Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (26 page)

“No,” I said, “you deserve an answer, even an imperfect one. I care about justice. It sounds pretentious, but it’s true. Everyone shadowboxes around the issue like it will just melt away.” An upsurge of emotion flooded my face. “Don’t you see? There is no business as usual when a murderer goes unpunished. Bayview will never be the same and neither will we.”

I scanned the party list again. They were all there. With the exception of Cheech Saenz, every local suspect had been invited to Pert’s soiree. I knew that Dario’s murderer was among them. Proving it was another matter.

EVEN INSOMNIA evaporates with a little help from your friends. Before I went to bed, Anika slipped me two Ambien and a pinch of advice.

“Don’t fret about something you can’t control. And Eja, let Dem stew for a while. That boy is too emotional.”

I swallowed a double dose of salvation and slipped into the close embrace of Morpheus. My sleep was sound and untroubled as if I were snuggled in Deming’s arms, calm and safe from harm. The cool night air and whisper-soft bed linens cocooned me. Even Cato’s snoring was more comfort than irritant, lulling me deeper and deeper into a state where mind and body joined as one.

When sunshine slithered in, I was not alone. Deming lay there, burrowed under clouds of down, clutching me against his chest. Obviously, Cato had once again flubbed sentry duty. He reclined on his back, paws splayed sideways as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Deming stirred as I tried to extricate myself from the sheets. “No, baby,” he mumbled. “Sleep. Let me hold you.”

Shiny black hair curtained his eyes as he squeezed them shut against the light. By some miracle, I’d donned my best chemise last night, a black silk number with plunging neckline and lace inserts. It was soft and slinky, but Deming’s garb outshone it. He wore nothing at all.

I drifted back to sleep, lulled by his gentle snores and the slight sighs that punctuated his breathing. Two hours later, I awakened to find Deming fully alert, giving me that mesmerizing stare.

“How’d you get here?” I asked. “You had to work.”

He nuzzled my neck. “My files are fully automated, so I can work anywhere. Besides, I missed you.”

I turned away, suddenly feeling shy. Beauty queens are morning perfect; mortals team with flaws. Sexy duds aside, I played the hapless street urchin with wild corkscrew curls and eyes ringed by mascara. Even naked—especially naked—Deming nailed the Prince Charming role.

“So,” he said, “you’ve been busy planning the extravaganza. Wonder why Laird Foster faxed me a real estate listing yesterday?”

“He did? That jerk!”

Deming tamped down my curls and stroked them. “That house really wowed you, huh? Mom liked it too.”

I felt ashamed, trapped by my own avarice. For years, I’d staved off class envy, accepting that the Swanns lived differently than the rest of us. My fantasy Cape, a harmless exercise in make-believe, felt tainted by greed.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Deming whispered. “If you like it, we’ll check it out. My calendar’s free today. I’m all yours.”

“You hate Cape Cod,” I said, “especially Bayview.”

He chuckled. “Once again you’ve misjudged me. I don’t hate Cape Cod, or Bayview for that matter. It’s Brokind that I loathe. The damn place reeks of misery.”

I thought of Pert’s daughter, Dario, and poor tortured Paloma. Maybe he was right.

“Persus loves this place,” I said. “Anything associated with Lars is sacred to her.”

Deming snorted. “Another case of revisionist history. Lars was a martinet, and Dario was always one step ahead of the cops. Pert’s too smart to have missed all that.”

I rested my head on Deming’s chest, inhaling his scent, feeling such sweet contentment. “She loved Lars. Loves him still. That can color anyone’s memory.”

Something sharp, a vivid shard of memory, cut through my mind as romance yielded to reason. “Maybe your Pegoretti is ready. Let’s go pay Cheech a visit.”

IT TOOK A WHILE to allay Deming’s suspicions, engage in reasonably civilized breakfast chatter, and get underway. Pert nodded genially at all my remarks, but Anika wasn’t fooled. She grilled us like a mountain trout, posing questions and making suggestions.

“I should go with you,” she said wistfully, “but Bolin’s coming this afternoon, and I have to meet with the caterers.”

Deming ignored her plaintive look. “You’ve already done more than enough, Mom. Believe me. Anyway, Dad likes you to be there when he drives up. Remember he’s bringing Meeka back with him.”

Once again, Paloma’s place at the table was empty. I glanced at Anika, looking for an explanation, but she shook her head, shrugged, and turned her attention to her son.

“Oh, Dem,” she said, “I need you to run to the printers and get these place cards done. They do such beautiful calligraphy there.”

He curled his lip, acting out the sulky son routine he’d perfected long ago. Anika, wise woman that she was, ignored his temper tantrum. She patted Deming’s cheek and handed him a thick manila envelope. “Thank you, darling. That’s a big help. Tell them I need everything by Friday.”

“What if they’re busy? What then?” His frown was Byronic, something Heathcliff himself would envy.

“You’re so clever,” Anika said. “You’ll think of something.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “What do you think, Eja?”

My time in Swannland had been well spent. I knew the answer immediately. “If all else fails,” I said, “bribe them.”

Deming threw up his arms in frustration. “You’re some big help. Between you and Mother we men don’t stand a chance.”

Despite his grumbling and pained expression, Deming played the dutiful son. With my assistance he negotiated the thoroughfares of Bayview, managing to charm, cajole, or bribe the local merchants into submission. Come to think of it, coercion was probably unnecessary. The mere mention of the Cantor-Swann alliance could pry open any vendor’s door.

After a few hours, Deming’s cantankerous side surfaced. He refused to continue with our errands until he received an infusion of protein.

“I’m hungry,” he growled. “Shopping saps a man’s strength.”

That’s how we found ourselves perched on slick leather barstools amid a boisterous throng at the Bayview Bistro. Deming stuffed his face, oblivious to the din of alcohol-fueled conversation. He inhaled mounds of onion rings and fried oysters as if they were his final meal on earth. I sipped Pellegrino while begrudging him every morsel. Life isn’t fair—that’s no revelation. Deming Swann consumed obscene quantities of food without ever compromising his perfect body. I, on the other hand, had to count calories with nuclear precision or face the consequences. I zoned out until the sound of a familiar voice heightened my senses.

Chief Raylan Smith and Merlot Brownne were ensconced in a corner booth trading glares over sips of chowder. Their furtive manner told me this was no routine interrogation, unless that protocol had undergone a major overhaul. Eavesdropping is one of my skills, but the boisterous bar chatter obstructed my hearing.

A momentary lull in the conversation provided an opening. Raylan muttered the name “Persus” and wagged his finger at Merlot. I couldn’t hear her response, but her body language spoke volumes. She threw back her head, crumpled her napkin, and stalked out of the restaurant, leaving me very curious.

“What’s going on?” Deming asked. “You’re up to something.”

“Hush. I can’t hear anything if you keep talking. Bad enough you’ve been gobbling oysters like a stevedore.”

He glanced around and spied Raylan. “Whatever it is, stay out of it. I’m serious, Eja.”

I gave him an eye-roll. “You missed everything. Raylan and Merlot were going at it hammer and tongs.”

Deming dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, a curiously prim gesture from such an elegant man. “Big deal. Eating in a public place is hardly suspicious.”

Sometimes the delectable Mr. Swann becomes an insufferable boor. This was one of those times.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But he mentioned Pert’s name, and Merlot got really testy. She stalked off and left him with the bill.”

Deming stifled a yawn. “Big deal. Lovers’ tiff. Happens all the time.”

For once I had nothing to say. Raylan Smith was a no-nonsense man. Staging public spats was alien to everything I knew of him. Moreover, his interest in Merlot looked professional, not personal.

“Hey,” Deming said pinching my cheek. “Let’s get a move on if you plan to see Cheech Saenz.”

I fumbled with my purse and scarf and searched fruitlessly under the table for my right glove. When I looked up, Raylan Smith loomed over us. A scowl contorted his normally pleasant features, the type of look he’d probably give a repeat felon. I hunkered down, but Deming’s manner was icily polite as he greeted the top cop.

“Chief Smith. Please join us.”

Raylan flashed a smile that never reached his eyes. “Don’t want to disturb you folks. This won’t take a minute.” His uniform was immaculate from the knife-sharp creases in his slacks to the lightly starched shirt. I pictured a woman lovingly ironing that khaki gear. It was equally possible that Raylan, neat freak that he was, might have done it himself. Either way he epitomized law enforcement efficiency with a dash of sex appeal.

“The chief spoke to you, Eja. Did you hear him?” Deming bristled as he always did in these alpha male imbroglios.

“Sorry. What did I miss?”

Raylan leaned over the table and spoke softly. “This gathering Saturday night. It concerns me.”

Deming locked eyes with him. “Why is that, Chief? I presume we’ve secured the necessary permits.”

A flush spread over Raylan’s sculpted cheekbones. “It’s nothing like that. Nothing at all.”

“What then?” Deming’s tone was one inch short of haughty. Raylan stiffened and rose to the challenge.

“Your guest list. Get enough people together, and things turn combustible, especially after a death.”

I joined the fray. “I think you mean a murder. Dario was murdered, Chief. Let’s not forget that.”

Raylan pounded the table, causing silverware to clank and glasses to rattle. Conversation ceased as diners trolled for scraps of information.

“Forgive me,” he said, stepping back. “This isn’t some Christie novel where you gather all the suspects in a room. Violence begets violence.” He turned to Deming. “Tell her, Mr. Swann. Someone could get hurt.”

I resented his tone and his message. “What could go wrong? You’re on the guest list too. Surely you’ll keep things safe.”

Deming rose slowly and faced Raylan. They looked evenly matched, two centurions squaring off for battle. The formerly boisterous patrons hushed as a sense of anticipation swept through the bistro. I noticed a few cell phones at the ready, their owners poised to record the fracas. Fortunately the thrill-seekers were disappointed. Both men regained their senses and climbed back up the evolutionary ladder.

“This event means a lot to my aunt,” Deming said. “The next best thing to solving Dario’s murder. Is there any message you want me to deliver?”

“None.” Raylan’s lips barely moved as he muttered the word. “Sorry to intrude.” He tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and strode noiselessly away without another word.

“What was that about?” I asked. “Raylan wrote the rulebook on cool, but something certainly shook him. I wonder what it was.”

Deming threw two twenties on the table and hustled me out the door. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t tell Pert or my mom anything either. They’d only worry.”

I whirled around and confronted him. “Pretty pushy all of a sudden, Mr. Swann. What are you hiding? You might as well tell me.”

He flushed even as he gave me his inscrutable look. “Not here, Eja. Get in the car. Please.”

Maybe it was the brisk spring air or my horror of causing a scene. More likely it was the gleam in his eyes as he pleaded with me. Deming, the cocky Master of the Universe morphed back into the man I loved.

“No problem,” I said, as he tucked me into my seat.

Chapter Twenty-Two

HE STALLED A bit, adjusting the already perfect heating system and the volume on the music. I folded my hands on my lap, waiting patiently for his response.

“I did a lot of digging in Boston,” Deming said. “Not that it was that difficult.” He sighed. “Dario was in trouble. Big financial trouble. Creditors everywhere and judgments pending.”

“Really? Wouldn’t Pert have helped him out?”

“That’s just it.” Deming shook his head. “It was all related to this land deal. He could hardly confess that he’d tried to defraud his own grandma. Even Pert would cut him off then. Not to mention that to cover losses this big, my dad and I would have to be involved.”

Curiosity overwhelmed me. “How much are we talking about?”

To me, five thousand dollars was a major tragedy, but in Swannland, “big financial trouble” involved plenty of zeroes.

Deming tapped the gas, and the Porsche sprang out into the thoroughfare like a jungle beast. “A bit north of half a million.”

“Dollars!”

He frowned as if I were some subspecies that had crawled up the drain. “Fava beans! Of course I mean dollars. And that’s not the worst of it. One of his major creditors is Laird Foster.”

I caught my breath, thinking of the aged Mercedes and threadbare suit that Laird wore. “Any other locals involved?” I asked.

“Yep.” Deming stopped at a traffic light and immediately cracked his knuckles.

“Cut that out,” I said. “Come on. Spill it. Who else was on Dario’s hit parade?”

Deming took a deep breath and exhaled. “Meeka loaned him over a hundred grand. Of course, now that their son will be Pert’s principal legatee, she’ll recoup some of that.”

“Pert must be told,” I said. “It’s the only honorable thing. That money is small potatoes to her.”