Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3)

by Arlene Kay

  My patience had been rewarded. This was the opening I had hoped for. “So. What keeps you busy?”

  He flashed that grin again. “Let me buy you lunch, and I’ll fill you in. But be warned, it’s rather dreary. Typical family saga. You know the drill.”

  “Great.” I handed him my card, but before we made arrangements, a strong arm gripped my waist.

  “There you are,” Deming said, giving me a squeeze. “Thanks for keeping my fiancée company, Ames. She does tend to get lonely.”

  “Deming Swann—too long, buddy.” Ames exchanged one of those male bonding moves. “I forgot. You’re the lucky guy who snagged the prize.” He shook his head. “Last I heard, you were pursuing every debutante on the East Coast. Glad you finally got some sense.”

  Deming showed his stoic side, but I paid a price for it. His arms gripped me in a vise that had more tension than passion. “We’ll make sure to send you a wedding invitation and a front row seat to the christening.”

  “Whoa! I had no idea. Congratulations, man. You too, Eja.”

  “He’s joking, Ames. We are getting married, but the christening is years away.”

  The moment was salvaged by the arrival of a petite woman with undistinguished features and a knot of mousey brown hair. By the way she deferred to Ames, I assumed that this was the impoverished cousin who survived on family sufferance. Portia Amory Shaw wore classic Brahmin apparel that had seen better days. Her dun-colored twinset was enlivened by a circle pin and a single strand of pearls. The matching tweed skirt and kitten heels were so dowdy that I glowed like a supermodel in comparison.

  “We haven’t been introduced,” I said. “I’m Eja Kane.”

  She blinked and mumbled something unintelligible. Despite the humble act, I decided that Portia was sly, not shy. It was something in those watery blue eyes, a sharp intelligence masking a hint of malevolence.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, extending a slightly limp hand. “I’ve read your books.”

  Like most writers, I’m a glutton for praise, no matter what the source. “Really? Are you a mystery fan?”

  Portia shrugged diffidently. “Not really. I prefer serious literature, but your books were already in our library.”

  Ames jumped in to salve my ego. “I confess, Eja. I’m an unabashed fan. The others have to fight me for your books. Perhaps you’d consider signing them for me.”

  “Careful, Ames,” Deming said, squeezing my arm. “You’ll give her a swelled head. Eja’s won some national competitions, you know.”

  I counted way past ten, hoping in vain to remain calm. For two cents, maybe less, I would kick mousey Ms. Shaw across the room. “Sure. I’ll gladly sign them whenever you like.”

  Ames crooked his finger. “Mind if we steal away to the library, Dem? I’m sure Portia has some legal questions she’s dying to ask you.”

  He led me across the hallway to a magnificent walnut-paneled room packed floor to ceiling with books. “Here.” He pointed to an imposing partners desk with gilt mounts. “Sit down and get comfortable.”

  True to his word, Ames produced hard copies of all five of my books. “Try this pen,” he said, thrusting an elaborate lacquered instrument my way.

  “Wow. This pen is really special. Italian, isn’t it?”

  “German, actually.” Ames beamed foolishly. “It’s a Pelikan Toledo, gold nib and all. I collect fine writing instruments. Sort of a hobby. This one is new, and I can’t think of a better use for it.” He sat opposite me at the other partner’s space.

  I inscribed each copy with a personal message that might be meaningful to Ames. Knowing Deming, our time together was growing short, and I had to maximize the opportunity.

  “I spoke with an old Brown classmate of ours just yesterday,” I said. “Fleur Pixley. You must remember her.”

  His reaction surprised me. Ames grew pale, and he leaned back as if I had struck him. “Fleur? Oh, yes. Redhead with an overbite. Always hanging around Deming as I recall.”

  “That’s the one. She’s an executive with the FTC now, you know. Some bigwig in charge of fraud and Ponzi schemes. Stuff like that. Isn’t it weird how everyone settles into a different profession? In college, we all seemed destined for academic careers.”

  “Not me,” Ames said ruefully. “I yearned to be a cross between Eugene O’Neill and Arthur Miller. Silly dream.”

  I summoned my small store of feminine wiles. “All dreams sound silly in daylight, but it’s never too late to start. What’s keeping you busy these days?”

  Ames leaned over and lowered his voice. “Family. I ride herd on Horton, you know, do my bit with the family trust, or try to. Our mother was a do-gooder in the best sense of the word. That trust meant a lot to her.”

  “I have no head for business,” I said. “Just managing the paperwork and regulations must be difficult. Not to mention the taxes. Ugh!”

  That ignited a spark in his eyes, as Ames embellished the topic. “Such drama you wouldn’t believe. I swear that money causes more feuds than religion, especially when one person controls everything.” He tented his hands in prayer. “There are so many needy causes, Eja. Those of us who have been blessed have great responsibilities.”

  The link between Fleur Pixley, the FTC, and the Exley trust grew clearer. The anonymous tipster might well be sitting on the other side of the partners desk, beaming his pious smile. Before I reacted, the door burst open, disgorging Horton Exley and my fiancé.

  “Portia said you two came this way. What’s going on here, Ames?” Horty glowered. “We have guests, you know.” He glanced at me and gave a brisk nod. Deming flashed a triumphant grin my way but said nothing.

  “Chill, big brother,” Ames said. “Eja and I were reminiscing, and I lost track of time.” He stacked my books into a neat pile and pushed back his chair. “Guess I better go earn my keep. Thanks, Eja. That trip to the past was fun.”

  His genial tone was negated by the murderous look in his eyes. Deming caught it, but Horton seemed oblivious to his brother’s moods. Perhaps he didn’t notice. Maybe he just didn’t care.

  “I think I’ll get something to eat,” I said. “You fellows can have your privacy.”

  My real plan had nothing to do with food. I zeroed in on the slight form of Portia Amory Shaw languishing in a corner like yesterday’s wallflower. Be kind, I chided myself. Maybe the woman is shy or socially awkward. A sharp inner voice told me to trust my instincts. Ms. Shaw was a stealth bitch who bore watching.

  I plucked a lemon tart from a tray, took a bite, and pasted a friendly grin on my face. “This is sinfully delicious, don’t you agree? Worth every calorie.”

  Portia curled her lip in a semi-sneer. “I avoid desserts. They’re bad for you.”

  “So many things are,” I agreed. “Sometimes, one just has to take a risk and go for it.”

  She shrugged and gave me a mile-high stare. “I suppose.”

  I took a deep breath and soldiered on. Portia had the social skills of a mollusk, but I had tenacity on my side. Everyone has an ego, even a drab specimen like her. The trick was finding the right key to unlock it. Writers are paid to fabricate things, so I had no problem with a little white lie.

  “Ames mentioned that you help out with the foundation. Indispensible, he called you.”

  Portia’s eyes brightened immediately. “He did? I do my best, of course, but others help out as well. I’m an accountant by trade. A CPA.”

  Why was I not surprised? The woman probably had a calculator for a heart. That explained her diffident manner and bland attire. Accountants see life as one great balance sheet with debits and credits queuing up in the ledger. Their creativity is predictably low. After all, creative accounting lands one in the pokey.

  “Wow! Numbers are not my thing, and I’m in awe of anyone who can master them.
Deming minored in finance, and he’s always lecturing me about precision.” I shook my head. “Boring!”

  I had found the key to Portia Amory Shaw. The drab household retainer was transformed into a fiery champion of fiscal prudence. With her face flushed with emotion, Portia wagged a finger my way.

  “Oh, no, Eja. Think what the world would be like without accountants. Chaos, that’s what. We are the guardians of stability and order. Why, I could tell you stories that would chill your blood. Checks and balances. They’re essential, but not everyone agrees with that. Putting too much control in one person’s hands leads to disaster. Ames agrees with me. He minored in accounting, you know.”

  We both paused as Heather breezed past us like an errant sprite on a mission.

  I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial level. “Poor Heather. That woman’s murder must have really shaken her.”

  Portia leaned forward, suddenly eager to swap girl talk. “That woman was a menace. Phaedra Jones—even the name sounds trashy. Up to no good, I knew that from the first.”

  “Surely she didn’t come to the house,” I said. “After all, there are limits.”

  Portia sneered. “No. She hung around the foundation, though. Posing as a financial wizard, can you believe it? Blathering about gold. Horton mooned over her like a love-struck teenager.”

  Her voice suddenly trailed off as if she were a wind-up toy whose battery was spent. The reason soon became evident. Heather Exley had sidled up behind me, and by the look on her face, she wasn’t happy. She stood, hands on hips, her Botoxed brow straining mightily to frown.

  “You’re needed in the kitchen, Portia. Help Carlisle supervise the caterers.”

  Without another word, Portia marched toward the exit with the sharp, stiff gait of a marionette. The triumphant gleam in Heather’s eyes was unsettling yet strangely appropriate. I’d seen that look the night she fought with Phaedra Jones, the spectre of a foul inner core that obscured her classic beauty. Lowbrow Barbie doll she might be, but Heather Elliot Exley had a mile-wide mean streak.

  “I hope she wasn’t bothering you,” Heather said. “One tries to be kind, but sometimes . . .”

  “Oh, certainly not,” I lied. “We were just chatting about books. By the way, Heather, I never expressed my condolences to you.”

  The look she gave me was even more blank than normal. “I don’t understand.”

  “About your friend. Phaedra Jones. I saw you two at the dojo and could tell you were close.”

  Heather hissed a reply and turned on her heel. “You are misinformed. I hardly knew the woman.”

  I stared after her, startled anew by the depth of her venom. When Deming joined me I was considering the possibility that Phaedra’s murder might be a simple case of vengeful spouse syndrome. Heather Exley relished the perks of the Exley name even as she lusted after Justin Ming. If threatened, she might lash out to protect her interests.

  “There you are,” Deming said, stroking my arm. “Winning friends again, I see. Heather’s face was a veritable thundercloud. What did you say to her?”

  I threw my hands up in the air and played innocent. “She’s kind of a flake. Who knows?”

  “Come along then. I have a little pre-wedding surprise for you.” Deming raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  I’m a sucker for any gift large or small. My parents seldom indulged me, so that made any present extra special. “Where is it?”

  “Calm down, my girl.” Deming showed his lawyer’s face. “You have to earn it.”

  “Earn what?” Anika asked. “How about joining us for dinner, you two? I’m starving.”

  “Good idea,” Deming said. “Let’s find our hosts and say goodbye.” He did a quick survey of the room and sighed. “Hmm. Seems like they flew the coop.”

  I spotted Ames and flagged him down. “Thanks for inviting us. Everything was lovely.”

  This time, his smile seemed genuine. “I enjoyed our chat. It reminded me of happier times. Okay if I call you for lunch? Don’t want Deming to get the wrong idea and mess me up. He’s some kind of martial arts master as I recall.”

  “I trust Eja’s judgment,” Deming said, pointing to my engagement ring.

  Anika looped her arm in Bolin’s and laughed. “You children. Always cutting up. Please tell Heather that I look forward to our luncheon date.”

  After Bolin shook hands with Ames, they led the way out the door. I was anxious to leave, partially because of my present, but mostly so that we could all compare notes. I’d noticed Bolin chatting up several investment bankers, while Anika charmed the rest of the crowd. No one had mentioned the Exley trust, not directly, but both Ames and Portia had dropped hints that all was not well. They might be malcontents, or they might have insider information about Horty’s misdeeds. Either way, the cocktail party had been a gold mine of information. I giggled at the unintentional pun and what it portended.

  Deming galloped toward the Porsche while I trailed along behind acting nonchalant. He wanted me to beg, and I refused—that would set a dangerous precedent for married life. After he opened the door and kissed my cheek, I felt my resistance ebb. I’m not made of steel. Who can resist a strong, gorgeous man with a tender side?

  “Guess,” he said, as he turned on the engine. “You’ll never figure it out in a million years.”

  “Okay. Earrings or some other kind of jewelry.”

  His derisive snort answered that. “Not even close. Besides, whenever I give you jewelry you always say it’s too expensive. Here’s a hint. This is something you can touch but not wear.”

  Action was called for unless I was prepared to play twenty questions.

  “If you tell me, I’ll share what I found out from Ames and Portia, plus my observations about Lady Macbeth.” I crossed my arms and hung tough. “It involves your client.”

  Deming knew when to fold. “Reach under your seat,” he said. “You can unwrap it now, but for God’s sake be careful. It’s valuable.”

  I felt like a kid at Christmas tearing into a present. It was beautifully done up in silver paper with an exquisite bow. That didn’t keep me from shredding the thing in ten seconds flat.

  “Careful, Eja, careful.” Deming couldn’t hide his smile as I uncovered my prize—a first edition of Chandler’s opus, The Big Sleep, in original dust jacket.

  I stroked the cover reverently, terrified of ripping it. “It’s from Bauman Rare Books. You must have paid a mint for this thing.”

  “It can be returned if you don’t want it. Dad knows the owner.”

  “Don’t want it! Are you kidding? Raymond Chandler is my hero, an American original. Thank you, Deming. It’s perfect. I’ll keep it on my desk for inspiration.”

  His eyes glowed at my reaction. “Better put in on your bookshelf. If Cato ruins it, I swear I’ll pulverize that mutt.”

  I leaned across the seat and kissed him. “I love you. For so many reasons.”

  Our lips met in a tender touch that spoke volumes. Deming drew me close and whispered, “I waited a long time for you, Ms. Eja Kane, and I will never let you go. Understand?”

  I shivered, barely able to speak. “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Ten

  AS THE PORSCHE zipped toward Newbury Street, I shared my impressions of the evening. The news didn’t faze Deming one bit. In fact, he summarily dismissed it.

  “Big deal,” he said. “Let’s analyze what you learned. Ames is envious of his brother. Nothing new there. Story as old as Cain and Abel.”

  “As I recall, that didn’t turn out so well.” I can hold a grudge with the best of them, and Deming was teetering on the brink of disaster. He knew how much detective work meant to me and refused to acknowledge my small triumphs.

  “Number two.” Like most lawyers, Deming loved the sound of his own voice and lived to argu
e. “This business about Portia is slightly more interesting. Who knew that mousey little thing was a CPA? She’s my candidate for deep throat, the viper in the nest, so to speak.”

  “She loathes Heather. That much was clear when she was treated like a scullery maid.”

  “Don’t dramatize, Eja. Portia was probably eager to help.” Deming made a sharp turn and swung into his parents’ driveway. “You haven’t heard my news yet. Horty wrote a check to reimburse the foundation, subject to one condition. No disclosure about his mistake and no nonsense with the Feds about penalties and interest.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, “except for one thing.”

  Deming sighed. “What now.”

  “There’s the little matter of Lieutenant Euphemia Bates and murder. Does she know about this five million dollar mistake? Seems to me it’s an excellent motive for murder. Horton is obsessive about his reputation. What if Phaedra was blackmailing him?”

  I could see the wheels turning in Deming’s brilliant mind. Euphemia Bates was a worthy adversary who would never let the Exley name stand in the way of solving a murder.

  “Forget about it,” Deming growled. “I’m Horton’s lawyer, not a police officer. I won’t volunteer anything against my client’s interests.” He switched off the engine and grunted. “I’ll mention it to Pam, of course.”

  Ugh! Just when I started to feel mellow, he brings up Pamela Schwartz. I quickly changed the subject. “How far did you go with Fleur?” I asked. “She might get into trouble with her bosses, you know. They’re very conservative.”

  Deming dismissed my concern with a wave of his arm. “Above all, they are a business, and like any other business a closed case is a big win. Besides, penalties are negotiable.” He smirked. “And I, my love, am one hell of a negotiator.”

  That set me back awhile and strengthened my desire to see Fleur Pixley, my old college chum. We might relive old times or have a serious chat about the future. She was goal oriented, focused, and aggressive. Whatever her game, if it concerned Deming, she’d met her match in me.