Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (2 page)

“Cut her a break. She’s grieving.” I touched his shoulder. “You know all about that, remember?”

He winced as if I had struck him. Deming had never recovered from his twin’s ghastly murder, a shared wound that united and devastated both of us. My thoughtless comment had exacerbated his pain.

“Forgive me.”

He waved his hand toward my bedroom door. “I know. Now vamoose. Unless you need my help getting dressed.”

SOME PEOPLE CALL his home a mansion, but Bolin Swann, one of the nation’s wealthiest men, shrugged off that description. When the twins entered college, he and Anika sold their estate in Weston and downsized to a five-story colonial in the heart of Back Bay. It was a modest dwelling only by the standards of an oil-rich pasha, or Internet potentate. Commoners like me called it magical.

I’d never adjusted to the effortless lifestyle enjoyed by the Swanns. I was the product of Russian émigrés content with their lot as college professors and obsessed with honing their only child’s intellectual prowess. In our home, books, not objets d’art, had been the real treasures. From prep school through graduate school, I’d rubbed shoulders with the Swanns and other privileged youths without feeling inadequate. After all, scholarships were earned; family wealth was an accident of birth. My parents shrugged it off, supplying me with the invincible armor of brainpower and knowledge.

“Watch your step!” Deming grasped my arm to avert an accident. “Can’t have any mishaps spoiling that face.”

His offhand comment made me flush with pleasure. I don’t feel beautiful—far from it. My eyes are my best feature, although men sometimes glance southward, focusing on other assets. Either way, I’ve always felt out of Deming’s league. His looks, a cross between a male model and a film star, literally turn female heads whenever he enters a room. Even in our combative days, I’d had to admit that. Intellect not beauty is my strength. I bow to no one in that area, but as frat boys often joked, dorms are packed with dull, brainy girls who study instead of dating.

I stepped carefully over the threshold, avoiding the perfectly polished floors. As a child, I’d once taken a spectacular header down a winding stairwell, something Deming never lets me forget. I saw no need for a return engagement.

Their houseman Po greeted me with a wintery smile that never reached his eyes. He was that rarity, an ageless family retainer who valued loyalty and discretion over tabloid tell-alls. I’d always found Po’s noiseless moves and solemn face vaguely disquieting. He rarely spoke English, preferring to express himself in rapid fire Mandarin. The rest of the household was also fluent in this language of Bolin’s ancestors. I was clueless anytime they spoke it. I clung to French and Spanish and a smattering of Russian with a ferocity I couldn’t explain or justify. Deming thought it a charming idiosyncrasy, but in truth it was pure stubbornness.

“They’re in Dad’s study,” he warned. “Come on. Get a move on.” He put his arm firmly around my waist and gave me a gentle push. “Remember. Ignore Paloma. She’s a widow now. Show some respect.”

I bit back the retort that teased the tip of my tongue. Respect is another commodity to be earned, not conferred, and Paloma typically focused on spending, not grieving.

I cast aside thoughts of the widow and focused on the beauty and serenity of Bolin’s study. Elaborate crown moldings spoke of old world craftsmanship, while an intricately carved walnut ceiling paid homage to the Greek gods. Bolin, an aficionado of Mount Olympus and its denizens, referred to his wife in private as “Leda,” an erotic reference that embarrassed his children and confounded guests. Personally, I envied the intense bond between Anika and her smoking hot hubby. It was intoxicating, something to aspire to in my own union.

“You’re here!” Anika Swann, a lithe, natural blonde of a certain age, glided up to me and kissed my cheek. She embraced her son with equal warmth and gestured toward the loveseat. Many years had passed since she’d graced the catwalk, but Anika still retained a brand of effortless chic that was hard to ignore and impossible to duplicate. Thank goodness her affection for me was genuine. In all the years I’d spent trudging in and out of her homes I’d rarely seen her disheveled or out of sorts. Wild hair and drooping hems were my signature style, not hers.

My eyes focused on a figure whose slight frame was almost swallowed by a velvet wing chair. At seventy-seven, Persus Cantor had a trim body and a curious air of innocence. Today, her exuberance had vanished, and furrows were etched above her brow. She hunkered down in front of the massive stone fireplace staring straight ahead, her unblinking sapphire eyes dulled by pain, drugs, or both.

Anika nudged Deming. “Go see Aunt Pert. She’s been asking for you. Both of you.”

That was a shocker. I’d expected her to cling to family during this difficult time, not to a virtual stranger like me.

Before we reached Persus, a familiar form interposed herself between Deming and me.

“Easy, girl,” he whispered. “Just ignore her.” He put his hand on my shoulder as a cloud of splashy scent announced the arrival of the grieving widow. Paloma Peters was a study in excess with a pedigree as suspect as her prominent body parts. She was blatantly sexy, a vixen who entranced men and alienated women. I took the high road, scolding myself for being unkind and a tad jealous. I’d never been a temptress, even on my best day. No one, including my ex-husband, had ever called me sexy unless it was a calculated prelude to intimacy.

I shook off doubts and allowed my better self to arise. After all, Paloma had just lost her husband, and she was young, barely twenty- two. She needed support, not censure. One glance at her bee-stung lips, plunging neckline, and micro-mini made me choke on charity. Even swathed in the mantle of widowhood, Paloma Peters was a tart. My grandma would have called her a hussy.

Dario had been smitten after only one encounter. He’d swiftly plucked Paloma from a promising career as a cocktail waitress and installed her in his Back Bay flat. Despite his grandmother’s pleas, Bolin’s counsel, and Deming’s taunts, Dario had fallen firmly and unequivocally in love with her. The rest was history.

“Deming—oh Deming . . .” Paloma flung herself at him, crushing my fiancé against her abundant bosom. Tears stained her cheeks but happily spared her mascara-laden lashes. Waves of long, platinum hair flowed past her shoulders, giving Paloma the air of a second-rate porn star. Her sobs subsided once Deming patted her back and pulled away.

“You remember Eja,” he said. “My fiancée.”

Paloma managed a tepid smile before folding into a swoon, a move that earned my grudging admiration. Fainting had gone out with whalebone corsets and hoop skirts. Not many women could pull it off without looking ungainly. I bowed to the presence of an artiste.

Bolin swiftly joined his son in escorting the widow out of the room. Meanwhile, I caught Anika’s eye and approached Aunt Pert.

“Mrs. Cantor? Aunt Pert . . .”

She didn’t move, and for an awful moment I feared that the angel of death had claimed another victim. Finally, Persus Cantor blinked and extended her hand to me. It was tiny, scarcely more than child-size, easily swallowed by my palm. She squeezed my hand and held it, her frigid fingers showing surprising strength.

“I’m so sorry about Dario,” I murmured. “Such a terrible accident.”

“Accident? Who told you that?” Blue eyes flashed with searing heat.

Too late, I recalled Deming’s warning. Aunt Pert denied the obvious and aimed to prove it. I babbled an inadequate apology.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean anything.”

“Nonsense, girl. You didn’t kill him.” Persus Cantor rose to her full height, animated by emotion and grief. She tightened her hold on my hand, digging well-manicured fingers into my flesh.

“Dario was murdered, Eja, and you must help me prove it.”

Chapter Two

“MURDERED? I . . . nobody told me.” My tongue felt two yards long as I tripped all over it. Fortunately, Anika appeared at my side to comfort her aunt.

“It’s true,” she said. “Aunt Pert just got the message.”

“What did the police say? How . . . that is, what happened?”

Aunt Pert raised her chin sky high, giving me a glimpse of the legendary beauty she’d once been. “Not them, dear. The authorities have been very stubborn.”

“What then? Dario left a note?”

Anika enveloped her aunt in a warm hug. “It’s okay, Pert. Trust her.”

Persus Cantor beamed an ethereal smile at Anika and nodded. “Better than that. He told me himself. Dario said he’d been murdered.”

The scholar in me reared her head. Pert had used the past tense. Dario couldn’t have told her he’d been murdered unless . . .

“Aunt Pert consulted her psychic,” Anika said. “That’s how she got his message.”

“Psychic?” My voice was as neutral as a confirmed skeptic could manage.

Persus wasn’t fooled at all. In fact, she seemed amused.

“I can tell you’re not a believer, dear. That’s perfectly fine. I need an incisive mind to help me sort through things.”

Anika ignored my pleading eyes and heaped gasoline on the fire. “Nothing gets by Eja. She’s marvelous. What’s more, Dem can help too. He needs a vacation.”

A wall of hard muscle enfolded me as Deming touched my back. “Did someone call me?”

“Just listen, son,” Anika said. “Aunt Pert needs your help.”

Persus retrieved a folder from a stylish tote and adjusted her reading glasses. “You can’t always believe news accounts. Those people are such cynics. Still, Merlot has a devoted clientele. Missing persons, lost pets—she does it all.”

Deming stiffened as he scanned the clippings. “That’s her name? Merlot?”

“Yes. Merlot Brownne. Isn’t it lovely? Just like my favorite wine.” Persus dimpled. “I teased her about that, you know, but she didn’t mind. We made a connection the first time we met.”

Anika moved swiftly to thwart an interrogation by her son. “Sit down, everyone. Tea time.”

Before you could say clotted cream, Po wheeled in a trolley laden with things I lusted for and avoided. Deming heaped his plate with scones, cream cakes, and enough cucumber sandwiches to feed an army while I settled for strawberries sans cream and smoked salmon.

“You boys. I always loved watching you eat! When they were little, Eja, Dario and Deming always sneaked in to snitch cream cakes.” Persus gulped as she digested that long ago memory. Her plate stayed empty.

Bolin Swann glided up to her, squeezed her shoulder, and smiled. “They’re always with us, aren’t they? Even after they pass.”

“It’s a comfort,” Persus agreed, “especially at my age. Helps the loneliness.”

A wave of sorrow eclipsed Bolin’s handsome features. I’d seen that pained look—the unacknowledged legacy of violence—many times since CeCe’s murder. My future father-in-law was a complex blend of Asian guile and Western grit. Deming embodied many of his traits.

“Tell us more about your friend. Merlot Brownne. It’s an area I know nothing about.” Bolin retreated into the neutral zone like the splendid lawyer he was. His son was easier to read. I knew by the curl of his upper lip that Deming had a decidedly negative opinion he couldn’t wait to share.

Anika echoed her husband’s approach. “You always have the most interesting friends, Aunt Pert, but you’ve never mentioned Ms. Brownne before. Her name is very distinctive.”

“We met after I lost Lars,” Persus said, her voice trembling. “I was having a difficult transition. A friend introduced us and thought Merlot might help. Now that Dario has passed, I know she’ll be there for me. He gave her the message, you see.” She managed a wan smile. “My Lars was an excellent judge of character, and he communicates through Merlot too. That’s why I trust her. She’s given me a precious gift, a link to the two men I love.”

I lowered my eyes and gathered my thoughts, focusing on the antique carpet beneath me. It was beautiful, a lovingly maintained Aubusson with swirls of cream and gold that spoke of good taste and decades of old money.

Merlot Brownne was obviously a charlatan, not a conduit for the dead letter office. Plenty of con artists prey on the bereaved, but Persus needed a lifeline right now to perpetuate a fantasy. What harm could a backwater psychic possibly do?

“Don’t you agree, Eja?” Persus turned to me with wide eyes and a trusting smile.

It was truth-telling time. As a published author, I often skimmed the thin ethical edge between truth and deception. As a practicing coward, I avoided family squabbles at all costs.

“Anything’s possible,” I said. “Some psychics seem to have a genuine gift.”

Deming’s derisive snort was loud enough to spook a racehorse. Before he exploded, Bolin interceded once more.

“Perhaps if we spoke with Merlot . . .”

Persus clapped her hands. “Would you? Oh, Bolin, I know that she’ll help us. Of course, Paloma might object, but I’ll reason with her.” She pivoted toward Deming. “Paloma likes you, Demmy. Some girls respond better to men. Make her understand.”

“Me! No way.” Deming’s outrage was almost comical.

Anika stopped him mid-rant by holding up her hand. “Not now. Our tea will be ruined.”

ONE HOUR LATER, after Aunt Pert floated upstairs to nap, we convened a meeting. It was a civilized alternative to the open warfare that flared in Deming’s eyes whenever Dario’s death was mentioned.

“This is crazy,” he spat. “It was an accident. Pure and simple. Happens all the time.”

“Are you so sure?” I asked. “After all, Dario was some kind of cycling champ, wasn’t he?”

Bolin nodded. “He was passionate about it. Raced all over Europe. Came pretty close to winning the Tour de France to hear Pert tell it.”

“Right! Another pipe dream.” Deming’s hazel eyes shot sparks. Intense, rather sexy sparks if I do say so myself. “Dario talked a good game, but he was strictly amateur league. Look, accidents happen. Athletes take risks, and sometimes they die. Even professional ones.”

Anika gave her son a searching look. “Pert is family, Dem, and she needs us. With Dario gone, we’re all she has. Paloma and Pert aren’t close.”