Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  The discourse or possibly the brandy emboldened me. “Which admirer? I’m on a roll today.”

  His fingers stole down the bodice of my dress. “Hmm. Cheeky minx. Keep that up, and I may have to spank you. Naturally I’ll defer to the better man and step aside if you choose Mordechai Dale.”

  I tugged a lock of his shiny black hair until he yelped.

  “What’s the matter, Counselor? Not so brave after all, are you? I happen to know that Krister carries a gun. Touch me again and I’ll scream.”

  Deming took my hand and sucked each finger, one by one. “Scream away, my love. It won’t stop me. Nothing will.” His eyes sparkled as if the outcome was preordained. “You wouldn’t let me stop even if I wanted to.”

  I followed Deming to my room, weak-kneed and fraught with longing. I’d never been a libertine. Sex was a diversion, self-control my watchword. Now his slightest glance or gentlest kiss transformed me from rational being to primitive creature. Tingling nerves and throbbing parts consumed my every thought. I sought release even as I pulled away.

  “We can’t, Deming. They’ll hear. Your aunt, Paloma . . .”

  He ignored my threats, touching me in every place and every way I’d ever dreamed of. His lips and tongue seared through my being, bringing sweet, unrelenting pleasure and pain. No one, not Paloma, Pert, or Krister heard my cries. Those sounds were just for Deming.

  I AWAKENED THE next morning rested and ready to confront Meeka Kyle. Perhaps confront was too strong a word. After all, our conversation last night had been perfectly civil. Meeka seemed intelligent, poised, and conversant on any number of subjects. None of that really mattered to me. The only topic of interest today was Dario Peters and the reasons for his death. Murder was a stern, harsh word, and one that I was reluctant to use. Not yet. Self-serving hints by a psychic and the tears of a loving grandma weren’t enough for that. Deming had already brushed away any crumbs of doubt and started packing. I reserved judgment until after my chat with Meeka and Raylan Smith.

  My first task required Anika’s deft touch. I knew from experience that her assessment of the locals would be measured but unsparing. Beneath her flawless exterior beat the heart of a surgeon who took a sharp scalpel to hypocrisy. To avoid complications, I dialed her private number while Deming was out of the room.

  We exchanged pleasantries and jumped immediately to the bottom line.

  “Tell me everything, Eja. I’ve been dying to know.” Anika chuckled. “Of course Bolin and Dem have been texting nonstop.”

  “Really? What a sneak! Deming’s already made his decision. He can’t wait to leave.”

  “You can handle him, darling. He’d never leave you there alone. Now, how can I help?”

  I gave Anika a précis of our activities and the characters we met. “What’s your take on Meeka Kyle?” I asked. “Apparently she’s the lynchpin of everything big in Bayview.”

  Anika hesitated. “She’s quite an extraordinary young woman. Beautiful and smart as a whip. Her family connections in the area go back to the nineteenth century. Someone, a great-great-great- grandfather was a freedman who moved to the Cape and became very successful. Shipping or fishing fleets. Something like that.”

  Another voice sounded in the background. “Bolin says hello. By the way, have you met Aunt Pert’s suitor yet?”

  “Laird Foster?”

  Another chuckle from Anika. “That man’s been buzzing around Pert for years. Obsessed. He just doesn’t get the message. Lars is still the only one in Pert’s life. Dead or alive, he’s twice the man that Laird is.”

  “Maybe it’s her land that he wants. Pert mentioned something about a development scheme Laird is pushing.”

  “That’s old news,” Anika said. “I’ll check with Bolin, but I doubt that Laird or anyone else could wrest that land from her. It’s not like she needs the money.”

  A sudden thought blazed through my mind like a comet. Laird couldn’t influence Pert, but Dario certainly could have. His plans for transforming Bayview might have required some of his grandma’s holdings. High-end real estate wouldn’t mix with hundreds of cyclists zooming through the property.

  Before I probed further, Deming rapped on the door and rattled the knob.

  “Eja. No more primping. Breakfast is ready, and Krister pouts when his meals are spoiled.”

  I lowered my voice to covert ops level and whispered, “Gotta go, Anika. Call you later.”

  Chapter Eight

  HE LOOKED VERY lawyerly sitting at the head of the breakfast table, suited up in navy pinstripes and a rep tie. The addition of horn-rims made my sultry sweetie nearly irresistible. Paloma’s fluttering eyelashes confirmed my assessment.

  “You look good,” she said, virtually licking her chops.

  Deming gave a pleasant but decidedly neutral response. “I have some legal matters to attend to. Eja’s coming with me if you want to join us.”

  He yelped as I speared his shin with my heel. The last thing I needed was Paloma, the malevolent albatross, around my neck. She’d sabotage any chance for a cozy chat with Meeka and probably stage a food fight. My tête-à-tête with Raylan would turn into an interrogation.

  “Dario never wore a suit,” Paloma muttered. Her voice wasn’t wistful or melancholy. It was clipped and matter-of-fact. “We buried him in one though.”

  Pert gripped her porcelain cup as if it were an anchor. A more fragile soul might have faltered, but Cantor women are made of sterner stuff. She managed her usual sweet smile as she turned to Paloma. “It’s our morning at the food bank, remember. They’re counting on us.”

  Paloma’s face contorted into a seismic pout. “I don’t want to go. Poor people smell bad and look ugly.”

  I bit my lip to quell a peal of laughter. Lady Bountiful never seemed appropriate for Paloma. Godiva was a much better fit.

  Persus dabbed her mouth with a napkin and pointedly ignored the bad manners. “Come along, Paloma. With wealth comes obligation to your fellow beings. Dario was a big supporter of the food bank. He spent every Tuesday there.”

  Paloma curled her lip in a mutinous sneer, but to my surprise she pushed back her chair and trailed meekly after Pert. The world of the widow Peters was a strange and murky place that I couldn’t navigate. Not yet.

  I MET MEEKA FOR lunch at the Bayview, an art deco bistro brimming with seaside attitude. Deming dismissed it as a tourist trap, but the cozy spot provided perfect camouflage for two wary women with an agenda.

  She was waiting for me, having already commandeered the choicest booth in the place. Meeka Kyle reeked of class, breeding, and superior genes. Her hair fell in soft waves around a face that a camera would love. Knee-high boots of creamy butterscotch leather topped her thin wool dress. In short, she was typecast as a monarch holding court with the peasantry. I played the supplicant in this drama.

  “Ms. Kane. Eja. I’m so glad we got together.” Meeka extended a slim, impeccably manicured hand my way. “I’m delighted to meet the woman who tamed Deming Swann.”

  My mouth opened in surprise as I buried my chipped nails under a napkin. “I thought you didn’t know Deming.”

  “Oh, forgive me. Several of my friends pined for him over the years. He cut quite a swathe through the debutante circuit, you know.”

  I nodded and changed the subject. Deming’s wayward days were still a sore point for me, even though he’d reformed.

  “Dario was Deming’s boyhood friend. Closer than brothers, I’m told. They’d lost touch recently, but still cared for each other.”

  Meeka’s clear green eyes brightened. “I see. You’re here about his death.”

  “His murder, I think. That’s why I asked to meet you, hoping you might help.”

  She was a cool one, I’ll grant her that. Meeka said nothing for a moment as if she were assessing me and my comments.


  “You’ve spoken with Raylan, I presume?”

  “Not officially. We’re meeting this afternoon.”

  Meeka calmly sipped imperial green tea the same shade as her eyes. I opted for a cuppa British courage—Earl Grey with milk.

  “Have you ever lived in a small town, Eja?”

  Before I applied the mental brakes, my snarky side asserted itself. “No, but I’ve read every Miss Marple book, and St. Mary Mead is hardwired into my DNA.”

  Meeka gave me a nod and a semi-smile, as if I’d scored points on some arcane game show. “Villages like Bayview are riddled with rumor and innuendo. Character assassination is an art form here.”

  Now it was my turn to pause. “Why so cynical? Surely you’re on home ground.”

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice for my ears only. “I love Bayview, but I’m not blind. As a privileged woman of color, I’m an easy target. Don’t think my friendship with Dario went unnoticed.”

  “By Paloma?” I asked.

  “And others. Paloma suspected every woman of seducing Dario, just the way that she had. It’s her modus vivendi, you see.”

  “Ah ha.” I’d seen enough of Paloma’s antics to endorse that view wholeheartedly.

  We paused as the server distributed salads and refilled our tea. By exercising restraint, I avoided pillaging the breadbasket or begging for butter. Meeka looked like the abstemious type, free from normal human impulses.

  As soon as the coast was clear, she stabbed the air with her fork. “You don’t understand. What Dario and I shared was more dangerous than sex.”

  I braced myself to meet her gaze without blinking. Sex was only one of the combustible materials floating around Bayview. “Tell me, please. It’s not just idle curiosity. Persus asked for my help.”

  Meeka ignored her salad in favor of yet more tea. She’d float out the door if she kept that up.

  “Dario and I shared a common vision. That’s what bothered some people.” Meeka tensed as if recalling a vivid memory. “We were committed to major, large scale change, and that scared the hell out of people. Even moderates like Raylan had misgivings.”

  “Enough to murder someone?”

  Her smile mixed contempt with an equal part of pity.

  “Absolutely.”

  My sweet Wellfleet oysters suddenly seemed briny. Meeka’s matter-of-fact statement had shattered my whole Bayview game plan. I’d always regarded our trip as a lark, a chance to spend quality time with Deming, while comforting a charming old lady and scoring points with my in-laws. Now, against my better judgment I’d become embroiled in a death that might easily be murder. In novels, I alter facts to suit my fancy, but this was real life, a chilling example of “nature red in tooth and claw.” Once again, Deming’s caution had been warranted.

  “Something wrong, Eja?” Meeka stared at me placidly, as if we hadn’t uttered the “M” word. I’m told that spies, psychopaths, and tax collectors have that same untroubled gaze.

  “You actually believe Merlot Brownne? That surprises me.”

  “I’m a realist, Eja. I don’t consult psychics or read tea leaves.” Meeka leaned back in her chair and adjusted her headband. “Our Ms. Brownne is a con woman—a very smooth, sophisticated one. Even that pretentious way she spells her name shows a hint of style. She’s a great comfort to Persus, but a fraud nevertheless.”

  “That kind of comfort isn’t cheap,” I said, thinking of the fifty thousand dollar “loan” that Merlot had finagled.

  “Might as well pay it to her rather than some Freudian with an axe to grind.” Meeka grinned. “Believe me, I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime. At least Merlot listens to Pert.”

  My window of opportunity was closing fast, so I turned the conversation back to Dario. “Tell me about the changes you guys proposed. Why so much emotion?”

  “Bayview is an old, traditional society as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Very different from Boston, not that Boston is a beacon of change either.”

  Meeka took yet another swallow of tea. The woman must be part camel to store that quantity of water inside her. Diuretics made me bolt for the restroom after thirty minutes. Most men had even less endurance.

  “Our plan was bold,” she said. “We holed up every Tuesday, perfecting it.” Meeka chuckled. “Think about this: no more development; Main Street closed to motorized vehicles; and the pièce de résistance—bike lanes and trails that would draw cycling enthusiasts from all over the world to Bayview. Pretty radical, huh? At least that was Dario’s hope.”

  I shrugged. “Surely he knew the odds on that? Dario wasn’t naïve.”

  Another secret smile from Meeka. “He was focused—intent on getting his way. Of course Dario spread a healthy dose of charm when he had to. Most people underestimated him.”

  Her frown included me in that group of naysayers, and she was right on target. Meeka’s portrait of a brash, cunning Dario Peters was at odds with the man I had known. Correction. The man I knew as a youth, not an adult. Perhaps the mature Dario had more grit and brains than I gave him credit for.

  Their bold plan was a certified long shot. Local interests could easily coalesce and block major provisions of it. And yet . . . there was always the matter of twenty-six pristine acres of oceanfront property. Persus Cantor might throw a spanner in the works at the behest of her nephew.

  I flashed my sunniest smile at Meeka. “Ooh, I don’t think you’d make Laird Foster’s Christmas card list with that agenda, although Mr. Dale would certainly approve.”

  Meeka shrugged. “You writers! So insulated from the world. Laird’s a realist. Morde too. Sometimes you take half a loaf or risk getting nothing. I knew that, but I’m not sure that Dario did. He was an all or nothing type of guy, and he usually got his way.”

  “What about this casino issue I read about in the Globe? That would sabotage your dreams.”

  I got a momentary glimpse of the real Meeka, an “Off with their heads,” Queen of Hearts type of gal. She recovered quickly and favored me with a neutral smile.

  “Trade-offs are inevitable in a democracy, Eja. Our business plan was flexible except when it came to the environment. No compromise on that. Besides, no one is seriously pushing a casino in Bayview. Not enough land.”

  A dark disturbing thought marched across my mind. As long as Dario lived, Persus would never sell her land. Dario was her heir, which meant that time was definitely on his side. After all, Persus was closing in on eighty. With Dario gone, all bets were off and anything was possible.

  I SAUNTERED OUT of the restaurant, too absorbed in my thoughts to watch where I was going. Meeka Kyle was a piece of work—elegant, smart, and rather smug. Her disparaging comments about writers irked me, especially since she’d never had to worry about money in her privileged life. Like most writers, I’d toiled in relative obscurity, cobbling a livelihood together as best I could until very recently. Deming Swann had changed all that. In my heart of hearts, I pegged Meeka as a snob and potential suspect. Perhaps she was Dario’s lover as well as business partner, and they’d had a falling out. She didn’t look like a smoker, but that was misleading. After all, Paloma looked like a hooker and wasn’t. Not anymore.

  Meeka’s description of Dario perplexed me. If it was accurate, a number of people had a solid motive for killing him. His proposal could have spelled ruin for a number of local livelihoods.

  Everything that followed happened in slow motion. I stepped off the curb, brakes squealed, and the front bumper of a silver Range Rover hurled toward me. I didn’t move, couldn’t save my own life. The driver’s frozen face mesmerized me as I registered each detail with startling clarity: her silent scream, bugged eyes, even the cell phone she still clutched to her ear.

  At the last moment, a pair of strong arms pulled me back from perdition. I heard a strained voice, hect
oring me for my carelessness. Nothing registered until Deming clasped me to him in a tight hug.

  “What the hell, Eja? Suppose I hadn’t been here?” He spun me around, nuzzling my cheek. “You never learn.”

  My heartbeat slowed as I finally regained my senses. I gulped, trying to keep lunch down and my muscles under control. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. You saved me again just as you always do.”

  Deming has protective urges that just won’t quit. It’s part of his identity. He obsesses about me, his mother, and any other being in his charge, even Cato. Lord only knows how he’ll react when he’s a father. He was trembling, shaking with either rage or fear. I felt his arm vibrate as he tugged me toward the Porsche.

  “Here. Lean against the car and get your sea legs. That must have been some lunch you and Meeka had. I can’t wait to hear all about it. Later.” Deming shook his head. “You need a bodyguard, Ms. Kane. Full time, twenty-four/seven.”

  “Hmm. Interested in the job? Let’s see your credentials.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that one. My fiancé tries valiantly to loosen up, but he’s still a Swann, hidebound by three centuries of propriety, prudishness, and inhibitions.

  “I’ll pass, thank you very much. Don’t want to be a convicted sex-offender. All those nasty lists and police shakedowns. Wouldn’t do much for my legal career either.” Deming dusted off an imaginary speck from the fender. “Mind if I join you at your next stop? Or is your meeting with the sheriff a private matter?”

  This was a new development in Swann-land. He was jealous, a modern Othello pea-green with envy and love struck. I liked it even though I’d pass on sharing Desdemona’s fate. My transition from dull, stolid Eja to sultry temptress was a minor miracle and a fantasy that would fade soon enough. I planned to savor every minute.