Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3)

by Arlene Kay

  “Oh?” I gave him the big-eyed look. “Why was that?”

  Horton flushed. “To keep anyone else from horning in on below market prices. The gold game is very competitive, Eja. Caution is the watchword.”

  After losing five million dollars in a honey trap, he lectured me about caution. The Exley arrogance was on full display. Fortunately, I have neither excess cash nor a trusting heart. Con men give me a wide berth.

  I persisted, jabbing away at Horton’s complacency. “It’s something to consider, you know, especially if Phaedra double-crossed her partner. That spells motive, and right now, you and Heather need all the suspects you can scare up.”

  His eyes opened wide, and his mouth former a perfect O. “But I’m innocent. We’re both innocent. One of those hooligans must have killed her.”

  “Hooligans?”

  “You know,” Horton sputtered, “those kung fu people. Isn’t that what killed her? Some death chop?”

  Now I understood. Horton planned to use the SODDI defense—some other dude did it. Whether it was a Hail Mary play or a brilliant ploy by Pamela Schwartz, things would get very interesting very quickly. When Euphemia Bates dismantled the Exleys, I hoped to have a front row seat.

  “But, Horton,” I said in my most winsome voice, “you know all about Dim Mak. I’m sure Master Moore taught you how to do it. Heather may have learned it too. She’s a diligent student and certainly knows her way around guns.”

  He clutched his throat and gasped. “Guns? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t answer that,” commanded a stern voice. “Say nothing.”

  Pamela Schwartz, accompanied by Deming, stood behind her client, grasping his chair. “This isn’t an inquisition, Eja. Buzz off. My client has nothing to add.”

  Despite her sour disposition, Pam Schwartz had the total package—blond bob, perfect makeup, and eye-popping body. Too bad she was the bitch from Hell.

  Deming sat beside me and kissed my cheek. “You look like an angel, Eja,” he whispered in my ear. “Too bad, you’re such a devil.”

  Horton Exley remembered his manners and stood until Pam was seated. “Good thing we haven’t ordered yet. I recommend the tasting menu.” His dark mood had been lifted by the arrival of his lawyers. He was jovial now, ready to share gastronomical tips.

  “We worked late, and Pam agreed to join us,” Deming said. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  My smile was sweetness personified. “The more the merrier. Horton and I were discussing weapons.”

  “So we heard,” Deming said. “What’s this gun stuff about? Phaedra wasn’t shot, you know.”

  “Just small talk,” I lied. “Wiling away the time.”

  “Well, change the subject,” Pam hissed. “The walls have ears, you know.”

  There are worse clichés, although I couldn’t think of one offhand. I revised my mental outline and substituted Pamela Schwartz for the victim in my next novel. Crimes against the English language deserve the death penalty.

  “How was your session at the dojo?” Deming asked. “Did you and Mother behave?”

  Pamela Schwartz eyed me like a raptor sizing up dinner. Her long, varnished talons tapped the table.

  “We observed every Shaolin Law,” I said. “Like perfect acolytes. Of course, we’re only beginners. I had no idea that Horton and Master Moore even knew each other. Small world.”

  Deming exchanged uneasy glances with Pam. They realized how incriminating such an admission was. Horton Forbes Exley had a working knowledge of the dojo. That strengthened his opportunity to kill Phaedra and pop her into the utility closet. Between lust and lucre, he had motive aplenty.

  “Avery Moore was my sifu for several years,” Horton said. “A deeply spiritual man. No head for business, but an old soul.”

  “I’ll bet you learned fast,” I gushed. “You’re probably a black belt or something.”

  Pam saw the danger signs, but Horty responded before she could stop him.

  “You flatter me, Eja. I’m rusty now, but at one time, I was pretty damn good at martial arts, if I do say so. Ames was even better.” He turned to Deming. “You and Bolin dabble in that too, don’t you, Dem?”

  By focusing on the menu, I masked my reaction. Both Deming and Bolin did more than dabble. They were competitive martial artists, serious practitioners who honed their lethal skills. Blowhards like Horton hadn’t a clue.

  After we selected our entrees, Pam motioned to her client. “I need a few minutes of your time. Let’s step out into the bar.” Her tone left no room for argument, and after a momentary rebellion, Horty excused himself and followed his attorney.

  “What’s the story?” I asked Deming. “I’ll never make any headway with her here. He asked for my help, didn’t he?”

  I expected a spate of knuckle cracking, but to my surprise Deming hung tough. “It’s complicated,” he said. “Pam got an offer from the DA—voluntary manslaughter. Heat of passion. You know the drill. She has to present it to Horton, even though I doubt that he’ll accept.”

  “But why? They haven’t even arrested him yet or charged him. Plus, I don’t think he did it. Heather is a better suspect.”

  I folded my arms and glared at my fiancé. He looked devastatingly handsome in his navy suit and crisp white shirt. I resisted the impulse to grab his Hermes tie and kiss him senseless.

  “Hold on,” Deming said. “It’s only exploratory. Pam and the DA go way back, and they like to nip these scandals in the bud whenever they can. Let’s face it—Phaedra wouldn’t make a very sympathetic victim. The taxpayers of Massachusetts would applaud the action.”

  “Listen to this.” I shared my run-in with pistol-packing Heather, the terror of Boston’s upper crust. “That woman is unhinged when it comes to Justin Ming. She’d wring Phaedra’s neck like a stewing chicken. Count on it.”

  Deming raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. Vivid imagery, Ms. Kane. You should be a writer.” He checked the room for eavesdroppers and leaned over. “My money is on Justin Ming. If Phaedra caused problems, he’d handle it. That guy bothers me.”

  “I didn’t even realize that you knew him.”

  He shrugged. “Dad and I ran into him at some competitions. Martial Arts stuff. Ming has an ego that won’t quit, and if a woman dumped him, he might snap. Hold on. Here they come. Act normal.”

  By the look on Pamela’s face, things had not gone well. Her mouth was set in a firm, mean line, and her forehead muscles made a valiant though unsuccessful effort to scowl. Another testament to the awesome power of Botox!

  “I have to get back to the office,” she said. “Please excuse me.”

  “What a shame,” I said, sweet as pie. “Won’t you get hungry?”

  Lawyers always want the last word. Pam pivoted, eyeing my curves with naked scorn. “Starvation has its benefits. Try it some time.” She cleared the room in three angry strides and never looked back.

  Horton was oblivious to everything but his meal. He huddled with the sommelier, debating the finer points of each wine in the tasting menu. His expertise impressed me, but Deming merely grunted.

  “Don’t let Pam get to you,” he said. “She plays rough when things don’t go her way.”

  “She meant every word she said. Bitch.”

  He took my hand and kissed it. “Pam’s envious, darling.”

  “Of me?” I was genuinely shocked. “She’s got everything. Brains, beauty, success.”

  “So do you. But you have someone who loves you and Pam doesn’t.”

  Our eyes met, and for a moment, we were in our own little world. I forgot about Horty, L’Espalier, and murder. All I saw was Deming.

  “Hey, you two,” Horty said. “Ready to eat?” He pointed to the viands gracing our table. They were typically French—elegant, portion controlled,
and beautifully presented. Screw Pamela Schwartz and her nasty ways; I was starving.

  After his third glass of wine, Horty grew more voluble. There was no time for delicacy, so I moved in for the kill.

  “What was Phaedra like?” I asked. “You knew her so well, and you cared about her.”

  He hesitated, reached for his handkerchief, and dabbed at his eyes. “She’s hard to describe—a mass of contradictions, like most of us, I guess. Harsh, but incredibly sweet too. Beauty and sex appeal were tools to her. Phaedra grew up poor, I mean dirt poor. She vowed she would never be that way again. Hard work and brains pulled her out of the cesspool. I admired that.”

  “She had ethical problems, Horty. Massive fraud hurts lots of people. It probably caused her murder too.” Deming’s handsome face looked grim. “The way we clear your name is by finding an alternative. The real murderer.”

  “I felt alive whenever I was with her,” Horty whispered. “I loved her.”

  “She betrayed you,” I said gently. “That must have hurt.”

  If he confessed right now, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

  Blue Exley eyes stared coldly at me. “You’re wrong. Tell her, Dem. Phaedra thought that gold was real. She planned to confront her partner.”

  This was no time for delicacy. I plunged headlong into a cauldron of emotion. “What about Justin Ming? Weren’t they involved?”

  “Who told you that?” he asked. “She was his student. Nothing more. Men always pursued Phaedra, but she never gave them a second look.”

  “Forgive me. I was misinformed. You know how people love to gossip.”

  My response was reasonable enough, although Horton obviously didn’t think so. He swilled another glass of wine and made an ungentlemanly burp. “For your information, Ms. Kane, Phaedra agreed to marry me on the night before she died.”

  I scoured my memory banks, recalling each detail of that doorway tryst. Horton, prisoner of lust, had been so welded to Phaedra that he hadn’t noticed anything. Perhaps I wasn’t the only passer-by who got an eyeful. Thoughts of Heather Exley and Justin Ming made me wonder.

  “What about Heather?” I asked. “She must have noticed something.”

  He laughed, a sharp, guttural sound with no mirth in it. “My wife hasn’t noticed me for years, unless she needs the checkbook. Peaceful coexistence, détente. That’s how most marriages end up. As long as she got a juicy settlement, she wouldn’t murder Phaedra or any other woman.” His eyes narrowed into malevolent slits. “Your turn will come. Just wait and see.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  WE BUNDLED HORTON Exley into the Porsche and headed for Brookline. Deming had forced his tipsy client to relinquish the car keys, promising to sort everything out in the morning. Before long, raucous snores wafted from the back seat as Horton drifted into dreamland. I leaned back in the glove leather seat, closed my eyes, and inhaled the sounds of Chris Botti’s golden trumpet.

  “It isn’t true, you know.” Deming put his arm around me and pulled me close. “Horton’s take on marriage, I mean. Just look at my parents. They still act like honeymooners after all these years.”

  I laughed, thinking of the passion between Bolin and Anika and the openness with which they displayed it. A stark contrast to the Exleys.

  “We’ll never be that way,” Deming said. “Not if I have any say so.”

  “No détente for us,” I said. “I’d prefer the nuclear option to cold war.” I watched his perfect profile, marveling at my good fortune.

  “Good thing,” he said. “By the way, once we get Horton sorted out, I’ve got a surprise for you, and it’s not what you’re thinking, cheeky girl.”

  Bemused speculation kept me entertained all the way to Brookline. When we arrived at our destination, Merry Meadow was ablaze with lights like a mini-Versailles. We sailed through the gate and parked next to the entryway where Carlisle awaited us. I stayed in the car, snuggled under Deming’s Burberry while the two men carefully maneuvered Horton up the steps and into the house.

  Deming didn’t linger. He soon loped out the door, dangling a strange-looking key.

  “Hey, wake up. Time for your surprise.”

  I blinked as he turned on the powerful interior lights. “A key?”

  “Not just any key,” Deming said. “Keys to the Kingdom, or something like that. Come on. You and I are going to see Aladdin’s cave.”

  AT FIRST BLUSH, Sumo-Tek, the robotic storage vault, looked rather ordinary, more futuristic prison than opulent cave. It nestled so anonymously on the Route 128 corridor that I’d passed it many times without a second glance. Except for the gated entryway, it was an unremarkable space, a windowless, faceless dance with obscurity.

  Deming stopped at an outdoor kiosk and input a pin number. An unseen, all-knowing system identified him and directed us to a private staging area inside the hulking structure. After swiping an identity card, he submitted to a biometric scan.

  “This is creepy.” I shivered. “Futuristic nonsense. Besides, how come it acknowledged you? I thought this was Horty’s secret place.”

  “We made arrangements following Phaedra’s murder. After all, I am his attorney.”

  “Now what?” I asked. “Will some disembodied voice summon us?”

  He made a brusque comment and ignored me. Suddenly, an unseen metal hand unloaded a self-storage pod in front of us. It was large, at least five feet by ten feet, and looked heavy.

  “What does a gold bar go for these days?” I asked.

  Deming wrinkled his brow. “A kilo bar is roughly $45,000 in today’s market. That means that Phaedra delivered over one hundred of those babies. No easy task for a woman alone.”

  He nodded when I mentioned Phaedra’s partner. Horton had already discussed that with Deming as well as his theory that Phaedra herself had been duped.

  “Too bad your client couldn’t play with hotels or high-end autos like a good little scion. Harder to lose sight of or falsify.”

  “Just be patient,” Deming said. “This place will pique your imagination. The selling point is robotics. Untouched by human hands.” He opened the module with Horton’s electronic key. “I’m sure you get the implication.”

  A child of ten could understand. This high-tech setup demolished Horty’s tale of thwarted virtue. Phaedra Jones knew about the fraud—she had to. No one could slip into this facility and spin gold into iron, not even Rumpelstiltskin.

  “She and her partner conned Horton,” Deming said. “Look inside.” He pointed to the hundred or so faux gold bars that were neatly stacked in the module. “No one could substitute these babies for the original. As the Great Detective said, when you eliminate all other factors the one that remains is the solution.”

  “I love a man who quotes Conan Doyle,” I said, blowing him a kiss. “So sexy. Has Lieutenant Bates been over this?”

  Deming’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Count on it. Her crew tested every one of those kilo bars. All phony. By the way, Euphemia Bates reached the same conclusion that we just did. Either Phaedra conned Horton, or her partner deceived Phaedra. Since she has a rather extensive police record under her real name, I trust the first explanation.”

  “Darn,” I said. “You mean her name wasn’t Phaedra? I love that name.”

  “You are such a romantic,” Deming said. “Her real name was Enid. Enid Jones.”

  “No wonder she turned to crime,” I said. “Classic case of parental indifference.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind when we have kids,” Deming said, pinching my cheek.

  He followed directions, pressing the touch screen to his left. We watched as the door closed, and the robotic system retrieved and stored the module. Only then did the exit door open, allowing us to escape.

  I held my breath until we were back on the highway, speeding t
oward Back Bay. The cloying, claustrophobic air of Sumo-Tek had drained my energy and left me shaken. The joyless, depersonalized future was here, and it was sobering.

  “Where do we go from here, partner?” I asked. “How do we find Phaedra’s confederate?”

  Deming gripped the steering wheel and said nothing. He shot me a look that melded outrage with chagrin. “There’s no more ‘we’ in this, Eja. Lucky thing you weren’t murdered by that crazy bitch Heather. Do I have to remind you that this is reality, not one of your manuscripts? You and my mom are permanently benched.”

  I knew better than to argue. It was far easier to ignore Deming’s lectures and plow ahead. “Horton lives in a dream world,” I said. “He’s absolutely useless. The person that absconded with five million bucks must have left an audit trail. Find him—or her—and you’ll nab the murderer.”

  Deming swore under his breath as he swung into the driveway of my condo and parked the Panamera. He ignored my comments as easily as I did his, a trade-off that suited us both.

  “Come along, Nancy Drew,” he said. “Your dog awaits you.”

  Cato! I tried not to leave the little rascal unattended for more than a few hours. He has a vindictive streak five miles wide and no compunction about showing it. I strolled up the driveway and into the lobby, two strides ahead of Deming. In a stirring example of vigilance, the concierge waved us through without glancing up from his iPad. “Are you staying the night,” I asked Deming, “or does Pamela need you?”

  He pushed the elevator button and stared down at me. “I might be persuaded to stay for the right inducement.”

  I fanned myself and batted my eyelashes in Scarlett O’Hara fashion. The effort was spectacularly unsuccessful.

  Deming finger-combed his thick hair and sighed. “You should ramp up your seduction techniques.”