by Arlene Kay
Once again I thanked the Heavens for Anika Swann, my sleuthing partner and so much more. “Don’t worry. I’ll plot tomorrow’s strategy and fill you in.”
I heard Bolin call Anika up to bed. After we said our goodnights, I checked my watch. Eleven o’clock. Deming had had enough time to discuss and restructure the entire tax code with Fleur Pixley. Good thing I’m not the jealous type.
Armed with my Surefire Defender flashlight, I hustled Cato outdoors for his evening constitutional. Commonwealth Avenue was deserted beneath a magical sky carpeted with stars. The beauty of the night trivialized my fears, especially those of Justin Ming. He might be a high-end rent boy, but that didn’t make him a murderer. Besides, in a contest between Phaedra’s word and a respected sifu’s, Master Moore would surely believe Justin.
Unless she had proof. If Phaedra Jones was wily enough to fleece men of their money, she might easily have kept a souvenir or two. That would up the stakes for both Justin and Horty, not to mention those private clients she rounded up. I crawled into bed and fell asleep counting motives.
FLEUR PIXLEY CALLED the next morning before I’d finished my espresso. It was still early, although to a bureaucrat, 9:00 a.m. might seem like the shank of the day. We spent a few minutes in meaningless chatter before she came to the point.
“I had dinner with Deming last night. He’s so charming and better looking than ever.”
“Indeed.” I didn’t trust myself to say much—spiteful comments were unworthy of me. I could picture Fleur fluffing her pixie cut as she sat entombed in her federal cubicle. The poor dear probably appreciated a good meal at a fine establishment.
“Have you set the date yet?” she purred. “I couldn’t get any specifics from Deming.”
“Soon. Very soon. Deming loathes fuss. He’d just as soon elope tonight, but his mother has other ideas.” I kept my voice friendly, as if my former classmate’s agenda were a total mystery.
“Oh. You lucky thing. He’s a divine dancer, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
Actually, Deming and I seldom went dancing. Make that never. I love music but I’m not the most graceful gal on two feet. I laughed and muttered something in response.
“You know, we were very close to your place last night,” Fleur said. “You’ve probably been to Rise plenty of times. It’s right on Stuart Street. Such a cool club. I should have known that Deming Swann would be a member.”
Now I knew why Deming hadn’t called last night. That rat was up to his ears in something, and it wasn’t paperwork.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said. “Let’s do lunch sometime soon.”
“When?” Fleur had certainly cultivated her killer instinct. Maybe enforcement work demanded that.
“How about next week? I’ll text my mother-in-law and call you back.”
“Mother-in-law? Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you, Eja?”
Now was my turn to twist the verbal knife. “You know how it is. We are so close that Anika already seems like family. Bolin too.”
“Wow! Bolin Swann is on the Forbes list. One of the richest billionaires in the world, or something like that.” Clearly, Fleur was staggered by my proximity to greatness.
“I know. He was really embarrassed when they issued that thing. Swanns like to keep personal matters low key. You understand.”
Fleur soon made her excuses and ended our chat, leaving me very curious about Deming’s tete-a-tete and the impact on Horton’s money problems.
THAT EVENING I agonized over wardrobe options before settling on my old standby—a black scoop-neck Armani with matching lace jacket. It made me feel elegant and slightly decadent, especially when a strand of Grandma’s pearls dangled near my cleavage. Fortunately, my minimalist approach to hair and makeup could be done on autopilot. I had no time and little patience for fussing.
Deming, or Twinkle Toes as I now called him, had texted our departure time. At six thirty p.m. I was ready and waiting to embrace the Exley throng, if not my fiancé. With him, I was a bit miffed.
“You’re lovely, Eja,” Deming said, putting his arms around me. He looked pretty nifty himself in a charcoal grey Brioni suit. In truth, he looked spectacular. Deming had the dark, sizzling Byronic thing down pat. Constant praise from women was something he’d grown to expect, so I meted it out sparingly. Besides, I was confident that Fleur had shored up his ego last night during their dance session.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “Sorry I didn’t call you last night. Things got really hectic.” He was fidgeting, and if he followed the script, he’d soon be cracking his knuckles. Despite an elegant facade, even Deming occasionally felt guilt. Mangling knuckles was his concession to nerves.
“No problem,” I lied. “I was pretty busy myself.” True enough, if you considered fending off a sex-crazed sifu and potential murderer all in a night’s work.
We evaded Cato, caught the elevator, and were soon motoring to the Exley spread.
“By the way,” I said. “Guess who phoned me this morning? Fleur Pixley. She wants to get together for lunch next week.”
Deming’s frown was a thing of beauty. “Bad idea, Eja,” he growled. “This foundation matter is a delicate thing. Fleur agreed to look into it, but I think we should limit any other contact.”
I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll think up some excuse. After all, your dinner was strictly business, but our lunch would be personal.”
Deming stomped on the gas pedal and sailed into traffic heading west on Storrow Drive toward Brookline. A pack of homicidal drivers jockeyed for position as they made their homeward pilgrimage. That focused Deming on road congestion, leaving me the opportunity to share a bowdlerized account of my session with Justin Ming.
“He came to your apartment?” Deming bit his lip as his complexion paled. “What were you thinking, Eja? The man might be a murderer.”
“Your trainer comes to your place all the time,” I said. “So does your masseur, as I recall. What’s the harm?”
“Harm? For one thing, I am fully capable of defending myself.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at me. “How would you fend someone off—with a cutting remark?”
“Good one,” I said. “Let me write that down. Just stop fuming and listen for just a minute. You’ll find this very interesting.” I delivered a summary of events that was a model of brevity. When I finished, Deming gripped the steering wheel as if he were facing a death squad.
“Why didn’t you mention Dim Mak before? We need to notify Lieutenant Bates at once.”
“Don’t blame me. I’d never heard the term before. And Justin volunteered it. That’s something a guilty man would never do.” I folded my arms and rested my case.
“Let me get this straight,” Deming fumed. “Maybe I didn’t hear it right. Justin Ming is a prostitute? Is that what you’re saying?”
I shook my head. “That’s rather harsh. More like an escort or paid companion. No one thinks twice about it when some nubile girl does that. What’s the difference? Let’s just say, Justin learned to capitalize on his assets. With Phaedra Jones pointing the way, he identified receptive women who became his private clients, including our hostess, Heather Exley, wife of your client.”
“How in the hell did you pry that information out of him?”
I shrugged and tossed my hair. “No problem. We drank tea and I just asked.”
Deming massaged his temples as if he were fending off a migraine. “Unbelievable. Let me summarize. Horton was doing the murder victim, while his wife was schlepping the sifu. What else?”
“Don’t forget that Justin and Phaedra were also an item. That man has plenty of stamina. Apparently she was in love with him and wanted an exclusivity clause.”
“Christ!” Deming was seldom profane. His anxiety level must be stratospheric. “Don’t mention this tonight. I�
��ll broach it to Horton later on.”
“Fine,” I said. “I want to relax and have a good time. You know, mingle, have a few drinks. Maybe we can go dancing afterwards. Know any place good?”
His perfect profile turned to stone, but Deming gave nothing away. “Sure. Sounds like fun. It might not work tonight, though. I need some time alone with Horton about foundation business.”
He turned up the music as a soul medley played on the Porsche’s super-duper Burmester surround sound system. As luck would have it, Nina Simone added her two cents by belting out, “The Other Woman.” I hummed along, word for word until Deming cracked.
“Listen, Eja, I don’t know what Fleur told you, but everything was very innocent last night. We had dinner and dropped by a club to listen to music. Period.”
“Okay. You know that I trust you.” I hid my hands under my purse so that he didn’t see my crossed fingers. “What’s the story with the FTC and the Exley Foundation?”
He sighed. “They got a tip—anonymous source—that Horton was involved in a scam, using the foundation’s treasury as his personal piggy bank. That alone is enough to trigger an inquiry, unless I can convince her that Horty is a fool, not a felon.”
I gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “You can be very persuasive. Your client is one lucky guy.”
The hint of sarcasm wasn’t lost on Deming. His guilty flush proved that.
“Does Horton blame Phaedra for his problems?” I asked.
“Nope, that’s just it. He thinks Phaedra was an innocent dupe.”
From what I’d seen of Phaedra, she’d left innocence behind in her cradle. The woman had a lot going for her, if you like a sultry blend of sex and avarice, stirred not shaken.
“Mrs. Exley might see things differently. She’s got plenty of muscle from her workouts and seemed more than willing to use them.” I recalled her parting threat to Phaedra in the locker room. The venom literally spewed from Heather’s lips.
“Just chill, Eja. Let Lieutenant Bates do her job, and you do yours. For tonight, just act like the brilliant novelist and loving fiancée that you are. Put that detective shit on hold.” He pinched my cheek. “I know you can do it.”
I had no time to react. My mind was boggled by the first glimpse of the Exley manse, an English manor house whose gabled roof and lush grounds resembled a movie set more opulent than Downton Abbey.
“Good Lord!” I gaped. “That house is huge. It must be fifteen thousand square feet.”
“Twenty at least,” Deming said coolly. “It’s insured for a pile of money. Historic register and all that. Merry Meadow has lots of space, plus a gym, theatre, and fantastic wine cellar. The name’s misleading, though. Not much joy in those rooms.” He squeezed my hand. “What’s the matter, my love? Overwhelmed by a stately home? It was built to house large families with plenty of kiddos running around.”
I’d never considered Deming very child-centric. His preoccupation with progeny was recent and somewhat puzzling. Was he vying for father of the year? The thought sent chills up my spine. I fully expected him to paw the ground like a stallion in rut.
“Come along, Eja,” he said. “I need to speak with our host before the others arrive. You can entertain Mrs. Exley.”
Even after years with the Swanns, conspicuous consumption makes me uneasy. Blame it on my socialist parents who would have been scandalized by Horton and his crowd. They had loved CeCe and applauded Bolin’s generosity to the poor even as they showered me with Marxist bromides and warnings against capitalism. In our household, Bertrand Russell, not Horatio Alger, was a role model.
“How many people live here?” I asked, as we walked up the cobblestone driveway.
Deming shrugged. “Horty’s family, of course, and Ames too, I believe. He never married, although he’s in his mid-thirties now.”
“Really?” I said. “He was a ladies’ man in college. Coeds considered him quite a catch.”
That earned me an eye roll from my sweetie. “I seem to recall that a cousin lives here too. Priscilla, Orphelia—no, Portia. I knew it was something Shakespearean. Portia Amory Shaw, a first cousin or something. Disowned by the Amorys when she married beneath her. Divorced the husband and hasn’t a cent to her name.”
“Hmm. Everything is quite Victorian, wouldn’t you say? Genteel poverty amid excess.”
“Stow it, Eja. I can hear those wheels turning. This is not some English country house mystery. We’re five miles from the heart of Boston, for God’s sake.”
I beamed the practiced smile of the submissive hausfrau. Occasionally, I dabbled in womanly arts just for fun. Deming was not deceived.
“Stop screwing with me, Eja. I mean it. I know your tricks.” He hustled me along the path to an enormous walnut door and pressed the buzzer.
When the door opened, I gasped.
There stood the perfect replica of an English butler in full livery, straight from the pen of Dorothy Sayers or Christie herself. His elegant posture accentuated a whippet-thin frame coupled with a look of unassailable dignity. He was an ageless relic of the good life, with unremarkable features and a thin-lipped smile. If his name was Bunter, I’d lose all self-control.
“Evening, Carlisle.” Deming nodded toward me. “This is Ms. Kane.”
Carlisle bowed and led us down a long hallway filled with ancestral portraits. I made that assumption based on the prominent Exley nose sported by each subject. The males could carry it off, but a large proboscis was less attractive on the females.
“They’re in the parlor,” Carlisle said. “Except for Mr. Horton. He’s in his study.”
“Take me to him,” Deming said. “Ms. Kane will join the other guests.”
The last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a confined space with Heather Exley and company. However, in the spirit of pre-connubial bliss, I said nothing.
“See you later, darling.” Deming’s voice held a hint of triumph.
“Of course, Twinkle Toes.”
I STOOD IN THE doorway, observing the group and admiring my surroundings. The parlor was actually comprised of twin rooms divided by a concealed pocket door. Elaborate wood moldings, offset by a sprightly selection of French pieces in lemon and red, were anchored by a phenomenal Aubusson carpet. Tasteful accessories were sprinkled among more utilitarian items; antiques coexisted with modern art. Whatever her personal failings, Heather made one hell of a decorator. Either that, or she had the good sense to hire a pro.
She was not much of a hostess, however. Most of the dozen or so partygoers were engrossed in conversations or cackling with alcohol-fueled hilarity. Heather stared me down, turned her head, and dismissed me as she would an errant serf. Only when Anika waved from the far end of the room did Mrs. Exley stir.
Her impeccable attire was a vivid contrast to her manners. Heather wore a column of shimmering white silk with long, graceful sleeves and a scalloped hem.
“I’ve seen you at the dojo,” Heather said, her voice a breathy whisper. “Eartha, Erma, something like that. I’m hopeless when it comes to names.” She extended a slim hand bedecked with diamonds.
“Actually, it’s Eja Kane.” My smile oozed synthetic charm as I lowered my voice and shook her hand. “We share the same sifu instructor—Justin Ming.”
Heather’s lovely eyes widened, and her skin lost its bloom. When I touched her arm, she grimaced. “I don’t understand.”
I recalled Deming’s assessment of her as a dim bulb. Oh yes. Before I succeeded in leveling our hostess, Anika glided our way in a swish of satin. Unlike more timid souls, Mrs. Bolin Swann had chosen a fiery orange frock that bared her shoulders. Her uber-hot hubby was at her side.
“Have you two met?” Anika asked, putting her arm around me. “Eja will soon be my daughter, Heather, although she’s been part of our family for years.”
; “We were just discussing that,” I said. “Anika is my workout buddy at Shaolin City. She also trains with Justin Ming.”
Heather clutched her throat and coughed.
“May I get you a drink?” Bolin asked. “Perrier or something stronger?”
Her eyelashes fluttered as she played the coquette. “That’s so gallant of you, Bolin. It must be allergies.” She seized his arm and headed for the bar, leaving Anika and I alone and bemused.
“What in the world did you say to her?” Anika asked.
I shrugged. “Not much. I think her guilty conscience went into overdrive. Remember, I saw that tiff between her and Phaedra Jones.”
Anika patted my arm. “Well, don’t worry. I chatted her up about fashion and decorating, her favorite topics. Believe it or not, she really knows her stuff. Anyhow, we’re meeting for lunch on Monday. Care to join us?”
My grin enveloped her like London fog. “Count on it.”
Chapter Nine
SOMEONE TAPPED MY shoulder as I stood at the bar sipping wine. I spun around, startled by an apparition from my past. Ames Exley, the younger, cuter, brother of Horty grabbed me in a tight, decidedly friendly bear hug and squeezed.
“Eja Kane! How come you still look like a coed?”
I dismissed the flattery, although it warmed me more than I cared to admit. Ames himself showed a touch of Dorian Gray in his lean, lithe body and curly brown hair. Like the graduate student of yore, his perfect teeth framed a wry, disarming smile that never reached his eyes.
“So, Ms. Eja, you’re a prize winning author, and all I can say is wow! The rest of us talked a good game, but you delivered.”
I felt the flush move up my neck and creep across my cheeks. “Do you still write? As I recall, you were keen on finishing a screenplay—sort of a Henry David Hwang concoction.”
Ames waved his arms. “Quite some memory you’ve got. Actually, I haven’t written anything in years. No time.”
