Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  “I suppose you saw the whole thing,” I said. “We found those cigarette butts, you know. Paloma and Cheech must have waited there hoping Dario would take the bait. Or maybe you decided to finish the job. Either way, it sounds a lot like premeditation.”

  Merlot shook her head and laughed. “Cigarette smoking is bad for you I hear. Hazardous to your health.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Raylan? He would have handled everything.”

  She folded her arms in front of her and sneered. “What makes you think I didn’t? Go home, Ms. Kane, back to Boston with that luscious fiancé of yours. You’re making a fool of yourself flitting about like a frantic moth. I care deeply for Persus. I have her interests at heart. Do you actually think I’d do anything to cause her pain? Dario’s death was an accident. Nothing more. Check the medical examiner’s report if you don’t believe me.”

  I rose, determined to have the last word. “You must have missed the revised version. Death by misadventure, they call it. Strange.”

  She turned away but not before I glimpsed her eyes. Mirth, triumph, and a hint of fear flashed through them. None of it made sense.

  DESPERATE TIMES CALL for desperate measures. I hitched a ride back to Brokind in the sober black sedan of Mordechai Dale. Conversing with Morde was quite a chore. In fact, slogging through molasses would have been easier. Ecology was the only topic that inspired him, so I mentioned my quest for the perfect honeymoon cottage and a virtuous, green lifestyle.

  Morde’s ears perked up as if I’d uttered some arcane secret. “Didn’t know Mr. Swann was really interested,” he said. “Figured it was one of Laird’s pipe dreams.”

  “So few people appreciate the natural world,” I said. “Dario’s loss must have been quite a blow to your movement.”

  His doleful eyes met mine. “You’ve probably heard a lot of noise about him, Ms. Kane, but let me tell you, Dario was a true believer. Why should an estate like Brokind stay in private hands when millions of nature lovers could enjoy it?”

  I was stunned by Morde’s socialist creed and the depth of his passion. I’d thought he was incapable of it.

  “Doesn’t Persus have her rights too? Brokind means the world to her. It was a big part of life with her husband.”

  “Fiddlesticks! Lars Cantor was a selfish bastard who always wanted his own way. I tried to reason with him. So did his grandson. All Lars did was humiliate that boy. Said he was making a man of him, but he just sapped Dario’s spirit.”

  I defended Persus even though I sympathized with at least some of Morde’s sentiments. “Pert was kind to Dario. She loved him, and he betrayed her trust by signing that contract with you.”

  Mordechai stopped the car at the entryway to Brokind. He clutched the steering wheel and thundered out a warning. “Don’t kid yourself, missy. Persus coddled Dario, but Lars’ word was law, dead or alive. She threatened to disown the poor boy over that dustup. At her age she should be preparing to meet her maker, not destroying her own kin.”

  His words made me shiver, even though the car was toasty warm. I took a risk by goading Morde one more time. “What’s next for your consortium? I understand you’ve already invested money in the project.”

  He gave a deep sigh and morphed back into the sententious lawyer I thought I knew. “Time will tell. We’re considering all our options.”

  I reached for the door handle and flung it open, seized by a compulsion to run—fast and far away.

  “Here now,” Morde said. “Let me drive you to the door.”

  “That’s okay. I need exercise.” My counterfeit grin fell short of its mark. “See you Friday at the social, Morde. Thanks for the ride.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE DRIVEWAY WAS clogged with service vans and SUVs bearing the names of local vendors. Anika’s party machine fed an insatiable appetite for flowers, linens, folding chairs, and massive white tents. Krister was a godsend, a whirling dervish who could multitask with the best of them. He directed traffic, restored order from chaos, and menaced those tempted to overstay their welcome. I winked at him as I scurried toward the front door, desperate to avoid the crush and find a cup of tea. His face was a polite mask that gave nothing away.

  “Eja! Just the person I need.” Anika’s chignon was slightly askew as she hunched over a clipboard. A pair of oversize glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Most women would look ravaged but predictably she looked ravishing.

  “I couldn’t find a party planner so here I sit. Absolutely swamped.”

  I surveyed the landscape with a gimlet eye. “Fifty guests? Looks like a lot of fuss for a group that size.”

  She grinned sheepishly. “Well . . . the number has grown. Persus has so many friends, and she hasn’t entertained much since Lars passed.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Aren’t you concerned at all? Dario died only a month ago. Something so festive might look . . . insensitive.”

  Anika nodded. “Good point. But this event will celebrate Dario’s life, a passing of the torch so to speak. Bolin and I think it’s good for Pert. Therapeutic, you know.”

  “Okay. How can I help?”

  “Kick off your shoes, grab some tea, and sanity test this list. I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone.”

  As I sipped and scanned, one thing became obvious: a number of guests were affiliated with academic, nonprofit, and advocacy groups related to cycling. From the Nature Conservancy to Bikes Belong, Anika had assembled an eclectic mix of partygoers with clout. I had no idea what or who to look for on her list.

  She smiled as I turned over the paper. “Well. What do you think?”

  “Impressive. Lots of heavy hitters.”

  Anika clasped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful? Pert thought of it. Most of it anyway. She wants to honor Dario with a true consortium devoted to cycling, to use Brokind as a type of home base for think tanks and scholarly endeavors. No commercial development, of course. Maybe a few bike trails. Even Lars would endorse that.”

  “Ooh. I’ll bet the lawyers are working overtime.” I visualized Deming and Bolin with their elegant shirtsleeves rolled up. “Is Paloma okay with all this? Philanthropy is Meeka’s skill set, not hers.”

  Anika shrugged. “Time will tell. I doubt that Paloma will stay in Bayview anyway. Dem is structuring an annuity for her. Who knows? She’ll have a generous stipend and her freedom. Maybe she’ll find happiness.”

  I buttoned my lip, suppressing any misgivings. The ways of the über-rich still confounded me. Instead of accepting unpleasantness, people like the Swanns and the Cantors swept it into the dustbin, disposed of it, and wrote a highly fictionalized version of history. The new, sanitized account of Dario’s life and death would fast track him to sainthood. His name would be emblazoned on a bronze plaque commemorating the Peters Institute instead of on the police blotter where it belonged. It was a harmless fantasy comforting to a doting grandma, inspiring to his future son, and so very wrong.

  Anika refilled my teacup and patted my shoulder. “Something’s bothering you, Eja. Come on. Out with it.”

  “What about the murder?” I asked. “Will that be swept under the carpet too? Dario was loathsome, but he didn’t deserve a death sentence. Someone must answer for that.”

  Her eyes flashed, more brown than hazel now. “Leave it alone. Don’t you see? No one will be hurt, and a lot of good will come of it. Why do you care so much?”

  Anika had always included me in her family circle. I felt excluded now, very much the outsider. Perhaps it was normal. After all, I had no official standing, not even by marriage. Maybe I never would. I rued the day I’d come to Bayview with its fractured lives and tangled skein of relationships.

  “Eja?” Anika’s touch was gentle. “Forgive me. Ever since we lost Cecilia, my family has insulated me, kept the ugliness away. You know how protective Bolin is. Of c
ourse, in the beginning I encouraged it, depended on it somehow. Now it’s a habit I can’t seem to shake.”

  “No,” I said, “you deserve an answer, even an imperfect one. I care about justice. It sounds pretentious, but it’s true. Everyone shadowboxes around the issue like it will just melt away.” An upsurge of emotion flooded my face. “Don’t you see? There is no business as usual when a murderer goes unpunished. Bayview will never be the same and neither will we.”

  I scanned the party list again. They were all there. With the exception of Cheech Saenz, every local suspect had been invited to Pert’s soiree. I knew that Dario’s murderer was among them. Proving it was another matter.

  EVEN INSOMNIA evaporates with a little help from your friends. Before I went to bed, Anika slipped me two Ambien and a pinch of advice.

  “Don’t fret about something you can’t control. And Eja, let Dem stew for a while. That boy is too emotional.”

  I swallowed a double dose of salvation and slipped into the close embrace of Morpheus. My sleep was sound and untroubled as if I were snuggled in Deming’s arms, calm and safe from harm. The cool night air and whisper-soft bed linens cocooned me. Even Cato’s snoring was more comfort than irritant, lulling me deeper and deeper into a state where mind and body joined as one.

  When sunshine slithered in, I was not alone. Deming lay there, burrowed under clouds of down, clutching me against his chest. Obviously, Cato had once again flubbed sentry duty. He reclined on his back, paws splayed sideways as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Deming stirred as I tried to extricate myself from the sheets. “No, baby,” he mumbled. “Sleep. Let me hold you.”

  Shiny black hair curtained his eyes as he squeezed them shut against the light. By some miracle, I’d donned my best chemise last night, a black silk number with plunging neckline and lace inserts. It was soft and slinky, but Deming’s garb outshone it. He wore nothing at all.

  I drifted back to sleep, lulled by his gentle snores and the slight sighs that punctuated his breathing. Two hours later, I awakened to find Deming fully alert, giving me that mesmerizing stare.

  “How’d you get here?” I asked. “You had to work.”

  He nuzzled my neck. “My files are fully automated, so I can work anywhere. Besides, I missed you.”

  I turned away, suddenly feeling shy. Beauty queens are morning perfect; mortals team with flaws. Sexy duds aside, I played the hapless street urchin with wild corkscrew curls and eyes ringed by mascara. Even naked—especially naked—Deming nailed the Prince Charming role.

  “So,” he said, “you’ve been busy planning the extravaganza. Wonder why Laird Foster faxed me a real estate listing yesterday?”

  “He did? That jerk!”

  Deming tamped down my curls and stroked them. “That house really wowed you, huh? Mom liked it too.”

  I felt ashamed, trapped by my own avarice. For years, I’d staved off class envy, accepting that the Swanns lived differently than the rest of us. My fantasy Cape, a harmless exercise in make-believe, felt tainted by greed.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Deming whispered. “If you like it, we’ll check it out. My calendar’s free today. I’m all yours.”

  “You hate Cape Cod,” I said, “especially Bayview.”

  He chuckled. “Once again you’ve misjudged me. I don’t hate Cape Cod, or Bayview for that matter. It’s Brokind that I loathe. The damn place reeks of misery.”

  I thought of Pert’s daughter, Dario, and poor tortured Paloma. Maybe he was right.

  “Persus loves this place,” I said. “Anything associated with Lars is sacred to her.”

  Deming snorted. “Another case of revisionist history. Lars was a martinet, and Dario was always one step ahead of the cops. Pert’s too smart to have missed all that.”

  I rested my head on Deming’s chest, inhaling his scent, feeling such sweet contentment. “She loved Lars. Loves him still. That can color anyone’s memory.”

  Something sharp, a vivid shard of memory, cut through my mind as romance yielded to reason. “Maybe your Pegoretti is ready. Let’s go pay Cheech a visit.”

  IT TOOK A WHILE to allay Deming’s suspicions, engage in reasonably civilized breakfast chatter, and get underway. Pert nodded genially at all my remarks, but Anika wasn’t fooled. She grilled us like a mountain trout, posing questions and making suggestions.

  “I should go with you,” she said wistfully, “but Bolin’s coming this afternoon, and I have to meet with the caterers.”

  Deming ignored her plaintive look. “You’ve already done more than enough, Mom. Believe me. Anyway, Dad likes you to be there when he drives up. Remember he’s bringing Meeka back with him.”

  Once again, Paloma’s place at the table was empty. I glanced at Anika, looking for an explanation, but she shook her head, shrugged, and turned her attention to her son.

  “Oh, Dem,” she said, “I need you to run to the printers and get these place cards done. They do such beautiful calligraphy there.”

  He curled his lip, acting out the sulky son routine he’d perfected long ago. Anika, wise woman that she was, ignored his temper tantrum. She patted Deming’s cheek and handed him a thick manila envelope. “Thank you, darling. That’s a big help. Tell them I need everything by Friday.”

  “What if they’re busy? What then?” His frown was Byronic, something Heathcliff himself would envy.

  “You’re so clever,” Anika said. “You’ll think of something.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “What do you think, Eja?”

  My time in Swannland had been well spent. I knew the answer immediately. “If all else fails,” I said, “bribe them.”

  Deming threw up his arms in frustration. “You’re some big help. Between you and Mother we men don’t stand a chance.”

  Despite his grumbling and pained expression, Deming played the dutiful son. With my assistance he negotiated the thoroughfares of Bayview, managing to charm, cajole, or bribe the local merchants into submission. Come to think of it, coercion was probably unnecessary. The mere mention of the Cantor-Swann alliance could pry open any vendor’s door.

  After a few hours, Deming’s cantankerous side surfaced. He refused to continue with our errands until he received an infusion of protein.

  “I’m hungry,” he growled. “Shopping saps a man’s strength.”

  That’s how we found ourselves perched on slick leather barstools amid a boisterous throng at the Bayview Bistro. Deming stuffed his face, oblivious to the din of alcohol-fueled conversation. He inhaled mounds of onion rings and fried oysters as if they were his final meal on earth. I sipped Pellegrino while begrudging him every morsel. Life isn’t fair—that’s no revelation. Deming Swann consumed obscene quantities of food without ever compromising his perfect body. I, on the other hand, had to count calories with nuclear precision or face the consequences. I zoned out until the sound of a familiar voice heightened my senses.

  Chief Raylan Smith and Merlot Brownne were ensconced in a corner booth trading glares over sips of chowder. Their furtive manner told me this was no routine interrogation, unless that protocol had undergone a major overhaul. Eavesdropping is one of my skills, but the boisterous bar chatter obstructed my hearing.

  A momentary lull in the conversation provided an opening. Raylan muttered the name “Persus” and wagged his finger at Merlot. I couldn’t hear her response, but her body language spoke volumes. She threw back her head, crumpled her napkin, and stalked out of the restaurant, leaving me very curious.

  “What’s going on?” Deming asked. “You’re up to something.”

  “Hush. I can’t hear anything if you keep talking. Bad enough you’ve been gobbling oysters like a stevedore.”

  He glanced around and spied Raylan. “Whatever it is, stay out of it. I’m serious, Eja.”

  I gave him an eye-roll. “You
missed everything. Raylan and Merlot were going at it hammer and tongs.”

  Deming dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, a curiously prim gesture from such an elegant man. “Big deal. Eating in a public place is hardly suspicious.”

  Sometimes the delectable Mr. Swann becomes an insufferable boor. This was one of those times.

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But he mentioned Pert’s name, and Merlot got really testy. She stalked off and left him with the bill.”

  Deming stifled a yawn. “Big deal. Lovers’ tiff. Happens all the time.”

  For once I had nothing to say. Raylan Smith was a no-nonsense man. Staging public spats was alien to everything I knew of him. Moreover, his interest in Merlot looked professional, not personal.

  “Hey,” Deming said pinching my cheek. “Let’s get a move on if you plan to see Cheech Saenz.”

  I fumbled with my purse and scarf and searched fruitlessly under the table for my right glove. When I looked up, Raylan Smith loomed over us. A scowl contorted his normally pleasant features, the type of look he’d probably give a repeat felon. I hunkered down, but Deming’s manner was icily polite as he greeted the top cop.

  “Chief Smith. Please join us.”

  Raylan flashed a smile that never reached his eyes. “Don’t want to disturb you folks. This won’t take a minute.” His uniform was immaculate from the knife-sharp creases in his slacks to the lightly starched shirt. I pictured a woman lovingly ironing that khaki gear. It was equally possible that Raylan, neat freak that he was, might have done it himself. Either way he epitomized law enforcement efficiency with a dash of sex appeal.

  “The chief spoke to you, Eja. Did you hear him?” Deming bristled as he always did in these alpha male imbroglios.