by Arlene Kay
When I reached the main house, Anika slipped me a couple of Ambien with herbal tea and packed me off to bed. After planting a cursory kiss on my forehead, Deming left to accompany Paloma’s body to the morgue. It was a familial duty that someone had to perform, or so he said. The Swann family’s rules and rituals were becoming tedious.
Cato, on the other hand, received plaudits from everyone. His mad charge at Paloma had distracted her long enough for Deming to save me. Let others call the surly spaniel heroic. I knew that he was merely testy.
I sank into oblivion, too exhausted to count my blessings or mourn my loss. The next morning, I awakened to the sound of mocking gulls and slapping ocean waves. Deming had vanished, and once again I was alone. Even Cato had abandoned me.
The breakfast room was set as normal, with rashers of bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs. Ever tactful, Krister had repositioned the seating to hide Paloma’s absence.
“Eja, are you feeling better?” Anika asked as she nibbled a croissant. Despite the tragedy, she was perfectly coiffed and made up. Bolin sat beside her, impeccably garbed and barbered. Keeping up appearances was another aspect of Swannland that had always eluded me. A quick wash-up and a dab of lipstick were my own bows to propriety. Anything else felt like an artificial, contrived drawing room farce.
“Dem left for Boston several hours ago,” Bolin said. “He’ll notify Pert’s guests about the tragedy. We’ll handle the local arrangements for Paloma and Cheech. He had no one else, and we owe him that.”
Ah yes, the Symposium had to be canceled. Even in death, Paloma caused problems.
“Where’s Mrs. Cantor?” I asked.
“Resting,” Anika said. “Bolin will make the arrangements . . . for a private funeral and memorial service.”
“What about Cheech?” I asked. “Seems like he was the real victim here.” Somehow his death troubled me more than Paloma’s or Dario’s. There was something especially poignant about a decent guy who paid the ultimate price for loving the wrong woman.
Bolin put his arm around his wife and squeezed her shoulder. His slight frown suggested that I’d once again made a faux pas.
“Don’t worry, Eja. We’ll handle everything. Chief Smith tells me that although Cheech had no family he was a big supporter of the local Boys Club. Apparently he got a lot of help from them. We’ll make a donation in his name. Something that will live on.”
“I’d like to help in some way. Maybe write their obituaries. It’s important for someone who knew them to do that.”
“Splendid,” Bolin said. “Burial will be Saturday, a small service followed by luncheon. Paloma was an orphan, you know, but we consider her part of our family.”
There was unintended irony in his remark, a striking parallel between Paloma and me. When the Swann family closed ranks, outsiders were left far behind. Cheech and his theories about “swells” weren’t too far afield after all.
I repaired to Lars’ study to recall a woman who was neither mourned nor missed and a man I barely knew. Poe himself would have loved that room, a dark, masculine refuge from the mundane. I hunched over my laptop, immured in a prison of thick Sarouks and solid walnut bookshelves, crafting their tributes word by word.
Krister entered noiselessly at teatime, laden with scones and a steaming pot of Darjeeling. I closed my eyes and drifted off, inhaling the faint scent of bergamot and something more. Suddenly, I bolted up, awakened by the sumptuous notes of Royal Oud and the fragrance of sandalwood.
Deming sat by the fireplace, clad in black, watching me. He smoothed back a wing of his silky hair and leaned forward.
“You looked peaceful,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” His eyes, so vivid in good times, were clouded by pain and fatigue. “It’s not working, is it? You aren’t happy.”
Tears blurred my vision. “I blame myself. You need someone from your world, not a writer with a bad attitude.”
“You are my world. I thought you knew that.” He walked to the desk and reached for me, pressing me against his chest. “This place is poison. Brokind levels everything in its path. Nothing can survive here, even love.”
“You saved my life last night. Of course, you almost crushed me in the process.”
Deming tightened his grip. “You are my life. Nothing matters without you. When I saw that gun pointed at you . . . my heart almost stopped.” He brushed his lips over my fingers and whispered, “Love you, Eja. Love you so much.”
He gently released me and strode out the door.
HER FUNERAL WAS a tasteful, muted affair that Paloma would have loathed. The ceremony, which few townspeople attended, was a brief, superficial nod to the gods of propriety. Winifred Freed, a Unitarian minister and longtime acquaintance of Pert, offered words of praise for the youth and beauty of the deceased without mentioning her less savory traits. Paloma’s body had been cremated and placed in a lovely Sevres urn with bronze mounts and a flawless porcelain finish. According to Anika, it was one of many from the storage closets of Brokind. I chuckled a bit at that. Nothing about the late Mrs. Dario Peters had been valued, even her ashes.
Having observed tradition, the small collection of mourners returned to Brokind for the surprisingly hearty brunch supplied by a local caterer. Under other circumstances, the event would have been called a celebration. Certainly the choice of caviar and pâté de foie gras seemed to suggest that. Paloma, child of a hardscrabble life, would have called it fish eggs and liver.
Krister staffed a drinks station that held every type of libation including champagne. The guests, a collection of the usual Bayview suspects, showed their appreciation by imbibing liberally.
I recalled Pert’s dinner gathering only weeks before. Meeka, Laird, Morde, and Merlot—lots of “M” names, come to think of it—had all been there. Naturally, the Swann family was now in attendance as was Raylan Smith, a solemn, brooding figure in his charcoal serge suit. We ten, a minyan in some faiths, were left to feign sorrow and show respect.
Deming and Bolin, clad in navy Kiton suits, were a stirring testament to clean living and superior genes. Anika, a vision in Armani, hovered around Pert, guiding her aunt from guest to guest. Frankly, Persus looked remarkably fit for a supposedly bereft septuagenarian. She seemed—dare I say it—almost sprightly in her Ferragamos and tasteful Chanel suit. In comparison, my outlet duds looked shop-worn and out of style.
Meeka Kyle, slightly rounder than she had been was almost ebullient. At any moment I expected her to do a victory lap now that her rival was in the ground. Merlot was much more circumspect. She gifted us with her enigmatic smile and floated from guest to guest dispensing mystical, patently bogus charm.
I erred by trying to keep pace with heavy hitters like Laird and Morde. By the time Bolin made a champagne toast to honor Paloma, I was almost woozy.
Despite its perfect climate control, the room felt stifling to me. Only an immediate infusion of fresh air could banish the gremlins and save me from abject humiliation. I motioned to Deming, but he held up his hand in a “wait a second” gesture and turned away. That was my cue to slip out the French doors to the bluestone patio and salvation.
Like everything else at Brokind, the patio was magnificent, a monument to wealth and the incredible magnetism of the sea. I sped over, grasped the railing, and inhaled great lungfuls of bracing salt air. It took a while, but ultimately I gained control of my roiling stomach and was able to drink in the view.
“You lied to me, Ms. Kane.” Raylan Smith moved stealthily and stood hands on hips by my side.
“Huh? You’ll have to do better than that, Chief.” I swallowed one more dose of air before facing him.
“Paloma. What else did she tell you?” He grimaced. “They called that a sin of omission in my catechism class.”
“Some sins are worth it,” I said. “Besides, my conscience is clear. Can you
say the same thing?”
“Funny thing about conscience,” Raylan said. “Most folks make their own rules.”
“What’s your point, Chief? Are you accusing me of something?”
Raylan straightened his tie and eked out a smile. “Swanns stick together, don’t they, even when it comes to murder.”
Now I was really puzzled. Murder was a new element in the tangled landscape of Dario’s death.
“She set up that mantrap,” Raylan said. “With Cheech’s help, of course. I knew that from the beginning.”
“Did you? Why not arrest both of them then?”
Raylan’s face was impassive, the mark of a great cardsharp or a born liar. I voted for door number one.
He shrugged. “Either way, it was an accident. Paloma loved that bastard, why I’ll never know. Might as well save the taxpayers the cost of a trial.”
I recalled the medical examiner’s report and the ambiguity of her findings. “That mantrap didn’t kill Dario. Some kind of stone wacked his head. He was alive after he fell. Merlot told me that much. And what’s this about murder? You seem confused.”
“Do tell,” Raylan said. “What else do you know, Ms. Kane?”
I had to protect myself. After all, my statement had omitted some key factors. “Let’s talk in hypotheticals, shall we? Just two friends chatting.”
Raylan laughed long and loud. “You’re really something. You truly are. Okay, hypotheticals it is.”
“What if simpleminded Paloma tried to help Dario by murdering Persus? Remember all those stomach upsets we heard about and that tumble on the stairs?”
“Hard to prove,” Raylan said, “but plausible. Folks do some dreadful things for money. Cheech must have wanted a piece of it too.”
For a moment I forgot my cover story. “Oh, no! Cheech had nothing to do with it.”
Raylan raised a brow. “I’m listening.”
“Hypothetically, of course. Anyhow, Persus would be devastated if she thought that. She actually cared for Paloma despite her many flaws.”
Raylan braced himself against the concrete railing and stared out to sea. “She’s a fine lady, Mrs. Cantor. Done lots of good for a whole lot of folks. I know that for certain.”
The more we spoke, the more puzzled I became. If the mantrap hadn’t killed Dario, what had? Had Cheech administered the coup de grâce and finished off his rival? I pondered that for a moment. Coup de grâce literally meant “stroke of mercy,” a blow struck to end suffering, not prolong it. Had someone ended Dario’s suffering, or was there another motive, something I had yet to fathom?
“He was no good,” Raylan said. “I’ve see lots of men like him. Jails are full of them. Even with all his advantages, Dario was still a punk.”
“We all knew it. Only Persus ignored the truth.” Merlot Brownne slipped in between us, wrapped in a silken shawl and her ethereal smile.
Raylan flashed her a strange look. “We’re talking hypotheticals here, Merlot. Speculating about Dario’s death.”
“Very wise,” she said. “I like playing games when the stakes are high enough.” She ruffled her hair. “Right now, Pert is handling everything quite well. Of course, that might change if she heard something devastating.”
“Like what?” I asked her. “Paloma was too stupid to hatch any scheme, especially a murder.” The sea breeze or something equally chilling sent a tremor through me.
Merlot locked eyes with Raylan and checked around her. “Let’s speculate, shall we? What if Dario approached someone close to Pert with a proposition: Murder the old lady and share the profits. He was selfish enough. Quite evil, actually.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating.” My head spun with the unthinkable notion. Dario was obnoxious, spoiled, and totally amoral, but that was a far cry from murdering his beloved grandmother.
“Sounds like a plot for one of your books, Ms. Kane. A true dilemma.” Raylan sniffed the sea air and sighed. “Makes me think of that talk we had about justice versus the law. Right peculiar, wouldn’t you say?”
“The law exists to serve justice,” I said. “Or else, what’s the point?”
Merlot nodded. “Indeed. Dario’s scheme was coming unraveled, you know. Time was not his friend. Persus intended to change her will, shore up that ambiguous provision. She told me your fiancé was working on it. Dario would have lost big time, and he didn’t like to lose.”
It wasn’t pleasant, but I forced myself to process everything. Merlot admitted that Dario tried to bribe her or blackmail her into influencing Persus. Was it possible that he had an even darker plan?
“You found him after he fell,” I said. “Did he say anything?”
She stared at me for a moment and shook her head. “Nothing significant. He was spouting nonsense. Keats, if you can believe it. Actually called me La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Ridiculous, of course.”
Now I was trembling big time. Despite his limitations, Dario had been given an excellent classical education. He knew Keats, and he certainly knew the literal meaning of coup de grâce. Merlot cared for Persus. She’d once said that she’d do anything to protect her friend. Perhaps the stroke of mercy that ended his life had protected Persus, not Dario.
“We’d better head inside, ladies,” Raylan said. “Speculation is interesting, but Persus would collapse if anyone even suggested that Dario planned to kill her. That boy was everything she lived for, her whole life.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I TOLD DEMING everything that night—fact, speculation, and outright guesswork. He said very little, but the look in his eyes told me all of it was true. It didn’t seem to bother him even though as an attorney he was also an officer of the court.
“Raylan is a decent guy,” he said. “He understands the complexities of the law.”
“Suppose Merlot actually killed Dario, bashed him with a stone? Isn’t that troubling?” I shrugged. “I mean, it makes perfect sense to me, but Raylan is a lawman.”
Deming ruffled my hair. “Isn’t that how you’d write it in one of your novels?”
“True. Justice balances the scales when the law falls short. At least it does in my books. That’s why mysteries are so popular. Still . . .”
“Let it go, Eja. We have more important things to focus on. Dario caused heartache and trouble all his life. Be glad that he’s gone.” He took my hand and led me upstairs. “Are you all packed? We’re leaving first thing tomorrow to go home.” He heaved an enormous sigh. “Thank God. Seems like we’ve been stuck forever in this mausoleum.”
“Will you tell your parents?” I asked. “They have the right to know.”
He started cracking his knuckles. “We really don’t know anything for certain. It’s mostly speculation.”
I gave him my tough gal sneer, a half lip curl that turns strong men to jelly. For some reason it didn’t seem to work. Instead of cowering, Deming laughed so loudly that Cato charged up to challenge him.
“Keep that little fucker away from me,” he said. “Okay. I promise. I’ll speak with Dad tomorrow. You can tell Mother yourself.”
“I don’t want to interfere in family matters.” My injured tones were hard to hide.
He threw up his hands in disgust. “Stop that. Right now. You’ve been part of my family since you were five, and if I have my way you’ll be an even bigger part of it. Very soon.”
It was time to confront the issue, no matter what the consequences.
“Something happened the other day,” I said.
His body stiffened as all his senses went on alert. “Yeah?”
“My publisher texted me about something. An opportunity.”
Deming stayed statue-still, waiting for me to make my move. He looked like a sculpture, something beautiful by Donatello, my personal Renaissance favorite.
“The
y offered me a European tour. Lectures, signings—the whole works. They’ve just sold my book rights to the E.U. countries, so the timing’s good. I might even get a stint at Oxford, can you believe it! Oxford, home of Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane, not to mention Inspector Morse.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “That’s great. You’ve earned it. You’ve worked hard enough.”
I stared at him, wishing that I had superpowers. If only I could scan his heart, read his mind with x-ray vision. Was he being noble, or did he just not care?
“You’re okay with that?” I asked. “It’s almost unheard of these days with all the austerity cuts. I still can’t believe it.”
Deming shrugged. “Sure. I’m not surprised at all. Your last book was a big hit. People love reading about the shenanigans of the rich and famous. Anyway, it won’t be forever. How long will you be gone?”
My throat felt parched. I couldn’t speak until I’d swallowed a full glass of Pellegrino.
“Stop stalling, Eja. How much time are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure. Six months, maybe a year. It depends on how well the new book does.”
He gave me that inscrutable lawyer’s look. I’ve always maintained that Harvard imprints it on law students through some strange brand of alchemy. Unlike me, Deming was an excellent card player who never showed his hand.
“Wow!” he said. “I’ll miss you, of course, but you have to go. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. You’d never forgive yourself or me if you turned it down.” He refilled his brandy snifter and made a half toast. “Besides, Europe’s not that far away. I can hop on a plane anytime and be there in six hours.”
We exchanged pained smiles that masked the truth. Despite the promises and good intentions, most long distance relationships don’t last. Ours would be just another casualty of career-fueled ambition and too many miles apart.
