Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (25 page)

“My dear, Dem hasn’t been free since you threw your book bag at him in first grade. That boy has loved you for years even when you married someone else. Don’t fret. Come help us with the menu.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk the dogs. Work up an appetite, you know.”

It was a loser’s bluff, a pathetic ruse, but they played along anyway. I hitched Cato up to his harness, whistled for Ibsen, and set out for the beach.

The day was overcast, a perfect metaphor for my own state of mind. The restless waves sternly rebuked any swimmer or boater foolish enough to challenge them. After both dogs exhausted themselves running up and down the beach, I trudged toward Brokind unsure of my next move. I needed diversion, something besides party chatter.

An engine’s purr caused me to leap back from the cobblestone path. The car stopped, and Krister leaned out the window. As usual, he wore a sober black suit, dark tie, and starched white shirt. His face showed the emotion of a storefront mannequin.

“Forgive me, Ms. Kane. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I got a sudden brainstorm. “Can I hitch a ride to town with you? The dogs are a mess, though.”

Krister smiled at the bedraggled pooches. “No matter. I’ll take them home with me and groom them.” He wasn’t the chatty type, not given to casual conversation. Still, if anyone knew of skeletons in the tidy Cantor closet, Krister was my man.

We rode in silence while I summoned my courage. “Tell me about these mishaps Mrs. Cantor’s been having,” I said. “No one talks much about them.”

His eyes narrowed to a flinty slit. “I don’t gossip. It’s not my place.”

I gave myself a failing grade in finesse. Krister’s manner was frostier than the Arctic Circle with little sign of melting. So much for global warming.

“You’ve been with them a long time,” I said. “You care about her welfare.”

“Yah. Her privacy too.” Krister gripped the steering wheel.

“You prepare her meals,” I said. “What kind of ‘digestive upsets’ did she have?”

The sedan approached an intersection and rolled to a whisper-smooth stop. “That was months ago. Before Mr. Dario died. She’s fine now.” He set his lips in a firm thin line that nothing short of mayhem could dislodge.

“She was pushed into the pool. What about that?” I smeared my face with cynicism. “Weren’t you the one who saved her?”

“Me! By Ansgar, you try my patience!” No more icy calm. Too late I recalled that Ansgar was one of the fierce Swedish Vikings that had prowled the seas. With his navy eyes shooting fiery sparks, Krister might well be one of that tribe.

“No, no. I wasn’t suggesting . . .”

“Mrs. Cantor has a delicate constitution. Arguments upset her.”

That was the best I could hope for. I managed a weak smile and remained silent until he deposited me in the heart of Bayview where Merlot Brownne held court.

“Thanks for the ride,” I told Krister. “I’ll call if I need anything.”

As I approached Another World, the front door opened, disgorging an unexpected visitor. Chief Raylan Smith stopped on the stoop and stared, hands on hips, as if I were a blight on the pristine landscape. “Morning, Ms. Kane. Not stalking me, are you?”

“That’s a felony.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in a reluctant grin. “I got a call about you last night. We should sit down and discuss it.”

I’d grown weary of men interfering with my plans. “Do tell. What did Deming say?”

“I never reveal my sources. Besides, it was a warning, not a complaint. You’ve been taking risks, ruffling feathers. Why am I not surprised?”

His eyes softened like bits of molten chocolate. Chocolate gives momentary pleasure and long-term pain. Ask any woman with a weight problem.

“I’d love to chat,” I said, “but I’ve got an appointment.” Without another word, I grasped the handrail, stepped up to Merlot’s door, and let myself in.

She was in her parlor, calmly sipping from a porcelain cup as she stroked Ra. The inky cat leapt off Merlot’s lap, fixed me with his amber gaze, and meowed as if he were sharing a secret. Considering the mystical ways of felines, he probably was.

“What a surprise,” Merlot said. “Did we have an appointment?” She wore snakeskin stilettos and an apricot sheath that showcased her lush curves. A creamy length of pearls nestled at her breast. “No matter. Please, sit.”

Her eyes flickered over me as she observed and dismissed my appearance. I squirmed, considering my tattered jeans and sandy shoes, not to mention windswept curls and patchy makeup. She played the duchess; I was the scullery maid.

The wedding jitters shtick wouldn’t work this time. I knew that instinctively. Merlot Brownne was a tricky minx, and candor was my best and only option.

“Persus thinks the world of you,” I said. “I hope you’ll help me. For her sake.”

Merlot raised a brow but said nothing. I took a deep breath and continued. “We saw you with Cheech yesterday.”

If that startled her, Merlot hid it well. She was an accomplished games player, far more skilled than I. In another life she might have been a chess master.

“Monitoring my movements, are you Ms. Kane? Bayview’s not a police state. Not yet at least.” Her faux smile brimmed with contempt and confidence.

“True, but extortion is still a crime. You know all about that, I think.” I chanced a bluff knowing that it probably wouldn’t work. “Mrs. Swann and I spoke with Cheech.”

Merlot stayed cool, but her complexion paled. I was on the right track. I knew it. Her connection to Bayview Bikes meant something. If only I could figure it out.

She rose slowly, gracefully and poured herself more tea. Her hand trembled slightly, causing some milky liquid to splash into her saucer. “Cheech Saenz is a client, and our dealings are confidential. He’s free to tell you anything he likes. I am not.”

“You were there that afternoon. The day Dario died. Cheech admitted that you found his body. Tell me what happened. Truth is the only thing that will protect you or Persus.”

Merlot sat down, crossed her legs, and fixed me with a charcoal stare. If she wanted to spook me, she succeeded. “It’s in the police report. I walked up the bike path and found Dario, hurt but still alive. His pulse was thready and his head was bloody. So bloody.”

She shivered as though the memory was too much to bear. Suddenly inspiration struck me like a lightning bolt, and I knew the answer. Part of it at least.

“You weren’t alone, were you? Maybe you saw something important.”

“Wasn’t I? Where’s your proof?” Merlot stretched as gracefully as the feline at her feet. “I called for help, and Cheech dialed 911. End of story.”

I pressed on, knowing that my window of opportunity was closing. “From the moment we met I sensed it. Paloma was there. Cheech said so. You saw something worth your while, and you’ve been blackmailing them ever since.”

A long, lazy grin inched up Merlot’s face. “You’re bluffing,” she said. “I owe you nothing, but for Pert’s sake, I’ll tell you this much. Paloma was at the bike shop, it’s true. Dario had thrashed her the day before, and she was hurting. He had a special technique, you know.” Merlot laughed. “Knew just where to hit her so the bruises wouldn’t show. He had lots of practice, the little louse.”

Once again I shuddered thinking of the beastly Dario Peters. A chip off the old block, it seemed, with a wife who equated pain with caring. Cheech, on the other hand, loved Paloma. She’d fled to him to commiserate or possibly to avoid another beating. Had he given Dario a taste of his own medicine, or was Merlot just leading me on?

“I suppose you saw the whole thing,” I said. “We found those cigarette butts, you know. Paloma and Cheech must have waited there hoping Dario would take the bait. Or maybe you decided to finish the job. Either way, it sounds a lot like premeditation.”

Merlot shook her head and laughed. “Cigarette smoking is bad for you I hear. Hazardous to your health.”

“Why didn’t you tell Raylan? He would have handled everything.”

She folded her arms in front of her and sneered. “What makes you think I didn’t? Go home, Ms. Kane, back to Boston with that luscious fiancé of yours. You’re making a fool of yourself flitting about like a frantic moth. I care deeply for Persus. I have her interests at heart. Do you actually think I’d do anything to cause her pain? Dario’s death was an accident. Nothing more. Check the medical examiner’s report if you don’t believe me.”

I rose, determined to have the last word. “You must have missed the revised version. Death by misadventure, they call it. Strange.”

She turned away but not before I glimpsed her eyes. Mirth, triumph, and a hint of fear flashed through them. None of it made sense.

DESPERATE TIMES CALL for desperate measures. I hitched a ride back to Brokind in the sober black sedan of Mordechai Dale. Conversing with Morde was quite a chore. In fact, slogging through molasses would have been easier. Ecology was the only topic that inspired him, so I mentioned my quest for the perfect honeymoon cottage and a virtuous, green lifestyle.

Morde’s ears perked up as if I’d uttered some arcane secret. “Didn’t know Mr. Swann was really interested,” he said. “Figured it was one of Laird’s pipe dreams.”

“So few people appreciate the natural world,” I said. “Dario’s loss must have been quite a blow to your movement.”

His doleful eyes met mine. “You’ve probably heard a lot of noise about him, Ms. Kane, but let me tell you, Dario was a true believer. Why should an estate like Brokind stay in private hands when millions of nature lovers could enjoy it?”

I was stunned by Morde’s socialist creed and the depth of his passion. I’d thought he was incapable of it.

“Doesn’t Persus have her rights too? Brokind means the world to her. It was a big part of life with her husband.”

“Fiddlesticks! Lars Cantor was a selfish bastard who always wanted his own way. I tried to reason with him. So did his grandson. All Lars did was humiliate that boy. Said he was making a man of him, but he just sapped Dario’s spirit.”

I defended Persus even though I sympathized with at least some of Morde’s sentiments. “Pert was kind to Dario. She loved him, and he betrayed her trust by signing that contract with you.”

Mordechai stopped the car at the entryway to Brokind. He clutched the steering wheel and thundered out a warning. “Don’t kid yourself, missy. Persus coddled Dario, but Lars’ word was law, dead or alive. She threatened to disown the poor boy over that dustup. At her age she should be preparing to meet her maker, not destroying her own kin.”

His words made me shiver, even though the car was toasty warm. I took a risk by goading Morde one more time. “What’s next for your consortium? I understand you’ve already invested money in the project.”

He gave a deep sigh and morphed back into the sententious lawyer I thought I knew. “Time will tell. We’re considering all our options.”

I reached for the door handle and flung it open, seized by a compulsion to run—fast and far away.

“Here now,” Morde said. “Let me drive you to the door.”

“That’s okay. I need exercise.” My counterfeit grin fell short of its mark. “See you Friday at the social, Morde. Thanks for the ride.”

Chapter Twenty-One

THE DRIVEWAY WAS clogged with service vans and SUVs bearing the names of local vendors. Anika’s party machine fed an insatiable appetite for flowers, linens, folding chairs, and massive white tents. Krister was a godsend, a whirling dervish who could multitask with the best of them. He directed traffic, restored order from chaos, and menaced those tempted to overstay their welcome. I winked at him as I scurried toward the front door, desperate to avoid the crush and find a cup of tea. His face was a polite mask that gave nothing away.

“Eja! Just the person I need.” Anika’s chignon was slightly askew as she hunched over a clipboard. A pair of oversize glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Most women would look ravaged but predictably she looked ravishing.

“I couldn’t find a party planner so here I sit. Absolutely swamped.”

I surveyed the landscape with a gimlet eye. “Fifty guests? Looks like a lot of fuss for a group that size.”

She grinned sheepishly. “Well . . . the number has grown. Persus has so many friends, and she hasn’t entertained much since Lars passed.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Aren’t you concerned at all? Dario died only a month ago. Something so festive might look . . . insensitive.”

Anika nodded. “Good point. But this event will celebrate Dario’s life, a passing of the torch so to speak. Bolin and I think it’s good for Pert. Therapeutic, you know.”

“Okay. How can I help?”

“Kick off your shoes, grab some tea, and sanity test this list. I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone.”

As I sipped and scanned, one thing became obvious: a number of guests were affiliated with academic, nonprofit, and advocacy groups related to cycling. From the
Nature Conservancy
to
Bikes Belong
, Anika had assembled an eclectic mix of partygoers with clout. I had no idea what or who to look for on her list.

She smiled as I turned over the paper. “Well. What do you think?”

“Impressive. Lots of heavy hitters.”

Anika clasped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful? Pert thought of it. Most of it anyway. She wants to honor Dario with a true consortium devoted to cycling, to use Brokind as a type of home base for think tanks and scholarly endeavors. No commercial development, of course. Maybe a few bike trails. Even Lars would endorse that.”

“Ooh. I’ll bet the lawyers are working overtime.” I visualized Deming and Bolin with their elegant shirtsleeves rolled up. “Is Paloma okay with all this? Philanthropy is Meeka’s skill set, not hers.”

Anika shrugged. “Time will tell. I doubt that Paloma will stay in Bayview anyway. Dem is structuring an annuity for her. Who knows? She’ll have a generous stipend and her freedom. Maybe she’ll find happiness.”

I buttoned my lip, suppressing any misgivings. The ways of the über-rich still confounded me. Instead of accepting unpleasantness, people like the Swanns and the Cantors swept it into the dustbin, disposed of it, and wrote a highly fictionalized version of history. The new, sanitized account of Dario’s life and death would fast track him to sainthood. His name would be emblazoned on a bronze plaque commemorating the Peters Institute instead of on the police blotter where it belonged. It was a harmless fantasy comforting to a doting grandma, inspiring to his future son, and so very wrong.

Anika refilled my teacup and patted my shoulder. “Something’s bothering you, Eja. Come on. Out with it.”

“What about the murder?” I asked. “Will that be swept under the carpet too? Dario was loathsome, but he didn’t deserve a death sentence. Someone must answer for that.”

Her eyes flashed, more brown than hazel now. “Leave it alone. Don’t you see? No one will be hurt, and a lot of good will come of it. Why do you care so much?”

Anika had always included me in her family circle. I felt excluded now, very much the outsider. Perhaps it was normal. After all, I had no official standing, not even by marriage. Maybe I never would. I rued the day I’d come to Bayview with its fractured lives and tangled skein of relationships.

“Eja?” Anika’s touch was gentle. “Forgive me. Ever since we lost Cecilia, my family has insulated me, kept the ugliness away. You know how protective Bolin is. Of course, in the beginning I encouraged it, depended on it somehow. Now it’s a habit I can’t seem to shake.”