Swann Dive

by Arlene Kay

  Lieutenant Euphemia Bates gathered her things and stomped out the door.

  THAT EVENING, I went into author mode for a book signing. When it comes to hawking my wares, I’m a perpetual wallflower, proud of my product, shamed by my tactics. Signings were part of the business to be endured, not anticipated. I pasted a bland, professional smile on my face and did my personal dog and pony show for the sparse crowd.

  I stiffened, thinking of yet another CeCe moment. We’d established a ritual to commemorate book signings. After each one, CeCe would meet me at The Last Hurrah, the iconic bar named for the O’Connor novel. We’d eat a shameful number of snacks while toasting James Michael Curley, Parker House rolls, and Boston cream pie. That was over now, a treasured relic of my past.

  As the final straggler left, I mentally calculated my take from the evening’s proceeds and packed my satchel.

  “Sign one more, lady?”

  I looked up and saw him, a vision in black jeans so tight they left nothing to my very active imagination.

  “What the . . .?”

  “I understand we have a date at The Last Hurrah. Nine sharp.” Deming’s eyes looked suspiciously moist. “I’m a poor substitute, but I’ll try my best.”

  I forced myself not to cry. Lord knows I’d shed enough tears lately. After years of teasing and fights, Deming’s kindness was the hardest thing to accept. I moved in close and hugged his waist. “Thank you.”

  “Hey, what’s this about? Not getting soft on me, I hope.”

  “Never.” We walked silently up Newbury street, through the Common, and over to the Parker House site of the Last Hurrah. The first Christmas lights twinkled star-bright from tree branches along the path. Way too early. Grossly commercial. Utterly sublime.

  Deming signaled the waiter, and we eased into a padded leather booth in a premium spot. Our booth. The one CeCe and I always claimed.

  He gave me the eye. “You’re not thirsty?”

  “I know what I want.” I flushed at the implication. “To drink.”

  The well-trained waiter took our order with a straight face.

  “Pumpkin martini! Are you serious? That’s disgusting.” Deming made a rude remark and ordered Glenlivet XXV.

  “We always drank those, CeCe and I. Martinis for the fainthearted. Plus they’re tasty.” I smacked my lips in anticipation.

  “I’ll take your word for it. I’m a scotch man. Always have been.”

  We clinked glasses and toasted her.

  “She loved Christmas,” Deming said. “Acted like a damn kid.”

  I nodded, thinking of CeCe’s mad scramble to find just the right gift for everyone. She’d start in July and hide them all over her house until Christmas Eve.

  “Wait a minute!” I startled our waiter into dropping the cutlery.

  Deming moved closer to me. “Are you okay?”

  I clutched his arm until he yelped.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Don’t you see? It’s a clue. CeCe led us to it.”

  He stroked my cheek. “Slow down and tell me.”

  “It’s just a thought, but knowing CeCe, she might have Raven’s Christmas present hidden in her house. She always did stuff like that.”

  “It’s only October, and so what if she did?”

  “Okay, it’s a long shot, but one worth taking. Even if the cops found the gifts, they wouldn’t think anything of it. But it’s a clue.”

  Deming shrugged, acting lawyerly again. “Highly improbable. Unlikely.”

  I gulped my martini and grabbed my coat. “Drink up.”

  AFTER THE MAD dash to CeCe’s place our momentum stalled. We collapsed on her platinum couch, paralyzed by indecision and doubts. My bright idea of an hour before had lost its luster.

  “Okay. Where do we start, Sherlock?”

  “I’m thinking. Give me a minute.”

  I looked away to mask my real thoughts. Deming’s black jeans and turtleneck distracted me from almost anything unrelated to sex. It was shameful and totally unlike me, a major sixth and ninth commandment no-no. The nuns would condemn me to hell for even considering it. Dull, loyal Eja transformed into a succubus by some carefully placed highlights and a brief taste of ecstasy. What next? It was weird, wonderful, and incredibly hot!

  “Time’s up,” he said. “Put up or shut up, Ms. Kane.”

  If he said “put out” I might have jumped his bones. As it was I forced myself to focus on our task. Deming was hopeless at searching, too repressed to tear into closets and explore the seamy contents of his sister’s lingerie chest. I assigned him the simplest task possible: dialing the number I’d gotten from Malcolm. The number Raven had called from.

  The police search had been remarkably precise. They’d accounted for every item, bagged and tagged things of interest, and replaced the rest. The inventory sheet was no help at all. They’d chosen mundane but valueless things.

  I’m no expert, but I had one big advantage: I knew my friend. CeCe had a system, a method to her madness, as my mom used to say. It was quirky and defied logic, but it worked for her. Each present was concealed in a place whose initial matched the recipient. My gifts, for example, were in the entry closet, E for Eja, and kitchen, K for Kane. If that logic prevailed, I had to search anything remotely related to R for Raven. I discounted “roof” since even CeCe had her limits. That left the Recamier couch, rugs, and the vast refuse in her storage locker. It sounded ridiculous the more thought I gave to it.

  Deming hadn’t budged from his perch on the sofa. He’d hunkered down in front of the fireplace as though mesmerized by the flames and the snifter of brandy he sipped.

  “Hey! Are you going to help or not?” I ignored the stirrings in my nether parts and jerked the pillow from underneath his head. “Come on. I’m not having much luck.”

  “I can change that.” He discarded his drink and gently pulled me toward him. We rolled off the couch, tumbled on the rug, and held each other close.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I gasped, praying that he’d never stop.

  “Nothing. For once, everything’s perfect.”

  He brushed his lips slowly down my neck, feathering them across my collarbone in a gentle, inexorable journey of exploration. I helped him every way I could, groaning encouragement each time he touched me. Deming’s long slender fingers—artist’s hands—unfastened my blouse, gently tugging the chemise over my head. We snuggled under folds of cashmere, savoring the sensuous pleasure of skin on skin, deferring release almost beyond endurance.

  We made love by the firelight, to the sweet sounds of Thelonious Monk. Deming held me tight against his chest, calling my name, softly, urgently kissing every part of me while I slipped seamlessly into another realm where dreams came true and love was mine to claim. I surrendered myself, giving everything, expecting nothing. Afterwards, I closed my eyes, savoring the scent of Creed and the blissful sound of his heartbeat.

  Deming drifted off to sleep, but I was not so lucky. Something, some kernel of forgotten lore, kept rattling around my head. Despite the bravado, my brainstorm was barely a rain shower.

  Then it hit me! I’d forgotten the vagaries of Cecilia Swann’s mind. She loved obscure things and words, relished the chance to confound her peers. There was one R place I’d forgotten to search. It was in her closet, hiding in plain sight. Her reticule, a rare auction find, was wrapped in a soft felt sleeve among her other purses. The drawstring pouch, a cunning blend of net, beading, and brocade, had been carefully preserved by a lady of the eighteenth-century French court, possibly even by Madame de Pompadour herself. CeCe paid a small fortune for it, indulging in informed guesses and wild speculation about its origins.

  I swept aside the covers, sprinting half-naked toward the closet.

  “Nice view, missy, but what the hell
are you up to?”

  I ignored Deming and opened her purse collection, reaching to the back of the drawer for my prize. The reticule, perfectly preserved, was as regal as its purported owner. Deming grabbed a robe and hovered over me as I carefully searched the crevices of the pouch. We both gasped as a small black velvet box tumbled out. I pried open the top with trembling fingers, praying that I’d found the key to Raven.

  It nestled in a plush velvet bed, an exquisitely crafted gold tie clip with a ruby-eyed serpent wound sinuously across a rough club. It was so like CeCe, beautiful but obscure.

  “What’s wrong?” Deming asked. “You look disappointed.”

  “Puzzled, actually. What the hell is that thing? Some fertility symbol?”

  He bent down and examined the tie clip. “Nope. You’ve got sex on the brain. What we have here is the final clue.” He chuckled. “So typical. Anyone else would have found a caduceus and been satisfied. Not Cecilia.”

  “Wait a minute. I know what a caduceus looks like: two snakes, wrapped around a shepherd’s staff. This thing is more primitive.”

  He pinched my cheeks. “Now you’ve got it. This little beauty is custom-made. A staff of Asclepius.”

  “Who?”

  “Listen and learn, my little scholar. Asclepius was a legendary Greek healer and this, not the caduceus, is the correct symbol for physicians. Check out the AMA website if you don’t believe me.”

  It took me a moment to process Deming’s blather. “Hold on. Does this mean that Raven is a doctor? Oh my God! She fooled everyone. CeCe was hooked on that creepy shrink after all!” I felt ill just thinking of it. All my tender feelings about Raven evaporated.

  Deming shrugged. “Her phone records didn’t show any calls to Wesley Townsend. But we have another way to settle this.” He walked over to the side table and grabbed his wallet. “Here’s that phone number Malcolm gave you. Let’s try it again.”

  I held my breath as he dialed the number, praying he was wrong, that CeCe hadn’t loved Townsend. How would Anika ever deal with that? Bolin didn’t worry me. Unlike Deming, emotion wouldn’t cloud his judgment. He’d dispatch his daughter’s murderer without a second thought no matter who it was. Revenge is an admirable trait in a man.

  After an interminable number of rings, someone answered Deming’s call.

  “Whose number is this, please?” It was an order, not a request. Deming Swann, master and commander. “Okay. Thanks.”

  His eyes showed absolutely no emotion as he turned toward me.

  “That number is a switchboard.”

  “Where?” I was wired, one inch short of clawing his face.

  “Massachusetts General Hospital.”

  Seventeen

  “CALL JAKE,” I croaked. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Deming nodded and scanned his phone directory. He spoke with Jake in clipped tones, telling him we needed his help to track down Raven. After a few grunts and monosyllabic replies, he hung up and pointed to me.

  “Get dressed. We’re meeting him at my parents’ place in thirty minutes.”

  “Tonight?”

  “You heard me. Unless of course you’re too tired. I’ll drop you home.”

  “No way. And don’t be so bossy. I’m the one who found the clue.”

  He raised his eyebrows and snickered. “You’d have more authority if you weren’t half naked, you know. Not that I’m complaining. I like the view just fine.”

  I grabbed one of CeCe’s robes and fled to the bathroom to restore my makeup and composure. After a rendezvous with a brush, I felt reasonably calm, ready to complete the quest for Raven.

  Deming broke every traffic rule on that mad tear through Back Bay. Under duress, he even agreed to stop and pick up Cato. That resulted in a snarl fest where canine teeth triumphed over brute strength. The feisty spaniel leapt into the Porsche while Deming issued a string of remarkably creative oaths.

  “Jeez, I hate that little fucker,” he said. “My sister was nuts to adopt him. He should have gone straight to the glue factory.”

  I wisely kept silent since Cato was curled up on my lap wearing a particularly smug expression.

  Deming tossed an envelope in my lap as he rounded a corner. “Here. Someone taped this to your door. What’s the matter, late on the maintenance payment?”

  “Very funny.” I slipped the envelope into my purse and focused on our forthcoming meeting. “Did Jake know anything? Give you any ideas?”

  He shrugged, leaving me to watch his brooding face and draw my own conclusions. Deming Swann could ace any screen test for Wuthering Heights. He was Heathcliff down to the last Byronic scowl, a man with intellect, physical beauty, and uncertain temperament. On the other hand I was certainly no Catherine. Sulky males, no matter how sexy, were not my cup of Earl Grey.

  As we pulled into Bolin’s driveway, Deming cautioned me. “Be careful if my mom’s around. Something about Wesley Townsend makes her nervous.”

  Just then, Dr. Jake Harris swung his silver Jeep to the curb. He grabbed his medical bag and trudged toward the front door without greeting us. Curious. Jake seemed sluggish, a far cry from the lively man I’d grown accustomed to. Deming locked the Porsche and sped up to join his friend. I was delayed by Cato, who took his sweet time, stopping to inspect and water every shrub in his path.

  They were waiting for me when I reached the library, stiff and awkward, like bad actors in a drawing-room farce. Bolin was the first to break the silence.

  “Seems like we’ll finally get to the bottom of this.”

  Deming shared the basics then turned to his friend. “Jake did some digging. He knows the answer.”

  I tried not to stare, but Jake Harris looked shattered. What the hell would affect him that way? Dark smudges ringed his caramel eyes, and even his thick springy curls sagged into limp coils.

  Bolin took the lead. “So. This man my daughter loved is a doctor. Based on everything we know that can only be one person. It pains me to even think it but . . .” Anika grasped his arm so tightly that he winced. “No, Leda,” he whispered. “Relax.”

  Jake rose quickly and stepped forward. “I can clarify things. When Deming called, I gave it a lot of thought.”

  “For Christ’s sake man, spit it out if you know who he is. Stop stalling.” Deming’s muscles tensed.

  I met Jake’s eyes, seeing in them resignation and deep sadness.

  Bolin nodded, urging him on.

  “You were right about this man. All of you. He loved Cecilia, and she loved him. She worried about your reaction, not because she was ashamed, but because she’d made so many mistakes. She was especially concerned about you, Dem. I should have told you before. I know that.” He turned toward Anika when he spoke. “I am Raven.”

  No one moved or said a word. Even Cato was uncharacteristically silent. I scanned the faces of the Swann family, seeing shock, disbelief, and a faint hint of joy. Our long quest for Raven had ended in spectacular fashion.

  “We wasted a lot of time looking for you.” Deming’s voice was flat and unemotional, but his clenched fists signaled tension. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”

  “I wanted to, but it never seemed like the right time.” Jake turned toward CeCe’s picture, his face awash with emotion. “No. That’s a lie. Truth is, I was ashamed to tell you. You see, I’m responsible for her death.”

  “What!” Deming’s voice rumbled, a low, menacing monotone. He’d never seemed more dangerous as he faced Jake, his body a coiled serpent.

  “You killed CeCe?” I gasped, clutching the sofa for support. The beautiful room suddenly felt oppressive, as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Anika and Bolin stayed statue-still.

  “No wait! Listen, please.” Jake Harris spread his hands wide. “I’ll accept your verdict after I explain, even if it means Dem
beats the hell out of me.”

  Bolin held out his arm, blocking Deming’s path. “Relax, son. Hear him out.” His face betrayed no emotion, although I knew what to expect if Jake confessed to murder. Bolin Swann would avenge his daughter swiftly and decisively.

  “I can’t explain how it happened,” Jake said. “We’d been friends forever and suddenly . . .” He shrugged. “We planned to go public after this judgeship was settled. Didn’t want racial politics screwing things up for her. At least that’s what I told myself.” He gazed at me as if I alone might understand. “But you know Cecilia. Never could keep a secret, especially from her best friend. She planned to spring it on Eja at brunch that day.” A smile stole across his face. “The Big Reveal, that’s what she called it, like on those stupid reality shows.”

  “What happened?” Deming spoke with a stranger’s voice, hoarse, almost guttural.

  Jake’s eyes moistened as he replayed the scene. “I was too busy, too self-absorbed, to go with her. Some damn seminar on public health at Harvard. That’s what I traded her life for, three CME credits.”

  Anika’s voice was shaky. “I’m confused, Jake. What happened?”

  He sipped his drink and continued. “Cecilia begged me to go with her that morning. She said she had to make just one stop first. At Jem’s building.”

  “Did she explain? Say what it was about?” Bolin’s tone was deceptively mild.

  “She just laughed. Cecilia Swann, mistress of intrigue. Said she’d clinch an important deal and make it a double celebration.” Jake slumped in his seat. “If I’d been on that roof, she’d still be alive.”

  I now understood that silence can be deafening. The library reverberated with the sound of questions unasked and grief unquenched. Even Deming traded rage for a shocked silence that broke my heart.

  It was Anika who acted first. I watched her glide over to Jake and envelope him in a firm embrace. “I’m glad you found each other, Jake. Even for a little while.”