Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3)

by Arlene Kay

  My sunny mood evaporated fast. Sticky substances didn’t bode well for a new suede jacket. I’m normally a miser about clothing, but this had been my spring splurge. I stalked over to the closet and rattled the knob. “I think it’s locked or maybe just stuck.”

  Anika sped over and gave the handle a mighty tug. Our teamwork paid off as the utility closet yielded to girl power, disgorging a mop, pail, and something unexpected.

  Anika’s screams harmonized with mine as the crumpled corpse of Phaedra Jones sprawled at our feet.

  Chapter Five

  IN MY PANIC I misspoke. Phaedra Jones wasn’t really a corpse. Not yet.

  “She’s still alive,” Anika said, taking Phaedra’s pulse. “Barely. Stay with her while I run for help.”

  I couldn’t protest even though my heart convulsed at the thought of babysitting a body. I slid my bag under Phaedra’s head and grasped her hand. She wasn’t bleeding. At least I couldn’t see any evidence of blood. Her eyelids fluttered, fanning false lashes like convulsing caterpillers. When she gripped my hand, her icy fingers showed surprising strength.

  Suddenly she opened her eyes and stared straight at me.

  “Help is coming,” I said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

  No character in my novels would utter such senseless, banal dialogue, but this was no time for editing. Phaedra Jones glared at me as she edged toward the darkness.

  “Dim Mak,” she whispered. “Promise.”

  “What? Who did this to you?” It was important, a dying declaration that made no sense. I leaned closer putting my ear against her lips as she said it once again. “Dim Mak.”

  Then with a final shudder, Phaedra died.

  I NEVER FAINT. Hardly ever. Alcohol consumption, not shock, made me black out that night, and I’ll swear to it. I revived and sat up amid a sea of anxious faces. Anika’s arms encircled me, chafing my wrists, speaking in a calm, finishing-school voice.

  “It’s okay, Eja. Everything’s under control, and Bolin is on his way.”

  “Deming?”

  “Po will pick him up.”

  I shivered as the dampness claimed me. “My jacket?”

  “Evidence, Ms. Kane. How are you, by the way?” That familiar voice belonged to Lieutenant Euphemia Bates, a solid forty-something fixture on the Boston homicide squad, who knew us all too well. She hadn’t changed much: still impeccably dressed, tall, slender as a sapling, and improbably poised. Her hairstyle was different, combed straight back with a hint of grey. It suited her, framed her smooth bronze skin and high cheekbones with an artist’s touch.

  I met and held her steely gaze. Mia Bates was an intimidating presence at any crime scene, especially when civilians interfered. She really hated that.

  “It’s been a while, ladies. Frankly, I never thought we’d meet again. At least not professionally.” As she acknowledged Anika, Mia’s eyes softened. While investigating CeCe’s murder, she’d gotten to know and even like us. I’d always admired her blend of cop toughness tinged with compassion for the bereaved.

  “Feel up to some questions?” Mia asked. Her tone made clear that it was purely a rhetorical question. Like any crack investigator, she tackled witnesses as soon as possible after the crime occurred.

  “Please use my office, Lieutenant.” Avery Moore’s soft voice was steady, but his green eyes evinced pain and something else that I couldn’t identify. He led the way past the body of his student, never looking, staring straight ahead as we entered the hallway.

  The master’s workspace was austere, a cubbyhole barely large enough to accommodate three adults. His desk was a simple oak table, cleared of clutter, adorned only by a vase with a single orchid stem. No pictures, personal items, or papers.

  “I’ll have tea sent in,” he said. “A restorative.” Avery Moore vanished into the ether before we responded.

  Euphemia Bates crossed her arms as she watched him disappear. To homicide detectives mired in human depravity, spiritual beings such as the master must seem like a foreign species.

  Anika closed her eyes, taking several deep yogic breaths. I tried to emulate her, but somehow my lids flew open, afraid of missing something.

  “Let’s get to it,” Mia said, pointing to me. “What’s your connection to the deceased?” She consulted a printout. “Phaedra Jones. That’s the name I was given.”

  “None at all,” I said. “That is, I didn’t know her. In fact, until last night I didn’t even know her name. But we were there. I held her hand and watched her die.” I closed my eyes and took a big gulp of air. “That does something to a person. I can’t forget the look on her face. She knew she was dying, Lieutenant.”

  I ignored Mia’s narrowed eyes and cynical grunt. Staying silent was a tough proposition for me. I yearned to blurt out everything I had observed, concluded, or speculated about Ms. Jones, but I remained strong.

  “Did she say anything, Eja? Anything at all.”

  I bit my lip, not trusting myself to speak. “She mumbled something, but I couldn’t understand it.”

  “Try.” Mia issued a command, not a suggestion.

  “I don’t know. Dim something. Probably the fading light as she lay dying.”

  “That’s a writer talking, Eja. Fanciful talk. Think about it awhile.” Mia turned to Anika, using an official impersonal voice. “What about you, Mrs. Swann?”

  Anika stayed calm. For a pampered socialite she was far more self-possessed than a writer of murder mysteries like me.

  “I’m afraid I know even less than Eja. Two nights ago was my first time at the dojo.”

  “I’ve got to ask. What were the two of you doing here anyway? You’re the last person who needs exercise, Mrs. Swann.” Mia pointedly excluded me from that statement.

  “I’m here to support Eja,” Anika said, “and to brush up on my wushu moves as well. I left my wallet in the locker. That’s why we came back.”

  “How about you, Ms. Kane? More research for your novels?” Mia shed her lieutenant’s mask and used a homey air. “I read your last book, by the way. Swann Dive. True crime, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?”

  I nodded, too intimidated to ask if she’d enjoyed it. “I’m trying to learn martial arts before my wedding. Sort of a gift for Deming.”

  “Hmm.” Mia’s comment was one inch short of a sneer. “You usually have a unique take on things. What do you know about the victim?”

  I learned long ago to dispense with social niceties, especially that nonsense about speaking no ill of the dead.

  “Phaedra was unpleasant. Not the type of woman you’d want for a friend.”

  “Man crazy,” Anika offered. “The kind who is always on the prowl.”

  Mia leaned back in the chair and crossed her long legs. “Any man in particular?”

  “Several,” I said. It seemed like the appropriate time to mention the doorway lover, but I started instead with the esteemed Sifu Ming. Mia took notes and raised her head.

  “Justin Ming, the assistant here? Why him?”

  Anika and I faced each other and grinned.

  “Wait ’til you meet him,” Anika said. “You’ll understand.”

  Before I launched into an account of the catfight, or described the other man, someone rapped at the door and poked his head inside.

  “We have a development, Lieutenant. A suspect.” I recalled that the freckle-faced redhead was Officer Jennings, Mia’s personal driver. He’d bulked up a bit but couldn’t shed that golly-gee-whiz, Opie look straight from Mayberry RFD.

  Euphemia Bates excused herself and strode out the door. Anika and I followed right behind her.

  That’s when everything went haywire. I recognized the man in the grasp of two burly officers as Phaedra’s phantom lover. Simultaneously, Bolin and Deming Swann converged on the sce
ne, followed by Justin Ming.

  The prisoner stopped struggling, Anika melded into Bolin’s arms, and Deming gasped my name.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Eja? You too, Mom!”

  The prisoner straightened his shoulders and glared at the cops with naked contempt. “I have nothing further to add. My attorney will speak for me.”

  As I swiveled toward Deming, I heard him say. “That’s enough. Lieutenant, this is my client Horton Forbes Exley. May I confer with him alone?”

  “We’ll do that downtown, Counselor.” Euphemia Bates listened as an officer recited Miranda rights to Exley, then moved to take him away. Deming followed his disgruntled client to the police car, and with Mia’s permission, stepped in beside him.

  “There’s no need for handcuffs, is there? My client isn’t under arrest, I presume, despite the Miranda routine.” Deming’s tone was exquisitely polite but pointed.

  Mia’s nostrils flared, but her response was measured. “We tend to read rights to any suspicious person we find at the scene of a murder. Saves confusion later.” She nodded to the officer. “You needn’t cuff him, Officer. Mr. Swann will stay with his client.”

  “May I take my wife and Ms. Kane home, Lieutenant? They may be in shock.” Bolin proved his membership in the legal tribe by glibly lying. I averted my eyes while Anika sagged against her husband’s shoulder.

  I doubt that we fooled Mia. However, she waved us out after firing a parting shot. “I’ll need their statements tomorrow, Mr. Swann. As early as possible.”

  Bolin shook her hand and slipped her his card. “We’ll be at your disposal any time. Thank you for your consideration.”

  He led us out the back way where Po had parked the Bentley. The coroner must have moved the body while we were being questioned, because both the van and the remains of Phaedra Jones had vanished. Anika still clutched her gym bag in a death grip, but my purse was among the missing.

  “My things,” I cried. “I need the house keys and my wallet. Cato must be starving.” A hungry Cato is a fearsome prospect indeed. I envisioned the results, and they weren’t pretty.

  “Don’t worry, Eja. Po will handle it.” Bolin’s gentle voice soothed my spirits, making me believe for an instant that everything was okay.

  “Besides,” Anika said, “you’re shivering. Come on over to the house and get some cocoa. Dem will join us when he’s through.”

  Unfortunately, I’d had some experience with murder. Too much. It didn’t dull the shock, even though in this instance I neither knew nor particularly liked the victim. Seeing the life force ripped from a formerly vibrant being was a sobering experience. I accepted the Swanns’ invitation, grateful to stave off loneliness for yet another night.

  WE SIPPED COGNAC by the fireside, listened to Mozart, and waited for Deming until almost midnight. Anika dozed against her husband’s shoulder while I propped myself up in a wingchair and brooded. Cato displayed unusual empathy by curling up in my lap.

  Finally, Bolin gently tapped my shoulder and roused me. “Dem called, Eja. He’s still at the station with Horton. I told him you’d stay here tonight.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll walk Cato first.” Every muscle in my body screamed for mercy as I slowly uncoiled and stretched.

  Bolin helped me up and grinned. “Don’t worry. Po will handle Cato. Remember, we’re familiar with his ways.”

  Guesting at the Swann manse is equivalent to a month’s stay at the best five star resort—times ten. I’ve often wondered if even heaven could match the eiderdown quilt, Porthault sheets, and Loro Piana cashmere that graced each bedroom. An exquisite nightdress and matching robe were neatly folded on the bench. The adjoining bath was crammed with every imaginable potion, cream, and scent.

  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and crawled under the covers in a fog so deep that only the morning sun and the sublime fragrance of espresso roused me.

  Anika had recovered from our drama much earlier and was eager to plot our strategy. She knocked on the door and glided in, clad head to toe in buttercup yellow.

  “Sorry to wake you,” she said, “but Lieutenant Bates called earlier. She’ll be here in forty-five minutes.”

  “Here? Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  Anika blushed. “You know how protective Bolin is of his family. He asked her to come. As a favor.”

  Euphemia Bates was no fool. In Boston, as in every other place on earth, money talked, and Swann-size money shouted. Besides, the crafty lieutenant probably wanted to keep me as far away from the action as possible. I’d learned to never underestimate her.

  “What about Deming?”

  “He spoke with Bolin around nine o’clock. Apparently, their session was grueling, but at least Horton wasn’t arrested. Yet.”

  I took a mighty swig of espresso. “Deming doesn’t handle criminal cases.”

  Anika nodded. “Dem said he’ll refer the case to a specialist at the firm. He’s still involved in some financial scrape of Horton’s, though. I knew that boy’s parents. They were older of course, but very upright, responsible people. Uptight, too, I guess you could say. Funny, I always thought Horty took after them.”

  I recalled Deming’s sudden interest in Fleur Pixley and the FTC. “Listen, Anika. Is Bolin still home? I’ve got a tricky situation to ask him about, and I need to do it before Lieutenant Bates arrives.”

  She was curious, but good breeding prevailed. “Sure. Get dressed, and we’ll discuss it downstairs. Po’s making breakfast, or I should say, brunch.”

  I checked my watch. Egad! It was almost ten o’clock. I padded to the bathroom and jumped into the shower, trying mightily to revive my flagging wits. I hadn’t mentioned the Phaedra/Horty lip-lock that I’d witnessed. Everything had happened too fast for that. Now I faced an ethical dilemma—volunteer the information to Mia or wait for her to raise the issue. Most lawyers would answer that immediately: never lie, but don’t volunteer when dealing with the cops. Unfortunately, I’m the world’s most inept liar. Years of nuns thundering threats about hell clogged my subconscious. I’d given up on sins of the flesh long ago, but lectures about sins of omission and eternal damnation stuck. If I showed any vulnerability, Euphemia Bates would nail me to the wall and skewer me in a New York minute.

  After fluffing my hair and applying a touch of makeup, I slipped into yet another of the seemingly endless outfits that Anika kept at the ready. This time, it was a cashmere jogging suit in a flattering shade of aubergine. My clothes from last evening were freshly laundered and neatly folded in a Vuitton tote. By some miracle, my purse was also with them. I never question Swann magic, especially when Po is involved. I just shudder and enjoy it.

  I hustled down the stairs, lured by the scent of crabmeat quiche wafting outside the breakfast room. Bolin, Anika, and Deming were already seated in the bright, beautiful room, sipping espresso and waiting patiently for me.

  “About time, Sleeping Beauty.” Deming had changed his suit and shaved, but his weary eyes told me that he hadn’t slept. His attitude could have used a tune up too.

  “Don’t tease her, Dem. Eja had a horrifying experience. So did your mom for that matter.” Bolin squeezed Anika’s hand.

  “Ha! Don’t be naïve. Both of them reveled in it. They think they’re some sort of detectives, like the ones Eja dreams up in her books.” Deming’s frown was worthy of Zeus incarnate. “What in the hell were you doing at that dojo? Don’t lie. Either of you.”

  “Hold it, son. Let’s have a civilized breakfast before Lieutenant Bates gets here.” Bolin’s tone was genial, but it contained a warning. Bolin Swann was very much the patriarch of the Swann clan, and Deming knew it.

  Po divided up the quiche, serving each of us a slice of carb heaven. I followed Anika’s example by ignoring toast and spooning fruit into my dish. Deming and Bolin heaped smoked salmon and sausa
ges on their plates.

  “I have a bit of a conundrum to resolve, and I’m not sure how to handle it.”

  Deming rolled his eyes, dismissing my attempt at girlish charm. “Does this concern the murder or my client?”

  “Both, maybe. Besides, I thought someone else was representing him now. This is only a hypothetical.” I blew him a kiss.

  “Cut the shit, Eja. This is serious.” Food hadn’t improved Deming’s temper one bit.

  “Children, please.” Anika wagged her finger at us. “You both act the way you did in preschool. Always nipping at each other’s heels.”

  “What’s your question, Eja?” Bolin waved me on. “We don’t have much time.”

  I explained the lip-lock between Phaedra and Horton Exley and his wife’s fracas with the victim. “You see how delicate the whole thing is. Either way, the Exley family is up to its patrician neck in murder.”

  “Don’t be a drama queen,” Deming said. “Horty might have been comforting her. As far as Heather goes, take it from me, she hasn’t a jealous bone in her body. Not where her husband’s concerned. She’s indifferent to anything except her own comfort.”

  “I agree,” Anika said. “From what I’ve observed, money and position motivate her. She was originally an Elliot, you know. From the poor side of the family, of course, but still.”

  “Maybe both of you are right,” I said, “but she looked like she wanted to thump Justin Ming like a ripe melon, and she wasn’t the only one.”

  Deming curled his lip. Gorgeous from birth, he dismissed other men’s charms with a shrug. “Nice talk, Eja. What’s so great about Ming? He looked normal to me.”

  Anika and I locked eyes and smiled.

  Po slithered over to Bolin and whispered something in his ear. “Show her in,” Bolin said. “And Eja, here’s my advice as an attorney. Answer the lieutenant’s questions truthfully.”