Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (19 page)

“Didn’t know you’d joined us, Ms. Kane.” Raylan’s expression had more scowl than smile. “We don’t need a delegation.”

“Anika insisted. A woman’s touch, you know.” I flashed him my Miss America smile and stepped across the threshold into Meeka’s home. His reaction told me that I wouldn’t get his vote.

I’d expected a traditional look reflecting the long tenure of the Kyle family, but Meeka surprised me once more. The space had undergone a facelift, a tasteful renovation that gently ushered it into the new millennium. Cove ceilings, granite counters, and an open floor plan were balanced by beautiful pumpkin pine floors with wide planks. Antique Georgian finds were juxtaposed with striking contemporary pieces and the occasional African textile. The effect was seamless and stunning. Hats off to Ms. Kyle.

An officer pointed to the great room where the lady of the house lay on the couch, looking more like an empress than a crime victim.

“Feel up to talking, Ms. Kyle?” Raylan kept that strong but sensitive vibe alive and well. “The Swanns came with me in case you needed anything.”

Meeka swung her feet on the floor and slowly roused herself into a sitting position. Despite the ordeal, her hair and makeup were pitch perfect.

“I’m fine, Chief. Just a bit shaken.”

“What happened?” The words jumped out before I could stop myself. Bolin sighed, and Raylan shot me a venomous look that would spook a rattler.

“That’s just it,” Meeka said, rubbing her forehead. “I heard a noise down here. It never occurred to me that I was in danger. I thought the alarm was turned on.” She shrugged helplessly. “My study is a mess! Papers strewn about, drawers askew. I reached for the lamp to dial the telephone and wham! Someone struck me from behind and it was lights out.”

“Mind if I look around?” Raylan asked. “The boys already dusted for prints, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope of identifying anyone. Whoever did this was probably smart enough to wear gloves.”

She shook her head and waved us on. “Do whatever. The study is off the parlor.” Her voice shook. “I just feel so stupid. After all, I have a weapon and know how to use it.”

That bit of news didn’t surprise me at all. Apparently, I’m the only woman in Massachusetts who abhors firearms. Bolin glided over to Meeka and gave her a kind, appraising look. “My aunt and wife insist that you come home to Brokind with us. There’s plenty of room, and you’ll be safe there.”

“Not a bad idea, Meeka. We found no signs of forced entry. That means someone has a key to this place and knows the alarm code.” Raylan’s obsidian eyes were brittle and scalpel-sharp, impossible to read. “He may not have found whatever he was looking for. Is anything missing? Cash, jewelry, or the like?”

Meeka shook her head. “I keep most of my valuables in the bank and almost no cash on hand. Incidentally, what makes you think it was a man? Bayview has women criminals as well.” Her face was perfectly composed as she spoke. I’m no telepath, but I knew that Merlot Brownne was on her mind.

“Thank you, Bolin, for the kind offer, but I won’t be forced from my home. I’ll be prepared for an intruder now.” Meeka folded her arms over her stomach in a gesture more detached than defiant.

When Deming entered the room with long, lithe strides, Meeka perked right up. She preened a bit, checked her lipstick, and carefully fluffed her hair. “Goodness! I really got the royal treatment. An embarrassment of riches—three handsome men to guard me.”

“At your service, my lady.” Deming gave her a low bow, moved to my side, and put his hand on my shoulder. “By the way, the paramedics just arrived.”

For a woman who craved attention, Meeka seemed out of sorts. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Raylan. I told you not to fuss.”

Raylan did his tough cop number. “Enough! That’s routine procedure when an injury is involved, and you
will
let them check you out.”

Meeka raised her arms in mock surrender. “Yes, sir!”

While the medics examined her I joined Bolin and Deming in Meeka’s study. The beautiful wood paneled room looked like a hazmat area instead of the tranquil space I’d imagined. It had been thoroughly ransacked with drawers askew, lamps destroyed, and papers strewn about. An impressive collection of leather-bound books had been ravaged.

“Oh, no,” I said. “These look like first editions. I hope they’re salvageable.”

Bolin carefully paged through several volumes. “Such desecration! Someone was looking for something very important. I wonder what it was?”

I could tell by the way Deming narrowed his eyes that he had a theory. It just so happened that I did too.

“Do you see a safe or strongbox?” I asked. “Maybe behind one of these paintings.”

Meeka’s taste in art was eclectic. It ran from portraits of stern progenitors and astounding African bronzes to several valuable looking seascapes. I’m no connoisseur, but Bolin and Deming were well schooled in fine art. The Swann manse had almost as many masterpieces as the Gardner Museum.

“Hmm,” Bolin said. “Looks like a Winslow Homer, wouldn’t you say, son?”

Deming moved closer and examined the painting. “Sure does.” He pointed to another work, a small gem that featured two children playing on the beach. “Damn! That looks like a Cassatt. Couldn’t be, of course, but it’s an excellent copy.”

“It’s genuine enough,” Meeka said. She leaned against the doorjamb as if she needed support. “My great-grandfather met Cassatt in Paris. They remained friends until she passed. He was proud of that, but he never denied his African heritage either.”

Nothing made sense. Why would a sneak thief rifle a shelf of books and leave priceless paintings untouched?

Meeka eased onto a wing chair and kicked off her pumps. “I know what you’re thinking, all of you! If I knew what this criminal wanted, believe me I’d tell you. Right now, I’m too rattled to even think straight.”

“You can’t stay here alone,” I said. “Right, Chief?”

Raylan shrugged and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice rang with studied neutrality. “It’s certainly advisable, but I can’t force a citizen to protect herself.”

I had an ulterior motive, one that Deming seemed to sense. He leveled that Byronic frown at me and folded his arms, as if the discussion had ended.

“Come along, Eja. It’s getting late.” Deming nudged me toward the door.

Some primitive survival instinct suddenly surfaced in Meeka Kyle. Before we left, she held out her hand, more supplicant than hostess. “Wait! Please . . . I may have been too hasty. Eja can stay with me. That way, we can watch out for each other.”

I couldn’t have planned it better! A golden opportunity to quiz Meeka about Dario had dropped right into my lap. I was so elated that I forgot about Deming.

“Whoa, hold on here.” Deming closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “If Eja stays, so do I. No way will I leave her alone in this house.”

Meeka frowned. “I beg your pardon. That’s insulting.”

Swanns rarely apologize, and they never back down. Bolin substituted charm for his son’s brash language and smiled gently at her. “Don’t mind him, Meeka. In fact, I think it’s a good idea if Dem stays in case your intruder returns. Having a man around can’t hurt, right? My son worries about Eja, you see. She’s intrepid, far braver than she should be. Anika and she had a few scrapes with danger a while back.”

“That’s one word for it,” Deming spat. “Eja is a heat-seeking missile who finds trouble in the damndest spots. Danger clings to her like cat hair.”

I felt like the odd woman out in this conversation, spoken about like an addled child who wasn’t there. It was uncomfortable and damned annoying.

“Hey! Hello, I’m here and I can speak for myself, thank you very much.”

Deming yelped when I speared his shin with my heel.

“I’d like to stay here,” I said. “We can have fun, kind of like a harem scene. Deming can play the head eunuch.”

Bolin swiftly turned away, hiding the glint in his eyes. “Sounds intriguing. What do you say, Dem?”

My fiancé sputtered more than a dying engine. “I assure you that I’m no eunuch no matter what Eja says. However . . . I’m game if they need a babysitter.”

“Fine,” Bolin said. “I’ll have the chief drop me off at Brokind. Call your mom, will you, Dem?”

Raylan grimaced as if he really wanted to say something snarky. Instead, he donned his inscrutable face and marched out the door with Bolin.

I couldn’t wait for them to leave.

Chapter Sixteen

“COME ON, EJA,” Meeka said, motioning me upstairs. “I’ll find you some clothes to relax in.” She eyed Deming, giving him her special smile. “Afraid my selection of men’s things is a bit limited. Dario left a robe and some shorts somewhere around here. I’ll see what I can find.”

It was hard not to react, but I forced myself. There are names for married men who leave robes in a woman’s home. None of them are flattering.

Deming raised his eyebrows but stayed silent. Something about the pot and the kettle flashed through my mind. I’ll bet he’d left a few souvenirs strewn about in his daredevil days.

Meeka was as good as her word. She found a comfy terry cloth shift for me and a handsome wool robe for Deming. I checked out the robe’s label while straightening his collar. Hmm. Brooks Brothers. Classic preppy, conservative but elegant. The type of gift a woman would buy for a man she cared about.

“Very nice,” I said, giving Deming the once over. “Burgundy does wonders for those hazel eyes, don’t you agree, Meeka?”

She didn’t answer right away. Maybe she was thinking of Dario snuggled up in soft Merino wool. When she snapped back into hostess mode, a trace of sadness lingered in her eyes.

“Let me pour you both a cognac,” Meeka said. “Courvoisier. My father’s favorite brand.”

“He had good taste,” Deming said. “Courvoisier, the choice of Napoleon.” He took a slow sip and sighed. “Wonderful.”

I curbed my impatience until their little scene played itself out. After all, every actor needs an audience, and often the best seat in the house is in the balcony.

“Was Dario a fan of cognac?” I asked. “He seemed more like a martini guy.”

Meeka smiled. “Dario was many things to many people. It was part of his genius. He was sort of a metamorph. A telepathic metamorph.” She leaned back into the wing chair. “I teased him about that. Maybe that’s why he got along with Merlot Brownne.”

“They were friends?” I asked. “That surprises me.”

“They understood each other. A bit different than friendship perhaps, but more enduring.”

Deming edged smoothly into the fray. “I never figured out his deal with Paloma. She defied every notion we held about Dario. But I suppose love can fool you that way.”

“Love!” Meeka snorted. “Paloma was his parting shot at Lars and everything Lars stood for. Nothing more. It never would have lasted. Dario planned to divorce her as soon as the land deal was consummated.”

“Really? Persus never said a thing.” I was stunned, trying hard not to drop the conversational ball.

Meeka narrowed her eyes, a contemptuous glance designed to put me in my place. “She didn’t know. I was the only one that Dario confided in. We shared everything.” She leapt to her feet and faced the bay window that abutted the sea.

“I’ll bet your love for cycling got you together,” Deming said. “It seemed like a compulsion for Dario. Gave him focus for a change.”

She seemed more relaxed now, as the conversation shifted to happier times. “Cycling has always meant exercise for me. Means to an end, nothing more. But you’re right. Dario and I enjoyed the discipline of the sport. I didn’t want to be just another Betty, so I worked to improve my skills. I took him and his passion seriously, and he appreciated that.”

I gave her a puzzled look. “Betty?”

“You know, a hanger-on, sort of a cycling groupie.” Deming seemed to know all the lingo, but that was no surprise. He was versed in an amazing array of subjects.

Meeka strolled over to her chair and faced us, her lovely eyes softened by the sheen of tears. “He wanted so much to win your respect, Deming. Lars always praised you, called you a model of everything a man should be. Dario felt like a bagger, a loser. This development project would have changed all that. That’s why he was so determined.”

I felt a sympathy pang for Dario, the orphaned boy tasked with the impossible—measuring up to Deming Swann. That might explain his willful, frequently obnoxious behavior, but it didn’t excuse it. Suddenly I remembered the scraps of verse someone had left at the crash site. The Shakespearean snippets had to have come from Meeka.

“We saw the tributes you left,” I said. “Anthony and Cleopatra. How apt.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead she bristled. “Is it a crime now to be literate? I thought writers appreciated the classics.”

“We do. I do.” Meeka definitely had the upper hand. I sputtered and regained my footing. “Someone did a lot of smoking near the accident site. Surely not you, Meeka.”

She blinked twice and shook her head. “That’s one bad habit I never acquired. Dario wasn’t as fortunate. He was a fiend—couldn’t stop the nicotine even with patches and hypnosis. Insisted on those smelly French Gitanes. Ugh!”

I avoided Deming’s eyes. Part of the puzzle had just been solved, but that didn’t explain those cigarette butts with the crimson lipstick stain. If Meeka was telling the truth, only Paloma or Merlot Brownne could have smoked the Gitanes.

“You forgot your cognac,” Deming told our hostess. “May I pour you some?”

Meeka shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. I keep racking my brain, but I can’t figure out what a burglar would want other than the obvious. Cash, jewelry, and the like.”

She looked away when she said that as if she couldn’t meet our eyes. That aroused my suspicions and made me a tad reckless. Meeka was seldom vulnerable. We needed to strike fast to capitalize on any signs of weakness. I ignored Deming’s eye signals and plunged ahead.

“Whatever he wanted was in this room. Does that jog your memory?”

Her complexion paled. Now it resembled café au lait more than honey.

That hint of vulnerability brought out the bully in me. For once, the regal Ms. Kyle wouldn’t get off the hook. “Dario was blackmailing people, trying to get their help. Were you part of it?”

Meeka bit her lip so hard that it bled. Tiny droplets dotted her lower mouth, creating a bizarre but surprisingly affecting tableau.

“Blackmail! I don’t believe it. He’d never do that.”

“Believe it,” I said. “Lots of money was involved. Maybe you planned to share it.”

Deming held out his arm, traffic cop style. “Cut it out, Eja. Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”

He was playing good cop to my bad cop and doing a cracking good job of it. Academy award caliber.