by Arlene Kay
“Your books have racy things in them, don`t they? Sex scenes.” His tired Colombo act was starting to annoy me. According to the Cambridge PD website, Philip Phineas B. Keegan was a graduate of Boston College, a Jesuit institution with rigorous academic standards.
I kept my voice calm and my smile ready. “Some intimacy, but it hardly qualifies as erotica. Not even soft porn. What`s your point?”
Keegan flipped open the folder and dropped it face down on the coffee table. “I`d like your opinion on this. It may be a motive for murder.”
I knew what I would find in that folder. Anika stared straight ahead, blinding Keegan with her smile as she played her part in the drama. I reached for the prop, and out tumbled a bound version of Worm in the Apple. I read the title and placed it back on the table.
“Well? Anything look familiar?” Keegan was literally chomping at the bit. In his younger days he had probably been an inveterate cigar smoker.
“I`ve never read this book before, just an excerpt with the same title that was on the Internet.”
He rubbed his hands together, relishing his role as ringmaster. “Help me out, Ms. Kane. Give me—what do you writers call it—a synopsis. You know, `just the facts.`”
Great. We were trapped in an old Dragnet scene with Joe Friday. Keegan must lead a boring life hunkered down watching ancient police dramas.
“Are you auditioning for a book club?” I asked him. “I have no idea what this thing says. You can`t copyright book titles, Lieutenant. The text might be entirely different.”
Keegan tapped his fingers on the arm of the wing chair. Like most directors, he wanted everyone to follow the script. “Okay. I`ll simplify things for you. This book, which I consider pornographic by the way, skewers most of the people around here. Talk about a motive for murder.”
Anika beamed her sweetest smile his way. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. Surely Sonia was the intended victim. It was her spray, after all. How can an unpublished novel by Duff Ryder cause a murder?”
Keegan’s lips stretched into a toothy grin worthy of an alligator. “Did I say that? Let me make things clear. Duff Ryder didn`t write this book. Sonia Reyes is its author.”
Chapter Ten
I WAS SPEECHLESS after Keegan’s revelation. If it was true, every clue, supposition, and conclusion I`d made about the murder was moot. More pieces to the puzzle were essential. I wouldn`t put it past Keegan to manufacture something just for shock value. He was capable of doing just that.
Anika recovered first. “I don`t understand, Lieutenant. Duff was the listed author on Wattpad.”
Keegan dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Yes, yes. It was a dodge, you see. Sorrel Yeagan filled me in this morning. Ms. Ryder was the stalking horse—pardon the expression. They posted it using her name to protect Ms. Reyes` reputation. We`re back to this tenure thing again. Reyes wanted to gauge the reaction before proceeding.”
I was still puzzled by the whole Byzantine scheme. Why bother to conceal a lusty read that few people would ever see?
Keegan’s smile verged on a sneer. “They signed a contract. I saw it. Yeagan is Sonia’s literary agent, after all. Ryder was guaranteed ten percent of all profits for the use of her name and occasional publicity stunts.”
He goaded me into a response. Something about his smug expression made me lose control.
“So what?” I said. “Ten percent of nothing is still nothing. The Internet is rife with unpublished authors hawking their wares.”
Anika shot me a warning look. “That`s the issue, isn`t it, Lieutenant? Sonia or Duff got a publishing contract for Worm in the Apple.”
“Spot on, Mrs. Swann. Maybe you should be the detective. Sonia signed with one of those New York publishing houses on the day that Duff Ryder was murdered. Pretty hefty advance, too.” Keegan leapt from the wing chair and dismissed us. “Thanks for your help, ladies. I think I can take it from here.”
He strutted toward the exit like the head rooster in a barn of horny hens. I barely noticed—sorting out the puzzle was way too tempting. Very few first time authors got any advance let alone something that would qualify as hefty. Suddenly I recalled the publishing phenomenon that rocked the literary establishment last year—a little thing called Fifty Shades of Grey.
Anika’s thoughts went along similar lines. “Hard to believe, isn`t it? Sonia, queen of lookism, writes a tawdry tell-all novel while Duff Ryder sells out for ten percent. That will set the cause back a decade or two.”
Right on cue, Sonia Reyes spotted us. She sauntered over, dabbing her eyes with a lace show hanky that looked remarkably dry.
“Eja, Mrs. Swann. Thank you for coming. I know Duff would be honored.”
I`d exceeded my weekly quota of hypocrisy. No more nicey nice. “We need to talk, Sonia. It`s important.”
Anika moved to the edge of her seat, ready to do her part. “They serve tea at the Charles or something stronger if needed. Let`s go over there.” She smiled at Sonia. “I`m sure you could use a break. This must be a very difficult time.”
Sonia was trapped between sweet Scylla and unrelenting Charybdis. She bowed gracefully and agreed. Before long we were packed into the Mercedes heading for Harvard Square. Driving in Cambridge is a nightmare at any time, but early afternoon is particularly challenging—unless you are Anika Swann. My mother-in-law executed deft turns and several illegal maneuvers that delivered us to the valet at the Charles Hotel in reasonably good condition. Sonia seemed a bit shell-shocked but none the worse for wear.
We chose the famously cool bar Noir for our discussion. If they served tea, we missed it. Instead each of us chose a cocktail and a vegetarian panini. I`m not much of a drinker, but the names of those concoctions would tempt even Carrie Nation.
After perusing the menu, Anika chose a Quicksand while Sonia opted for a Black Dahlia. Since I was the least adventurous of our trio it was Crimson Sangria for me.
“Delightful,” Anika said, sipping her drink, “but potent. I`ll have to watch myself.”
Sonia seemed oblivious to the history behind the Black Dahlia. She was too absorbed in slurping the tasty brew to consider Elizabeth Short, tragically murdered in the famous nineteen forty-seven case. Come to think of it, Sonia was a brunette beauty, not unlike the ill-fated actress. I shivered, thinking of the parallels.
“We know about your book contract,” I said. “Keegan told us.”
Sonia blanched. “I don`t know what to say. I know I should have told you about it, but I was too embarrassed. Sorrel handled the details.”
Anika nibbled the crust of her panini. “I`m surprised that Duff agreed to it. Rather conflicts with her principles, wouldn`t you say? Yours as well.”
Sonia shook her head. “You didn`t know her. Duff played the innocent, but she was ambitious. Determined to make her way whatever the cost. Greedy for money, too.”
I gave thought to my next question. Sonia was sipping her second Black Dahlia and losing her inhibitions. Time to strike.
“And you?” I asked. “What about your reputation? Academics can be horribly venal.”
A boozy grin spread over Sonia’s face. “Screw them. Every one of them. Let them deny me tenure or even fire me. I really don`t care.”
That bit of candor floored me. “I don`t get it. Why involve me in this book project?”
I pushed away my sangria, trying desperately to clear my head. This drama had a bizarre, down-the-rabbit-hole quality to it, and the wine packed a wallop on an empty stomach. Anika was untouched. She slowly sipped her Quicksand undeterred by alcohol or doubt.
Sonia’s cackle had the brittle sound of breaking glass. “You were the perfect choice, Eja. As a published author and Brown graduate you command respect. Your family connections didn`t hurt either.”
Anika bristled at that. “I beg your pardon. Which connections
do you mean?”
“Gabriel, of course. It`s always been about Gabriel.” Sonia gulped a slug of liquor and burped. “Don`t you see? He mocked me, and nobody gets away with that. Nobody. Just ask Melanie. She hates his guts too.”
A sliver of light pierced my foggy brain. “I get it. My involvement put the imprimatur on your lookism crusade and hurt his credibility.”
Sonia nodded. “And if they deny me tenure, I have another ace up my sleeve. Guess what that is? I haven`t told anyone before—even Sorrel.”
We stared at her, unwilling to beg for scraps. I suspected her ace was academic freedom, an old chestnut that sanctioned a host of abuses. Throw in charges of sexism and racism, and Sonia had the makings of a lawsuit. Universities loathe that kind of fuss—it discourages donors.
Sonia took another mighty gulp of liquor. Although her eyes were glassy, her voice was rock steady.
“You know all about backup data. Academics and authors use it in case anyone challenges their version of truth.” Sonia’s grin was poisonous. “I have it too—photos, recordings, texts—the works. Believe me, no one wants that uploaded to some unprincipled scandal site.”
“Really?” I purged my voice of shock or judgment.
Another smirk from Sonia. “Oh yes, Ms. Kane. Most are merely kinky, but at least one person could face criminal charges if that information got out.”
“You forgot something, Sonia.” Anika’s voice was calm and clear.
“What? I`m pretty good at considering all the angles.”
“Someone tried to murder you last week. He—or she—will probably try again.”
SHORTLY AFTERWARDS, we poured Sonia into a cab and headed for home. I couldn`t wait to get there even if it meant another tiresome lecture from Deming; I needed his counsel, clearheaded perspective and caring.
“Are you up to driving?” I asked Anika. My brain-fog had lifted, but I still felt a bit woozy.
“Not a problem,” she said. “I only sipped. It`s a little trick I learned while modeling. Saves calories and brain cells but doesn`t inhibit others. It certainly worked with Sonia.”
I could learn a lot from this woman. Starting with calorie counts.
IT WAS ALMOST six when I reached our door. After feeding Cato, I lit the fireplace, pulled a throw over me, and snuggled on the sofa. Deming typically worked until seven unless some crisis intervened. I had just enough time to rest my eyes before he got home.
Deep growls awakened me sometime afterward. Sunlight had vanished, and the clock said 8 p.m. I bolted up like a soul possessed.
“Whoa, girl. Don`t worry,” Deming said. “That cur is just showing off. I tried not to wake you.”
I launched headlong into a summary of our day in Cambridge, sparing nothing including my brush with Crimson Sangria.
As he digested my story Deming stroked that devilish cleft in his chin. CeCe had the same mark, as did his father. It drove me to distraction whenever he did that, but naturally I feigned disinterest.
“Quite the scoop,” he said. “You and Mom are either incredibly clever or lucky.” He was far too intelligent to cast a vote either way. “Sounds like Keegan is right on his game though. Nice to know.”
After prowling around the room, he gave me that lean and hungry look. With due deference to the Bard, Deming wasn`t Cassius plotting mayhem. He was starving.
“Come on. Let`s hit Stephanie`s. I can taste that meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” He rubbed his tummy in a fit of ecstasy. “If you behave, I`ll share my onion rings with you too.”
“We don`t have a reservation.” A weak excuse, but the best I could muster on short notice.
He held out his hands to me and pulled me to my feet. “That`s where you`re wrong. I used OpenTable to reserve a spot for 9:15 p.m. Now get a move on. We have time to take a nice brisk walk and still make it on time.”
I made some quick repairs while Deming surrendered Cato to the doorman for a stroll around the Common. Unlike Deming, I try to avoid late night dinners. There`s something decadent about supping while most of the nation readies for bed. It`s a battle of peasant versus patrician roots that he wins every time.
Stephanie`s restaurant is a warm, intimate space on the corner of Newbury and Exeter streets. Deming was a known commodity there as he was at most of the hot spots in Boston. At one time he had dated every eligible debutant in Boston. I suspect he had given them more than a taste of Swann Magic as some still pined for him. Since we got together, he focused on dining instead of browsing the bar crowd. I liked it better that way.
Deming devoured his plate of meatloaf and mash while I sullenly picked at a chopped vegetable salad with four grilled shrimp. Given my druthers, I would be face down in those potatoes instead of chomping carrots. Quel dommage.
Throughout our meal, we sparred about my role in Sonia’s book. I already had decided to forego the entire thing but feigned enthusiasm for the project and let Deming change my mind. Immediately after claiming victory, he received a text. Outside calls of all types are strictly forbidden at fine dining establishments. Even Swanns abide by those rules at least most of the time. Deming glanced furtively at the message and froze. He sent a brief response and slipped the iPhone into its sleeve.
“What`s going on?” I asked. “Are your parents okay?”
Deming signaled for the check and threw down some money. “We have to leave, Eja. Po is on his way to get us.”
“I don`t understand. You`re scaring me.”
He nudged me toward the door and whispered in my ear. “That was my dad. The cops found Sonia Reyes` body at her office. Murdered.”
“I DON`T BELIEVE IT. We saw her not four hours ago.”
“Believe it,” Deming said. “Keegan wants you and Mom down at the station ASAP.” He put his arm around me as shudders wracked my body. “Come on now. I`ll be right with you. So will my father for that matter.”
Unfortunately, I`d seen corpses before. Several of them. Sonia wasn`t my friend—I didn`t even like her that much. But death, particularly murder, is such affront to civilized beings that it menaces everyone.
“Who found her?” I asked. “How she was killed?”
Deming shook his head. “Good questions, both of them. Keegan will have the answers or at least some of them. You can ask him all about it.”
Five minutes later, Po steered the Bentley to the curb and parked. I`d never gotten the hang of parallel parking and admired those who consistently nailed it. Deming helped me into the rear seat with his parents while he hopped in the front.
Anika was composed, but her eyes were bright with tears. Bolin sat close to his wife, keeping his reaction as unreadable as ever.
“Good Lord, Eja,” she said. “What`s happening? That young woman was fine this afternoon.”
I locked eyes with Anika. “You warned her. The murderer didn`t waste much time, did he?”
Deming swiveled around to face me. “Don`t mention that to Keegan, or he`ll suspect you. For once in your life, Eja, back off and let the authorities handle this. Two murders in one week! A maniac is on the loose.”
“I wonder,” Bolin said. “There may be a logical reason for this, at least to the killer.”
“How come Cambridge PD is handling it?” I asked. “The crime occurred on campus, after all.”
Deming snorted, an uncouth sound that earned him a frown from Anika.
“Concord U cops aren`t geared to handle a murder,” he said. “Vandalism or a nasty cat fight they can handle. Anything else is beyond them.”
Bolin nodded. “They probably deferred to the city police since Keegan was already investigating a related murder. At least we presume the two crimes are related.”
The Healy Public Safety Building on Sixth Street, a modern brick and steel structure, houses the Cambridge Police Department. I`d never been there before
although I`d passed it many times when walking from the Red Line.
After our quartet cleared security Deming approached the duty sergeant and asked for Keegan. To my surprise, we were immediately escorted to the fourth floor where the detective division was housed. I suspected that the kid gloves treatment had more to do with Bolin Swann than anything else. More likely, Keegan’s preferred tactic was to force witnesses to cool their heels or sweat under a blinding light. Waterboarding was a distinct possibility.
He was in the conference room, accompanied by a young sergeant who kept her eyes down and computer at the ready.
Phineas Keegan leapt to his feet, shook hands with the men, and smiled at Anika and me. I toyed with thrusting my hand his way but decided against it.
“This is a very sad occasion,” he said. “Another talented young woman lost forever.”
“How did Sonia die?” I asked, ignoring Deming’s curled lip. Keegan was staging a show for the benefit of Bolin Swann. His pious pose annoyed me.
Keegan raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You certainly are direct, Ms. Kane. That`s the name you prefer, isn`t it?”
Deming breached the conversation gap. “Eja Kane is my wife`s professional name, but I think that`s irrelevant to your interests, Lieutenant. We`re here to discuss Ms. Reyes` death.”
“Her murder, don`t you mean? I see them every day, Mr. Swann, and it never gets any easier.” For once, I glimpsed real emotion on Keegan’s face. It was a sudden and sobering sight.
“How can my wife and daughter-in-law help?” Bolin asked. His demeanor never changed, but the light in his dark brown eyes intensified. I saw it, and so did Keegan.
“Here are the facts,” he said. “At approximately 5:20 p.m., a cab dropped Sonia Reyes in front of her office. Her body was discovered by the cleaning crew when they arrived three hours later.”