Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (27 page)

“Keep out of this, Eja. It’s a family matter.”

His face was impassive, colder than my deep freeze. That same arctic air swept through me, chilling my heart. Deming had defined my place just as Anika had. They labeled me as the outsider that I was and always would be. The charity case there on sufferance. Good thing I’d found out now before it was too late.

I disguised my feelings, pasting a bland smile on my face and staying mute. Silence was my weapon—my only weapon. As he passed the entrance to Brokind, I spoke.

“Drop me off here, please. I need some exercise.”

Deming shot me a quizzical look. “You wanted to see Cheech.”

“That’s okay, you handle it. I’ll give Cato his walk.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and hopped out the door before he stopped me.

“Eja, listen, I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry. This whole thing has been bugging me.”

I forced myself to meet his hazel eyes. “Not a problem. I shouldn’t have interfered.”

Hurt feelings shouldn’t bother me—I’m much too old to cry. Nevertheless, as I stumbled up the driveway, I felt the weight of moisture dripping down my cheeks. What made me think that I’d ever be accepted by the Swanns? We lived separate lives in parallel universes. Deming should reconnect with someone more suitable—a shining trust fund baby. Pert’s shindig would be filled with them.

I wallowed in self-pity, oblivious to the sound of Ibsen and Cato crashing through the shrubbery. They swarmed me, serving as furry honor guards for Bolin and Anika Swann.

“Eja! Hope we didn’t frighten you.” Bolin held out his arm to steady me. “Is everything okay?”

Anika joined him and quickly assessed the situation. “Where’s Dem? Still doing errands?”

I kept my voice steady. “He went to get his bike. Shouldn’t be long.”

Bolin squeezed my shoulder. Not hard, just a gentle touch. That gesture, that act of kindness, unleashed the floodgates. I murmured something, turned away, and sped back toward Brokind with Cato nipping at my heels.

I’m no diva. My antics were shameful, unworthy of a successful author and independent woman. I simply couldn’t sip tea and face Persus and the others over the drinks trolley. Not now. Maybe never again. Brokind had worked its dark magic once more, cloaking everything in my life with doom.

I followed the cobblestone path toward the pool area, seeking shelter from the Swanns and the drama that attended them. A light shone in the cabana, casting a warm glow from the leaded bay window. It seemed the perfect spot. I yearned to curl up on the plush down sofa and host afternoon tea for one.

The thick sliding doors, shuttered but unlocked, yielded easily to my touch. Cato immediately launched his macho act, sniffing vigorously, emitting a deep growl. He fled the moment I entered the cabana, proving his cowardice yet again.

I called out and stepped cautiously into the sitting room where a cozy fire blazed, and the faint strains of music caught my ear. Paloma was there, recumbent on the velvet chaise, clutching a sleek black Glock.

I squealed, a weak, pitiful sound that no one, not even Cato, would ever hear. Pert’s cabana was wrought of rough-hewn stone and insulated by thick Persian carpets. Gunshots signified skeet shooting, not murder in this tony neighborhood.

“We’ve been looking for you,” I said. “Everyone’s worried.”

Paloma made a rude middle finger gesture. Her smile, a vivid slash of blue-black Vamp, had a fearsome tinge that made me shiver.

“I’m a good shot,” she said. “Dario taught me.” She motioned toward the sofa with the Glock. “Sit.”

“Okay, but put the gun down.” My palms were sweating, but I played it cool.

Paloma shook her head, more mule than woman. “I got to protect myself.”

“Not from me, Paloma. I won’t hurt you.” I backed slowly toward the sofa while maintaining eye contact. “You didn’t kill Dario. You loved him.”

She nodded. “We dared him to ride. Laughed about it. Dario got mad and rode off without his helmet. I just wanted to scare him. Make him stop.”

“Stop hurting you? I understand that. Anyone would.” I spoke quietly, calmly. “Cheech helped you, right? He can tell them all about it.”

My good intentions backfired. Paloma’s eyes shot sparks the moment that I mentioned Cheech. She leapt to her feet, waving the Glock left and right.

“Leave him alone. Cheech is my friend. I can’t trust you. You’re one of them.”

That was a delicious irony in view of the rebuff I’d gotten from the Swanns. I’d laugh later if I managed to survive this maniac.

“You fixed up that mantrap, didn’t you? You and Cheech. It was nothing, just a prank.” I summoned my sympathy smile.

Paloma’s sobs became howls as she rocked back and forth. “Dario should have loved me. I took care of him. I fixed Mrs. Cantor’s tea.”

I shivered despite the fire’s warmth as she morphed from sad to sly. “You mean . . .?”

She cursed my stupidity and sneered. “There’s lots of stuff around here to use. Rat poison. Stuff like that. She deserved to die. She’s old. All that money with a mean old woman. She wouldn’t help Dario, so I did. Old people fall down all the time. But she wouldn’t die, even when I pushed her.”

It was my day for shocks. Paloma was a veritable fountain, spewing bile everywhere. Her face glowed as she recounted her crimes. Paloma the dim bulb had outfoxed everyone. If I appealed to her vanity, I just might live.

“Hm. Pretty clever of you. You got away with it twice, didn’t you? No one even suspected that you pushed her down the stairs or into that pool. Mrs. Cantor certainly didn’t.” I nodded to her superior wisdom. “But why bother? Dario was gone by then, and Pert has always loved you.”

Paloma’s scowl told me I’d committed another blunder. “Loved me! She thinks I’m trash. ‘Wear this, Paloma,’ ‘Don’t say that, Paloma.’ She makes me sick! They all do!” She gave me an evil grin brimming with triumph. “You too. Especially you. The big time writer. Always using words I didn’t know, you and that Meeka. I never read a book, and I never will!” She curled her lip in a “so there” sneer.

I had nothing to lose but curiosity. “Did Cheech know—how you helped Dario, that is?”

“Naw. Cheech wouldn’t like that. Hurting people. He looked for stuff in Meeka’s house but didn’t find nothing. Too bad he didn›t kill that bitch instead.” Her eyes narrowed as she stepped toward me, chuckling. “And you won’t tell ’cause you’ll be dead.” Paloma nodded toward the door. “Move. We’re taking a ride.”

My usually nimble brain stayed frozen in place. Car rides with killers were a bad idea. All the books said so. I considered my options—few and none. Paloma looked very comfortable with that Glock while I was defenseless. If only I’d listened during karate class! I clutched my tote like a shield, prepared to lob it at her. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to fasten the zipper. The contents spilled on the floor, propelled by nervous energy and sheer desperation.

Paloma pivoted and fired, disoriented by the mess, while I sped toward the door in a frantic bid for freedom.

Then it happened. The door swung open, as Deming, Cato, and Cheech joined the mix. For once, Cato’s evil temper paid off. He sprang at Paloma’s leg with teeth bared.

“Eja, what the Hell . . .” Deming froze when he saw the Glock. He recovered quickly and tackled me in one graceful move.

Cheech leapt toward Paloma, hands outstretched. “No, mi vida. Don’t do it.”

Maddened by pain and confusion, Paloma fired. Cheech Saenz went down, a crimson stain darkening his shirt.

Paloma screamed, one harrowing cry that will haunt me forever. She flung the Glock across the room and cradled Cheech as he lay dying.

Deming’s body, which had shielded me from harm, now threatened to suffocate me. I gasped for air, paralyzed by the scent of Royal Oud. After I pushed hard against his chest, he leapt to his feet and commandeered the Glock. I flailed like an upended tortoise trying to right myself.

Everything that followed had the surreal sense of a Dali painting. Paloma dashed out the door, Cato whimpered at my side, and Deming dialed his iPhone, calmly summoning help for one who was past needing it.

The Viper’s engine roared as Paloma sped away. Police cruisers couldn’t match that metal beast, but nature had its own remedies. Mighty oak trees, those timeworn survivors, flanked Brokind’s gates. As I stumbled to the door a horrendous crash split the air, followed by deafening silence.

Paloma’s journey ended at the entrance to the estate.

THE NIGHT PASSED in a frantic blur of sirens, harsh lights, and endless interrogation. Using the Jaws of Life, firefighters extricated Paloma’s corpse from the mangled Viper and transported her to the Barnstable County Medical Examiner’s office. Deming, Bolin, and Raylan held heated discussions before I was summoned to give a statement.

I glimpsed the steely side of Bolin Swann as he faced down Raylan Smith.

“I insist on conferring with my client before she gives a statement,” he said. “My son can answer your questions now.”

“Client! What is this, Mr. Swann? Eja’s not a suspect unless she has something to hide. She’s a witness to murder.” Raylan pressed his lips into a thin, unyielding line and stalked out the door.

Our tête-à-tête was private, closed even to Deming and Anika. We closed off Lars’ study, settling into the padded leather wing chairs that ringed the fireplace. It was cozy there, sipping brandy, watching flames keep evil at bay. I waited warily for what was to come.

“You must be tired, Eja. I won’t keep you long.” Bolin’s eyes mesmerized me. They seemed otherworldly, able to scan my soul. “Anything you tell me will be confidential. Even from Dem.”

I shivered as a chill crept up my spine. Paloma’s death and her startling confession felt like a dream, a writer’s fantasy.

“Here.” Bolin tucked the cashmere throw around me. “I know you love Persus as much as we do.” He sighed. “As one grows older, illusions are more important than ever, especially about those we love. Pert’s lost so many people. I’m not sure she could survive another tragedy.”

“What do you want to know?” I asked. Lawyers feed on obfuscation; I was sick to death of half-truths and evasions.

I saw surprise and a flash of irritation cross his face. “Tell me what she said. Maybe that will help.”

I closed my eyes, reliving moments with a madwoman. Paloma hadn’t frightened me—not really. Despite her deadly weapon, she had seemed more puzzled than lethal.

“Paloma and Cheech fixed the mantrap to teach Dario a lesson. They didn’t want to kill him though.”

Bolin nodded. “I thought so. Dario was a cruel boy who grew into a brutal man. Pert loved Dario, but Lars understood him.”

“There’s more,” I said. “Paloma said she doctored Pert’s tea. She called it ‘helping’ Dario. I’m not sure he knew about it.” I took a healthy swallow of brandy and continued. “She pushed Persus into the pool too. Apparently she nursed a lot of grudges. She basically hated all of us.”

He inhaled sharply but stayed the course. “Will that be part of your statement?”

I stared at the flames before answering. “It was garbled. Nothing I could swear to.”

“Of course.” Bolin leaned forward and took my hand. “Is everything okay, Eja? With you and Dem, I mean.”

I staunched the tears before they flowed. “I’m not sure. Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

“He loves you, Eja. So much. Forgive me, but I’ve always considered you part of our family.”

“But I’m not. Not really. I’ll always be odd woman out in this family. I’ll never fit in. This whole mess has clarified that at least.”

Bolin rose and helped me up. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

I kissed Bolin’s cheek, as I had since my childhood. “Sometimes that’s just not enough.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

IT PAYS TO WEAVE fictional tales. After crafting five novels, I had no problem evading Raylan’s questions. My bland official statement stressed Paloma’s despondency over Dario’s death and the impact of her “prank.” I omitted her murderous designs on Pert and me and strongly suggested that the widow Peters might have committed suicide. Truth prevailed in my description of Cheech Saenz, however: the valiant man who loved Paloma and tried to save her. I was positive that his death was an accident.

Raylan gave me that tough cop stare that said I was guilty of something that he couldn’t prove.

“What else, Ms. Kane?” he barked. “I need to know.”

Bolin Swann patted my shoulder and glared at Raylan. “That’s uncalled for, Chief. Eja has been through a terrible experience. She needs her rest.”

I summoned long dormant feminine wiles, averted my eyes, and tried to look innocent. Raylan didn’t buy my act for a second but fighting both Bolin and me was more than he’d bargained for. He waved me off with a stern warning.

When I reached the main house, Anika slipped me a couple of Ambien with herbal tea and packed me off to bed. After planting a cursory kiss on my forehead, Deming left to accompany Paloma’s body to the morgue. It was a familial duty that someone had to perform, or so he said. The Swann family’s rules and rituals were becoming tedious.

Cato, on the other hand, received plaudits from everyone. His mad charge at Paloma had distracted her long enough for Deming to save me. Let others call the surly spaniel heroic. I knew that he was merely testy.

I sank into oblivion, too exhausted to count my blessings or mourn my loss. The next morning, I awakened to the sound of mocking gulls and slapping ocean waves. Deming had vanished, and once again I was alone. Even Cato had abandoned me.