flushed. “Dario and I disagreed about that. You know how impetuous he could be. He had such big plans.”
I swallowed my guilt for reminding a grieving grandma of her loss. Remorse had no place in what might well be a life or death discussion.
Persus brushed away a tear and continued. “At Deming’s suggestion, I amended my will when Dario passed and placed my estate in the Swann Family Trust. Just a temporary measure until we sort things out.”
“Wow!” My comment was concise if not elegant. Today’s incident—attack—proved the need to secure Pert’s assets.
“It makes sense,” Deming said. “When Dad and Mother arrive we can discuss other options for Aunt Persus to consider.”
I couldn’t dispute the wisdom of his actions, just the adequacy. Protecting her assets was smart; safeguarding her life was essential. I tried to broach the subject delicately, but Deming saw right through me.
“If you hadn’t changed things, would Paloma have inherited?”
Deming frowned. “Unlikely. She’s not a blood relation, and since Dario pre-deceased Aunt Pert, my mother is next in line. Not that she needs more money.”
I heaved a big sigh. “Not everyone would know that. Persus might be a tempting target.”
“And your point is?” Deming’s hazel eyes flashed a warning that I ignored.
“My point, attorney Swann, is that we need to make a preemptive strike. Let Pert’s nearest and dearest know about her will.”
Persus sat up, twisting the bedcovers into a tortured knot. “Must we? It’s so ill-bred to discuss money, even among friends.”
“Manners, be damned. It just might save your life.” My vehemence surprised even me. Still, Persus had deputized us, and that conferred some rights. At least I hoped so.
“She’s right, Aunty. Don’t worry. We can be subtle, just sprinkle our conversations with it. Very judiciously.” Deming walked over to me and hugged my neck. “Anything else, Sherlock?”
“One thing.” I leaned toward Persus. “Who’s the biggest gossip in town?”
She shrugged, unwilling to damn her fellow citizens.
“I’d start with Laird Foster,” Deming said. “He chatters about everything, especially when money’s involved. Then we’ll move on to the other players. My parents can help.” He gave me the evil eye. “You know how Mom loves those stunts you pull.”
“But Demmy,” Pert begged. “Shouldn’t we consult Chief Smith first?”
The look on my beloved’s face was priceless. “Not a word to him, Aunty, or anyone else. As of now they’re all suspects.”
IT WAS ALMOST midnight when I eased into my comfy Brokind bed. Krister drove me back in the station wagon even though the Porsche was right there in the parking lot. Meanwhile, Deming ignored Pert’s protests, propped himself up in the only comfortable chair, and stretched out for a night of guard duty.
“No way will I let her stay here alone,” he said. “Tomorrow she’ll be back at that mausoleum, with plenty of us to watch over her.”
As I snuggled under the covers, a stray thought assailed me. I’d crossed the Rubicon today. No longer did I ask “if” Dario had been murdered. The question now was “why” and “by whom.”
I’M NOT A MORNING person, even when I try my best. The following day, sunlight mounted a frontal assault on my bedroom, overwhelming my pitiful defenses and energizing Cato. In deference to the Swanns, I succumbed to Cato’s whining, leapt into the shower, and fussed with my appearance. The results pleased me, modest though they were. My hair and makeup looked passable; my floral frock showed a hint of style, and my mind was razor sharp. All things considered, today I scored a comfortable 6.5 on the beauty index.
Cato and Ibsen brokered a fragile truce that allowed me to exercise them without risking life or limb. Ibsen loped gracefully over the paths to the ocean with Cato trotting gamely at his heels. Brokind’s manicured twenty-six acres were a canine paradise filled with twisty trails, mature plantings, and the occasional hare. The dogs reveled in it, but I was indifferent, too obsessed by death to enjoy life in the verdant beauty.
My instincts said that Pert’s oceanside acres were the catalyst for murder and th
at Dario’s cycling plans were only a sideshow. Money was a simple motive as common as love and hate and equally deadly. Too simple. Dario was a complex man spinning a tangled web of relationships. Somewhere in those silky threads lay the motive for murder.
A glimpse of flying fur scrambled my thoughts as Ibsen and Cato sped toward home. I tried to keep pace but failed miserably. Unlike Deming, I’m athletically challenged, willing but maladroit. As I lurched through the clearing gasping for breath, I spied the unmistakable outline of Bolin’s car in the driveway. “Car” is an inadequate description of a Bentley Mulsanne. The proper term is “grand touring sedan,” and that steel grey contraption had every bell and whistle imaginable. It didn’t awe me, quite the opposite. Despite its sky-high price tag, I thought the Bentley was stodgy and ho hum. Not what I would have chosen if price were not an issue.
Neither of those adjectives applied to its owners. Bolin Swann, that glorious triumph of Eurasian genes, stood patiently with his arm around Anika as Cato and Ibsen pummeled them with damp paws and doggy drool.
“I thought you’d be somewhere in the vicinity,” Anika said. “You and Cato are a package deal, Eja.”
“More’s the pity,” I said. “Want to go inside? I don’t think they’re back from the hospital yet, but they’ll be along soon. Deming wanted Aunt Pert to get one last checkup.”
Anika patted her chignon and grinned. “Good. We’ll have a chance to plot our next move without Dem’s interference. My son can be awfully stuffy at times. Tell me everything,” Anika said. “What’s going on here?”
Chapter Eleven
WE SETTLED IN the morning room where Krister had arranged a proper English tea. Anika clutched a steaming mug of Darjeeling and laid her head on the back of the wing chair. “I’m really frightened for Persus. She’s so vulnerable.”
Bolin stayed silent as he swirled amber cognac in its snifter. I nibbled at a canapé, lauding my decision to avoid the mini-tarts and butter cookies that lurked near the sides of the platter.
“Any conclusions yet?” Bolin asked. “Dem seems neutral.”
I collected my thoughts and plunged right in. “You know how lawyers are, no offense. So cautious. There’s no proof, of course, and the police chief won’t divulge anything. That said, I agree with Pert. Dario was murdered; I’m sure of it.”
Bolin sipped his drink, but his eyes never left his wife. Perhaps he was recalling our past exploits. Bad luck and my overconfidence had left Anika and me in desperate straits last year. Things were different now. I’d grown wiser in the ways of detection, and nothing in Bayview seemed sinister to me.
“What can we do to help?” Anika asked. “I know you’ve got ideas, Eja. Bolin has a little time, but I can stay all week.”
“We struck out with the locals,” I said. “They gave us an emphatic, very polite cold shoulder. You both are fixtures in Bayview. Maybe you could loosen them up.”
Anika’s eyes sparkled. “Count me in. What do you have in mind?”
Even though Deming would loom over us like a marauding hawk, we’d find a way to outmaneuver him. I shared my plan for a girls’ night out with Merlot Brownne, followed by another chat with Meeka Kyle. Persus deserved a social life after all.
“What about me?” Bolin asked. “Lawyers are pretty good at getting information. Think of Perry Mason.”
“I thought we’d leverage your skills. Lots of rumors around here about variances, zoning laws, and even a native casino near Bayview. There must be a paper trail somewhere. Of course, if you’re really brave, you and Deming might pal around with Mordechai Dale and Laird Foster.”
Good manners kept Bolin from reacting, but Anika laughed out loud. “Oh, Lord, Morde Dale is as dull as they come. That man makes a clam seem chatty.”
We exchanged knowing looks and returned to plotting strategy.
“Perhaps a dinner party on Saturday would work,” I said. “Right before Memorial Day. It’s a perfect time to spread the word about Aunt Pert’s will.”
Bolin frowned, and Anika got a puzzled look. I gave them a quick update on the revised will and our plans to publicize it.
“Good idea,” Bolin said. “Minimize the money motive. If Dario was murdered, someone will be antsy right about now.”
I slipped a butter cookie in my mouth, purely for an energy boost. “One more thing. Both of you knew Dario from the time he was a kid. Maybe we can learn something from that. You know, get more insight into the victim.”
“Learn what?” Deming and Persus slipped into the room on little cat feet.
Anika rushed over and hugged her aunt until the poor woman gasped.
“Oh, Persus! I was worried about you, but you look marvelous.”
Aunt Pert shook her head. “Flatterer. If I look remotely human it’s because of seeing you two and having Demmy and Eja here.”
The male Swanns stood facing each other, silent sentinels guarding the perimeter of the palace. With their lithe movements and supple bodies, the yummy duo looked more like siblings than father and son.
After Persus had settled on the couch with her tea, Bolin spoke up. “These ladies have all kinds of plans for you, Persus. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Her doctor cleared it—within reason,” Deming said. “I think we all agree that caution and good sense should prevail.”
“Of course, dear,” his mother murmured. “Leave everything to us. Eja and I are old hands at arranging these things.” She caught my eye and winked. “Next week is a long weekend, so most of Pert’s friends will be in town. A celebration is called for.”
“Lars loved Memorial Day.” Persus looked solemn, almost wistful. “So patriotic with all the parades and flags. He always arranged a spectacular fireworks show.”
Who could blame a loving widow for a bit of revisionist history? Lars Cantor had mixed patriotism with a healthy dose of profit taking. He was a major munitions maker whose fortune had been forged by conflict.
“Yeah, leave it to Dario to spoil everything.” Paloma floated in, garbed in a diaphanous robe that left nothing to the imagination. To their credit, both Bolin and Deming gave her only a passing glance.
“What’s this about Dario spoiling things?” I asked.
“It was nothing . . . just a prank,” Persus said. “You know how impetuous boys can be.” She was trembling, obviously upset by the reference.
“He told me all about it,” Paloma said. “Dario thought it was funny.”
Anika quickly moved in, diverting the conversation with an anecdote about Deming’s disastrous attempt to build a bonfire. It involved dry twigs, lighter fluid, and an inferno that nearly leveled their neighborhood. Apparently, Bolin had placated the volunteer firefighters with a sizable donation that continued to this day.
“Hmm,” I said. “Didn’t know you were a pyromaniac.”
“Just a maniac, my love.” Deming followed his mother’s lead by recounting a similar gaffe committed by his sister.
“You see, Eja,” Pert said. “You’ll face the same thing with your own children some day.” In her own genteel way, Persus was sizing me up like a prize mare at the breeding shed. I flushed, and Deming the putative stallion sputtered something nonsensical that only prolonged the agony.
When Bolin and Anika led her aunt upstairs for a nap, I seized the opportunity to quiz Paloma about Dario’s secret. A subtle, delicate touch was called for—my specialty.
“I’m dying to know,” I said. “What in the world did he do?” I expected a typical rite of puberty, sneaking a smoke or a bottle of cognac. Even a forged check wouldn’t have shocked me. Instead, the merry widow shared a chilling tale.
She stood proudly, hands on hips, breasts outthrust. “I swear it’s true,” she said. “Dario trapped some little kid and dragged him to the beach. Buried him up to his neck and watched the tide co
me in.”
Seldom am I speechless, but that disclosure rendered me mute. Paloma shrugged, looking untroubled, proud even, of her husband’s doddering-do.
“What happened?” I gasped. “Surely the child didn’t die.”
“Nah. Lars saved him.” Paloma giggled. “Dario said Lars grounded him for six months after that. It wasn’t fair. Dario was only twelve. Just a kid himself.”
Dario, the sociopathic pre-teen. Some insight into his character!
Deming leveled a blistering frown at Paloma. “Not his best moment, I think we can agree. Dario didn’t intend to hurt the child, just frighten him. CeCe and I were sworn to secrecy and threatened with dire penalties if we breathed even a word about it.” He poured himself a cognac and swirled it ’round the glass. “Persus shuttled Dario off to some shrink, and Lars bribed the kid’s family. Not unusual for a family with means. We never heard another word about it.”
I spared him my lecture about sadistic rich kids getting away with near murder. After all, I knew the score and so did Deming. Poor kids went to juvenile hall while affluent brats repented in luxury.
“Let’s face it,” Deming said. “My cousin was a selfish little prick who got what he wanted any way he had to. He never changed all that much, just found slicker means to achieve his ends.”
Paloma strolled over to the tray and heaped strawberries and clotted cream on her plate. I expected a heated defense of her husband, but she didn’t dispute what Deming had said. If anything, she seemed rather phlegmatic about the incident, accepting Dario’s cruelty as a given. She stretched out on the divan, her tongue darting catlike to lick the cream off her lips.
Perhaps the motive for Dario’s death had been his life. A man who heedlessly trampled others might sow the seeds of his own destruction. I’d accepted Pert’s fanciful portrait of her grandson without question. Dario the idealist, Dario the hapless victim. No wonder the locals misled me. They knew the score, but out of deference to Pert they kept quiet. That explained the smirk on Raylan’s face when I mentioned Dario’s enemies. They were everywhere: selling real estate, telling fortunes, and sipping wine in Pert’s elegant dining room. While Eja Kane, ace detective, skulked about Bayview like the village idiot, the real killer hid in plain sight.
