Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  I couldn’t have planned it better! A golden opportunity to quiz Meeka about Dario had dropped right into my lap. I was so elated that I forgot about Deming.

  “Whoa, hold on here.” Deming closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “If Eja stays, so do I. No way will I leave her alone in this house.”

  Meeka frowned. “I beg your pardon. That’s insulting.”

  Swanns rarely apologize, and they never back down. Bolin substituted charm for his son’s brash language and smiled gently at her. “Don’t mind him, Meeka. In fact, I think it’s a good idea if Dem stays in case your intruder returns. Having a man around can’t hurt, right? My son worries about Eja, you see. She’s intrepid, far braver than she should be. Anika and she had a few scrapes with danger a while back.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Deming spat. “Eja is a heat-seeking missile who finds trouble in the damndest spots. Danger clings to her like cat hair.”

  I felt like the odd woman out in this conversation, spoken about like an addled child who wasn’t there. It was uncomfortable and damned annoying.

  “Hey! Hello, I’m here and I can speak for myself, thank you very much.”

  Deming yelped when I speared his shin with my heel.

  “I’d like to stay here,” I said. “We can have fun, kind of like a harem scene. Deming can play the head eunuch.”

  Bolin swiftly turned away, hiding the glint in his eyes. “Sounds intriguing. What do you say, Dem?”

  My fiancé sputtered more than a dying engine. “I assure you that I’m no eunuch no matter what Eja says. However . . . I’m game if they need a babysitter.”

  “Fine,” Bolin said. “I’ll have the chief drop me off at Brokind. Call your mom, will you, Dem?”

  Raylan grimaced as if he really wanted to say something snarky. Instead, he donned his inscrutable face and marched out the door with Bolin.

  I couldn’t wait for them to leave.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “COME ON, EJA,” Meeka said, motioning me upstairs. “I’ll find you some clothes to relax in.” She eyed Deming, giving him her special smile. “Afraid my selection of men’s things is a bit limited. Dario left a robe and some shorts somewhere around here. I’ll see what I can find.”

  It was hard not to react, but I forced myself. There are names for married men who leave robes in a woman’s home. None of them are flattering.

  Deming raised his eyebrows but stayed silent. Something about the pot and the kettle flashed through my mind. I’ll bet he’d left a few souvenirs strewn about in his daredevil days.

  Meeka was as good as her word. She found a comfy terry cloth shift for me and a handsome wool robe for Deming. I checked out the robe’s label while straightening his collar. Hmm. Brooks Brothers. Classic preppy, conservative but elegant. The type of gift a woman would buy for a man she cared about.

  “Very nice,” I said, giving Deming the once over. “Burgundy does wonders for those hazel eyes, don’t you agree, Meeka?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Maybe she was thinking of Dario snuggled up in soft Merino wool. When she snapped back into hostess mode, a trace of sadness lingered in her eyes.

  “Let me pour you both a cognac,” Meeka said. “Courvoisier. My father’s favorite brand.”

  “He had good taste,” Deming said. “Courvoisier, the choice of Napoleon.” He took a slow sip and sighed. “Wonderful.”

  I curbed my impatience until their little scene played itself out. After all, every actor needs an audience, and often the best seat in the house is in the balcony.

  “Was Dario a fan of cognac?” I asked. “He seemed more like a martini guy.”

  Meeka smiled. “Dario was many things to many people. It was part of his genius. He was sort of a metamorph. A telepathic metamorph.” She leaned back into the wing chair. “I teased him about that. Maybe that’s why he got along with Merlot Brownne.”

  “They were friends?” I asked. “That surprises me.”

  “They understood each other. A bit different than friendship perhaps, but more enduring.”

  Deming edged smoothly into the fray. “I never figured out his deal with Paloma. She defied every notion we held about Dario. But I suppose love can fool you that way.”

  “Love!” Meeka snorted. “Paloma was his parting shot at Lars and everything Lars stood for. Nothing more. It never would have lasted. Dario planned to divorce her as soon as the land deal was consummated.”

  “Really? Persus never said a thing.” I was stunned, trying hard not to drop the conversational ball.

  Meeka narrowed her eyes, a contemptuous glance designed to put me in my place. “She didn’t know. I was the only one that Dario confided in. We shared everything.” She leapt to her feet and faced the bay window that abutted the sea.

  “I’ll bet your love for cycling got you together,” Deming said. “It seemed like a compulsion for Dario. Gave him focus for a change.”

  She seemed more relaxed now, as the conversation shifted to happier times. “Cycling has always meant exercise for me. Means to an end, nothing more. But you’re right. Dario and I enjoyed the discipline of the sport. I didn’t want to be just another Betty, so I worked to improve my skills. I took him and his passion seriously, and he appreciated that.”

  I gave her a puzzled look. “Betty?”

  “You know, a hanger-on, sort of a cycling groupie.” Deming seemed to know all the lingo, but that was no surprise. He was versed in an amazing array of subjects.

  Meeka strolled over to her chair and faced us, her lovely eyes softened by the sheen of tears. “He wanted so much to win your respect, Deming. Lars always praised you, called you a model of everything a man should be. Dario felt like a bagger, a loser. This development project would have changed all that. That’s why he was so determined.”

  I felt a sympathy pang for Dario, the orphaned boy tasked with the impossible—measuring up to Deming Swann. That might explain his willful, frequently obnoxious behavior, but it didn’t excuse it. Suddenly I remembered the scraps of verse someone had left at the crash site. The Shakespearean snippets had to have come from Meeka.

  “We saw the tributes you left,” I said. “Anthony and Cleopatra. How apt.”

  She didn’t deny it. Instead she bristled. “Is it a crime now to be literate? I thought writers appreciated the classics.”

  “We do. I do.” Meeka definitely had the upper hand. I sputtered and regained my footing. “Someone did a lot of smoking near the accident site. Surely not you, Meeka.”

  She blinked twice and shook her head. “That’s one bad habit I never acquired. Dario wasn’t as fortunate. He was a fiend—couldn’t stop the nicotine even with patches and hypnosis. Insisted on those smelly French Gitanes. Ugh!”

  I avoided Deming’s eyes. Part of the puzzle had just been solved, but that didn’t explain those cigarette butts with the crimson lipstick stain. If Meeka was telling the truth, only Paloma or Merlot Brownne could have smoked the Gitanes.

  “You forgot your cognac,” Deming told our hostess. “May I pour you some?”

  Meeka shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. I keep racking my brain, but I can’t figure out what a burglar would want other than the obvious. Cash, jewelry, and the like.”

  She looked away when she said that as if she couldn’t meet our eyes. That aroused my suspicions and made me a tad reckless. Meeka was seldom vulnerable. We needed to strike fast to capitalize on any signs of weakness. I ignored Deming’s eye signals and plunged ahead.

  “Whatever he wanted was in this room. Does that jog your memory?”

  Her complexion paled. Now it resembled café au lait more than honey.

  That hint of vulnerability brought out the bully in me. For once, the regal Ms. Kyle wouldn’t get off the hook. “Dario was blackmailing people, trying to get their
help. Were you part of it?”

  Meeka bit her lip so hard that it bled. Tiny droplets dotted her lower mouth, creating a bizarre but surprisingly affecting tableau.

  “Blackmail! I don’t believe it. He’d never do that.”

  “Believe it,” I said. “Lots of money was involved. Maybe you planned to share it.”

  Deming held out his arm, traffic cop style. “Cut it out, Eja. Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”

  He was playing good cop to my bad cop and doing a cracking good job of it. Academy award caliber.

  Meeka’s tears intensified to flood stage. I noted that even her sobs were cultured, ladylike gasps, whereas I tend to bellow like a rabid moose.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “It wasn’t about money. I loved Dario. I’m carrying his child.”

  Pregnant! I reeled back, shocked into silence. No wonder Meeka abstained from alcohol and tobacco. That also explained the windbreaker she’d worn at the bike shop. Only a monster would press a distraught mother-to-be. A curious monster like me.

  “Does Persus know?” I asked in hushed tones. Deming wore a panicked expression that was quite foreign to him. Like many men, particularly single ones, the mere mention of pregnancy raised a host of uncomfortable issues for him.

  Meeka shook her head. “Dario was ecstatic, but he had to be cautious. You know how volatile Paloma is. Who knows how she might react.”

  Paloma would go into orbit, that’s for sure. I pictured the betrayed wife flying into a murderous rage. It wasn’t hard to imagine.

  “You plan to . . . go ahead with it?” That was a question almost too delicate to ask. I found myself clutching Deming’s hand and squeezing it.

  Meeka shot me a scornful look. “Naturally. It’s a choice, and I’ve made mine. I loved Dario, and I will love his son. He’ll be raised right here in Bayview.”

  “Son!” I squeaked. “You’ve had the tests already?”

  She ignored me and spoke directly to Deming. “My family has close ties to Brigham and Women’s Hospital. I went into Boston immediately.”

  “Of course,” he said. Now that the dust had settled, my fiancé was the picture of equanimity. He dove into lawyer mode, analyzing the legal and monetary implications of the case. Messy emotional debris was left for me to consider and dispose of.

  “Maybe someone was looking for proof,” I said. “After all, there’s a considerable inheritance at stake. Millions.” I kept a stiff upper lip, but my mind was spinning. Merlot Brownne might want leverage, and burglary was well within her skill set. Laird or Morde Dale also seemed capable of anything that would achieve their ends.

  I ignored Deming’s frown and soldiered on. “You’re sure you don’t have any paperwork on the Bayview development project? That still seems like our best bet.” Although pregnancy was a complication, it paled in comparison to money as a motive.

  Meeka had regained her composure and superior smirk. “I’m a professional. Our business plan was properly filed with the local authorities. It’s a matter of public record, hence, no need to break in here.”

  Deming stepped forward and patted Meeka’s shoulder. “How can we help?”

  Darn! I wish I’d thought to say that. Leave it to Deming to outplay me. Now he looked like Prince Charming while I was cast as the evil stepsister.

  “Keep my secret—our secret—at least for a while.” Meeka tossed her head. “In a couple of months it won’t matter. I’ll face the repercussions.”

  Deming looked at his watch. “Ladies, it’s getting late. I’ll check the doors and windows and Meeka can set the alarm. Then I suggest we try to get some sleep.” He turned away to disguise a big yawn. Even superheroes run out of gas eventually.

  Meeka reached under the couch and produced a cudgel. Actually it was a weathered Louisville Slugger, but the effect was the same. “Here,” she said. “Just in case.”

  “I thought you had a gun,” I said. “Bullets are better than bats, aren’t they?”

  “Never mind, Annie Oakley. I’m sure we won’t need either.” Deming gave Meeka a long look. “Just remember not to slug me, Ms. Kyle. I come in peace.”

  We followed our hostess up the winding stairway to one of several guestrooms.

  “The linens are fresh and so are the towels in the bathroom,” she said. “I plan to lock my door. You might want to do the same.”

  I crawled into the ornate canopy bed and pulled the quilt up to my chin. Ever since childhood, I’d longed for a canopy bed. My mother called them dust catchers and nixed the idea. For some reason, even though I was long since an adult, I’d never pursued the matter.

  Deming was on his iPhone, speaking to his parents in low, soothing tones. Naturally he shared the bombshell about Dario’s wanton ways—he could hardly keep that kind of news from them. I wanted to discuss things with Deming, to run some theories by him and get his reaction. Despite her revelation, I still felt that Meeka was hiding something. The Lady Madonna. Huh! She’d wrapped herself in the mantle of impending motherhood before I could press her on the issues. In doing so, she’d also neutralized her motive for murdering Dario and cast suspicion on Paloma. Paloma, a natural candidate for the Big House, had every reason to kill her husband, especially if she’d sussed out his role as Daddy Dearest. Could the answer be that simple? I had to hear Deming’s opinion.

  That was not to be. The rumble of his voice calmed me, sweeping away my fears and sending me straight into the arms of Morpheus. I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, far removed from murder, where babies and break-ins had no place.

  “GET UP, SLEEPING Beauty.” Deming’s lips gently brushed across my cheek, causing me to wake with a start. My eyes focused on lovely damask wallpaper and gossamer thin drapes that tempered the room’s antiques. I blinked, momentarily puzzled by my surroundings. What time was it? Where in the world was I?

  “What happened last night?” I asked. “Is Meeka okay?”

  Deming was wearing his dress pants and a tight tee shirt that must have belonged to Dario. Tight clothes make most men look like sausage casing. On Deming, a man with zero body fat, the look was breathtaking.

  “Yep,” Deming said. “Meeka’s fine. No prowlers or evildoers anywhere. Now do whatever you do to get beautiful and meet me downstairs. They’re waiting on breakfast for us at Brokind.”

  Brokind? None of this made sense. If our hostess was carrying Pert’s great-grandson, the situation was ripe for disaster. I recalled Paloma deftly slicing lemons for our drinks. Of course. She’d probably perfected that skill working as a cocktail waitress. I closed my eyes, envisioning the same knife slashing Meeka’s lovely throat.

  “Eja, what’s wrong? You’re whiter than chalk! You’re not going to faint, I hope.”

  Deming was a man of many parts, über rational with a strong romantic streak. He loved Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, and occasionally, me. Although I’m no fainter, he agonized about the possibility. It was an endearing trait but annoying too.

  “I’m fine. Besides, I’d sooner swoon than faint. Much more romantic. I think I’ll put that line in one of my novels.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Now get going before I dress you myself.”

  I resisted that temptation, shooed him out of the room, and got to work. Wearing an evening gown during the daytime was problematical, especially in New England where an unadorned person, plain to a fault, was favored over glitz. I had always chalked that up to those damn Pilgrims with their white bonnets and starched grey muslin. Fortunately, Meeka, my hostess, had other tastes. She left a snazzy black velvet jogging suit with gold piping hanging up in my dressing room. If this was a bribe, it was working. After a shower and shampoo, I felt ready to face the world.

  When I reached the dining room, Deming, the king of multitasking was front and center, pacing, gabbing on his phone,
and drinking espresso. Meeka was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Meeka?” I asked, pouring myself a cup.

  Deming ended his conversation and faced me. “Gone. Left a note saying she had a board meeting. Frankly I think she OD’d on candor last night. Embarrassed to face us, not that I blame her.”

  I hadn’t detected one scintilla of shame on Meeka’s face. Defiance, perhaps. Determination, maybe. It made little sense to me. Dario, married or single, was no prize package, especially for a beautiful, cultured woman with cash to spare. Meeka deserved far better as did her perspective offspring.

  Some of the Brahmin elite had whispered the same things about Deming after our engagement went public. After all, he’d had his pick of monied beauties from Boston to Beijing. I was okay with that, but modesty aside, my academic and career pedigree matched Deming’s point for point. True, I lacked a trust fund and I’d never considered myself a beauty, but astoundingly, Deming did. Nothing else mattered.

  “Woolgathering, are you?” Deming waved his hand in front of my eyes. “Come on. Get a move on. You know how Krister pouts when his food is ruined.”

  He gathered our things and gently herded me out the door and into the Porsche. His eyes had a fierce glint in them as he clutched the steering wheel.

  “What did your parents say?” I asked. “When you told them about Dario and the baby, of course.”

  Deming shrugged. “Not much. My dad thought about the legal aspects, inheritance and such. Mom zeroed in on the personal component: Persus, Paloma, the whole soap opera. She thinks Persus should be told straight away. Sort of a tonic for the old girl.”

  It was a conundrum: how best to balance Pert’s happiness with our obligation to Meeka and her future son. After just one espresso I wasn’t prepared to comment.