Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (14 page)

Good manners kept Bolin from reacting, but Anika laughed out loud. “Oh, Lord, Morde Dale is as dull as they come. That man makes a clam seem chatty.”

We exchanged knowing looks and returned to plotting strategy.

“Perhaps a dinner party on Saturday would work,” I said. “Right before Memorial Day. It’s a perfect time to spread the word about Aunt Pert’s will.”

Bolin frowned, and Anika got a puzzled look. I gave them a quick update on the revised will and our plans to publicize it.

“Good idea,” Bolin said. “Minimize the money motive. If Dario was murdered, someone will be antsy right about now.”

I slipped a butter cookie in my mouth, purely for an energy boost. “One more thing. Both of you knew Dario from the time he was a kid. Maybe we can learn something from that. You know, get more insight into the victim.”

“Learn what?” Deming and Persus slipped into the room on little cat feet.

Anika rushed over and hugged her aunt until the poor woman gasped.

“Oh, Persus! I was worried about you, but you look marvelous.”

Aunt Pert shook her head. “Flatterer. If I look remotely human it’s because of seeing you two and having Demmy and Eja here.”

The male Swanns stood facing each other, silent sentinels guarding the perimeter of the palace. With their lithe movements and supple bodies, the yummy duo looked more like siblings than father and son.

After Persus had settled on the couch with her tea, Bolin spoke up. “These ladies have all kinds of plans for you, Persus. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Her doctor cleared it—within reason,” Deming said. “I think we all agree that caution and good sense should prevail.”

“Of course, dear,” his mother murmured. “Leave everything to us. Eja and I are old hands at arranging these things.” She caught my eye and winked. “Next week is a long weekend, so most of Pert’s friends will be in town. A celebration is called for.”

“Lars loved Memorial Day.” Persus looked solemn, almost wistful. “So patriotic with all the parades and flags. He always arranged a spectacular fireworks show.”

Who could blame a loving widow for a bit of revisionist history? Lars Cantor had mixed patriotism with a healthy dose of profit taking. He was a major munitions maker whose fortune had been forged by conflict.

“Yeah, leave it to Dario to spoil everything.” Paloma floated in, garbed in a diaphanous robe that left nothing to the imagination. To their credit, both Bolin and Deming gave her only a passing glance.

“What’s this about Dario spoiling things?” I asked.

“It was nothing . . . just a prank,” Persus said. “You know how impetuous boys can be.” She was trembling, obviously upset by the reference.

“He told me all about it,” Paloma said. “Dario thought it was funny.”

Anika quickly moved in, diverting the conversation with an anecdote about Deming’s disastrous attempt to build a bonfire. It involved dry twigs, lighter fluid, and an inferno that nearly leveled their neighborhood. Apparently, Bolin had placated the volunteer firefighters with a sizable donation that continued to this day.

“Hmm,” I said. “Didn’t know you were a pyromaniac.”

“Just a maniac, my love.” Deming followed his mother’s lead by recounting a similar gaffe committed by his sister.

“You see, Eja,” Pert said. “You’ll face the same thing with your own children some day.” In her own genteel way, Persus was sizing me up like a prize mare at the breeding shed. I flushed, and Deming the putative stallion sputtered something nonsensical that only prolonged the agony.

When Bolin and Anika led her aunt upstairs for a nap, I seized the opportunity to quiz Paloma about Dario’s secret. A subtle, delicate touch was called for—my specialty.

“I’m dying to know,” I said. “What in the world did he do?” I expected a typical rite of puberty, sneaking a smoke or a bottle of cognac. Even a forged check wouldn’t have shocked me. Instead, the merry widow shared a chilling tale.

She stood proudly, hands on hips, breasts outthrust. “I swear it’s true,” she said. “Dario trapped some little kid and dragged him to the beach. Buried him up to his neck and watched the tide come in.”

Seldom am I speechless, but that disclosure rendered me mute. Paloma shrugged, looking untroubled, proud even, of her husband’s doddering-do.

“What happened?” I gasped. “Surely the child didn’t die.”

“Nah. Lars saved him.” Paloma giggled. “Dario said Lars grounded him for six months after that. It wasn’t fair. Dario was only twelve. Just a kid himself.”

Dario, the sociopathic pre-teen. Some insight into his character!

Deming leveled a blistering frown at Paloma. “Not his best moment, I think we can agree. Dario didn’t intend to hurt the child, just frighten him. CeCe and I were sworn to secrecy and threatened with dire penalties if we breathed even a word about it.” He poured himself a cognac and swirled it ’round the glass. “Persus shuttled Dario off to some shrink, and Lars bribed the kid’s family. Not unusual for a family with means. We never heard another word about it.”

I spared him my lecture about sadistic rich kids getting away with near murder. After all, I knew the score and so did Deming. Poor kids went to juvenile hall while affluent brats repented in luxury.

“Let’s face it,” Deming said. “My cousin was a selfish little prick who got what he wanted any way he had to. He never changed all that much, just found slicker means to achieve his ends.”

Paloma strolled over to the tray and heaped strawberries and clotted cream on her plate. I expected a heated defense of her husband, but she didn’t dispute what Deming had said. If anything, she seemed rather phlegmatic about the incident, accepting Dario’s cruelty as a given. She stretched out on the divan, her tongue darting catlike to lick the cream off her lips.

Perhaps the motive for Dario’s death had been his life. A man who heedlessly trampled others might sow the seeds of his own destruction. I’d accepted Pert’s fanciful portrait of her grandson without question. Dario the idealist, Dario the hapless victim. No wonder the locals misled me. They knew the score, but out of deference to Pert they kept quiet. That explained the smirk on Raylan’s face when I mentioned Dario’s enemies. They were everywhere: selling real estate, telling fortunes, and sipping wine in Pert’s elegant dining room. While Eja Kane, ace detective, skulked about Bayview like the village idiot, the real killer hid in plain sight.

Deming eased over and touched my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s take Cato for a walk before it gets dark. You could use some fresh air.”

I lowered my eyes and meekly followed him outside. It wasn’t easy playing the submissive female. It took iron self-control to avoid screeching like a fishwife or ripping my fiancé’s perfectly tailored lapels. Deming had deliberately misled me. He’d committed the sin of omission, which was right up there on the hellfire scale with theft and lying. I had been patronized by my future husband—treated like a simpleton.

Patience is indeed a virtue, and mine was rewarded. The tension between us mounted as we lassoed Cato and dragooned Ibsen into following us. We ambled toward the water, buffeted by a chilly ocean breeze that mimicked my cooling passion. Deming succumbed first, doing his version of penance by ruthlessly finger-combing his hair into a haystack. As an encore, he cracked his knuckles.

“Eja . . . I’m sorry. I know I should have warned you. Come on. Don’t give me the silent treatment. You’re no good at it.”

“You on the other hand, are quite skilled at it.” I threw Cato’s ball and watched the dogs bound effortlessly toward the sea.

Deming spun me around and held me tight. “The truth is I wanted an unbiased appraisal of this mess. I didn’t trust my own instincts.”

“Why not? Lawyers are analytical, right? You’re always telling me that.”

He tilted my chin toward him and brushed his finger over my lips. “I never liked the little shit. He was cruel and duplicitous even toward Pert. She loved him, but Lars . . . that old Tartar saw right through Dario. Never let him get away with a thing.” He scooped up a rock and threw it in the woods. “Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d believe that Dario murdered Lars just for spite.”

“What! You’re kidding!”

Deming brushed my cheek with his lips. “Aw, forget it, Sherlock. Uncle Lars died in the operating room at Mass General. Heart attack. Nothing fishy unless you count 90 percent blockage of two arteries.” He looked quizzically at me as he whisked curls back from my face. “You do know you’re not a detective, don’t you? This is reality, not fiction. People die in the real world, nosey people who ask too many questions.”

Lectures bore me, especially coming from risk-taking, polo playing lawyers. I pushed Deming away and hissed a warning through gritted teeth. “Back off, Counselor. You’ve done enough damage for one day.” I grabbed Cato’s lead and strutted toward Brokind with as much dignity as I could muster. Deming caught up with me in three strides. We walked silently toward the house, side by side, each of us absorbed in private thoughts.

“I worry about you,” Deming said. “That’s normal, wouldn’t you say?”

I couldn’t resist a mulish tendency to button my lip and ignore him. Lawyers win a war of words; writers prevail on the written page. When we reached the driveway, Deming put out his arm to stop me.

“How about this? At least tell me when you and my mother concoct some harebrained scheme. Who knows, maybe I could help. All your favorites had a partner, remember? Nick and Nora, Lord Peter and Harriet, Poirot and Hastings?”

He was trying hard, working overtime on the charm offensive. Deming’s hazel eyes oozed sincerity; his thick black hair begged to be touched. It wasn’t fair, dammit! How many women could resist a heaping dose of sex on a stick? Not many. Not me.

“Okay, but you’re strictly a consultant. You and your dad are in charge of the legal stuff—permits, planning commission, zoning. Oh yeah, and you get full custody of Mordechai Dale and his minions.”

Deming didn’t like it, but he swallowed his pride. “What about the sheriff? Is he your project too?”

“Police Chief, and yes, I’ll deal with Raylan. We’ve established rapport.”

Those sculpted features hardened. “Rapport. Is that what they call it these days? Just remember what I told you, Eja. Nobody—including your cop buddy—is beyond suspicion.”

“Got it. Don’t trust and thoroughly verify.” My sweet expression could have made an angel blush. Deming wasn’t fooled, but he laughed and pulled me to him.

“Can I help it if I worry? I’m crazy about you. I love you. So sue me.”

“Jealous, are you, Mr. Swann?”

“Maybe. I’m confident but not blind. Raylan Smith has designs on you. Men know these things.”

Hmm. That was an interesting perspective from a Restoration rake like Deming. We walked toward the house, arms entwined, escorted by the dogs.

I was certain that Anika, field marshall of the social set, had party planning under control. That freed me to consider more important things. Dario’s death was no random act; it couldn’t be. Someone close to him had planned and coolly executed the perfect murder disguised as an accident. That someone might easily be among the guests at Pert’s holiday gathering next week. With some deft detective work and a bit of luck, the game might be afoot.

THAT EVENING WHILE the Swann men watched some sporting event, the ladies gathered in the parlor. Persus loved parties. She chattered like a teenager about menus, decorations, and formal events from Brokind’s storied past. Anika and I did our part, and even Paloma seemed more animated than usual.

“I didn’t bring anything fancy with me,” I said. “I doubt that Deming did either.”

Anika waved away my protests. “Don’t worry. I brought a few extra things, and Bolin always stashes at least one spare dinner jacket in his bags when he comes here.” She added with a proud smile, “He and Dem still wear the same size, you know.”

“Such handsome men, my dear,” Persus said. “A pleasure to be around. Right before he got ill, Lars took Dario to his tailor. Oh, they bought Kiton, Oxxford, and all the bespoke brands. My grandson looked positively regal, but he was most comfortable in his sports gear.”

Paloma scrunched up her face. “Dario liked that rich stuff more than you’d think,” she said. “He was always trying to impress Meeka Kyle and those other snobs.” She squared her shoulders and adjusted the bodice of her dress. “He never changed me though. I have my own sense of style. Meeka used some fifty-cent word trying to make me feel bad. ‘Unique’ or something like that. I know her kind so it didn’t work. She’s jealous ’cause she got no boobs.”

Anika’s eyes widened, but she kept a placid expression on her face. I admired such poise: it was worthy of Raphael’s Madonna. Persus glanced at Paloma and gently chided her. “Meeka’s very elegant, my dear. Just like a fashion model. Merlot too for that matter.”

“Dario liked curvy women,” Paloma said. “Not some clotheshanger.”

Anika, the former runway sensation, ignored the taunt and opted for kindness. “I’m sure your husband loved you very much, Paloma. You must miss him.”

To my surprise, tears glistened in Paloma’s eyes. She turned away hurriedly, catching her lace sleeve on the bronze sculpture to her right. The material ripped, exposing an ugly mark on her forearm, just above her elbow. I moved closer and gasped. The mark was a crude tattoo in the shape of the letter
D
.

Paloma had been branded like a prize heifer.

Pert gasped, “Dear Lord! What is that?”

Paloma curled her lip and threw back her head, defiance carved in every feature. “Just what it looks like, Mrs. Cantor. A tat. Dario wanted to show I belonged to him. He did it himself. He loved me.”

“Dario? Why would he do that?” Pert sunk back in her chair. “I know you young people like tattoos, but . . . don’t they have professionals to do that kind of thing?”