Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series)

by Arlene Kay

  Deming eased over and touched my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s take Cato for a walk before it gets dark. You could use some fresh air.”

  I lowered my eyes and meekly followed him outside. It wasn’t easy playing the submissive female. It took iron self-control to avoid screeching like a fishwife or ripping my fiancé’s perfectly tailored lapels. Deming had deliberately misled me. He’d committed the sin of omission, which was right up there on the hellfire scale with theft and lying. I had been patronized by my future husband—treated like a simpleton.

  Patience is indeed a virtue, and mine was rewarded. The tension between us mounted as we lassoed Cato and dragooned Ibsen into following us. We ambled toward the water, buffeted by a chilly ocean breeze that mimicked my cooling passion. Deming succumbed first, doing his version of penance by ruthlessly finger-combing his hair into a haystack. As an encore, he cracked his knuckles.

  “Eja . . . I’m sorry. I know I should have warned you. Come on. Don’t give me the silent treatment. You’re no good at it.”

  “You on the other hand, are quite skilled at it.” I threw Cato’s ball and watched the dogs bound effortlessly toward the sea.

  Deming spun me around and held me tight. “The truth is I wanted an unbiased appraisal of this mess. I didn’t trust my own instincts.”

  “Why not? Lawyers are analytical, right? You’re always telling me that.”

  He tilted my chin toward him and brushed his finger over my lips. “I never liked the little shit. He was cruel and duplicitous even toward Pert. She loved him, but Lars . . . that old Tartar saw right through Dario. Never let him get away with a thing.” He scooped up a rock and threw it in the woods. “Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d believe that Dario murdered Lars just for spite.”

  “What! You’re kidding!”

  Deming brushed my cheek with his lips. “Aw, forget it, Sherlock. Uncle Lars died in the operating room at Mass General. Heart attack. Nothing fishy unless you count 90 percent blockage of two arteries.” He looked quizzically at me as he whisked curls back from my face. “You do know you’re not a detective, don’t you? This is reality, not fiction. People die in the real world, nosey people who ask too many questions.”

  Lectures bore me, especially coming from risk-taking, polo playing lawyers. I pushed Deming away and hissed a warning through gritted teeth. “Back off, Counselor. You’ve done enough damage for one day.” I grabbed Cato’s lead and strutted toward Brokind with as much dignity as I could muster. Deming caught up with me in three strides. We walked silently toward the house, side by side, each of us absorbed in private thoughts.

  “I worry about you,” Deming said. “That’s normal, wouldn’t you say?”

  I couldn’t resist a mulish tendency to button my lip and ignore him. Lawyers win a war of words; writers prevail on the written page. When we reached the driveway, Deming put out his arm to stop me.

  “How about this? At least tell me when you and my mother concoct some harebrained scheme. Who knows, maybe I could help. All your favorites had a partner, remember? Nick and Nora, Lord Peter and Harriet, Poirot and Hastings?”

  He was trying hard, working overtime on the charm offensive. Deming’s hazel eyes oozed sincerity; his thick black hair begged to be touched. It wasn’t fair, dammit! How many women could resist a heaping dose of sex on a stick? Not many. Not me.

  “Okay, but you’re strictly a consultant. You and your dad are in charge of the legal stuff—permits, planning commission, zoning. Oh yeah, and you get full custody of Mordechai Dale and his minions.”

  Deming didn’t like it, but he swallowed his pride. “What about the sheriff? Is he your project too?”

  “Police Chief, and yes, I’ll deal with Raylan. We’ve established rapport.”

  Those sculpted features hardened. “Rapport. Is that what they call it these days? Just remember what I told you, Eja. Nobody—including your cop buddy—is beyond suspicion.”

  “Got it. Don’t trust and thoroughly verify.” My sweet expression could have made an angel blush. Deming wasn’t fooled, but he laughed and pulled me to him.

  “Can I help it if I worry? I’m crazy about you. I love you. So sue me.”

  “Jealous, are you, Mr. Swann?”

  “Maybe. I’m confident but not blind. Raylan Smith has designs on you. Men know these things.”

  Hmm. That was an interesting perspective from a Restoration rake like Deming. We walked toward the house, arms entwined, escorted by the dogs.

  I was certain that Anika, field marshall of the social set, had party planning under control. That freed me to consider more important things. Dario’s death was no random act; it couldn’t be. Someone close to him had planned and coolly executed the perfect murder disguised as an accident. That someone might easily be among the guests at Pert’s holiday gathering next week. With some deft detective work and a bit of luck, the game might be afoot.

  THAT EVENING WHILE the Swann men watched some sporting event, the ladies gathered in the parlor. Persus loved parties. She chattered like a teenager about menus, decorations, and formal events from Brokind’s storied past. Anika and I did our part, and even Paloma seemed more animated than usual.

  “I didn’t bring anything fancy with me,” I said. “I doubt that Deming did either.”

  Anika waved away my protests. “Don’t worry. I brought a few extra things, and Bolin always stashes at least one spare dinner jacket in his bags when he comes here.” She added with a proud smile, “He and Dem still wear the same size, you know.”

  “Such handsome men, my dear,” Persus said. “A pleasure to be around. Right before he got ill, Lars took Dario to his tailor. Oh, they bought Kiton, Oxxford, and all the bespoke brands. My grandson looked positively regal, but he was most comfortable in his sports gear.”

  Paloma scrunched up her face. “Dario liked that rich stuff more than you’d think,” she said. “He was always trying to impress Meeka Kyle and those other snobs.” She squared her shoulders and adjusted the bodice of her dress. “He never changed me though. I have my own sense of style. Meeka used some fifty-cent word trying to make me feel bad. ‘Unique’ or something like that. I know her kind so it didn’t work. She’s jealous ’cause she got no boobs.”

  Anika’s eyes widened, but she kept a placid expression on her face. I admired such poise: it was worthy of Raphael’s Madonna. Persus glanced at Paloma and gently chided her. “Meeka’s very elegant, my dear. Just like a fashion model. Merlot too for that matter.”

  “Dario liked curvy women,” Paloma said. “Not some clotheshanger.”

  Anika, the former runway sensation, ignored the taunt and opted for kindness. “I’m sure your husband loved you very much, Paloma. You must miss him.”

  To my surprise, tears glistened in Paloma’s eyes. She turned away hurriedly, catching her lace sleeve on the bronze sculpture to her right. The material ripped, exposing an ugly mark on her forearm, just above her elbow. I moved closer and gasped. The mark was a crude tattoo in the shape of the letter D.

  Paloma had been branded like a prize heifer.

  Pert gasped, “Dear Lord! What is that?”

  Paloma curled her lip and threw back her head, defiance carved in every feature. “Just what it looks like, Mrs. Cantor. A tat. Dario wanted to show I belonged to him. He did it himself. He loved me.”

  “Dario? Why would he do that?” Pert sunk back in her chair. “I know you young people like tattoos, but . . . don’t they have professionals to do that kind of thing?”

  Paloma shook her head as if we were all too dense and feeble to get it. “Anyone can get inked, but Dario did it special. Just for me.” She sighed as if the memory was especially sweet.

  “Didn›t that hurt?» I asked.

  Paloma laughed. «Pain don›t bother me. Dario knew that better than anyone. Don›t you get it?
I belonged to him. He could do anything he wanted to me. I liked it.»

  Chapter Twelve

  IN WHAT UNIVERSE did carving your wife constitute love? Anika and I shared that thought with covert glances and our special telepathy. I thought of Bolin’s tenderness toward his wife and Deming’s gentle kisses. Unlike Dario, they knew the difference between passion and possession. Was he auditioning for a prison gig, or had the late Mr. Peters enjoyed inflicting pain on his wife?

  Persus sat in silence, drained of color and words, paler than the Twinflower of her native land. She seemed stunned, leveled by a posthumous body blow from the boy she had loved. A woman pushing eighty has a right to fond memories and illusions. One by one, Persus Cantor had lost them as reality played its merciless tricks.

  When the Swann men rejoined us, they found a somber group. Persus repaired to her bedroom, pleading exhaustion; Paloma flounced out the door in search of fresh air. Anika held her head in her hands, as if it bore the weight of the world.

  “What happened in here?” Deming asked. “It’s like a wake.”

  I blinked sleep from my eyes and yawned. “Everyone’s tired. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

  “Anyone want a brandy?” Bolin asked. “I know I could use one.”

  Anika kissed her husband’s cheek. “I’ll get ready for bed, darling. Take your time.”

  That sounded like a good idea. After a brief scuffle, I captured Cato and dragged him up the steep staircase to slumberland.

  SOMETIME LATER, my bedroom door creaked. Through shards of light peeping through the drapes, I watched Deming shed his clothes, pull back the bedcovers, and slip in beside me. I was tired, loathe to awaken, but longing for his touch. The faint scent of Creed and a whiff of brandy enveloped me as he clasped me in a tight embrace. I rubbed my back against his chest, feeling rock hard muscle touch my spine. A warm sensation, part love, part lust, engulfed me. I felt safe and cherished in his arms, far away from the brutal acts of Dario and his bride.

  Deming’s lips swept slowly down my shoulder, thrilling every inch of exposed flesh. His tongue danced over elbows, knees and thighs, pausing when I begged for more.

  “Feels so good,” he whispered. “Your soft, beautiful skin. All day long I thought of this.” He stroked my hair, wrapping errant curls around his fingertips.

  My cries were muffled by sleep, passion, and a conscious dread of rousing his parents. I took long, slow breaths, reveling in sensation, living for the moment.

  Just before dawn, I heard him say, “Love you, Eja. Love you so much.”

  SATURDAY BREAKFAST was a somber affair. I felt the chill as I bounded down to the morning room, awash with the rosy afterglow of incredible sex. That hearty dose of Deming had enlivened my appetite for food and life. Despite the intoxicating smells wafting from the buffet table, the ladies of the household seemed to be in a major funk. Persus absently stirred her tea and crumbled a pastry on her plate; Anika grazed on fruit and yoghurt; Paloma mainlined espresso. They greeted me with varying degrees of enthusiasm from a sweet smile to a scowl.

  I was ravenous, pulled toward the eggs Florentine with unseemly force. As I scooped up two of the heavenly muffin halves, the gentlemen entered.

  “Quite an appetite you’ve got, Ms. Kane.” Deming’s lupine leer and double entendre fooled no one, especially his mother.

  Persus immediately sprang into hostess mode. “Help yourself, Demmy. A man needs a hearty breakfast. Lars and Dario loved eggs with rashers of bacon.” Her cheeks flushed as if happier times had momentarily returned.

  “Does that go for me too, Persus?” Bolin appeared in the doorway behind his son dressed almost identically in jeans and cashmere pullover.

  I blinked, marveling at my good fortune. Swann men set impossibly high standards for male brains and beauty. I was now part of their charmed circle, living the fantasy in real time.

  “Yo, Eja! Are you in a trance or what?” Deming folded his arms in take-charge mode.

  “I’m fine, daddy dearest.” I gave him a saucy grin and forked eggs into my mouth. Despite insecurities about body image, I proceeded to gobble every succulent morsel on my plate. After all, Krister was a national treasure whose culinary skills made me swoon. Ignoring his food would be treasonous or at least impolite.

  Bolin’s menu choice proved again how abstemious he was—coffee, eggs, and fruit for the head of the Swann clan. He sat down next to his wife and kissed her cheek. “What’s on your agenda today, son?”

  “Eja and I are going for a walk. Exercise clears the mind and tones the body.” Deming ignored my groan as if he hadn’t heard it.

  “Well, Persus and I have some party plans to make.” Anika smiled at her aunt. “Next Saturday’s our big event. We’ve got lots to do.”

  Bolin took a sip of espresso. “Maybe I’ll look up Laird Foster.”

  “Laird! Why him, Bolin?” Persus gripped her spoon as if it were a talisman. “He might get the wrong idea.”

  “Don’t worry, discretion is my middle name.” Bolin grinned. “He’ll be glad to see me. After all, he’s in real estate, and Anika and I might be in the market for something on the Cape.”

  I applauded Swann senior’s tactics. There was just enough truth in them to tempt an avaricious realtor on the make. No doubt Laird Foster was already salivating over Bolin’s net worth, devising a plan to target him. Turnabout was fair play.

  Meanwhile, my frustration was mounting. Despite our efforts, Deming and I had learned very little about Dario’s murder and more than we cared to know about Dario himself. On balance, he was an odious man who could easily inspire mayhem. Hell, had I known him better I’d have been tempted to bump him off myself!

  At least five locals were viable suspects not counting Chief Raylan Smith. Each had a plausible motive to eliminate Dario, ranging from love to hatred to profit margin. Our days at Brokind were drawing to a close, and the Swann/Kane team had failed miserably. Something had to change.

  “Let’s see Merlot this afternoon,” I said. “She might have some ideas about Pert’s accident.”

  Deming came close to pouting. “Ugh! You mean insights from the world beyond, don’t you? Besides, your pal the sheriff must have already questioned her. You know how I feel about that flimflam stuff.”

  I pinched his cheek. “Not to worry. I’ll go see her myself.”

  Anika sprang from her chair. “Count me in, Eja. The occult fascinates me.”

  Deming sputtered like a faulty engine. “Not so fast, Mom. Remember your party planning.” He folded his arms and frowned. “As for you, Ms. Kane, until we find out what’s going on here, I plan to stay by your side. Gorilla Glue, remember?”

  “Okay, King Kong. I get it. We’ll never be apart. Now, finish your breakfast, and let’s get sweaty.” I excused myself, leashed Cato, and grabbed my purse.

  CAPE COD WEATHER can be tricky, especially in the weeks preceding Memorial Day. A gusty ocean breeze made me shiver despite the heavy cotton cardigan I wore. As Deming sprinted toward the Porsche, I trotted behind, wrangling Cato into semi-civilized behavior.

  “That mutt is a disgrace,” Deming fumed. “I thought you trained him.”

  Easier said than done. A crusty canine with an independent streak can frustrate any training plan. Despite his faults, I felt obliged to defend Cato.

  “He’s a pedigreed cocker spaniel, not a mongrel, and his trainer says he has loads of potential.”

  “Huh! Potential to attack someone. Mark my words, he’s a lawsuit in the making.”

  When Deming starts a rant, my only recourse is to humor him. “Good thing I know a brilliant lawyer, isn’t it? Cato’s had a lot of trauma in his life. No wonder he acts out.”

  In truth, Cato’s uncertain disposition and aggressive tendencies make him hard to love. But CeCe, my dearest friend and Deming’s twin, had been devote
d to the little cuss. Cato was now mine to care for, and I’d vowed to do so.

  After we were buckled into the Porsche, Deming adjusted his sunglasses and gave me a searing glance that blended lust with tenderness. “I meant what I told you last night. You must know it by now, but just in case.”

  I played it cool. “Know what?”

  He kissed my engagement ring, slowly and sensuously. “I love you, Eja Kane, even though you try my patience.”

  I gave him the big-eyed look. “No kidding? I thought it was all an act. After all, Meeka Kyle and a slew of other women wait in the wings.”

  Deming ignored my teasing and fired up his car. “That just earned you a brisk five mile walk. I thought we’d drop by the bike store on the way. Cheech had Dario’s machine retrofitted for me.”

  “Fine with me.” I shrugged. “You can bike it back to Brokind while Cato and I handle the Porsche.”

  He guffawed, a nice, hearty masculine sound. “Whoa. Not so fast. See that rack on the Porsche? It’s perfect for the bike. We’ll fix it up and go tackle your other errands.”

  Not quite what I had in mind. Merlot Brownne might be skittish around a skeptic like Deming. On the other hand, he was a lawyer, and duplicity was hardwired into his genes.

  BUSINESS WAS BRISK at Bayview Bikes. A family group was clustered around the rentals, debating the merits of several models while a gaggle of pre-teens studied the spandex selections as though they were Renoirs on display.