Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4)

by Arlene Kay

  “I`ll be careful,” I said, crossing my fingers. “You have my word.”

  PERSONAL APPEARANCE means little to me although with Anika’s tutelage I`ve improved. “It`s not about vanity,” she often said. “Looking good is a strategic option. Think of it as a woman’s most potent tactical weapon, next to brains, of course.”

  Sonia had certainly sung from the same hymnal, and look where it got her! I had no intention of following that path, but I needed all the leverage I could muster. Tonight’s audience at the Story Club was one tough crowd. After a quick trip to the temple of beauty, aka The Salon, I fed Cato and girded myself for battle.

  The results pleased me. Although I ran a poor second to Pamela Schwartz, my appearance wouldn`t tarnish the Swann name. Respectability with a touch of authority—that was the look I was aiming for. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that I had hit the mark. My dress and jacket were a violet haze that lifted the spirits and heightened my complexion. Sensibly heeled boots and a discreet touch of jewelry completed the look.

  I hailed a cab and watched the cityscape float by. Storrow Drive was packed as always, and the path to Cambridge was strewn with bicycles, pedestrians, and an astonishing array of commercial vehicles. As we turned on Massachusetts Avenue and passed the stately dome of the MIT campus, my anxiety rose. Fortunately, we arrived at the Cambridge Improv with minutes to spare. Gabriel was already prowling about, arms folded and brow furrowed. I knew that look. It appeared whenever things had not gone according to schedule—his schedule.

  “Eja, thank God! I thought you might chicken out.”

  I hissed a response through gritted teeth. “I always honor professional commitments, Gabriel. Surely you remember that.”

  He patted my shoulder in a failed attempt at humor. “Yes, yes. Just teasing. Always the good girl.” He nudged me toward the door. “Time`s a wasting. We`ve got quite a crowd tonight. A tribute to you.”

  Trust Gabriel to pour on the soft soap when only a drop would do. Lubricious—that`s what CeCe had called him. At the time, I rushed to defend the man I loved. Much later, I realized just how right she had been.

  The main room was packed. Seats were arranged in rows facing an unadorned stage on which a lonely microphone occupied pride of place. I spotted the Concord University crowd immediately. Fess Paskert, professorial and solemn, waved from a prominent aisle seat. Nadia lowered her head when she caught my eye and huddled near Zarina, her formidable protector. Aloof from the masses, Melanie Hunt sat ramrod-straight. Her raven locks were pinned in a tightly coiled dancer’s knot that mirrored the set of her shoulders. She was not a happy camper. Had her own guilt consumed her, or was it the unsettling thought that Gabriel might have murdered two women?

  Both of them had ample reason to eliminate Sonia, but several others also had a stake in Duff’s death. Although their motives varied, any one of them was fully capable of murder.

  I shuddered as Gabriel leapt to the stage and seized the microphone. His lust for the limelight and naked ambition repulsed me. Not everyone felt that way. One glance at Melanie confirmed what I had long suspected. Despite her tough talk and feigned indifference, Melanie Hunt was obsessed by her husband. Were blond curls, reasonable intelligence, and a trim body an acceptable trade-off for fidelity? Only she could answer that. I had learned the lesson years ago and made my choice. Truth be told, he made it for me by finding my replacement.

  Gabriel recited the Story Club rules, emphasizing that three readers would be drawn by lot. As the so-called featured performer, I would make the final presentation and provide feedback to the others. Constructive comments by the audience were encouraged. The session would last ninety minutes, which for my purposes was more than enough time.

  As a gangly youth bounded to the stage, I steeled myself for the worst. Memoir is a genre that bores me silly. In the hands of an expert it can be instructive, but far too often it masquerades as cut-rate psychotherapy for self-indulgent whiners. The first reader proved my point by droning on for eight excruciating minutes about his self-awakening under hypnosis and the deep changes it inspired.

  After a few suggestions by me and several pointed remarks from the audience, we moved on to reader number two, Dr. Fess Paskert.

  I sat straight enough to shame a Victorian as Fess told his tale. It featured a female politician who found compassion and redemption in an online alternative community only to have it snatched away by an extortionist. The piece, an obvious roman a clef, was evocative and oddly touching. When I asked how the novel ended he paused and stared straight into my eyes.

  “I don`t know. I haven`t gotten there yet.”

  After Paskert’s presentation, tension heated up, particularly within the Concord crowd. Even I felt it. After commending Paskert on his work I nodded to the final presenter: Zarina, mistress of COWE.

  She strolled toward the podium, slowly and deliberately, with a monarch’s grace. Oddly enough Zarina looked regal this evening. No baggy unisex threads tonight—she wore a silky silver caftan that shimmered under the lights. Her unbound hair, thick and shiny, cascaded to her waist. This was a very different Zarina from the looming hulk who had stalked me on the Common.

  “Last month I lost someone who was very dear to me.” Her voice faltered as her eyes scanned the audience. “In honor of Duff Ryder, I will read a passage from her novel.”

  Zarina’s reading left the audience spellbound. I closed my eyes, hearing the timbre, pitch, and intonation of a voice silenced by death. She became Duff Ryder, inhabited her being as thoroughly as if she had channeled the girl’s spirit and willed it to speak.

  The reading dealt with loyalty, friendship, and betrayal, the sacred triumvirate upon which so many unions foundered. Duff’s language was pure and unequivocal. It entranced the listeners, leaving us saddened and hungry for more. Zarina paused at the end and gazed at the crowd. A smattering of applause grew into a standing ovation.

  “I thank you on behalf of Duff. Some want to sweep her murder under the carpet because she wasn`t famous or beautiful.” Zarina stepped forward and clenched her fist. “We won`t let that happen.”

  The crowd’s murmur became a roar. Led by COWE members, half the audience leapt up, stamping their feet and chanting Duff’s name. Gabriel sputtered helplessly, unable to quell the disturbance. Only Zarina was up to the task. She raised her arm and shouted, “Enough!”

  That one word had a magical effect. Silence more poignant than sound descended on the auditorium. Gabriel seized the microphone, attempting to regain control and self-respect. He shared a hammy grin with the crowd as he introduced me.

  “And now, our featured speaker, someone I have known and admired for years—the award-winning author, Eja Kane.”

  I could have done without the hyperbole and the gooey kiss that accompanied it. Thank goodness Deming wasn`t on the scene. He was aching for a chance to mix it up with Gabriel, and that might have been his excuse.

  Before beginning, my eyes scanned the crowd for Sorrel. A movement in the rear aisle seat caught my attention as he gave a half wave then seamlessly blended back into the crowd. In casual attire, Sorrel seemed diminished, as if he had stripped himself of his identity and his life force. Since Sonia’s death, the man had slowly faded into a carbon copy of his former self. Maybe it was possible to die from a broken heart after all.

  “My reading is a work of fiction,” I said, “inspired by recent events in Boston. I have learned that murder lays bare an array of secrets and that everyone involved has something to hide. The working title is Duplicity, a tale of beauty, betrayal, and death.”

  I glanced at the Concord University group. Fess Paskert sat with his arms crossed, steeling himself from pain; Nadia averted her eyes and stared at the floor; Melanie Hunt clutched her pricey designer handbag as if it were a shield. Only Zarina looked unmoved. She trained her blue marble eyes on me and smil
ed. I`d seen that look before during our encounter on the Common. It had more challenge than pleasantry, more menace than mirth. I called it her “shrink smile,” an expression of superiority and control.

  “My story starts at a funeral. A young student is mourned by those who loved her or the image of her each had. They didn`t really know her. This talented character was complex—and that led to her death. Did she die in place of another, or did something in her own life cause her demise?”

  Somewhere in the audience someone gasped, but I soldiered on, heedless of time or consequences.

  “Was she the devoted acolyte, the idealistic follower, or a sly observer who used the pain of others for her own gain? Soon another player falls, struck down in the very workplace where she felt safe.” I paused again. “She didn`t realize that an enemy lurked among colleagues and friends she thought she knew, someone who wanted her dead. Each was on the scene when a killer seized a convenient weapon and ended her life.”

  The next part was tricky, but I summoned my courage and went for it. “I know who murdered these two women. Soon the police will too.”

  With that I bowed and returned to my seat. Gabriel approached the podium, looked around, and swallowed before speaking. His pronounced pallor—while attractive—was a far cry from his typical master-of-the-universe style. Clearly, Gabriel was shaken by the events of the evening. I felt a bit unsettled myself.

  Sometimes I lead with emotion instead of logic. Deming lectures me ad nauseum about responsible risk-taking in tricky situations. In retrospect publicly challenging a murderer might have been a strategic blunder. Bolin’s insistence on a fall back plan now seemed divinely inspired. Sorrel Yeagan, my hero!

  I stole a look at Melanie Hunt. She was impassive, a cold marble sculpture in a room roiling with emotion. She was either poised as hell, oblivious or fortified by guilt. Instead of leaving, the audience sat in stunned silence. The oppressive atmosphere at the Improv was no longer a laughing matter. It reeked of fear and danger.

  As the audience gathered its belongings and prepared to leave, all hell broke loose. A sudden shriek shattered the room and a voice cried out.

  “She deserved it! I took that statue and smashed her on the head.” Nadia Pinsky jumped up and burst into tears. “I`m not sorry. I`m glad she`s dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  EVEN NOW, IT`S hard to describe the unmitigated chaos that followed. After her outburst, Nadia leapt over her stunned colleagues and raced for the exit. That started a stampede as audience members jumped to their feet, screamed, or tried to evacuate the building. I hustled down from the stage, intending to pursue Nadia.

  “Stop her,” I cried. “Don`t let her escape.” Unfortunately, I collided with a determined matron who planted herself like a mighty oak directly in my path. I careened into the aisle, landing on my posterior in an ungainly heap.

  “Leave her alone,” the woman growled, extending her hand and hauling me off the floor. “She won`t get far.”

  I gazed up at Zarina. “You knew, didn`t you? You sheltered a murderer!”

  She erased all trace of emotion from her face, giving me no clues except the icy glint of her baby blues.

  “Mind your own business. Nadia is a troubled girl, something you with your book sales and wealthy family wouldn`t understand.”

  How do you spell outrage? Before I launched a counter-offensive, Sorrel Yeagan appeared at my side.

  “Come on, Eja. Let me get you home. We`ve had enough excitement for the night.”

  “But . . .” I seldom sputter, but in this case it was understandable “She`ll get away.”

  He shook his head and pointed toward the rear exit sign. Nadia Pinsky had hit the police equivalent of a brick wall—the long, lanky form of Lieutenant Phineas Keegan.

  “What`s he doing here?” I asked.

  “Don`t know. He said you invited him. Come on.” Sorrel nudged me toward a side exit.

  “Maybe we shouldn`t leave now. Keegan may need me.”

  I was very familiar with the look on Sorrel Yeagen’s face. His raised eyebrows and slight grin suggested that the man doubted my motives. Deming had perfected the same routine.

  “Lieutenant Keegan knows where to find you,” he said. “Besides, right now he has his hands full.” He pointed toward the back of the room where Keegan and Zarina were locked in a battle of wills with Nadia trapped between them. Discretion was certainly preferable to valor this time. I followed Sorrel out into the night.

  His car, a nondescript black sedan that suited him perfectly, was one street over wedged between a weathered Jeep and a Volvo SUV. Sorrel helped me adjust my seatbelt and immediately switched on a classical music station. Our trip from Cambridge to Beacon Hill was a long, silent one punctuated by Mozart, Beethoven, and far too many ghosts. I was absorbed in reverie; Sorrel seemed lost in his own memories.

  “Sorry you had to hear that about Sonia,” I said. “It must have been painful.”

  “Painful?” He gave me that quizzical look again. “That`s one way to describe it.”

  I cursed myself for insensitivity and buttoned my lip. When we finally reached the Tudor, the atmosphere lightened.

  “Care to join me for a drink?” I asked. “Deming should be home any minute, although I must warn you, our dog is very protective.”

  I expected him to refuse, but Sorrel surprised me.

  “Thanks for asking. I could use the company—human and canine.” He parked in the driveway and trotted obediently behind me through the lobby.

  My warning about Cato was unnecessary. The moment I wrenched open our front door the wretched spaniel became Mr. Personality. Perhaps he sensed in Sorrel a kindred spirit. More likely he just wanted to screw with me.

  We settled down in the library while Sorrel savored Deming’s drink of choice, Laphroaig single malt. Scotch drinkers, men in particular, love the rituals involved with it—bouquet, floral notes, and scent. Personally I loathe the nasty stuff. Give me Pellegrino with a slice of lime any day.

  “Your home is spectacular,” Sorrel said as he glanced around the room. “Class and comfort, a rare combination.”

  Before I responded, a sound at the front door startled me.

  “It must be Deming,” I said. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  When I saw him, I leapt into my husband’s arms, forgetting about Sorrel Yeagan, Nadia Pinsky, and the entire mess. I buried my face in the lapel of his soft Kiton blazer, inhaling the scent of Royal Oud.

  “Here now, what`s all this?” Deming glanced down at me. “I`ll go away more often if this is the reception I get.” He dropped his suitcase and slid his hand down the front of my dress. “Let`s go upstairs and get comfortable. You can tell me all about your evening.”

  “We have a guest,” I said. “Sorrel. He`s in the library.”

  Deming sighed, but good breeding trumped his baser instincts. “Okay.”

  “Come on.” I took his hand and tugged him toward the library. “The evening was bizarre. You won`t believe what happened.”

  As soon as he greeted our guest and was seated in his favorite chair—drink in hand—I recounted the strange tale of the Story Club. Sorrel didn`t contribute much. He sipped his Scotch and stared vacantly into space. Who could blame him? Although her name was never mentioned, the spirit of Sonia Reyes was a noxious cloud hovering over the proceedings. The literary crowd had tears and applause for Duff but precious little sympathy for Sonia.

  “Are you saying she confessed?” Deming asked. “That cuckoo-bird actually committed two murders? I don`t believe it. She probably just wanted attention.”

  “She never mentioned killing Duff,” Sorrel said, “even by accident. I`m positive she didn`t do that.”

  Deming shot him a high five. “Exactly! She would have cracked immediately if she killed her friend. Zarin
a probably popped her into the nuthouse already.” He grinned. “Man, I do not envy Keegan going toe to toe with Zarina.” He leapt to his feet saying, “Wait here for a moment. I`ll call Keegan and see what I can find out.”

  After Deming left for his study, something clicked in my brain, something that had bothered me since Nadia’s outburst. It had to do with the method of murder. Nadia admitted bashing Sonia on the head, but according to Keegan that was not the cause of death.

  “Are you okay, Eja?” Sorrel turned his liquid brown eyes my way. Those eyes brimmed with curiosity and something else—sorrow and deep, unquenchable pain.

  I didn`t want to hurt him. Lord knows he`d gotten enough misery from the woman he had coddled, protected, and loved. A strange, unrequited job description—Sorrel Yeagan, knight-errant.

  I hesitated, long enough to stall. When Deming bounded back into the room, I was saved from myself.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here`s the latest scoop. Nadia has been arrested but sent to McLean Hospital for observation. Apparently she was catatonic by the time they got her to the station. Didn`t make a sound.”

  Sorrel grimaced as he took another swallow of Scotch. “What was the charge?” he asked.

  “Assault. According to Keegan that`s all they could get away with for now.”

  “She didn`t kill Sonia or Duff Ryder for that matter.” Sorrel spoke calmly. “Keegan must know that.”

  Deming and I locked eyes. Asphyxia is such a clinical term. Smothering is even worse. I summoned my courage and plunged into the fray.

  “Keegan told us how Sonia died.”

  “She was smothered,” Sorrel said. “Clobbering her with that award didn`t help matters, but it didn`t kill her. Keegan told me that too.”

  Deming sighed. “We don`t have to discuss this now. After all, Duff’s killer may well have murdered Sonia too. Keegan has to resolve that first.”