by Arlene Kay
He looked down at her and closed his eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“Nonsense,” Anika said. “You didn’t hurt my daughter, did you? Well then. Now that we’ve ended this Raven business we can focus on finding Cecilia’s killer.” She turned to the rest of us. “Are we in agreement?”
Bolin joined her and shook Jake’s hand, but Deming stayed rooted to his chair. If things had been different, I would have gone to him, held him, done something. As it was, I had my own demons to wrestle with. Jake and CeCe! She’d never even mentioned his name to me. Oh, she alluded to her “family doctor” in that casual way that most of us do. Nothing more. My mind accepted it, but my heart rebelled. CeCe Swann, my best friend, had deceived me. I’d told her everything, confided every triumph and bruise in my pathetically dull life. Why hadn’t she trusted me? I’m no racist. Jake Harris, a handsome, brilliant doctor, happens to be black. Bi-racial. Whatever. Any woman would feel lucky to have him. I wanted to weep, but I was beyond tears, too exhausted to even think. It was almost midnight. Time to go home, sort things out, and get some sleep. We’d eliminated one suspect tonight, and that was an accomplishment of sorts. Tomorrow, I’d chart a different course with Deming’s help or on my own if it came to that. I owed it to CeCe, no matter what she’d done.
I gently rubbed my eyelids, trying to pry them open. The accumulated weight of several major shocks made that a thankless task.
“You’re tired, Eja. Stay here tonight. Please.” Anika held her hands out, palms up.
“See. Even Cato wants you to stay.”
I glanced sideways at Deming. He sat stone-faced, unable or unwilling to acknowledge my existence. Jake and Bolin were hunched over, speaking softly in a deep rumbling of male voices.
“I’ll stay, Mrs. Swann, if you can lend me some night things.”
Anika’s face brightened at the prospect. Perhaps she needed an ally in this male encampment, another woman who mourned for CeCe. At least that was my simple interpretation. Anika Swann was a complex woman with a full arsenal of beauty and charm at her disposal. A steely inner core buttressed those attributes. Her methods were indirect—hell, they were downright sneaky—but like it or not Anika got her way. Could I, with my dismal marital track record, dare to judge her?
“Come on, Eja. I’ve got everything set up.” She pulled me into a large guestroom packed with every bit of feminine frippery I’d ever imagined. It was awesome, a magic kingdom for the stylistically challenged.
Anika latched the door. She spoke in a soft, urgent voice that was almost a whisper. “I didn’t want the boys to hear us. You know how they overreact.”
“But Deming . . .”
She waved her hand. “He’ll calm down. He always does. It’s up to you and me now.”
“Pardon?” I gaped at her like the village idiot.
“You know. Our appointment with Wes Townsend. It’s scheduled for tomorrow.” She checked her exquisite diamond watch. “Well, it’s really today. This morning. You get some sleep, and I’ll keep Bolin occupied.”
No doubt about that. I’d seen the way his eyes softened, following every move his wife made.
“But what’s our cover story? We know Dr. Townsend isn’t Raven.”
“Naturally.” Anika gave me her luminous smile. “That makes things easier. You see, I wasn’t totally honest yesterday. About my sessions with him.”
She smiled at my incredulous look. “I know my family, Eja. Deming’s volatile. Bolin’s cold as ice—about protecting me that is. If either of them knew the truth, he’d kill Wesley. Bolin would handle it personally. He has all the skills, you see.” A hint of steel peeked through the soft silk of her negligee. “I won’t put them at risk. We’ve already lost enough.”
It was time to take off the gloves. No more hints and subtle winks. I had to know what the hell she was talking about.
“What happened to you at that office? Did he . . . touch you, Anika?”
I saw the first signs of vulnerability. Anika looked down, stemming the tears that threatened to spill. She gulped, straightened her shoulders, and faced me.
“At first there was no problem. None that I knew of. I relaxed and let him hypnotize me.” Her smile seemed painted in place like a mannequin’s. “For the first time in years, my craving for nicotine subsided. That bastard praised me, you know. Told me what a good subject I was. Bolin was so proud.”
“And then?” It was cruel to prompt her, but I had to know.
“After I stopped smoking, Wesley had me come back for ‘reinforcement’ sessions. Once a week. That’s when it started, I think. That’s when I started having nightmares. Bolin was worried, so I increased my sessions.”
Now her tears flowed freely. I felt like a voyeur, repulsed and fascinated, unable to turn away from this horror in Anika’s normally charmed life.
“One day something went wrong. Maybe he skipped a step. Who knows? I wasn’t really under. Do you know much about hypnosis, Eja?”
I shook my head.
“No one can be forced to do something inconsistent with her character like commit a murder or something. That’s just Hollywood stuff.” Anika took a deep breath. “I’ve always hated hot weather, even avoid the beach in summer. Wesley knew that. He told me it was sweltering, almost Sahara-like in his office. Then he took off his jacket and shirt and urged me to get cool. He had an entire routine about oppressive heat, and it worked.”
I shivered, listening to a tale more grisly than anything I’d ever devised.
“Pretty soon he was naked, and so was I. When he tried to touch me, I screamed! Told him I’d have him arrested, thrown out of Boston.”
“Oh, my God! You poor thing. What did he say?”
Anika hung her head and stayed silent, dabbing tears with her handkerchief. “Wesley? He laughed. Said he had something I’d be interested in. Part of my therapy.” Anika hissed through gritted teeth. “He’d recorded everything, Eja. That bastard showed me cavorting around the office naked. Kept the discs right there in full view. He even showed me the camera. One of those hidden things concealed in a bust of Freud!” She was sobbing now. “He said if I told Bolin, he’d release it to an international porn site. Put it on the Internet so that all Bolin’s friends could see what a whore his wife was. He said it was nothing new to me since I’d been a model. That I’d enjoyed it.” Anika blotted her tears again. “Then he laughed. That bastard laughed! He said it was fun seeing what Bolin had for himself.”
I rushed to Anika’s side and hugged her. “You must have been terrified.”
She swiveled around with the fierce look of a warrior queen. “Terrified? Oh no, Eja. I was angry. I could have easily killed him right then. My real concern was to protect my family, especially Dem and Bolin.”
I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh, my God! What did you do?”
Her smile was stiff and fleeting. “I bought a gun and got myself the best lawyer I knew. My daughter.”
Gun! That explained the thing in her safe. Walther PK something or other. Typical CeCe behavior, trying to protect her mama. It also left one thing unanswered. Those checks she’d written. Were they blackmail or part of a structured settlement? Oh, God! It was catching. I sounded like a lawyer, not the elegant wordsmith I aspired to be.
I asked Anika, “Why was she paying him?”
“I’m not sure. Cecilia was ‘negotiating’ for the discs. Her word, not mine. She handled everything. Took my gun and said to consider it a business proposition and blot out emotion.” Anika’s lips curved in a sad smile. “She was good at that. That’s what made her such a great litigator.”
The whole thing puzzled me. I couldn’t picture Anika, the model of femininity, as a pistol-packing mama!
“You don’t know anything about guns, do you Anika?”
Those hazel eyes narrowed to fiery
slits. “Wrong. Bolin insisted I learn when the children were born. Kidnappers, you know.” She patted a stray lock of hair. “I’m quite proficient, actually. A natural.”
My head was spinning from too much information. Good Lord! Why kill CeCe? After all, she was the golden goose unless “negotiations” had reached a deadly impasse. CeCe would never risk exposing her mother, but she might take a more direct route. She might kill the bastard herself!
SWATHED IN luxurious bed linens, I sank into a dreamless state. Midmorning, Cato awakened me by perching on my stomach. He radiated a blend of insolence and menace more potent than an alarm clock.
“Okay. Okay.”
I gently pushed him away and toddled off to the bathroom to gape at the incredible array of pricey shampoos, potions, and emollients it contained. Anika’s taste was high-end, unlike my own penchant for drugstore brands. Ever the good guest, I forced myself to indulge.
Some good elf—probably Anika—had draped a snuggly cashmere robe on the bed and left a steaming pot of espresso with two cups. Better and better! The ways of the fabulously rich were remarkably easy to endure.
A brisk rap on the door jolted me back to reality. My curly mop was sopping wet, my face scrubbed clean of makeup. In short, I looked a mess. Fortunately, my visitor was the lady of the house, not her gorgeous, grouchy son. Mrs. Bolin Swann was a model of perfection from her wafer-thin wool sheath to her tastefully shod feet. A pinch of rouge saved her pale complexion from pallor.
“Sorry Eja, but I just couldn’t wait.” Anika perched on the bed and poured herself an espresso. “I thought we’d firm up our plans before breakfast. Bolin might get suspicious otherwise.” She waved something glittery in front of me. “Here, take this.”
It was an exceptionally lovely pin, fashioned from diamonds and gemstones.
“Oh, Anika. I can’t accept something this valuable.”
Her laughter was magic, the joyous warbling of a songbird. “It’s not jewelry, Eja. Not really. It’s a transmitter and recorder. Bolin’s people brought it by.” Her expression showed me how serious Anika was. “Wear it when you see Wesley. Then we’ll have proof.”
“What time’s our appointment?” I felt groggy and disoriented, despite the pampering.
“Ten thirty, dear. Remember, you’re the patient. I’m just there for moral support.” Anika fidgeted, as if she were working up to something big. “Eja . . . about last night.”
I summoned a suitably blank expression. Frankly, it wasn’t hard to do. “Yes?”
Anika squeezed my hand with surprising strength. “You won’t mention anything to Dem, will you?” She seemed close to tears. “The thought of what he’d do terrifies me.”
“It’s women’s work,” I said with a wink. “We’ll save the rough stuff for the guys.”
I SAT IN WESLEY Townsend’s waiting room like the poster child for composure: perfect posture, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, and one of CeCe’s Chanel bags on my lap. Unfortunately, the inner Eja was a tangled, jittery mass of frayed nerves. All doctors unnerved me, but shrinks topped the list. My fragile ego wouldn’t survive much pinching and probing even for a good cause. Despite her pledge of moral support, Anika accompanied me into the office, exchanged pleasantries with Brenda, the receptionist, and vanished like yesterday’s wind.
“Never expected to see you here, Ms. Kane.” Brenda raised her eyebrows. “Great brooch, by the way.”
I clamped my hands together to avoid fingering the pin. Duplicity was scarcely my strong suit. “It’s hard to believe.” I lowered my eyes. “Marriage is more stressful than I ever imagined. I need something to steady me.”
“Hmm,” she said in her soothing voice, handing me a questionnaire. “Don’t worry. Lots of people get wedding jitters. Just relax and confide in the doctor. He’s very nice.” Brenda flipped through her calendar as if it were a prop instead of an office tool. “His schedule’s a mess! Way too many patients for one person. Well, it’s not my problem. Not anymore.”
I kept my tone light and teasing. “Oh? Leaving for greener pastures, are you?”
Brenda shrugged and dialed the doctor’s number. “Everything runs its course.”
Just then, Wesley Townsend, beaming a kindly shrink smile, opened the door. “Ms. Kane. So nice to see you again.” He waved me into an inoffensive office, scrubbed clean of any personality.
My panic escalated as I bit back the urge to spill my guts. What was it, some substitute for the confessional of my youth? Townsend’s first question was a showstopper that sucked me into a vortex from the past.
“Why don’t you deserve Deming Swann?” he asked. “That’s your question, isn’t it?”
I stuttered, trying desperately to field a glib reply. The man had a point. I wasn’t wealthy, but I had something to offer, didn’t I?
I recited the litany of ailments I’d memorized from the American Psychological Association’s page on anxiety. Some of them were even true. While I emoted, Townsend stared at me with a ventriloquist’s fixed smile.
“My future in-laws sing your praises, Dr. Townsend. I’ve tried to relax, but I can’t. Now my sleep is disturbed too. Is there anything—anything at all—you can do to help me?” My eyes are my best feature, and despite my rusty seduction skills, I used them to advantage. Maybe childlike passivity would ring his bells.
Fifty minutes later, we finished our session without ever mentioning CeCe, Anika, or hypnosis. Against all odds, he’d actually helped me or at least given me something to consider. I’d revealed more than I ever intended to despite the recording device affixed to my breast.
When we concluded, Dr. Wesley patted my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You’ve got the answers inside you.”
I stumbled into the waiting room, feeling a curious mixture of relief and revulsion. I’d failed miserably as a detective and a prospective spouse. Wesley Townsend hadn’t bought my act for a second. Still, I felt terrific, as if a weight had been taken from my chest.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Brenda asked. “Quite a healer when he wants to be.”
Her calm chestnut eyes flashed intelligence and a first-class bullshit detector. I decided to go for broke.
“Look, tell me just one thing. Where was he that Sunday, the day Ms. Swann died?”
Brenda sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but what the hell. He’s free on weekends, you know, unless a patient calls him or goes berserk.” She flipped through the calendar. “One thing I can tell you. Dr. Townsend left that Saturday for Hawaii. Medical convention.” A sly smile covered her face. “Plenty of golf, of course, but for tax purposes, it was all work and no play.”
I leaned over her desk. “How come you’re so sure?”
“That’s easy.” Brenda twirled a paper clip on the blotter. “I was with him.”
AT THE BRISTOL Lounge we snagged a window table, complete with full view of the Common. That didn’t matter one bit to Anika. She picked at her lobster salad as if it were made of clay. I should have followed suit, but stripping my soul for Wesley Townsend had left me ravenous. I ingested an obscene number of carbs and calories without feeling even a pinch of guilt.
“You’re sure? You believed her?” Anika asked. “Maybe Brenda was covering for him. Maybe he hired someone.”
“I don’t think so. She had no reason to lie if she’s quitting.” I crunched a carrot and eyed the pastry tray. “I’m sorry, Anika. He’s still a sleaze, but I don’t think he did it.”
Anika looked close to tears. “So that’s it. Where do we go from here? Maybe we should let the police handle things.”
I’d given that serious thought. Jem Russell was mean enough but lacked the wit to tie his own shoe. With Raven and the shrink out of the suspect pool, there was only one other potential source. CeCe’s office. After all, she’d spent mo
st of her waking hours in a snake pit that even Pamela Schwartz called tense. Time to resurrect my cover story as CeCe’s biographer. Time to act.
“Don’t give up yet,” I told Anika. “Let’s convene a council of war with the guys. We all need to be on the same page.”
Her smile eclipsed the noon sun. “You have a theory. I can tell.” She scrolled down the screen of her iPhone. “I’ll text Bolin and ask him to arrange things.”
Of course Bolin Swann would make the arrangements. He’d do anything his beloved Leda asked of him. Even murder.
Later that day as I dashed into my condo to freshen up I recalled the envelope Deming had given me. Probably another meeting of the Condo association, or God forbid, another escalation in fees. I tore it open and scanned the page while rummaging in my closet. It was terse. One line of simple, unambiguous prose that left my knees weak.
Back off, bitch, or you’re next.
Eighteen
I STEADIED MYSELF against the bedpost, trying desperately to quiet my skyrocketing pulse. Brave words flow glibly in a novel but dry up fast in the face of real danger. Someone had actually threatened me, Eja Kane, writer of a dozen edgy thrillers. Someone daring and evil enough to murder my best friend and toss her off a building.
I shivered despite my sturdy wool robe and fleece-lined slippers. Where was Cato when I needed sharp teeth and swagger? For that matter, where was Deming? When the phone rang, I leapt for it like a hungry trout. It was cowardly and unseemly, but even feminists are permitted the occasional rescue fantasy.
“Deming?” My voice quivered with hope.
“It’s Jem.” His normally hardy voice held an unaccustomed note of desperation.
“You have some nerve. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up.”
His prodigal son act had gotten old. “Watch me.”
He made a noise that sounded like a sob. “Help me, Eja. I’ve been arrested.”
That stumped me for a moment. A panoply of offenses spun through my mind: extortion, drunk driving, and statutory rape . . . the possibilities were endless. The big galoot deserved his fate no matter what it was. Still, CeCe had been fond of him. My guilt meter twanged.
