Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3)

by Arlene Kay

  “Really?” As we exited on two, I undid my dress and stepped half-naked into the hallway. My very proper fiancé gulped and ran after me like a man on fire.

  “For God’s sake, Eja, someone might see you.”

  “Just what I’m hoping for, big boy.” I sashayed to my doorstep and hesitated. “Did you send me flowers?” I asked, seeing a box from one of Boston’s premier florists.

  “Nope. Must be one of your many admirers. Should I be jealous?”

  I ripped open the box and gasped. “Maybe not.”

  My gift was no love offering—it contained a dozen decapitated black roses. A plain white card amplified the message. Deadheads, it read. Someone had sent me a clear and unambiguous threat that sent chills from my head to toes.

  “Step aside,” Deming said. “Is there a message?”

  My voice sounded strange, even to my ears. “Oh, yeah. They call this kind of pruning ‘deadheading.’ It eliminates problem stems but doesn’t do much for the roses.”

  Needless to say, Deming stayed at my side for the balance of the night. Cato got an abbreviated nightly stroll, although both of us stayed on high alert. Our attempts to quiz the concierge were wasted words. He checked his log, pointed to the flower delivery at 8 p.m., and shrugged helplessly.

  “Look at your security tapes,” Deming growled. “Ms. Kane could be in danger.”

  I shook my head and whispered, “Forget it. This guy is new and hasn’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about. We’ll tackle Jaime tomorrow. He’s supposed to be up on this stuff.”

  “I pay him enough,” Deming said. “That guy should be right on top of it.”

  That made no sense. “What do you mean? You pay Jaime?”

  Deming pulled me to him and kissed my forehead. “Yep. Call it insurance, bribery—I don’t care. That little whelp gets a sizable bonus to keep you extra safe. I’m not taking any chances. Not with your life. It’s precious to me.”

  “I’M GOING TO SEE Lieutenant Bates,” I said the next morning. “She needs to know about those flowers and Heather Exley too.”

  Deming had the look of a man suffused with deep sleep and great sex. He sipped his espresso with only one eye open. “Be careful what you say. Remember, Horton is my client. Heather has arranged other counsel, but she’s still family. That makes things tricky.”

  “Not for me,” I said. “Besides, your mother will be there, and you know how tactful she is.”

  He rolled his eyes and gulped more latte. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t charge both of you. By the way, I’ll deal with Jaime this morning. Remind him of our arrangement.”

  “Don’t scare him. He’s afraid of you.” I’d seen Jaime cringe when the imperious Mr. Swann strode his way. Deming had a habit of prowling a room like a hungry tiger stalking prey. Not comfortable for the tethered goat.

  “One more thing, I spoke with my dad last night about those roses.” Deming’s nostrils flared. “We’ll contact the florist today. Swann Industries has a corporate account with the firm.”

  “That’s client information,” I said. “Isn’t it confidential?”

  He shook his head as if I were a simpleton. “They’re business people, Eja. Think about it. Besides, Dad can be very persuasive, especially when his family’s at risk.”

  I patted his cheek and was out the door before he could stop me. Fortunately, the red Mercedes with Anika at the wheel was parked at the curb, ready for action. She waved merrily at me and flung open the passenger side door.

  “Come on! We don’t want to keep Euphemia waiting.” Anika defined elegance in a trim, tailored pantsuit. I chose the safe road by wearing a nondescript beige suit designed to avoid attention.

  “Does Dem know what we’re up to?” Anika asked. “I’m so glad he was with you last night. Creeps who send dead flowers are nasty customers.” She peered into the flower box and shuddered. “Terrible waste of roses.”

  Anika pulled into a parking lot adjacent to Roxbury Community College. Boston police headquarters sprawled across Tremont Street, an uninvited guest or strong sentinel, depending on your point of view. The futuristic design was jarring to me, inconsistent with the historical landscapes that made Boston unique. I’d been here a number of times, but familiarity brought me no comfort. I was an alien in a harsh, efficient universe where death was a constant visitor.

  We entered through the middle door, cleared security, and stated our business to the desk sergeant, a sharp-eyed veteran with an Old Testament face. He verified our appointment and grunted as if life held few surprises.

  As the elevator sped to her floor, I reviewed my presentations for the lieutenant. I admired Mia Bates, but she intimidated me. My moist palms attested to that. She was always courteous and professional, even when she knew I was hiding something. Maybe that was the answer—the wisdom and cynicism radiating from her cop’s eyes activated every inch of my guilty conscience.

  “Are you okay?” Anika asked. “You really have to report this before things escalate.”

  I nodded, licking desert dry lips. “She’ll wonder why I’m the target. Remember, we were warned about getting involved.”

  Anika shrugged. “So what. Euphemia knows you. She never thought you’d do what she said anyway.” She strolled off the elevator and into the lion’s den without any hesitation.

  Several detectives were in the bullpen, hunched over their computers or flipping through case files. They said nothing, yet I knew by their expressions that they didn’t miss a thing.

  “Help you, ladies?” asked a tall, swarthy man with a lanyard dangling from his neck. He raised his eyebrows when we said we were expected and pointed toward Mia’s office. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one in awe of the lieutenant.

  As soon as we entered, she looked up and left her desk to greet us. Euphemia Bates was a long, lean column of teal wearing an ensemble only ectomorphs can manage. A hint of turquoise shadowed her lids, giving her the regal look of a potentate. She motioned toward the sofa and sat directly opposite us.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said. “Quite frankly, at this point, we’re still collecting evidence.”

  I gulped and launched into a fairly coherent account of yesterday’s excitement. Anika supplemented my comments with her own observations.

  “You’re saying that Heather Exley threatened you with a gun?” Mia bit her lip and turned her head to the side as if to suppress laughter. “It seems so out of character.”

  “Right on Boylston Street,” I said. “It had pearl handles. A derringer, I think.”

  “In front of La Perla. Can you believe how brazen she was?” Anika, a devotee of fine French intimate apparel, was outraged by such desecration.

  “Shocking,” Mia said. “Did she confess to Phaedra’s murder while she was waving that gun?”

  “Not really. She seemed more focused on separating me from Justin Ming. She’s crazy about him.”

  “Besotted,” Anika added. “The woman even lent him money. That’s bad business.”

  Mia nodded at that. “I hear you. No good comes from mixing love and money.” She leaned forward and stirred her mug of tea. “Didn’t you tell me that Phaedra was also in love with this Ming?”

  “That’s his story,” I said, “but I don’t doubt it. He has that impact on women.”

  Anika nodded sagely. “My son affected women the same way, but he wanted only Eja.” She leaned across the couch and patted my arm.

  Mia Bates looked up from her iPad. “What about the flowers? I presume these are the ones.” She opened the box with a pencil tip and stared. “Hmm. Is this Mrs. Exley’s work too?”

  I paused and gave that question some thought. “No. Heather wouldn’t waste the money. Besides, I think she’s too dense to devise something that cool.”

  “Cool, is it?” Mia’s jaw
clenched tighter than a vault. “The message is rather pointed, Eja. You’ve been rattling someone’s cage, and that could be dangerous. I’ll have the lab look at this, but I doubt that we’ll find anything other than the florist and delivery guy’s prints.”

  “Bolin’s checking out the florist,” Anika said. “He and Dem are doing that personally.”

  A momentary cloud flitted over Mia’s face. “Oh, joy. Someone else doing my job. Guess we public servants need all the help we can get.”

  Mia was distracted, and I saw an opportunity. “Have you found Phaedra’s partner yet? She had to have one. Those gold bars were heavy.”

  Her eyes narrowed into fiery slits. “Seems like you went on an excursion, Ms. Kane.”

  “Deming has permission,” I said. “Isn’t Sumo-Tek the creepiest place ever?”

  She ignored my comment and stared at her tablet. “Tell me again. I’m still puzzled. Why are you involved in the murder of someone you didn’t even know or like?”

  Anika ran interference. “After all, we discovered her body, Lieutenant. That makes it personal.”

  I felt the heat of Mia’s anger and blurted out my reason.

  “It haunts me—her eyes and the way she grabbed my hand. She was counting on me to avenge her, and I can’t let it go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  OUR MEETING WITH Euphemia Bates sapped my spirit. After Anika dropped me off, I vowed to forget murder and focus on my writing—at least for a few hours.

  Jaime intercepted me the moment I entered the lobby. His sad puppy dog eyes confirmed that Deming Swann had cuffed him around or worse, threatened his wallet.

  “Oh, Ms. Kane, I hope you’ll forgive me.” Jaime elevated obsequity to an art form with half bows and fulsome smiles. “I promise to do better.”

  “Fine, Jaime, no problem. Just hold my deliveries and keep them for me at the front desk.” I recalled Heather’s ambush of the prior day. “And for goodness sake, don’t let anyone lurk in the lobby without being announced.”

  He nodded vigorously enough to cause whiplash. “Understood. A lady stopped by this morning, but I told her she couldn’t stay.”

  My antennae rose to full length. “The blond lady from yesterday—Mrs. Exley?”

  The concierge struggled to craft a tactful response. “No. This lady was . . . older.”

  After coaxing a description from him, I realized that my visitor was Portia Amory Shaw. Even in Boston, weathered twinsets and sturdy brogues were a rarity worth noting. Portia had cornered the market on those get-ups.

  “She left a note.” Jaime bustled off to his desk and retrieved it.

  Portia’s message was concise, almost brusque. “I have new information on the dojo. Call if you’re still interested.”

  There went my good intentions. I immediately called Portia and invited her to my place for tea.

  “Make it something stronger, and I’ll be there,” she said. “Is five o’clock too late?”

  “Not at all.” That gave me plenty of time to strategize and assemble some snacks before she arrived. “You have my address, so I guess we’re all set.”

  Portia paused. “Yes. Ames told me where you live. I happened to be in the neighborhood this morning, so I took a chance and stopped by.”

  “Not a problem. See you later.”

  I sat at my computer shivering. It was preposterous, a residue of last night’s flower delivery and unwanted attention from the Exley clan. It was time to tread a new path.

  I explored the Shaolin Way of meditation and positive thoughts instead of gnawing on the negative until my mind exploded. I sat cross-legged on the floor, closed my eyes, and focused. To my surprise, Master Moore’s suggestions actually worked. A sense of well-being filled my mind, clearing away the cobwebs and night terrors. Shakespeare had said it best as he did most things. I refused to die many deaths by cowering in my room waiting for the end.

  When Deming called an hour later, I was the soul of composure.

  “How did it go with the lieutenant?” he asked. “I presume you’re not under house arrest or awaiting indictment.”

  “Very droll. How was your date with flower power?”

  His voice dropped, a warning that all was not well. “Don’t overreact, Eja.”

  Meditation was forgotten as my blood pressure soared. “Okay.”

  “The flowers were ordered by phone and the money messengered over. Things were busy, and the receptionist didn’t recall much.”

  “I expected that order to stand out. Deadheaded roses can’t be that common.”

  Deming gave a man-sized sigh. “Believe it or not, they are. Mostly at Halloween, but other times too. Devotees of Jerry Garcia and now the Goth influence.”

  “Oh. Lieutenant Bates told me to be careful. She seemed rather concerned.”

  Deming’s cool façade started to crack. “Just stay home today, Eja. Please. I forbid you . . . that is, I beg you not to go to that dojo. I’ll come over later and stay the night.”

  That cheered me up as nothing else could. I decided not to muddy the waters by mentioning my date with Portia. Maybe I was skating on ethical thin ice, but by adhering to the letter if not the spirit of my promise, I kept Deming satisfied and relatively calm. I didn’t even have to cross my fingers.

  “Fine. Okay. Except for walking Cato, I’ll stay here all day.”

  He whispered into the phone so quietly that I almost missed it. “I love you, Eja Kane. Never forget that.”

  THE OUTLINE FOR my next novel beckoned, and for the first time since Phaedra’s murder, I felt energized. Three hours hunched over my computer left my back and shoulder muscles begging for mercy, but the results were worth every niggling ache. I produced a character outline and two solid opening chapters of Dojo Death, a work that closely paralleled reality. Naturally the names were changed—not to protect the innocent, but to indemnify me from pesky lawsuits. I hadn’t identified the killer either, but that could be deferred until subsequent chapters. It was easy to devise any number of motives for murdering Phaedra Jones or Prudence Brown, the pseudonym that I invented for her. In my novels, lust and lucre figured prominently just as they do in real life. Phaedra or Enid was a big-time overachiever in both areas.

  I attended to Cato, freshened up, and arranged a tray of smoked salmon and assorted cheeses on the coffee table. Most women nibbled canapés rather than chowing down like guys. Despite the ubiquitous twinset and brogues, I gambled that Portia would follow the same path as her glitzier sisters. No need to pile on the carbs.

  When Jaime announced her arrival, I put a leash on Cato and plastered a smile on my lips. Portia wasn’t the most engaging visitor I could think of, but my mother instilled in me the mantra of a true lady: always pamper your guests.

  Imagine my chagrin when the door opened to two visitors rather than one. No dull attire for my CPA friend—Portia Amory Shaw had morphed from grey moth to butterfly. Shorn of her usual duds and fortified with a dab of makeup, she flirted with the outer fringes of glamour. The little black dress was unpretentious, but it suited her, and those trademark pearls looked totally at home nestled on her cleavage. Cleavage! Who knew?

  The bonus guest was the real shocker. Ames Exley, clad in black designer jeans, T-shirt, and jacket slid in behind her thrusting a box of Godiva chocolates my way.

  “Sweets for the sweet, or something equally banal,” he said. “I tagged along without Portia’s permission. She’s far too well-bred to approve.”

  Something in those Exley eyes cautioned me. Their intensity was at odds with his breezy banter and hammy grin. For once, I applauded when Cato launched into his snarling, macho routine. It comforted me and caused Ames to step back.

  “Please sit down,” I said, “and help yourselves to some snacks.” I opened the chocolates and added them to the other trea
ts. “Portia and I had business to transact, but that can wait. A handsome man is always welcome. Besides, Deming will be here later, and then we’ll have two hot guys to drool over.”

  The cousins exchanged a brief side-glance, as if some plan had been disrupted. I settled Cato down and played hostess.

  “What have you two been up to?” I asked. “Everything okay at the foundation?”

  Ames poured a scotch on the rocks and eased into the leather wingchair. “Ah . . . superb. Isn’t this place fantastic, Portia? Much better than that mausoleum we live in.” He pointed to the logs crackling in the fireplace. “Just perfect.”

  “You look different, Ames. I’ve never seen you so casual, even during college.” I pointed at his black T-shirt with its colorful Uncle Sam logo. “Very nifty.”

  Ames shrugged off my praise. “It’s vintage. My uncle was a real music freak.”

  Portia sat on the edge of her seat and fumbled with her purse. “Forgive my curiosity, Eja, but have you heard anything else? About the murder, I mean.”

  I spritzed on some eau d’ innocence and shook my head. “Nope. No one tells me anything.”

  “Oh, come now. You’re far too modest. Weren’t you with Euphemia Bates just this morning? A little birdie told me that.” Ames bared every one of his excellent teeth in a Cheshire grin. “Heather’s ears were burning after you finished. Bet you Daddy’s going to take her derringer away.”

  “We didn’t discuss the murder,” I said. “Anika and I had other business with her.”

  He dismissed me with a scornful snort. “I understand Deming took you on the deluxe tour of Horty’s gold empire. Impressive, isn’t it?” Ames curled his lip. “Too bad it isn’t worth a damn dime.”

  I smiled, gave him the big-eyed look, and said nothing. Ames obviously had an agenda. Why not let him pursue it.

  “That Sumo-Tek is really something,” he said. “The automated future.”