Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (20 page)

Meeka’s tears intensified to flood stage. I noted that even her sobs were cultured, ladylike gasps, whereas I tend to bellow like a rabid moose.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “It wasn’t about money. I loved Dario. I’m carrying his child.”

Pregnant! I reeled back, shocked into silence. No wonder Meeka abstained from alcohol and tobacco. That also explained the windbreaker she’d worn at the bike shop. Only a monster would press a distraught mother-to-be. A curious monster like me.

“Does Persus know?” I asked in hushed tones. Deming wore a panicked expression that was quite foreign to him. Like many men, particularly single ones, the mere mention of pregnancy raised a host of uncomfortable issues for him.

Meeka shook her head. “Dario was ecstatic, but he had to be cautious. You know how volatile Paloma is. Who knows how she might react.”

Paloma would go into orbit, that’s for sure. I pictured the betrayed wife flying into a murderous rage. It wasn’t hard to imagine.

“You plan to . . . go ahead with it?” That was a question almost too delicate to ask. I found myself clutching Deming’s hand and squeezing it.

Meeka shot me a scornful look. “Naturally. It’s a choice, and I’ve made mine. I loved Dario, and I will love his son. He’ll be raised right here in Bayview.”

“Son!” I squeaked. “You’ve had the tests already?”

She ignored me and spoke directly to Deming. “My family has close ties to Brigham and Women’s Hospital. I went into Boston immediately.”

“Of course,” he said. Now that the dust had settled, my fiancé was the picture of equanimity. He dove into lawyer mode, analyzing the legal and monetary implications of the case. Messy emotional debris was left for me to consider and dispose of.

“Maybe someone was looking for proof,” I said. “After all, there’s a considerable inheritance at stake. Millions.” I kept a stiff upper lip, but my mind was spinning. Merlot Brownne might want leverage, and burglary was well within her skill set. Laird or Morde Dale also seemed capable of anything that would achieve their ends.

I ignored Deming’s frown and soldiered on. “You’re sure you don’t have any paperwork on the Bayview development project? That still seems like our best bet.” Although pregnancy was a complication, it paled in comparison to money as a motive.

Meeka had regained her composure and superior smirk. “I’m a professional. Our business plan was properly filed with the local authorities. It’s a matter of public record, hence, no need to break in here.”

Deming stepped forward and patted Meeka’s shoulder. “How can we help?”

Darn! I wish I’d thought to say that. Leave it to Deming to outplay me. Now he looked like Prince Charming while I was cast as the evil stepsister.

“Keep my secret—our secret—at least for a while.” Meeka tossed her head. “In a couple of months it won’t matter. I’ll face the repercussions.”

Deming looked at his watch. “Ladies, it’s getting late. I’ll check the doors and windows and Meeka can set the alarm. Then I suggest we try to get some sleep.” He turned away to disguise a big yawn. Even superheroes run out of gas eventually.

Meeka reached under the couch and produced a cudgel. Actually it was a weathered Louisville Slugger, but the effect was the same. “Here,” she said. “Just in case.”

“I thought you had a gun,” I said. “Bullets are better than bats, aren’t they?”

“Never mind, Annie Oakley. I’m sure we won’t need either.” Deming gave Meeka a long look. “Just remember not to slug me, Ms. Kyle. I come in peace.”

We followed our hostess up the winding stairway to one of several guestrooms.

“The linens are fresh and so are the towels in the bathroom,” she said. “I plan to lock my door. You might want to do the same.”

I crawled into the ornate canopy bed and pulled the quilt up to my chin. Ever since childhood, I’d longed for a canopy bed. My mother called them dust catchers and nixed the idea. For some reason, even though I was long since an adult, I’d never pursued the matter.

Deming was on his iPhone, speaking to his parents in low, soothing tones. Naturally he shared the bombshell about Dario’s wanton ways—he could hardly keep that kind of news from them. I wanted to discuss things with Deming, to run some theories by him and get his reaction. Despite her revelation, I still felt that Meeka was hiding something. The Lady Madonna. Huh! She’d wrapped herself in the mantle of impending motherhood before I could press her on the issues. In doing so, she’d also neutralized her motive for murdering Dario and cast suspicion on Paloma. Paloma, a natural candidate for the Big House, had every reason to kill her husband, especially if she’d sussed out his role as Daddy Dearest. Could the answer be that simple? I had to hear Deming’s opinion.

That was not to be. The rumble of his voice calmed me, sweeping away my fears and sending me straight into the arms of Morpheus. I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, far removed from murder, where babies and break-ins had no place.

“GET UP, SLEEPING Beauty.” Deming’s lips gently brushed across my cheek, causing me to wake with a start. My eyes focused on lovely damask wallpaper and gossamer thin drapes that tempered the room’s antiques. I blinked, momentarily puzzled by my surroundings.
What time was it?
Where in the world was I?

“What happened last night?” I asked. “Is Meeka okay?”

Deming was wearing his dress pants and a tight tee shirt that must have belonged to Dario. Tight clothes make most men look like sausage casing. On Deming, a man with zero body fat, the look was breathtaking.

“Yep,” Deming said. “Meeka’s fine. No prowlers or evildoers anywhere. Now do whatever you do to get beautiful and meet me downstairs. They’re waiting on breakfast for us at Brokind.”

Brokind? None of this made sense. If our hostess was carrying Pert’s great-grandson, the situation was ripe for disaster. I recalled Paloma deftly slicing lemons for our drinks. Of course. She’d probably perfected that skill working as a cocktail waitress. I closed my eyes, envisioning the same knife slashing Meeka’s lovely throat.

“Eja, what’s wrong? You’re whiter than chalk! You’re not going to faint, I hope.”

Deming was a man of many parts, über rational with a strong romantic streak. He loved Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, and occasionally, me. Although I’m no fainter, he agonized about the possibility. It was an endearing trait but annoying too.

“I’m fine. Besides, I’d sooner swoon than faint. Much more romantic. I think I’ll put that line in one of my novels.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Now get going before I dress you myself.”

I resisted that temptation, shooed him out of the room, and got to work. Wearing an evening gown during the daytime was problematical, especially in New England where an unadorned person, plain to a fault, was favored over glitz. I had always chalked that up to those damn Pilgrims with their white bonnets and starched grey muslin. Fortunately, Meeka, my hostess, had other tastes. She left a snazzy black velvet jogging suit with gold piping hanging up in my dressing room. If this was a bribe, it was working. After a shower and shampoo, I felt ready to face the world.

When I reached the dining room, Deming, the king of multitasking was front and center, pacing, gabbing on his phone, and drinking espresso. Meeka was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Meeka?” I asked, pouring myself a cup.

Deming ended his conversation and faced me. “Gone. Left a note saying she had a board meeting. Frankly I think she OD’d on candor last night. Embarrassed to face us, not that I blame her.”

I hadn’t detected one scintilla of shame on Meeka’s face. Defiance, perhaps. Determination, maybe. It made little sense to me. Dario, married or single, was no prize package, especially for a beautiful, cultured woman with cash to spare. Meeka deserved far better as did her perspective offspring.

Some of the Brahmin elite had whispered the same things about Deming after our engagement went public. After all, he’d had his pick of monied beauties from Boston to Beijing. I was okay with that, but modesty aside, my academic and career pedigree matched Deming’s point for point. True, I lacked a trust fund and I’d never considered myself a beauty, but astoundingly, Deming did. Nothing else mattered.

“Woolgathering, are you?” Deming waved his hand in front of my eyes. “Come on. Get a move on. You know how Krister pouts when his food is ruined.”

He gathered our things and gently herded me out the door and into the Porsche. His eyes had a fierce glint in them as he clutched the steering wheel.

“What did your parents say?” I asked. “When you told them about Dario and the baby, of course.”

Deming shrugged. “Not much. My dad thought about the legal aspects, inheritance and such. Mom zeroed in on the personal component: Persus, Paloma, the whole soap opera. She thinks Persus should be told straight away. Sort of a tonic for the old girl.”

It was a conundrum: how best to balance Pert’s happiness with our obligation to Meeka and her future son. After just one espresso I wasn’t prepared to comment.

Thanks to Deming’s total disregard for speed limits we reached Brokind in record time. He took the opportunity to lecture me as we strolled up the driveway.

“Remember, Eja, mum’s the word. Don’t take any chances.”

I have a sarcastic side that corresponds to his pompous one. Puncturing Deming’s vanity is one of life’s great pleasures that I indulge in whenever I can.

“Actually,” I said, “Mummy’s the word, isn’t it? Imagine what Christmas will be like this year with Dario’s little tyke along for the ride.”

“Eja!” He spun me around, prepared to lecture me anew. My fluttering eyelids and snarky grin stopped him cold. “Oh. You got me that time. Matching wits with a writer is a challenge. I forget that sometimes.”

“Just be glad it isn’t yours, Mr. Swann. The child, I mean. That’s something you might regret.”

His expression shifted back to serious, and he took my hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I just might surprise you. Is that an offer, my love?”

That question went unanswered, lost in the sound of footsteps coming from the cabana.

“Hey, you two, what’s going on?”

I knew that voice, even though I’d tried to forget it. The duo from dullsville, Morde and Laird, materialized at my side and followed us through the front door. They couldn’t have heard anything, at least I hoped not. Deming gave my hand a warning squeeze.

“Joining us for breakfast, gentlemen?” His tone held a faint whiff of condescension.

Mordechai Dale straightened his overcoat. “We’ve already eaten, thanks. Just here to meet with your father.”

“Ah. The real estate proposal.”

Laird nodded. “Bolin Swann drives a hard bargain, I have to admit. Got some great bargains in Bayview, you know. Perfect honeymoon cottages too.”

The man gushed fulsome praise like a hot spring. No doubt that passed for charm in some circles, but it left me feeling queasy. A restorative omelet would cure my ills.

“You must have been devastated,” I said. “I mean, when Dario reneged on his part of your deal. Kind of left you holding the bag, didn’t it?”

Morde Dale fell back, stuttering. “Renege? What are you talking about, Ms. Kane? Dario was on the closest terms with us. Why, I have a signed contract right here.” He patted his suit pocket, as if to reassure himself. “It’s perfectly legal. I am an attorney, as you know.”

Laird Foster kept his smile in place. “No need to get into that now, Morde. These folks want their breakfast.”

It was a smooth recovery except for one thing: Deming Swann. My love was a predator missile aimed right at the heart of the matter. Nothing and nobody would deflect him from his target.

“I’m Mrs. Cantor’s attorney, and I also represent Dario’s estate,” he said. “I’ll need to review any documents that involve them.”

“Of course,” Laird said. “I’ll call you to set up an appointment.”

Deming nodded to Krister and turned back. “Now is fine. My uncle’s study is free if you’re ready, gentlemen.” He bent down and kissed my forehead. “You don’t mind, do you? Ask my dad to join us if he’s free.”

My smile was sweeter than clotted cream. “Not at all. I’ll eat for two.”

My joke didn’t go unnoticed. He rolled his eyes as I sashayed into the breakfast room and closed the door.

Chapter Seventeen

SINCE THE REIGN of Lars Cantor, breakfast had been special at Brokind. Persus saw no need to abandon the tradition once her beloved had passed on, and for that I was thankful. The groaning sideboard, presided over by Krister, held dishes culled from Swedish and American recipes. Eggs, muesli, fruit, a postprandial brandy, and fish were well represented. I’d also grown fond of smorgas, an open-faced sandwich previously unknown to me. The whole scene was reminiscent of English stately homes as penned by Agatha Christie. Unfortunately Brokind now shared another similarity with those famed estates. Murder.

The other guests had already tucked into their meal by the time I was seated. Ibsen and Cato loitered in the corners, hoping for crumbs while gnawing on stew bones. Paloma kept her head down, shoveling eggs into her mouth with the precision of a steam engine. Curious. For some reason, the widow Peters seemed particularly grim on this beautiful morning despite the lively conversation.

“Where’s Demmy?” Pert asked, flashing good will my way. “Krister made sausages just for him. You know the kind, Anika—Fläskkorv.”

Anika saw my puzzled look and rescued me. “Fläskkorv is a type of Swedish pork sausage, Eja. You’ve probably never tried them before.”

Pert pointed to one of the covered dishes. “Lars never liked them. Loathed them in fact. But Demmy and Dario begged for sausage and eggs like their American friends. So sweet.”

“You know how kids want to fit in,” Bolin said. “Until Krister converted me, I’d always preferred Chinese breakfasts with congee and tofu. Now we have an international spread at home. Something for everyone.”

After I explained Deming’s whereabouts, Bolin quickly left to join them. “Never hurts to even up the teams when you’re talking real estate,” he said.

It seemed unfair. Mordechai Dale and Laird Foster against two generations of brilliant Swanns. Talk about matching wits with the unarmed!