Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  I considered my words carefully. No need to overreact. “Do you still have those cigarette butts we collected?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They’re in that side compartment near the console.”

  I found the bag and showed it to Anika. “These are the Gitanes we found. Remember how Cheech kept rubbing his fingers together?”

  “Yes. He had some sort of stain on them. Unsightly, I thought.”

  “He told Deming and me that he rarely smoked, but that was a nicotine stain. I’m positive.” I dangled one of the noxious butts. “I smelled tobacco on him too. Why would he lie?”

  Deming curled his lip. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Eja, you’re jumping to conclusions. The guy works around machinery all day. That could well have been a grease or oil stain.”

  He was right, of course. I had no proof that Cheech was the secret smoker who watched Dario die, just a hunch backed by a crime writer’s instinct. Before I returned the bag, Anika stopped me.

  “Look at that lipstick stain,” she said.

  I shrugged. “So what? A woman was there. Probably Merlot Brownne for all we know.”

  “I don’t think so.” Anika lasered in on it. “That’s a very unusual shade. Don’t you recognize it?”

  Deming snickered. “Don’t ask Eja about makeup. I bet I know more about it than she does.”

  “Hush, Dem. This is serious.” Anika slowly rotated the stub. “That shade is Vamp, one of Chanel’s most famous colors. Very few women wear the lipstick. It can look rather ghoulish, you see, unless it’s applied correctly.”

  “Huh,” Deming snorted. “Looks like dried blood. Women wear some crazy things.”

  I stared at the purplish black color. True, it had Goth written all over it, but I still didn’t get the significance. Despite constant guidance from Anika, lipsticks all looked pretty much the same to me.

  “New Englanders shy away from obvious colors as a rule,” Anika said. “In Manhattan deep shades are very popular. I know of only one woman in Bayview who wears Vamp,” Anika said. Her voice shook as she said the name. “Paloma.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  DEMING PULLED OVER to the side of the road and glared at me. “Wait a minute. Hold on. You’re not seriously suggesting that Paloma murdered her husband. She doesn’t have the wit to plan something that slick. She’d more likely bash Dario on the head with a fireplace poker or a baseball bat. Anger is her thing. Immediate gratification.”

  “Explain the cigarette butts then. I agree she’s no Einstein, but what if she had help?” Anika and I exchanged looks. “We saw Merlot Brownne go into Cheech’s store today, and it looked very suspicious.”

  “A payoff, I’ll bet.” Anika said. “She looked guilty when she left Bayview Bikes.”

  “Ladies, please! You’re making me crazy. This isn’t the Orient Express, you know, unless you can prove a conspiracy of gigantic proportions. Besides, none of these theories makes any sense.”

  Deming clutched the steering wheel and nosed the Porsche toward Brokind. A stark, sobering silence descended as each of us considered our options. He was right, of course. Brilliant lawyer that he was, Deming had pinpointed the flaw in my otherwise inspired logic. If the land deal was the motive, Dario’s death was irrelevant, even counterproductive. Persus and her will were the keys to the kingdom. Alive, Dario might have convinced her to change, especially with the prospect of a grandchild in the offing.

  It made no sense, yet I knew in my heart that Dario had been murdered. Proving it was another matter entirely. I’d have to redouble my efforts while I still had the time.

  “Let’s go house hunting tomorrow,” I said to Deming.

  “What!” For a moment his eyes left the road, causing him to narrowly avoid a meandering cyclist. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

  “Steady, son,” Anika said, patting his arm. Mischief sparkled in her lovely eyes.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call Laird Foster and go by myself. It will look rather strange, but I’m sure I can pull it off.”

  “What’s your plan, Eja?” Anika almost bounced with excitement.

  “Laird himself suggested that we buy a honeymoon cottage. I intend to explore that option.”

  Deming looked one level short of volcanic eruption. “Forget it, Eja. You’ll only get in trouble. Besides, I have to drive into Boston this afternoon. Emergency client meeting first thing tomorrow. I can’t hold a banker’s hand and ride herd on you too.”

  An angry Deming Swann is something to behold. He causes all manner of sensations to course through my body, imprisoning me in a web of longing. I tamped down my libido and focused on the prize—murder and its attendant problems. Besides, there’s only one way to deal with a control freak. Ignore him. Both of us knew that I’d proceed with or without his approval. So much for Gorilla Glue, Hart to Hart, Lord Peter and Harriet, and Nick and Nora Charles.

  “Don’t be so stuffy, Dem,” his mother said. “I’ll go with her. What could go wrong with her mother-in-law in tow?”

  Deming uttered some vile scatological terms that would have scandalized most mothers. He proceeded to list our previous transgressions, plus all the dire things that could and probably would go awry.

  “Mother, I’m appalled. I thought you had good sense. What will Dad say?”

  Anika and I exchanged glances and wisely said nothing. When Deming goes Cro-Magnon, amused tolerance works best. I savored the next few minutes of silence, and by the time we reached Brokind I’d hatched a plan that just might work.

  IT TOOK A WHILE to calm Deming and prepare myself for a session with Paloma. I used my small store of feminine wiles to allay his fears and coax him into a better mood.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll be careful. I promise. Don’t be a worrywart.”

  He took my hand, brushing his lips over my engagement ring. “Worrywart, Ms. Kane? I expect better from a writer.”

  “How much better?” I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I’m very versatile.”

  “You know what you mean to me.” Deming gently stroked my hair. “If something happened to you . . .” He pulled me to him, pressing me hard against his chest.

  “Okay. I surrender. I’ll stick to thinking and let you sort out the tough stuff. Besides, if anything happened to me, you’d get custody of Cato.”

  His eyes had a suspicious glint in them, but he heaved a big sigh and powered down.

  I took his hand, led him into my bedroom and closed the door.

  LATER THAT DAY, Deming changed clothes and headed for Boston, sustained by a picnic hamper stuffed with goodies. I’m usually not clingy, but as he walked out the door a wave of anxiety swamped me.

  “Must you leave?” My voice was awash with pathos. Maybe the bracing sea air had sapped my resistance. Had the mellow vibes of Cape Cod changed me from feisty to frail?

  “Hey, what’s this all about? Eja Kane, woman of steel, a quivering mass.” Deming kissed my forehead. “I’ll wrap up everything as soon as I can and head straight back to this dungeon. Promise. After all, Morde Dale might win your heart while I’m away, or our esteemed police chief might put you in cuffs.”

  “How did you ever guess?” Close contact with Mordechai Dale would send me rappelling into a nunnery, if any still existed, but Raylan Smith sporting manacles was a very different and more appealing scenario that had real possibilities.

  “Remember,” I said. “Pert’s big soiree is next weekend. Maybe you and your dad can drive back together.”

  Deming nodded absently. “Oh, yeah, Memorial Day. Don’t worry, we’ll work it out. I want to dig into this casino issue and the development plan. Swann Industries still has a few contacts at the State House.”

  That qualified as the understatement of the year. Swann Industries had contacts everywhere—Boston, Washington, Beijing, and half the world�
�s business centers. If information were currency, the Swanns outstripped the GNP of most nations.

  Small wonder that Laird Foster agreed to an immediate appointment. When I mentioned Anika’s name I swear he salivated over the phone wires. Laird the astute businessman felt confident that he’d hooked a really big fish. Two of them, actually.

  Krister drove us to the cream neo-classical structure that housed Foster Estate Agents. I love Greek revival homes. They reek of class and old world touches. Thick columns supported the entry porch, a touch that suggested reliability and substance to an upscale clientele. Laird Foster had chosen well. We followed a discreet sign to a vacant receptionist’s desk and rang the bell. I was surprised to see the man himself hustle out to meet us, giving both Anika and me heavy eye contact.

  “We didn’t mean to barge in,” I said. “Your receptionist must be at lunch.”

  “Not a problem, ladies. I’m between girls right now. Please. Come inside.”

  I handled myself like a champ, no obvious wincing at the use of “girl” to describe a woman who was likely to be well past the age of eighteen. Instead, I trotted out my party manners and grinned.

  His office was sparingly furnished with a large fruitwood bureau plat, couch, and two leather bergères. The effect was at once elegant and efficient, suggesting that its occupant had taste coupled with no nonsense Yankee values.

  After he waved us to our chairs and offered refreshments, Laird got down to business. “I took the liberty of pulling these listings,” he said. “Fine properties, all of them. Good values too.”

  Anika and I paged through his choices, carrying out the charade. The crafty realtor had isolated very desirable properties with price tags that made me gulp.

  “I wasn’t sure of your preferred range,” he said. “Of course we can adjust our listing accordingly.”

  Anika turned on the charm and fibbed without compunction. “My husband and I plan to buy this as a wedding gift for Eja and my son.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I hadn’t even mentioned it yet to Eja.”

  I didn’t have to feign surprise; I was dumbfounded. “Really?” I said. “That’s too generous.”

  Anika gave me a patient look. “You know how determined Bolin is when he wants something. Don’t even think about it.” She beamed at Laird. “Naturally, I can’t guarantee anything.”

  Laird’s face brightened with the rosy afterglow of hope. Deming was affluent, but Bolin Swann . . . the range was limitless.

  “Of course, dear lady, I fully understand. Why don’t you give me the particulars and see what we can do.”

  “We’d like something walking distance to town and the ocean,” I said. “Nothing opulent. Even a cottage would do. Something with a yard for our dog.”

  Laird’s face was a blank canvas, awaiting his client’s paint. After we’d narrowed down our search, we climbed into his sedan and embarked on our quest.

  “This is rather awkward,” I said. “But how are things between you and Mrs. Cantor?”

  Dead silence. He pasted a phony grin on his face and played dumb. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  I summoned a look of faux candor. “Forgive me. My fiancé always says I’m too blunt. You see, Persus told us all about the land proposal Dario signed. Quite a dustup, I guess. I was afraid you might resent Mrs. Cantor for refusing to sell Brokind.”

  “Resent? Whatever for?” Laird Foster dropped the mask and became all business. “I never blamed Persus for sabotaging our deal. It was all Dario’s fault. Why, based on his assurances, Morde and I worked ’round the clock to tie up the loose ends. Meeka too.”

  Anika nodded and patted his arm. “I’m so sorry, Laird. Persus feels very strongly about keeping Brokind intact. I thought you knew that.”

  Laird’s grin sandwiched self-effacing charm between two thin slices of smile. “I should have, but Dario was so convincing. He made a believer out of me. All of us, actually. I don’t mind telling you we were counting on it. Dario said he’d handle Persus. He was her heir, after all, and she’d never refused the boy anything.” Laird’s eyes morphed from sky blue to stormy grey. “He was so damned cocky, waving a copy of her will around. There was a clause, you see, that had a loophole. Dario swore his attorney had vetted it, and Morde agreed.” Laird softened his tone. “Pert hadn’t been well, you know, stomach upsets and the like, and she’s getting along in age. Dario hinted that things were serious.” He shrugged. “Of course, I’m no spring chicken either. We all have our aches and pains.”

  For the first time, I noticed that his suit, while exquisitely cut, was somewhat threadbare, and the Mercedes was at least five years old. Not the affluence one expected in an industry where image was everything. Laird’s situation might be closer to genteel poverty than comfort. The missing receptionist was another clue that all was not well.

  Anika stiffened slightly as he spoke of her aunt, but her smile never wavered. “I’m glad to say that my aunt enjoys very good health. Always has. Dario shouldn’t have misled you, Laird. I’m so sorry that he did.”

  Laird shrugged. “Oh, well, you know how business is. Projects come and go. Persus is one of my dearest friends. Her good health means everything to me.”

  It was my turn to move the conversational ball. “Wow! Where will your group go from here?”

  He ducked the question while I drooled over the first property we toured. The sunny Cape had everything I’d ever dreamed of: a farmer’s porch, high ceilings, and exquisite moldings. The landscaping alone was enough to captivate even a non-gardner like myself. Unfortunately, the price was way north of reasonable, a fact that didn’t bother Anika one bit.

  “This is lovely,” she said, running her fingers over the carved newel post. “You really know your clients, Laird. How far is this from the ocean?”

  He pointed south. “Just two blocks, and the center of town is half a mile west.”

  She turned those hypnotic hazel eyes his way and sighed. “Perfect. Bolin will want to see this. Shall we move on to the others?”

  Although we toured three other possibilities, none affected me like the Cape. I happily devised a mental floor plan, arranging furniture, choosing paint colors, and forgetting for a moment that our pilgrimage was only a charade. That’s the problem with pipe dreams—they seem so real.

  AS WE RODE back to Brokind, I brooded about my shortcomings as a detective and a negotiator. Paloma Peters would be wary about everything. The task required stealth, subtlety, and the deft touch that were hallmarks of Anika Swann, not me. I was better suited to the direct approach. Tactics were tricky, but our strategy was simple—appeal to Paloma’s one area of expertise, and her tongue might loosen. Based on the amount of spackle and paint the woman used I guessed that makeup was one of her passions.

  Sometimes I get lucky; often I am fortune’s fool. That afternoon Persus stayed upstairs napping, but Paloma joined Anika and me around the tea trolley. It seemed like an omen, a propitious time to grill Mrs. Dario about her actions. To stave off starvation and steady my nerves, I feasted on smoked salmon, fruit, and a butter cookie. Anika was more abstemious. She nibbled a wedge of cheese and a cucumber sandwich. Paloma chose yoghurt with Melba toast.

  “You eat a lot,” Paloma said rudely. “Men don’t like that.”

  Hardly a promising start for a gabfest. My fingers ached to throttle the bitch, and for once I was speechless. That’s when a partner comes in handy. Anika galloped to the rescue and saved everything.

  “She’s just nervous about her wedding. You must recall how that was, Paloma.”

  A ghost of a smile edged up Paloma’s face. Beneath her tough exterior, a hint of vulnerability peeked out. My urge to pummel her subsided.

  After we exchanged smiles, I plunged in and played my part. “You know a lot about makeup, Paloma. Maybe you can share your secrets.”

 
Oops! My verbal blunder almost gave the game away. Fortunately, Paloma’s mastery of word games was limited. She missed the hidden subtext in my words.

  “I might be able to help,” she said, giving me the once over. “You don’t do much with yourself.”

  I bit my tongue, literally, to forestall the comments poised on its tip.

  “Eja prefers the natural look,” Anika said. “But we wanted a touch of glamour for the wedding. Everyone will be there, you see.”

  “Your nails need work,” Paloma said, eyeing my unvarnished digits. “Toes too, I bet.” She held up her obscenely long nails. “I like tips. Designed the look myself.”

  “That might be more than I could handle,” I said. “Maybe I could coordinate my lips and nails. You know, like in the magazines.”

  Paloma jumped up and headed for the door. “I’ll get my makeup kit.”

  She returned in a flash, carrying a medium-sized suitcase filled with a dizzying array of potions and products.

  “Start with lipstick,” I said. “I’ve always avoided bright colors.”

  Anika segued into a discussion of brands and shades. “I prefer Clé de Peau, but I think you’re a Chanel girl, Paloma.”

  She nodded proudly. “Dario liked that. He got me their purses too.”

  “What shade are you wearing?” I asked. “It might suit me.”

  Paloma’s expression verged on a sneer. “This is Vamp. Not many women can wear it.” She pulled a tube from her suitcase and opened it. “It’s the only one I wear. Dario called it my . . . my signature.”

  I gave her the big-eyed look. “I bet you’re the only woman in town who wears that.”

  A frown clouded her brow. “Meeka Kyle tried it once or twice. Copying me.” She tossed her head. “But she didn’t stay with it. I’m the only one.”