Swann Dive

by Arlene Kay

  “True,” Bolin said. “Cecilia never had limits—didn’t believe in them. She saw obstacles as something to conquer. She knew only one way. Full speed ahead.”

  I closed my eyes, visualizing her ire whenever I beat her at anything—be it Jeopardy, chess, or final exams. She was a fighter who just wouldn’t quit. That’s why I knew she’d been murdered, and I intended to prove it.

  “But she was happy—in love. I’d never seen her more ebullient.”

  Deming whirled around, his eyes laser sharp. “What makes you say that? You said you didn’t know about this so-called engagement.”

  “I didn’t. Not really. After all, she had quite a social life. CeCe was cagey about it. Never mentioned a name. I intended to grill her at brunch yesterday.” I flashed back to that building, all thirty-two floors of it. “What about the shrink she was seeing? He might speak with another doctor about her acrophobia. I know Lieutenant Bates didn’t believe me, but that’s a big red flag. No way would she have leapt off a building. CeCe got dizzy on a stepladder.”

  I could tell by the way his eyes darted that Jake was uncomfortable. No doubt about it. Apparently, the stethoscope set had strict rules about discussing patients and their ailments, even dead ones. I knew about the doctor-patient relationship, but I also knew that most men were bigger blabberers than women ever dreamed of being. They cloaked it in different terms—information sharing, analysis, evaluation—but it all added up to the same thing: dishing dirt.

  “We’ll provide a release, Jake.” Bolin nodded at his son. “Dem will draw it up for you.” Bolin leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “This engagement ring is another complication. I’ll check with Anika, but to my knowledge, Cecilia wasn’t involved with anyone. Certainly not engaged.” He sighed. “I hate prying into her personal life, but . . .”

  “Let me help.” Three pair of male eyes locked in on me. “I can ask around, say I’m compiling a profile piece on CeCe. A tribute for the family. I am a writer after all.”

  “Absolutely not! I forbid it.” Deming’s hazel eyes shot sparks across the room. “It’s too dangerous. If my sister actually was murdered, someone will be very nervous. That’s all we need, Eja blundering into a murder scheme. We’d end up having to rescue her.”

  We glared at each other, hackles raised, in a scene reminiscent of our schoolyard spats. Neither one of us backed down or gave an inch.

  “They always fought,” Bolin told Jake, “even as children. Oil and water, I guess. Well, this time I’m taking sides. Your idea is a good one, Eja. Just be careful.”

  No one, even Deming, dared argue with Bolin Swann. He was Zeus incarnate, a force of nature.

  “There’s one issue I’ll handle personally,” he said. “This judgeship.”

  “Did you know about it, Dad?”

  Bolin shook his head. “Nothing concrete, just rumors. I would have expected a call from Prescott Lewis before any formal offer was made. Matter of courtesy. I’m surprised that he approached Cecilia first.”

  “Huh!” Deming snorted like Secretariat at the finish line. “That creep! His interest in CeCe was more than professional. I warned him off, believe me. He wanted her, but not enough to face me.”

  “Looks like I should speak with Prescott,” Bolin said. “He’ll make a condolence call. Count on that. When he does, I’ll ask him to contact you, Eja. For your essay.”

  “Not without me,” Deming growled. “No woman is safe being alone with that man.”

  I ignored him. “You’re crazy, Deming. Prescott Lewis is Mr. Milquetoast. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. By myself.”

  No one noticed that the study door was ajar. We were too busy jockeying for position and swilling Krug. Suddenly Anika stood before us.

  “I’ll join you, Eja,” she said. “I want to help.”

  The men in the room froze as she glided toward us and poured herself some Krug. Mrs. Swann was a teetotaler no more.

  “What did I miss? Tell me.” Her flowing hair and unadorned face made even tragedy seem sublime. For the first time in my recollection, Bolin Swann lost his composure. He folded his wife into his arms and kissed her forehead.

  “Leda, I thought you were sleeping. Don’t mind about all this. We’ll handle it.”

  “Mind? She was my daughter too. I want to help. I have to, Bolin. Please.”

  He said nothing, just stood holding her, tenderly stroking her hair. I was transfixed, a voyeur who couldn’t turn away. He’d called her Leda, his pet name for her. Bolin was a fan of Greek mythology, especially that business between the goddess and a swan. CeCe chortled about the eroticism, feigning horror at parents who still liked sex with each other. I’d had a different reaction. Their love for each other, the intensity of their passion—I yearned for that in a relationship. Wanted it but had never found it. CeCe had searched for that as well. Maybe she’d finally gotten lucky.

  After we’d settled down, Anika repeated her question. “What can I do? Don’t discount a mother’s instinct. It’s special, you know.”

  Deming glared at me as if I were a bad influence on her. “Ah, come on, Mother. We’ve got everything covered.”

  Bolin touched his wife’s shoulder. “Okay. Work with Eja, darling. You two can sort through Cecilia’s things before the police get there.”

  Anika nodded and headed for the door. “I’ll get dressed right away. Po can drive us.”

  “Now? You’re going now?” Deming’s nostrils flared. “Stop her, Jake. She’s not well.”

  Jake Harris shrugged. “You really should rest, Mrs. S.”

  Anika pivoted and faced the men in her life. “Enough. All of you. You mean well, but I’m not some hothouse flower. There’s no good time to do this. Might as well be now.”

  Anika had no doubts. She buttoned her jacket and beckoned to me. “Come along, Eja. We’ve got work to do.”

  Six

  WE RODE TO CECE’S flat in companionable silence; two women absorbed in private thoughts. Po drove the monster Mercedes as cautiously as if it were Cinderella’s coach. He was a man of so few words that I’d never heard him utter a complete sentence. In English, that is. He and Bolin chatted quite easily in Mandarin, and the rest of the Swann family was also fluent in the language. I’d always suspected that Po absorbed every conversation he heard, English or not, and recounted it word for word to Bolin.

  Jaime practically genuflected when he spied Anika. That didn’t surprise me; I’d seen it all before. Anika had a quality that reduced adult males to quivering little boys. Beauty, charm, a whiff of vulnerability? If I could bottle and sell it, I’d never have to work again. I’d never be lonely, either.

  As we boarded the elevator, I thought of the engraved ring. Maybe CeCe’s middle name was Leda. That would explain the L. She’d always claimed that she had no middle name. If even I didn’t know it, this Raven person must have been exceptionally close to her.

  “Mrs. Swann . . .”

  “Anika. Please, Eja. We’ve known each other too long to use titles. Especially now.”

  It felt strange, but I forced myself. “Anika, what was CeCe’s middle name?”

  She blinked. “Middle name, whatever for?” She exhaled and started laughing. “I’ll bet she told you she didn’t have one, right?”

  I nodded.

  “She loathed it, and you know Cecilia. What she didn’t like just disappeared.” Dimples surfaced as she recalled her daughter. “Her name was Lenore. For her Grandmother Lind.”

  “Lenore?”

  Lines of poetry swam before my eyes. Of course! How could I forget Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, “The Raven.” The hero ached for his lost love: Lenore. CeCe must have connected with a guy who appreciated those sentiments. Hence, Raven. That didn’t sound at all like a lawyer. They crafted odes to billable hours, not lost loves.

  �
�Eja?” Anika watched me closely. No wonder. The elevator must have been stopped on the second floor for some time.

  I felt myself flush. “Forgive me. I . . . I was stuck in the past.”

  Anika touched my shoulder. “Ah, yes. It’s a great temptation, isn’t it? Retreating into the past. Since we heard . . . that’s just what I’ve been doing. It’s comforting thinking of Cecilia that way.”

  She reached into her handbag and produced another set of keys with the distinctive CS monogram. “I kept these for emergencies. Never even thought of using them.” A dimple surfaced in Anika’s cheek. “Bolin didn’t know, and Deming would have been livid. It’s a girl thing.”

  I heard her gasp as she swung open her daughter’s door. “I keep waiting for her to rush out. You know Cecilia was always running.” Tears pooled in Anika’s eyes.

  To my surprise Cato went right to her and offered his paw. No ankle biting or growling for the lovely Mrs. Swann. She charmed all species of males.

  She buried her face in the spaniel’s soft fur. “My daughter loved this dog. I guess you know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “I told Deming I’d take him. Unless you want to, of course.”

  Anika Swann giggled. “Ooh no. Cecilia talked about that—just joking of course. She wanted you to have Cato. Said he’d protect you from harm.” She turned away suddenly as if the memory was too much to bear. “She really loved you, Eja. Said you were her laotong, her friend for life.”

  I knew that expression. CeCe recounted tales from her Chinese grandma about old-world customs both frightening and exotic. Female friendships resonated with us. Foot binding—not so much. We’d done enough damage stuffing our tootsies into sexy shoes.

  “She looked up to you,” Anika said. “Depended on you.”

  I was too astonished to speak. “Me? I was always in her shadow.”

  Anika took my hands and squeezed them. “No, Eja. You’re smart and talented. Cecilia envied that. Even your marriage.”

  “Huh! My spectacular failure, you mean. I couldn’t even keep my own husband.”

  I thought of the huge diamond and Raven. “You saw that engagement ring, Anika. Did you know anything about it?”

  “Nothing. Cecilia had a lot of male friends, but no one special. Not that I knew of.”

  “The name—Raven. It doesn’t ring any bells. CeCe had lots of nicknames for her dates, but not Raven. I’d have remembered that one.”

  Anika played with her wedding ring, moving it up and down her finger. “That’s the connection with Lenore, isn’t it. Poe’s poem?” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Did he do it—this Raven person? Did he take her from me?”

  I shrugged. “I really can’t say.”

  “But it’s a clue, isn’t it? Something to make them investigate.”

  It fit my theory, but Euphemia Bates might react differently. Botched love affairs could make a woman desperate. Might even make her commit suicide. I remembered Deming’s analysis of his twin’s life: no man, no kids, and no hope.

  Anika cried again, weeping softly into a lace hankie. She clutched an ornate silver frame with a graduation photo of Deming, CeCe, and me. “You have courage, Eja. No one ever gave you anything. You earned it. That’s what my daughter envied. Your friendship meant the world to her.”

  “No, no. I was the lucky one. You’re all so special.” I took her hand. “I’ll find out. I promise.”

  Anika cocked her head. “What dear?”

  I swallowed hard. Should I say it? Pour salt in the wounds of a grieving mother?

  “I’ll find out who killed CeCe, Mrs. Swann. Promise.”

  Her hazel eyes sparked. “You mean who murdered her, don’t you? Stole her from those who loved her. That’s okay, Eja. Say the word.”

  I didn’t dare. It was harsh and unrelenting, the type of thing no mother needs to hear. Anika Swann stared at me, looking like an angry Athena.

  “Yes, Mrs. Swann. CeCe was murdered. We . . . I . . . will avenge her.”

  She snapped her purse shut, jumped up, and sprinted for CeCe’s bedroom. “Good. That’s settled then. We’ll work together on it. I can help.”

  I started sputtering. “But Deming . . .”

  Anika waved her hand. “Don’t worry about him, darling. He’s so protective of you. Always has been. Right now, he’s troubled and afraid.”

  My brows rose skyward. “Afraid? Deming? Whatever for?”

  Her smile was gentle as sea mist. “Losing control. He needs to protect you and me, and he’s worried. He always played that role, even as a small boy. His name means virtuous in Mandarin, you know. He can’t help himself.” She flung open CeCe’s closet and sighed. “She loved clothes, didn’t she? And purses . . . dear Lord, that girl loved leather.”

  That was an understatement. By last count, CeCe owned eighty purses, worth a small fortune. She’d cared for them, stuffed them with paper, and stored them in their own cotton sleeves.

  “They’re yours now, Eja.”

  My jaw dropped, and my mouth formed a perfect o.

  “You didn’t know, did you?” Anika shook her finger. “Cecilia left everything to you.”

  “Me? But why?”

  “There was only one proviso. Cato. You have to keep Cato.”

  I hung my head, mopping tears that wouldn’t stop. “I’d keep Cato anyway. She didn’t need to do this. It’s too much.”

  Anika shrugged. “Of course she didn’t have to. She wanted to. Cecilia loved you, Eja. You were her laotong, her sister for a thousand years. Remember?” She patted her chignon. “Besides, we certainly don’t need the money. I won’t have some stranger pawing through her belongings or living in the house she loved. So it’s settled.”

  “But I already have a condo.”

  Anika had seen my shoebox home. CeCe’s place was five times larger and twenty times more luxurious.

  “We’ll put it on the market right away. Bolin can handle that. Use the money to pay upkeep on this place. Makes sense, no?”

  Before I could answer, she sped into CeCe’s bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. “Grab one of her tote bags, will you Eja? We need to clean out this shelf.” Anika dumped several prescription bottles in the bag.

  “Maybe you should leave that, Mrs. Swann. It might be evidence tampering.”

  Anika Swann lost her ethereal look. “Frankly, I don’t care. If the police find antidepressants, they’ll swear that my daughter killed herself. Say she was despondent.”

  “They’d love a simple solution,” I agreed.

  “They won’t get the chance. Cecilia got these when she was seeing that therapist about her acrophobia.” She pointed to the vial. “See. Wesley Townsend. He’s a friend of Bolin’s from some business group. Cecilia saw him for years, for all the good it did her. She was still scared out of her wits by anything higher than a stiletto.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember that guy. CeCe liked him at first. Then something changed her mind. Might be a good idea to question him.”

  Anika furrowed her perfect brow. “Hmm. Better let Bolin set it up. You know how touchy doctors can be. Just keep my son away from him. Dem acts like the Grand Inquisitor and gets everyone’s back up. This calls for a woman’s touch.” She brightened. “I know. We’ll do it together.”

  “Yes. No. I guess so.”

  As a rule, I’m fairly glib, but the events of the past two days had confounded me. I needed time to plan a strategy and collect my thoughts—about Deming Swann.

  I SPENT THE evening in my own home, cuddling with Cato. Admittedly, it was a far cry from the opulence of CeCe’s place, but the little spaniel seemed grateful for lodging. My head was buzzing from the day’s revelations. Was it possible that I now owned CeCe’s grand residence? Anika’s calm assessment of Deming was another jolt.

>   I dozed off, wondering why in the world he’d protect me when he’d always considered me a pest and worse. Hours later, the shrieking phone awakened me from a particularly satisfying dream.

  “I’ve got news.”

  “What . . .?” I groped blindly for my alarm clock. “Do you realize what time it is?”

  “Stop whining.” Deming’s crisp tones were unmistakable. “Put some coffee on. I’ll be right over. This can’t wait.”

  He disconnected before my synapses began to fire. It was barely five a.m., and even the sun had the sense to catch extra zzzs before rising. Cato gave me a sharp look with disgust written all over it. CeCe regarded beauty rest with the reverence some give to Sacred Writ. She’d probably never risen before six in her privileged life.

  I leapt into the shower and did a modified beauty routine. I’m no sybarite, but I have my pride. Deming Swann would never see me with bed head if I could help it.

  When the buzzer rang, I was ready. I wouldn’t win any beauty prizes, but at least my hair and clothes were clean. He, on the other hand, strode into my living room looking like cover art for GQ magazine. I caught my breath as I surveyed him: black leather jacket, white turtleneck, and disturbingly tight jeans. His thick dark hair was combed straight back and tamed with a touch of gel. To his credit, Deming came bearing gifts. He clutched a red porcelain pan of some heavenly substance.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting the plate at me. “Breakfast.”

  “Wow! Where’d you get this?”

  He shrugged off his jacket and scowled. “Po made it. Mother insisted that I take it with me. She knows how you like spinach quiche.”

  This was the Deming I knew so well: gruff, gorgeous, and far from gracious.

  I waved him to a seat at my small dining table and poured each of us an espresso.

  “Get any sleep last night?” I asked.

  He snarled an answer. “Why? There’ll be plenty of time for that later on.”

  I arranged the quiche on a serving tray and dug in. No sense pretending around a man who knew for certain what a chowhound I was. Between forkfuls of egg, I prodded him. “Okay. You’ve got my attention. Let’s hear it. What’s this big news flash?”