Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (5 page)

“I feel awkward, Ms. Brownne. I’m afraid I don’t know the rules. Will Dario speak to us today?”

She gave a graceful shrug that combined elegance with savoir-faire. I admire people who can pull that off without looking like Quasimodo. I’ve never gotten the hang of it.

“I can’t promise anything, Ms. Kane. Those who cross over keep their own counsel. Sometimes—often—they speak through me.” Merlot spread out her hands. “But not always. And in the interests of full disclosure you should know that even when they do, I sometimes get it wrong.”

Persus patted her back. “You’re too modest, dear. Why, Dario couldn’t wait to get in touch. He recognized a kindred spirit instantly.”

“Would you share his words with me?” I asked. “I’d also like to take notes.”

Merlot stared fixedly at me. “Of course, but why not go direct to the source and ask Dario?” She rose and attended to some chores: extinguished the lamp and closed the blinds.

“Link hands,” she said. “Focus your energy on Dario. Perhaps we can coax him into joining us.”

We hunched forward, closed our eyes, and meditated. Despite the instructions, I kept one eye open to survey the terrain. Pert and Merlot stayed statue still, plaster saints in search of the hereafter. In life, Dario had buzzed about like an electric current, tapping his foot, snapping his fingers, and irritating every teacher he’d ever had. These days, he’d be dosed with Ritalin and labeled with ADD. In his altered state, it seemed that the spirit of Dario Peters had morphed into a lackluster and rather boring presence.

Suddenly Merlot rose and looked upward, gazing at the ceiling. Her lips curved into a gentle smile, as she extended her arms toward the heavens.

“Is he here?” Pert asked, teetering toward the psychic. “Dario, do you hear me?”

“He’s with us, Persus, but his voice is weak. I can barely hear him. Wait! He wants you to know that he’s at peace.’’

I was neither skeptic nor believer but that “at peace” line was older than last month’s cod, a comforting fiction that could never be disproved. Frankly I expected better of Merlot. Surely she could fabricate something more exotic.

Suddenly her voice changed, almost as if she were answering my challenge.

“He’s worried, Persus. Worried that you might get hurt.”

“Why?” Pert wrinkled her brow into a skein of fine lines. “Dario, I’m not afraid. Look, Eja’s here.”

I’d never been introduced to a spirit before. It was disquieting.

“Greet him, Eja,” Pert said. “Don’t be discourteous.” Her generation abhorred poor manners. They considered it a cardinal sin right up there with soiled gloves or flatulence.

“Hi, Dario,” I mumbled, thankful that Deming wasn’t there.

Merlot scrunched her face into a fearsome mask that suggested concentration or an intestinal ailment. “Wait! Please, Dario, don’t leave. Tell us.”

Pert quickly passed from shivers to shudders. I leapt up and grasped her thin shoulders in a vain attempt to hug the misery from her. I knew that she took some kind of heart medicine, although I’d never gotten the full story. If she stroked out under my watch, Anika would never forgive me, and Deming would need his own stretcher.

Pert’s situation diverted my attention from the psychic and her ghostly visitor. I got only a glimpse of Merlot’s pallid complexion before she sank to the floor in a tangled heap.

Chapter Four

HANDLING TWO PROSTRATE women was way above my pay grade! I settled Pert into her chair then propped Merlot up against the sofa. Neither one acknowledged my efforts until I forced some water down the psychic’s throat.

“St. Cyprian, save me,” Merlot gasped. “What just happened?”

Aunt Pert stirred and patted her hair. “I’m so embarrassed. Forgive me, Eja. I don’t know what came over me.”

The health of Deming’s elderly aunt was my real concern. I knelt in front of Pert, absorbed in checking her vital signs and chafing her wrists. When a blur of soft slate hair tickled my nose, I screeched like a barn owl.

“Eek! What in the hell was that?”

Merlot rose gracefully, making me question whether or not her spell had been genuine or manufactured. “Don’t worry. That’s Cyprian. You’re not afraid of cats, I hope.”

Her faintly contemptuous air grated on me. I took a deep breath, counted to twelve, and forced myself to power down.

“I love all animals, although the human kind can be annoying. He just surprised me. By the way, what’s this St. Cyprian business about?” I’d been force-fed Butler’s
Lives of the Saints
as a child but, St. Cyprian had somehow eluded me.

“He’s revered in our community,” Merlot said with a pious smile that bordered on smugness. “Among believers. Naturally, he’s not a household name elsewhere. St. Cyprian is the patron saint of the occult. Google him. You’ll see.”

“Merlot is so spiritual,” Pert gushed. “That’s one of the things that drew us together.” They exchanged smiles, suggesting an intimacy of arcane secrets and otherworldly things that were way beyond me. Above all, I’m the practical sort. Whatever just transpired must have a rational explanation. Even skeptics bow to proof, but Merlot had provided a carnival side show without any of the special effects. No detective worth her salt would accept that.

“Help me out here. What did I miss?” I used my indoor voice, suitable for funerals, public confrontations, and defusing tension. “What happened with Dario?”

Pert’s eyes grew moist as she turned toward the psychic. “He contacted you, didn’t he, dear? Dario was here.”

A brisk nod from Merlot answered her. “His appearance was brief. All too fleeting. I could hardly hear him.” She leaned back, closed her eyes, and sighed. “One thing came through loud and clear. It’s very troubling, Persus.”

“What is it?” Pert’s alabaster complexion turned a whiter shade of pale, as she clutched the chair in a death grip. “Please. I have to know.”

I watched closely as Merlot began rocking in a gentle sideways motion. “He worries about you. About this crusade to avenge him. Oh, Persus, I can’t be certain. So many things have been on my mind lately. My concentration is off, and I just can’t focus.”

Some subliminal message that immediately aroused my suspicions passed between the two of them. Ms. Brownne was up to something, and my instincts told me it concerned money, filthy lucre, the root of all evil. I pride myself on the ability to ferret out the deepest, darkest secrets. Unfortunately before that happened Persus rose and gathered her things.

“We should leave, Eja. Perhaps Merlot can come over to the house tomorrow after she’s rested. For cocktails and dinner.” She squeezed the psychic’s hand. “We’ll speak later, dear.”

OUR WALK BACK to Brokind was a grim reminder of Dario’s fate. Cyclists zoomed past us, cocooned in athletic arrogance, displaying the same disregard for safety that had characterized Dario himself. Pert stayed mostly silent although she maintained a heady pace that left me gasping.

Deming was waiting for us in the study, tapping his toe on the wide walnut planks of the floor. His mouth was set in a grim unyielding line that meant either anger or angst.

“I’ll join you after I change clothes,” he said, loping toward the stairs. I wondered how productive his day had been.

The study was a distinctly masculine space, the preserve of Lars Cantor for over forty years. The faint whiff of long ago pipe tobacco mingled with the fresh clean scent of lemon furniture polish. Pert kept his humidor and pipe rack on the side table adjoining the massive partners desk. It was raised on high, a votive offering or holy relic for a lost soul. Perhaps that’s how his widow saw it. I had no doubt that although more than a decade had passed, Persus Cantor still revered her husband.

Carved floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with weathered leather books and curios testified to the importance of literature in this household. The titles, mostly classics, provided insight into the intellectual life of both occupants. Lower shelves, those easily accessible to Persus, had all the classics from Shakespeare to Austen. British poets and some Americans also earned pride of place. I scrutinized the higher space designated for Lars. His tastes were somewhat darker and focused on Scandinavian and Russian authors: Strindberg, Ibsen, and a host of names I’d never heard of before, not to mention the more popular Tolstoy, Chekov, Dostoyevsky, Pasternak, and Nabokov.

“Did you share that desk, you and Mr. Cantor?” I had a mental image of her, busy with her letters and clippings while her husband thumbed through business papers, pipe in hand.

“Oh no, Eja. Not at all.” Pert seemed scandalized by the suggestion. “This was his space, a private preserve, if you will. Lars insisted on total solitude.” She beamed at a photograph of her husband. “Men need their own room where they’re free to be themselves. It’s good for a marriage. You’ll see.”

I hid the flush in my cheeks by stroking the fine grey paint of the tall case clock. “This is a Mora clock, isn’t it? It’s lovely.”

Pert’s eyes gleamed. “Ah yes. Lars was very proud of his Swedish heritage. He found that clock at auction in Stockholm many years ago.”

I stifled an unexpected flow of emotion. “Isn’t it painful for you—this room?”

“Oh no,” she said, “quite the opposite. Sometimes I feel as if Lars is right here beside me. It’s a great comfort being in a spot that he loved so much. The memories sustain me.” Pert’s smile was kind. “At my age, the past and future are almost one.”

With a discreet knock, Krister entered the study bearing appetizers and liquid refreshment. Pert nodded, and he poured her a drink.

“Do you like Aquavit, Eja? It’s quite tasty.”

I hesitated, mindful of my limited capacity for alcohol.

“Oh, go on, Eja. Be a sport.” Deming slithered up behind me and began massaging my shoulder slowly and sensuously. “Remember, I’m half Swedish too. Family tradition. Any little Swanns will have a quarter’s worth of Swede to contend with.”

I tried a diversionary tactic to obscure the full body flush that consumed me. “Be accurate, Deming. Baby swans are called cygnets.”

For once, I’d caught him totally unprepared. Deming whooped with laughter, as he leaned over the tray and filled his plate with shrimp, crabmeat, and fish cakes.

“Touché, Ms. Kane. That’s what I get for testing your vocabulary. Now turn off that big brain before I starve to death. I barely ate all day. What this town calls a restaurant isn’t fit to repeat.”

“Oh, Demmy,” Pert said. “Always a perfectionist. We used to keep horses here, Eja, and Deming—well, he looked so fine in his livery. Everything had to be just so, or he’d stamp his little foot and drive his poor mama wild.”

Deming’s handsome face turned an interesting shade of pink. “Ah, come on, Aunt Pert. Eja’s not interested in that stuff.”

“Yes, I am. It’s fascinating. Tell me more.”

“I recall the first time Bolin and Anika came here.” Pert smiled at the memory. “Anika worried about Lars, but he and Bolin bonded instantly. Of course, Bolin has everything you’d want in a man—looks, charm, and such a brilliant mind. A gentleman, very much like my husband. Two of a kind they were.”

I took a moment to process that. At first blush, Lars, a burly Swede, and Bolin Swann, a tall, elegant Eurasian, seemed miles apart.

Deming paused in between forks full of pickled whitefish. “Let’s discuss your séance or whatever you call it. I’m sure Eja found it thrilling.”

“We didn’t get far,” I said. “There was an incident.”

Deming ignored my signals and plowed ahead. He leaned forward, hazel eyes alight. “I knew it! No wonder you took so long.”

Pert patted his head and glided out the door. “I’m going up for my nap, children. Take your time. Don’t worry about me one bit.”

I shook my head and sighed. “Now you’ve done it. She had some kind of spell at Another World. So did the psychic.”

“Another World? What the hell is that?” Deming folded his arms in front of him, a classic body language tip-off. Whatever supernatural stuff Merlot was selling, my gorgeous fiancé wasn’t buying it.

I kept my own counsel as I considered the Merlot phenomenon. She was an enigma: cool and professional in some respects but also a tad sleazy, honing in on an old woman’s grief. My opinion was further complicated by a nagging belief that despite the trappings of deceit, Merlot Brownne
knew
something. She’d blanched every time Dario’s death was mentioned, and that type of reaction was difficult to fake.

“Eja, are you in a trance?” Deming pushed aside his plate and reached for me. “We can work on that if you’re interested. This is a big house.” He raised one eyebrow and leered.

I evaded him and speared a shrimp with my fork. “Hold on and keep your hands to yourself, Don Juan. I want to hear about
your
day.”

Instead of information, I got the Swann Scowl, an awesome artifact of male beauty. His thick black brows formed a perfect “V” as Deming wrestled with facts and gathered his thoughts.

“Okay, I got some scoop, but it wasn’t easy. This place is filled with old codgers who drone on without saying anything.” He lowered his voice to conspiratorial levels. “First of all, they love Pert. Not a word against her. Dario—not so much.”

I took a risk and inched closer to him. Call me foolish, but the man is a magnetic field drawing me to him. When Deming appears, my world telescopes into a frenzied mass of lust and longing where emotion is king and reason vanishes.

“Feeling brave, are you, Ms. Kane? Remember, the servants are gone. I can have my way with you.”

Candor overcame coyness, and I spoke with my heart. “You can do that any time you like. Of course, Persus might object.”

“Are you kidding?” Deming asked. “Aunt Pert and Lars were as randy as my own parents. And I don’t have to tell you how cozy they can get.”

I beamed a Mona Lisa smile full of implied promise. “Come on. Give. No more distractions. What did you do with your time other than stuff your face?”

He checked the door and pressed the lock. “I don’t want unexpected visitors hearing this. It’s messy. Okay. Dario was universally disliked by the townies, at least the ones brave enough to discuss him. Apparently, he made no secret of his plans to ‘modernize’ Bayview and change its backward ways. You can imagine how that rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, especially the environmental set.”

Hmm. I’d always considered Dario more dilettante than doer. Crusades require energy and strategic skills, but despite his many financial advantages, Dario was no intellectual. In fact, he was a rather dim bulb who’d gotten into the Ivy Leagues as a legacy. Test scores were meaningless when compared with family pedigree and old money.

“Are you saying that Dario hatched some grandiose scheme on his own? That doesn’t sound like him.” My inner skeptic reared her pointy head. Dario was an idea guy, a dreamer who never followed through on anything. Execution simply wasn’t his thing. He was on to the next project as soon as his enthusiasm waned.