Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (7 page)

That perked Cheech up immediately. “We’d have to adjust it, you know. You’re lots taller than he was, and this is strictly for racing. These custom jobs are tricky. Dario waited six months for it. Came in every week bitching about it, like I could speed things up. Paid for most of it too.” He waved an invoice our way. The price gave me sticker shock: $12,000.

“No problem,” Deming said. “Let me put her through her paces. If everything works, I’ll pay the balance.” He held his hand out to me. “Eja and I want to walk that trail. Any idea where it happened?”

I admired his composure. Deming cloaked his feelings under a bland, impenetrable game face. I knew that his cousin’s death had affected him, but a stranger would have never even guessed. His hazel eyes, that gift from Anika, were clear and emotionless as he studied the trail map.

“Okay. I think I’ve got it. Those landmarks will be helpful.” Deming put his arm around me, herding me toward the door.

I stopped and clutched the door handle. “One more question, Mr. Saenz. Who found Dario?”

Cheech swallowed hard. “That psychic chick, Merlot Brownne. Told everyone his spirit called out to her, but I don’t believe that bunk.” He fiddled with papers on his desk. “She put a cross there in case you get turned around.”

I STRUGGLED TO keep Cato on track and match Deming’s blistering pace. For some unfathomable reason, he seemed angry and impatient with me. I’d had years of experience with the mercurial Mr. Swann, and my instincts said to ignore him.

“You certainly made a hit, Ms. Kane. Hope I didn’t cramp your style.”

“Huh?” Hiking was one of my least favorite pursuits, especially when my companion turned it into an endurance test. Cato strained at his lead, adding to the confusion.

“That man—Cheech Saenz—practically salivated over you. Spandex indeed!”

“Oh.” His indignation made me smile. I’d grown accustomed to females fawning over Deming everywhere we went. Turnabout was fair play for once. Truth be told, I was flattered even though Cheech was a giant step down from my fiancé. On the other hand, the bicycle man radiated a type of raw, earthy charm that had a certain appeal. I’d take admiration where I could get it and not complain.

“Do you really know all that bike stuff? Impressive.”

He shrugged. “Ah, you know, you pick up the lingo by osmosis. I’m strictly a recreational rider.”

“Twelve thousand dollars? That’s a lot of recreation.”

Deming narrowed his eyes. “It’s a conduit to Dario’s world, and besides he’d already paid half the bill. Cheap at the price.” As we rounded a sharp turn, he held out his arm crossing guard style. “Hold on. There’s the cross. Be careful in case that mantrap is still there. You know how often you fall.”

He was right of course, but I resented it. I’m not the most graceful creature in the world, but I manage to get the job done. I’m a writer, and a pretty damn good one if I do say so myself. Deming’s comment dredged up every ounce of insecurity within me. Suddenly I felt ponderous, more plodding rhino than the saucy temptress I’d been at the bike store.

Deming kissed my forehead and gave me a vigorous hug. “I didn’t mean anything. I just worry about you. Is that such a crime?”

His arms felt good, and the faint scent of Creed tickled my nostrils, causing all manner of lustful thoughts to sail through my brain. There were worse fates than being cosseted by a major hottie like Deming. My own insecurity and fear—fear that he’d vanish if he knew how much I cared—gnawed at me like a sick tooth. A shrink once told me that I deserved Deming only if I realized it. Sound advice no doubt but very much a work in progress.

“Hey, what’s this? You’re not sad, are you?” Deming spun me around until we were eye-level. “Think about what I said. We can fly to Vegas tomorrow and get married. After all, you’ve already had one extravaganza. A big blow-out doesn’t interest me at all.”

I smiled with patience born of long-suffering. Deming was obsessed by my ill-fated first marriage. That chapter in my life slammed shut a decade ago, and he had absolutely no reason to pick at it. After all, my unlamented ex had dumped me for a sophomore Phys Ed major whose breasts far exceeded her brains.

He wrapped his arms around me again. “Come on, let’s do this. Look for clues, survey the terrain—all that detective stuff you love. See! Even Cato’s on the case.”

Cato seemed more intent on fertilizing the ground than playing sleuth. I dutifully captured the refuse in a potty bag and stared at Dario’s memorial. Floral tributes and the ubiquitous stuffed animals ringed the shrine. I read the messages, most of which had been obliterated by the elements. “Miss you,” “Love you forever,” mundane things with kiss-stained lip-prints, nothing even mildly imaginative. Still, someone had cared about Dario, and the same hand had penned them all. Were these tributes from a heartbroken wife? Perhaps Paloma had more depth than I’d credited her with.

The mantrap, a hole deep enough to gobble either humans or machines, was now spotlighted by a bright orange cone. It was a modest, half-hearted response to the tragedy, a sad case of too little, too late. Bayview had done little else to rectify the situation or the hazards it imposed.

“Look! Jewelry.” Deming plucked something gold from the ground.

It was tiny, a lion’s head charm, glittering proudly in the morning sun. I’d seen its cousin only yesterday suspended from a chain around Merlot Brownne’s neck. Not surprising, I reasoned. After all, the poor woman found Dario’s body. Lions had special significance in the occult world, especially the Tarot. They symbolized strength and bravery. Was this a commentary about Dario or a victory lap by Merlot?

“Well? What do you think?” Deming watched me closely, his eyes radiating suspicion. “You’re hiding something, Eja.”

“No big deal. It’s just that Merlot wore a similar charm yesterday.”

He stiffened at the mention of the psychic’s name. “Maybe some of my aunt’s fifty thousand bucks paid for it. I’ll ask this so-called seer if she dares to show her face tonight.” Deming curled his lip in a particularly sexy snarl.

“Tut, tut. Remember your manners. Aunt Pert dotes on Merlot. Besides, she’ll probably avoid both of us if she has any sense at all.” I touched his cheek and felt a tremor sweep through my body. It was still foreign to me, this mindless, visceral response to a man. Some say it’s a sign of weakness. Let them. I happily shed my inhibitions and basked in the heat of the moment.

Right on cue, Cato spoiled everything by launching a bid for freedom. His lead flipped upward as the demonic spaniel scampered toward a copse of pitch pines on the far side of the trail. He ignored my pleas and Deming’s stern commands with a practiced air. I finally corralled the little imp when he circled ’round and burrowed into a spot fifty feet from Dario’s memorial.

“Ugh! Cut it out! It’s disgusting, a nicotine nest. Looks like someone smoked half a pack here.”

Deming bounded up and toed the pile with his shoe. “These are soggy. Peculiar, isn’t it? This place is drier than the proverbial bone. All kinds of fire alerts up. They made a big thing of it on the news.” His jaw tightened. “Matter of fact, I don’t think Bayview’s had any rain since the night of Dario’s accident.” He gingerly picked up one of the butts and examined it. “Hmm. Our smoker has expensive tastes. Deadly, but exclusive.”

“What are you saying?” My muscles clenched as I awaited his answer.

He waited awhile, sifting through that pile of tobacco as if it told a tale. “Easy to see you’re not a smoker.” Deming stroked my hair. “Those are Gitanes, very French, very exclusive. These are the real deal—Brunes.”

“So what?” I hate it when he gets pedantic. If he weren’t so big, I’d shake him senseless.

“Gitanes Brunes are the strongest, darkest, and most potent. No many smokers can tolerate the unfiltered kind, but this guy obviously dotes on it.”

A deep crimson stain on one of the butts caught my attention. Was it lipstick, or a product of my fevered imagination? As I scooped it up, several scraps of paper, secured by shells, fluttered in the breeze. More tributes to Dario but these were penned by a very different hand, and unlike the soggy cigs, they were bone dry. Oddly enough the crimson butt was also dry.

“What’s the matter?” Deming asked, moving my way. “We’re not archeologists, missy, or forensic scientists, for that matter. I’m sure the police force here is very competent.”

My absorption was so complete that his words barely registered. I was focused, obsessed, by the scraps of paper in my hand.

“Look,” I said, handing them to Deming. “These passages are from Shakespeare. Modified, of course, to describe a man.”

I closed my eyes, striving to recall the origin of each, repeating the phrases until they leapt out, vivid and heart wrenching.

“One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun never saw
his match since the world begun.”
I’d done my senior thesis on “Love and Agony in Shakespeare.” This was obviously adapted from
Romeo and Juliet.
Adapted by a loving, literate person who ached for Dario Peters. I had more difficulty with the second one. It stayed at the recesses of my mind, lingering there, tantalizing me beyond endurance.

“Eja, for Christ’s sake, snap out of it! Are you in a trance or what?” Deming, the sensible lawyer, had little patience for poetry or inspired prose. He gathered the cigarette butts and put them into a small plastic baggy.

My eyes snapped open, and with it came the answer. Of course. Both passages were from
Anthony and Cleopatra
, an underrated triumph of the Bard. “He wears the rose of youth upon him.” How appropriate to describe Dario, that eternal juvenile.

The words that followed had a more militant ring, almost a promise of retribution. “None but Dario should conquer Dario.” The parallels between Dario and the valiant Mark Antony were a bit strained, but the message was clear. Someone who loved Dario believed he had been murdered and intended to do something about it.

“These quotes are different from the others,” I said. “Shakespeare versus bubble gum patter.”

Deming shrugged and examined the crimson stained remnant. “One other thing, Sherlock. This cigarette is different from the others too. Filtered.” He held it to his nose and inhaled. “Menthol, too, if my olfactory senses are still intact.”

“Most women smoke menthols,” I added. “This person came here after Dario’s death and left these tributes.”

Neither one of us mentioned the obvious: someone might have been stalking Dario, waiting for him to take his nightly ride on the path. Someone who smoked pricey French smokes. Someone who wanted him dead.

I BARELY RECALLED our trip back to Brokind. My mind was muddled, filled to overflowing with dark thoughts of Dario peddling to his death on a lonely Cape Cod trail, while an evildoer sucked cancer sticks. It was weird. None of my close friends smoked anymore. Even on television, cigarettes were the preserve of the villainous and the damned. Surely that alone would make the killer stand out in an upscale enclave like Bayview.

“Hey, we’re back.” Deming reached over and patted my shoulder. “Come on, sleepyhead, tonight’s the dinner party. Just think—a menu filled with potential suspects. That should perk you up!”

I’d been dozing, woolgathering as my mother used to say. For all we knew, Dario’s death might still have been an accident. After all, even a methodical, determined killer couldn’t count on Dario hitting that mantrap. Another cyclist might easily have been injured instead. Maybe some crazed killer was on the loose, and Dario was a random victim. I envisioned the headlines:
Bayview basher strikes again!

Pert had been vague about the police report as she always was when she was trying to obfuscate. I made a mental note to check with the Barnstable authorities the next day, while Deming filed Dario’s will for probate. We hadn’t discussed it, but I supposed that Dario had a sizable estate. According to Deming, Lars Cantor had trussed up his own holdings tighter than a hangman’s noose. Still, Pert’s inheritance plus bequests to Dario must have been staggering.

Like many wealthy people, the Swanns were tightlipped about finances. Anika described her aunt’s situation as
comfortable
. Deming just shrugged. Unless I was mistaken, Paloma the widow would never have to serve another cocktail. Cheech Saenz was right on the money: she stood to inherit a bundle!

Chapter Six

“I HAVE A SURPRISE for you,” Deming said. “Come on, guess what it is.”

He was hiding something behind his back, giving me a Huck Finn grin that really didn’t suit him. Innocence is quite foreign to my sizzling sweetie although he aced Duplicity 101 in law school. He rarely tries it and seldom succeeds. I didn’t have the heart to tease him, so I played along.

“How many guesses do I get?” I edged closer, making a mad grab for the package. Deming’s reflexes are far faster than mine. He pivoted, executing a deft paso doble just in time.

“Hey! You cheater!” He held the parcel high above him, well beyond my wingspan. That didn’t deter me. I do plucky better than anyone. I leapt at that treat like a SeaWorld porpoise angling for fish.

“Okay, you win.” Deming thrust the package at me. “I saw this in a shop window yesterday, and it reminded me of you.” His slow, easy smile showcased a fetching chin cleft. “I figured you’d need something special for dinner tonight.”

Gifts are magical but embarrassing too. Some women instinctively manufacture the squeals and groans of pleasure that gift givers expect. I fail miserably at it even when the magnificence of the offering takes my breath away.

“May I open it?”

Deming sighed and ruffled my curls. “Go ahead. I hope it’s the right size.”

He was joking. I found that out after tearing headlong into the beautifully wrapped parcel. When I spied the contents, I had no problem reacting.

“It’s gorgeous! Exquisite! Oh my goodness, where did you find this?” The delicate multi-hued necklace was crafted to resemble the petals of a flower. I recognized strands of platinum and gold dusted with diamonds and precious stones. The effect was at once elegant and incredibly subtle.