Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (3 page)

“Your mother’s right, son. We’ve been worried about Persus lately.” Bolin’s tone was understated, but something pushed my alarm bell.

“Has she been ill?” I asked, hoping I was wrong.

Bolin shrugged and deferred to Anika.

“Not really, although she did have a nasty fall down the hall stairs.” Anika shivered as she spoke. “Not unusual at her age of course. People do stumble, and she wasn’t really injured, thank the Lord.”

Persus Cantor was graceful, not some clumsy dowager. “Anything else?” I asked.

“Come on,” Deming growled. “I see where this is leading. Eja makes everything into a potential murder.”

Anika exchanged smiles with me and ignored her son. “Well, she has been a bit under the weather lately. Digestive issues, you know. Very unlike Aunt Pert.”

“Mom!” Deming whined like a schoolgirl, but the outcome was clear. He could never refuse his mother anything. If he tried, Bolin would insist.

Scorn dripped from Deming’s every word. “Do you really believe some murderer crept around Bayview stalking Dario Peters or Aunt Pert? Any assassin worth his salt would die of boredom first.”

“You’re probably right,” Anika said, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. “Don’t worry. This is something Eja and I should handle.”

My eyes brightened at the prospect. After all, to writers every experience is material for the next book. “I can get away,” I said. “Of course, we’d have to bring Cato.”

Mount Kilauea had nothing on the eruption generated by Deming Swann.

“Eja! No way. You two got in enough trouble last year. Absolutely not. I forbid it. Tell them, Dad.”

Bolin sighed. “Bayview is beautiful this time of year, son. You and Eja could spend some time with Pert. She has plenty of room in that old place of hers. Keep her company. And if anything should come up . . .” He shrugged. “How about it, Eja?”

My investigative antennae rose instantly. “Bayview’s lovely, and I have to admit I’m curious about Merlot Brownne. Sounds fascinating.”

“For one of your books, maybe,” Deming sniffed. “I’ve got a job to consider, you know. Cases to work, clients to placate.”

Deming was a partner in the law firm Sevier, Swann and Mills and the vice-president of Swann Industries, another family holding. Allocating his time was really not an issue since Bolin ran both places.

Bolin’s smile told me he had already won. “As I recall, Persus is one of your clients, Dem. Our firm manages her very sizable estate, remember? You handled her will.”

Deming grumbled, but the lava lake stopped flowing. “I’ll agree, but I don’t like it. As long as Eja doesn’t play Miss Marple, we can spend a few days in Bayview.” He folded his arms and issued a challenge. “I can’t hang around waiting to save her this time if she goes chasing some wild hunch.”

“Hey! I’m four decades away from Ms. Marple. Now, Nick and Nora Charles . . . I could go for that. Or Lord Peter and Harriet Vane.” I threw my arms around Deming and hugged him. “Isn’t it great! Just like old times.”

TEN DAYS LATER on a brisk May morning, Deming, Cato, and I started our quest. Naturally, Deming didn’t call it that. He refused to. In the spirit of détente, we spoke only of our Cape Cod trip, just a brief vacation with Aunt Pert. No murder inquiries, no detective work.

Crisp spring mornings on Cape Cod exhilarated me, heightened my senses, and gave my spirits an enormous boost. I felt confident that with a few deft questions and some subtle digging we could easily placate Aunt Pert, suss out any irregularities about Dario’s death and check out the mystical Merlot Brownne. In retrospect, my naïveté seems stunning.

Bayview nestles on Nantucket Sound, sixty-five miles southeast of Boston. Like Sleeping Beauty, the upscale town naps undisturbed for most of the year, until the summer onslaught rudely awakens it. Year-round residents tended to be wealthy, elderly, or both, although a smattering of younger professionals was slowly infiltrating Bayview’s borders. An abundant supply of unpublished writers, poets, and starving artists provided a temporary lifeline to big city refugees starved for culture.

Everyone knew Persus Cantor or claimed to. She was a beloved town fixture whose unassuming ways beguiled even the crustiest Yankee soul. When her husband’s health declined, Persus left Boston and repaired to Brokind, their seaside compound. Others might gape at the twenty-six acres of waterfront with stunning water views, but Pert just called it home.

“Wow,” I said as we drove through the wrought iron gates. “This is fantastic!”

Deming disagreed. “Bah! It’s a mausoleum, an anachronism that should be disposed of. Pert’s got developers panting to buy the place, but she’s too sentimental. Says it reminds her of her husband.” He shook his head. “He named it, of course. Brokind, a Swedish castle that held some special memory for him. Hard to think of him as sentimental though. Uncle Lars was a real Tartar. Scared the bejeebers out of us kids. Especially Dario.”

“I only met Lars once. Some kind of munitions magnate, wasn’t he?”

“Yep! Richer than Croesus. Meaner too. That old Swede loved only two things more than money: his dog and Aunt Pert. Putty in her hands.” Deming reached over and pinched my cheek. “Just like me.”

“Ha! I wish. By the way, I’m surprised that Lars spooked you. I thought Deming Swann was fearless.”

“Not true,” he said. “There are lots of things I worry about.” He stopped the Porsche and drew me close. “I haven’t gotten over that episode last year, you know. You came so close to disaster.” He gently stroked my hair as if he were cradling an infant. “Be careful while we’re here, Eja. Please. You’re so impetuous.”

I cuddled blissfully in his arms, forgetting time and place, drinking in the sensuous feel of his cashmere coat and the faint scent of his cologne. When he kissed my hand, a sigh of ecstasy escaped me, obliterating any thought of mayhem.

A sudden rap on the windshield catapulted us back to reality.

“Hi there! You must be Pert’s guests.” A well-preserved man with a mane of snowy hair ignored our shenanigans and gave us an easy smile. His bearing and demeanor told me this was no groundskeeper.

From the back seat, Cato growled a warning. For once, he and Deming were in complete accord. He rolled down his window and quickly morphed from lover to aristocrat.

“I’m Deming Swann, nephew of Persus Cantor. And you are . . .?”

“Laird Foster,” the man said, extending his hand. “I was just on my way to see Pert. Head up to the house and leave your car in the driveway. The houseman will handle everything.” He loped away at a pace that belied his age.

“Pretty spry, isn’t he? Think he’s Aunt Pert’s beau?”

“Beau! For Christ’s sake, Eja, that’s obscene. Persus is almost eighty!”

I shrugged and pinched his cheeks. “You’re on notice, buster. Age is no barrier to steamy sex. Be prepared.”

“Humph!” Deming grunted, but his eyes brightened at the prospect. “Bad enough my parents act like teenagers.”

Bolin and Anika Swann were the best examples of wedded bliss that I’d ever seen. Their emotional and physical intimacy raised my hopes for the future. Our future. Their son was embarrassed; I was envious.

As we drove up the winding lane, Deming fumed. “Pretty pushy, wouldn’t you say?”

“Who?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Eja, keep up! That geezer—acted like he owns the place.”

I shrugged without reminding him that when it came to most things, he was the king of pushy. It was easier to concentrate on the beautifully landscaped hedges, stonework, and gardens that captured my imagination. Pert’s holdings must fatten the coffers of half the landscapers on the Cape! We drove past a secluded alcove on the far side of the property where I glimpsed a stone monument surrounded by a black wrought iron fence.

“Ooh, a cemetery. How weird is that?”

Deming shifted into supercilious mode. “Not at all. People with means frequently choose private burial sites. Uncle Lars is buried in that crypt along with his dog Gunnar. Dario too.”

We’d attended Dario’s memorial service in Boston, but Persus insisted on a private, “no fuss” interment at her estate. Only Anika, Bolin, Paloma, and the ubiquitous Merlot Brownne were invited.

“What’s the deal with that anyway?” I asked. “Is this psychic a family member now? Surely Dario’s friends would have paid their respects. It’s sad having such a small gathering.” I closed my eyes, thinking of CeCe’s very private ceremony. Half of Boston would have gladly attended her funeral if only to ingratiate themselves with the Swanns. CeCe’s parents accommodated her many friends by hosting an elegant celebration of her life. Final farewells were restricted to the handful of us who truly loved her.

Deming parked the Porsche in the flagstone driveway and hopped out. “Aunt Pert feels one of those townspeople probably murdered her grandson. Said it would make a mockery of Dario’s service to entertain his murderer.”

While Deming wrestled with our luggage, I hoisted Cato out of the car and took him for a brief comfort stop. Aunt Pert had never replaced her beloved Gunnar, but I knew she had pets of some kind. I’d have to watch Cato’s every move if cats were on the prowl. He’d already had several unfortunate encounters with felines.

“Oh, darlings, you’re here!” Persus stretched out her arms like a child and enveloped me in a hug. “Don’t carry those things, Deming. Krister is on his way. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

Krister, a dignified septuagenarian with cropped blond-grey hair, was the Swedish equivalent of Po. He’d served the Cantor family since Lars made his first million and had chosen never to leave.

He appeared on cue, meticulously dressed in white livery and accompanied by a humongous canine. Cato sized up the competition and immediately retreated behind my legs.

“Who is this?” I asked as the pony-sized dog approached, wagging his bushy tail. I knew immediately that he was a Leonberger, one of the rare giant breeds. “He’s gorgeous!”

Krister issued a brisk command that stopped him in his tracks. “This is Ibsen.”

“Ah,” Deming said. “I forgot about Ibsen.” He turned to me. “He was Dario’s dog. I figured he’d be with Paloma.”

Persus sighed. “No, poor girl. She’s too overwhelmed to deal with him. You understand.”

I strongly suspected that Paloma was selfish, not overwhelmed. “May I pet him?” I asked, approaching the giant with my palm upturned. “I love animals.”

Cato growled his opinion of traitors and skulked into the bushes, thoroughly cowed.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Deming said. “This beast weighs as much as I do.”

Persus lasered in on him with her radiant smile. “Your tea is ready, Demmy. I’ve got cream cakes.” She linked arms with both of us as Krister juggled the dogs and luggage. “I know how you young people are. You probably want to freshen up and unpack. Krister will take you upstairs. Then we’ll have our refreshments and make plans.”

“Now, Aunt Pert.” Deming fought a losing battle. “Don’t you have a visitor?”

“Laird’s busy upstairs, but I understand, dear. You’re the professional. Don’t worry. I won’t interfere one bit. After all, murder is your bailiwick.”

Deming sputtered helplessly all the way into the house.

Chapter Three

AFTERNOON TEA WAS a formal affair in the Cantor household, so I spent time primping. Krister showed us to beautifully appointed bedrooms with en suite baths, deposited luggage, and dispensed with Cato.

“Separate rooms,” Deming groused. “Quaint.” His scowl had the effect of hiking my thermostat to the stratosphere. Maybe it was those dark brows crashing over angry hazel eyes, or the superbly toned muscles in his forearms. Deming was a long, lean panther, dangerous and waiting to pounce. I was his hapless but willing victim.

“She’s nearly eighty for heaven’s sake. Give Pert a break.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Besides, think how much fun you’ll have sneaking into my room each night. Krister will die!”

Deming harrumphed. “Don’t joke like that. At his age he could pop off at any time.” He peered into a gilt mirror and adjusted the soft folds of his jacket. His sister had often joked that Narcissus had kissed him in the cradle. Deming wasn’t vain—not really—but he had a healthy regard for his appearance. I on the other hand am no fashion plate. A quick touch of lip gloss and flick of a comb through my curly locks satisfied my needs for primping.

“Remember, we’re not here to encourage Pert’s fantasies. We’ll listen politely and head back to Boston as soon as we can.” Deming shuddered. “This place always gave me the creeps, even as a kid.”

“Really?” I said. “I think it’s charming. Very atmospheric. Enough material for five gothic novels.”

He curled his lip in a semi-sneer. “Forget it. This is familial duty—period. Don’t go running off on some crusade about Dario. Nothing extraordinary here unless you count the fortune teller, and I don’t.”

Unlike Deming, I had a different agenda with Merlot Brownne. Whatever powers she possessed or claimed to have, the psychic had a powerful hold on Pert. Deming branded all psychics, mediums and fellow travelers as charlatans, but I remained neutral. If Merlot knew anything about Dario or his death, I wanted a chance to interrogate her. After all, both Anika and Persus were counting on us.