Swann Dive

by Arlene Kay

  “Anika took a sleeping pill and went to bed. I was so restless, I just had to get out and do something.” He slapped his son on the back. “Somehow I figured Dem would be over here with you.”

  Was this Providence intervening, saving me from a disastrous mistake? It made sense, although my raging hormones begged to differ. I phonied up a smile and welcomed Bolin.

  “We were just getting started,” I said. “Reviewing the documents, I mean.”

  My social skills had taken a nosedive. Passion will do that to you. That’s what it was, pure animal passion, nothing more. It was no big mystery. Deming had been part of my life since I was five, and having him near reminded me of CeCe. They were twins, after all. Once my grief subsided, so would my longing for him. Maybe.

  I turned to Bolin. “How about some cognac?”

  “Sure. Think you can handle two lawyers, Eja? We may drive you crazy.”

  Deming and I locked eyes. The fire in his had vanished, but I was less sanguine.

  “Don’t worry. One writer versus two lawyers is a fair fight. Besides, we weren’t doing anything special.”

  Deming had stuffed almost everything into CeCe’s Vuitton suitcases. She had every style imaginable, from the hatbox to the steamer trunk. I’d chided her about that hatbox. I mean, who even wears hats these days? She’d shrugged it off, saying she was in her Grace Kelly phase at the time. The steamer trunk was another matter entirely. I’d always coveted that trunk. It conveyed impossibly romantic images of the Orient Express, first-class travel in the halcyon days when luxury, not security, was paramount. Even at auction, they cost a fortune. CeCe had once promised it to me, knowing I’d use it as a fabulous coffee table rather than a suitcase.

  “Stop dreaming, Eja, or we’ll never get done.” Deming loomed over me; just close enough to brush my arm. An electric current shot through my skin, awakening every nerve ending I had. He felt it too. I could tell by the way he jumped back.

  “Sorry. I was reminiscing.”

  Bolin’s laugh was bittersweet. “Oh Lord, CeCe and her luggage. Does it ever bring back memories. That girl kept Vuitton in business, collecting every piece.” His beautiful eyes filled, and he turned away. For a moment I’d forgotten why we were here. Her father had not.

  We divided the spoils and each took a bag. I spread the contents of the hatbox on her dining room table and started sifting. In typical CeCe fashion, what had initially seemed like clutter had a strange sense of order. My stack contained financial transactions from her sessions with Dr. Wesley Townsend. She’d had plenty of them, two a week for three years. That added up to a tidy sum if my math skills were still functioning. Well over $100,000.

  “Did this shrink do CeCe any good?” I asked Bolin. “She told me she quit going after a year, but these bills show that her last session was the Thursday before she died.”

  Bolin raised his thick dark brows. “I have no idea. Anika might know something. I just dealt with Wesley on boards and fundraisers. Seemed like an okay guy to me.”

  From the thundercloud on Deming’s face, I sensed that he disagreed.

  “Have an opinion, Deming?”

  “You bet I do. That guy is a Freudian. You know, everything, including acrophobia, had a sexual meaning. Unresolved Electra complex is what he told my sister.”

  “What!” Bolin’s scowl was a thing of beauty. “That’s disgusting . . . how dare he. You know, he asked me and Anika to stop by. Said he liked to know the parents of his patients. I couldn’t make it, but Anika went. She actually had a few sessions with him herself. He used hypnosis to help her stop smoking.”

  CeCe thought Wesley Townsend was a quack. At least that’s what she’d told me. Why then had she paid his ridiculous fees for three years? It made as much sense as her willingness to meet someone on that rooftop. I bundled the paperwork back into the hatbox, determined to have that chat with Anika as soon as possible.

  I sipped my cognac and thought about the gun. It belonged with Euphemia Bates, no matter what Deming said. I knew it and so did he. Suppose someone had used it in a crime? Something CeCe witnessed. That might explain the whole sad story. There was another possibility too foolish to contemplate: Had CeCe used that gun herself?

  “We found something else the other day,” I said. “It’s up to you guys, but I think it belongs with Lieutenant Bates.”

  Deming shot me a look so venomous it would have stunned a serpent. “Not now, Eja.”

  His father hadn’t scaled the financial pyramid by missing signals. Bolin spun around and quietly sighed. “Okay. We’re a team here. What’s the big mystery?”

  I knew enough to keep my big mouth shut. That left Deming holding the bulging bag of snakes he’d fashioned. He was brilliant and headstrong, but when it came down to it, paternal fealty trumped everything else.

  He answered his father through gritted teeth, pointedly ignoring my existence. “A gun, Dad. Cecilia had a gun in her safe. A Walther, not one of ours.”

  I admired Bolin’s composure. His lips formed a firm, straight line, but his features didn’t change one bit.

  “Where is it?”

  Deming’s shoulders sagged slightly. “In the Porsche. Don’t worry, the cops won’t find it. I’ve got a secret compartment under the seat.”

  Bolin gave a sharp intake of breath. “Give it to me when we leave here. I’ll take it to Lieutenant Bates myself in the morning and tell her the truth—that we found it among Cecilia’s possessions. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  I refilled our glasses, hoping a swallow of prime cognac would dissipate the tension. Luckily it seemed to work. We continued the sad task of delving into the private life and personal papers of someone we loved. It was hard work, heartbreaking too. CeCe had never heard of a paperless society. She’d committed everything to hard copy.

  Bolin grimaced as he opened a red, silky sleeve tied with a ribbon.

  “What’s wrong, Dad? What’d you find?”

  “Calm down, son. Unless I’m way off base, I’ve found Raven.”

  Deming had the agility of a cat. He sprang over to his father’s side like a prowling feline.

  “Let me see them. What does he say?”

  Bolin turned the letters facedown. “This feels very awkward. Intrusive. Cecilia kept these private. They must have been very special to her.”

  “Dad . . .” Deming kept his temper on a taut leash. “Murder victims don’t get privacy. I’m not suggesting we hand them over to the cops, but if we can find him . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish that sentence. I’d been there when Deming launched himself at Jem Russell. Poor Raven would suffer a similar fate when Cecilia Swann’s crazed brother confronted him. Feathers would definitely fly.

  “They’re love letters,” Bolin said. “Mostly poems. Some original and some classics. You know how much Cecilia loved poetry, Eja. Tell him.”

  Fathers! They see their little girls through rose-colored glasses long after the truth surfaces. Poetry had bored CeCe to death. She’d been a philistine who buried her nose in law books to the exclusion of the arts. We’d once had a spirited debate about the manliness—or lack of—that most poets displayed. CeCe scoffed at Keats, Shelley, and Whitman. Called them effete. I countered with Thomas, Frost, and Poe. We’d both agreed that Lord Byron was an anomaly who set the bad boy bar impossibly high. Even Malcolm Cates, her staid secretary, was enthralled by the infamous lord and his exploits. After all, his hijinks led the sexually stunted Brits to ban him from burial with his peers at Westminster.

  CeCe had dismissed Poe as an inebriated lout who had squandered his talent. Something—or someone—had changed her mind about poetry in general and Edgar Allen Poe in particular. All those Lenore and Raven references meant something to her. Raven must be quite a man—literate enough to write and quote poetry, virile
enough to capture my spirited friend. I closed my eyes, mourning what might have been.

  Bolin’s hand patted my cheek. “Are you okay, Eja? I’ve been inconsiderate. Forgive me.” He returned the letters to their silken sheaf.

  “Hold on,” Deming said. “Eja’s the best person to decipher this stuff. It’s mumbo jumbo to me. Something a guy uses to seduce a woman, or I guess he’d say, a maiden. She can read it and find clues.”

  “Poetry is food for the soul,” I quoted. “Don’t worry about me. You guys do your thing while I unmask Raven.”

  When they finally agreed, I settled into her favorite French chair and started my task. It wasn’t sadness that I feared; it was the impact of erotic poetry on my fragile libido. I was needy for the physical and emotional components of love. Some would say horny, but it was much more complex. I’d never admit it to anyone, especially Deming Swann.

  They left before midnight, promising to update me after Prescott Lewis’s visit. Somehow I dozed in the middle of Raven’s exquisite love letters. The imagery was flawless, but I found myself yearning for a flesh-and-blood man to hold me and kiss away the pain. CeCe had died alone without the loving family she’d dreamed of. Would a similar fate befall me?

  At one a.m., Cato’s muffled growls awakened me. I’d planned to go home, back to my own cozy nest, but someone had other ideas. It was a scene worthy of Poe with the rapping, tapping on my chamber door. I shivered, too terrified to quote poetry.

  “Who’s there?” I tried, unsuccessfully, to sound menacing. In reality, my quivering voice mimicked a strangled mouse.

  “I’m coming in. Chain up that hound.”

  The key turned quietly in the Medeco lock, reminding me that I hadn’t latched the door. He was in the hallway before I could scream, surrounding me with a firm embrace.

  “I had to see you.” Deming gently swept the hair from my eyes and touched my cheek. He bent down and kissed me, softly at first, then harder. “I borrowed my mother’s key.”

  I moaned as his lips brushed the hollow of my neck and collarbone, gliding like a feather down my skin. His long, elegant fingers, worthy of an artist or surgeon, stole slowly downward, exploring the hem of my chemise. I stood on tiptoe, moving closer as I felt his heat.

  “I wanted this,” he said. “So many times.”

  “You did? I thought I imagined it.”

  Deming muttered something I couldn’t hear and led me toward the guest bedroom. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to be with you.”

  My fears were eradicated by a hot blast that consumed me like lava flow. His lips and tongue were everywhere, teasing long forgotten parts of me that begged for closure. I floated in a sea of shifting tides and crashing currents, guided back to shore by the sound of his voice.

  Deming switched on the lamp, watching my reaction as he made me whole. For once I was too needy to care. Afterward, he swept aside the sheets and surveyed every part of me as if I were a sculpture. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “So lovely.”

  “Don’t mock me,” I said, scrambling for my clothes. “Not now. I can’t take it.”

  Deming shook his head. “Me? You’re the one who always puts herself down. Why is that? Don’t you own a mirror?”

  I turned on my side, replaying those long-ago marital tapes I knew by heart. “No other man would want you. Inner strength counts more than glamour, Eja. Not every woman can be a beauty. That’s just not you.”

  “Don’t pull away from me, Eja.” Deming put his arms around me, planting a gentle kiss on my ear. “I care about you. Don’t you see? I always have.”

  “I thought you hated me. We’ve always fought like cats and dogs.”

  He pulled me close. “It wasn’t you I was fighting. CeCe understood. She always thought we’d get together, even when you married that weasel.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “You’ve only had one husband, unless you disposed of the others.” Deming reached into the table drawer for a cigarette. “Ah. I see my sister kept her stash of Gauloises.”

  That triggered another CeCe moment. “She said she only smoked after having sex.”

  “Humph! Then she must have bought them by the caseload. Let’s face it, Cecilia loved a good time.” Deming inhaled, smiling at the memory. “Raven would have had a hard task keeping my sister in the corral, no matter what kind of poetry he wrote.”

  “You should talk! I don’t see you with a wife and kiddies. CeCe believed in love and fidelity. She was just being careful this time.” I couldn’t muster evidence to refute what he said, but I knew that CeCe had been on the cusp of a major life change. She’d been coy about her new love—a major first for her—but had left no doubt how serious it was.

  Deming bent down and offered me a puff of his Gauloises.

  “No thanks. I’ve never smoked.”

  “Jesus, you are a little prig. I’ll bet you never even did drugs.”

  I’d done my share, but he’d never know. “Why? Is destroying brain cells some mark of distinction? Skid row is full of adventurous types, if that’s what you like.”

  Deming tilted my chin toward him. “Feisty, aren’t you, Ms. Eja? Is that what good sex does for you?”

  “Who said it was good?” I threw back the covers and sprinted toward the bathroom.

  He caught me before I got there and bundled me back in the sheets. “Hold on. We have unfinished business. I won’t let you go until you change your mind.”

  AFTERWARD, I crept out of bed and fired up the espresso machine. It was barely sun up, but the sudden immersion in passion had left me sleepless. I’d forgotten the joys that tenderness and lovemaking can bring. Forgotten how desperately I wanted them.

  Watch yourself, Eja Kane. For you it was lovemaking; for him it was probably screwing.

  I knew the score, for heaven’s sake. At thirty-three ingénue roles were far behind me. Deming was a skilled practitioner of erotic arts who had his pick of women—young, beautiful women, not bashful scholars like me. Someday he’d settle down and sire a clutch of beautiful Swann babies. His union with me was temporary, born of convenience and shared circumstance. I had no illusions about him. Like that famous description of Lord Byron, Deming was “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” By next month, he’d be a fond but distant memory, and I’d revert to the status of old childhood acquaintance. It didn’t hurt when I intellectualized it that way. Not too much.

  “What’s going on?” Deming appeared wrapped in a fluffy Turkish towel and nothing more. His golden skin glowed from the sting of cold water and the liberal use of a loofah. In short, he was an erotic dream designed to quicken any woman’s pulse. I passed him an espresso, watching as he greedily inhaled the magic brew.

  “I finished Raven’s things. They gave me a pretty good picture of him.”

  He gave me the lawyer’s gimlet eye. “Oh, yeah. Tell me.”

  “Okay. I know you’ll scoff, but nevertheless . . .”

  Deming’s lips twisted in a mischievous grin. “Scoff, will I? Maybe I’ll surprise you. I have a sensitive side too. You know that better than most.”

  My cheeks felt a bruise of color as I bent down to consult my notes. “Okay, here it is. Raven is cultured, knowledgeable about poetry, and extremely creative in his use of metaphors and similes. He has excellent penmanship—odd for any man, so he can’t be a doctor—and isn’t afraid to pour out his heart to the woman he loves.”

  “That’s it? My God, Eja, we live in Boston. The best universities in the world pump out liberal arts majors by the gross.” He shook his head. “Sorry, but that doesn’t help one bit. Did he mention their marriage? Anything about a wedding?”

  “Not a specific date, but his letters presume they will soon be married.” I considered that for a moment. “Oh, and he tells her not to worry about her family. That your parents and his mom will
come around. One more thing: He uses her middle name. Lenore.”

  That got me a world-class smirk. Before he could speak, his iPhone sang out. Deming held up one finger, turned his back to me, and took the call. “Okay. See you soon.”

  He chug-a-lugged his espresso and gave my cheek a hasty peck. “Hey. Gotta run. Client meeting at nine that can’t wait.”

  I’d glanced at the caller ID right before he picked it up. Big surprise. His business meeting was with Pamela Schwartz.

  LATER THAT MORNING, Cato and I took a brisk trot around the Common. Exercise reportedly releases endorphins that elevate your mood and mask pain. You can’t prove that by me. I can truthfully say that I’ve never felt euphoric after grunting, groaning, and gasping, unless there was a man involved. Sweating is a disgusting spectacle that should be criminalized, or at least confined to the bedroom.

  Cato seemed to share my sentiments. He was happier sniffing and sniping at passersby than bounding after sticks. I kept my head high and my tear ducts sealed. Deming didn’t owe me anything, not even an explanation. He hadn’t forced himself on me. I’d savored every minute and longed for more.

  Some men feel obliged to pretend they love you after a session between the sheets. N’importe, the French say, and they know all about romance. I could never in a million years compete with a siren like Pamela Schwartz. I’ve always been shy around men. Not in the classroom, of course, but in every other arena. I’d fight tooth and nail on academic issues and compete with anyone. Socially—not so much. CeCe was the social butterfly, gliding gracefully from man to man, always part of the in-crowd. I was her shadow, a perpetual understudy who never quite knew her lines.

  I had no illusions. Deming needed someone familiar to give him comfort, someone who had known and loved his sister too. Who better than Eja Kane, loyal friend and family retainer? We were both hurting, mourning the loss of someone special. It was the least I could do for her brother.