Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3)

by Arlene Kay

  I ignored his rant and focused on a larger issue. By the time we reached the Porsche, the answer was clear. We made the assumption that Phaedra’s partner and her killer were one and the same. What if it wasn’t true?

  “Horton or Heather might still be the killer,” I said. “We shouldn’t presume that the silent partner murdered Phaedra. Plenty of other people had reason.”

  “Climb in, Sherlock.” Deming unlocked the door and tucked me into my seat. “Follow the money. That little maxim never fails. I say that Ames found a way to double his share of the take and eliminate a loose end.” He fired up the monster engine and eased into traffic. “Need I remind you that Ames has the skill to administer the Dim Mak?”

  “You said he’s not that good.”

  Swann confidence surfaced. “Everything’s relative, my love. Ames didn’t win competitions, but he could still do the deed. Trust me on that.”

  I scoured my memory banks for something I’d heard recently, a scrap of conversation that bothered me. Unfortunately, my mind was clouded by too many thoughts and not enough rest.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Deming said. “We’re home.” He swung into the driveway and left the Porsche splayed across the cobblestones. “I have to go to work, and you need a nap.”

  “Go on,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I’m just groggy.”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll escort you to your door and check out the place first. Remember, a murderer is still at large. Ames wasn’t at the Foundation today, and neither was Heather.”

  I protested a bit more even though I was secretly relieved when Deming gave me the all-clear sign. He planted a kiss on my forehead, deftly evaded Cato, and swept out the door with a promise to pick up dinner before he came home.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  HOME. THE IDEA of living with Deming day after day felt so comfortable, so right, that it frightened me. I’d once consulted a shrink who told me that my feelings of inadequacy formed a protective barrier against both rejection and happiness. Even though he was the ultimate sleaze, the man made a valid point. I’d vowed to make an attitude adjustment that would widen my world. Thus far I’d only taken baby steps.

  I glanced at my watch and lay down for a brief nap. Not too long, just enough to clear the cobwebs from my brain. When the phone rang, I leapt up drowsy and disoriented. Good Lord! It was almost five o’clock! Deming must be calling.

  “Eja,” a familiar voice asked, “is Deming there? I’m in the lobby with some papers for him from Horton. Typical thing. Big emergency. You understand.”

  “He’s at work, Portia. Come on up and leave them here. We can have a drink.”

  I gave Jaime the go-ahead, marveling at the success of Deming’s carrot and stick approach. The concierge had transformed overnight from lethargic to hyper-vigilant.

  My real motive was information gathering, not hospitality. I wanted Portia’s reaction to the Heather/Ames alliance as well as the profile of the accomplice that Fleur outlined. Something was missing, and a fresh set of eyes might close the gap.

  By the time I bribed Cato with a chicken nugget and hastily untangled my curls, Portia was at the door.

  “Welcome,” I said, ushering her in. “Don’t mind Cato. I’ll lock him in the kitchen if he gets too obnoxious.”

  She lugged a weathered leather briefcase to the dining room table and sighed. “Wow! This thing is heavy. Whatever happened to the paperless office?”

  I laughed. “Never going to happen as long as lawyers and lawsuits exist. Come on. Let me get you a drink. Chardonnay, right?”

  Portia’s shrewd grey eyes looked weary. “I’ll take vodka rocks if you have it. This day has been a bear.” She placed a thick manila envelope addressed to Deming on the table.

  My bartending had improved since hooking up with the Swanns. Nothing fancy. I substituted imagination for skill.

  “How about a gimlet? I learned to like them after reading The Long Goodbye. If they’re good enough for Chandler’s ladies, why not us?”

  A grin overtook Portia’s gloom. “Why not, indeed? Sounds great.”

  I followed the traditional recipe, mixing Rose’s lime juice, a pinch of powdered sugar, and Deming’s latest enthusiasm, Reyka small batch vodka, into a shaker.

  “Voila! See what you think,” I said. “Don’t you love cocktail glasses? I’m not keen on the taste, just the look.”

  “Nice,” Portia said. “Just what the doctor ordered.” She sipped greedily and sighed. “I guess you heard about Heather and Ames?”

  I nodded. “Did it surprise you? You’re so observant.”

  “Hadn’t a clue,” Portia said. “All Heather blathered about was Justin Ming. She and Ames barely spoke at home.”

  “Money shouldn’t be a problem. Massachusetts divorce laws favor the wife.”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “Talk about sibling rivalry. I’m sure Ames has feathered his own nest too. He was always a sly one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Surely it occurred to you. A five million dollar nest egg would make anyone bold. Horton was so in love, he never even saw it coming. Imagine falling head over heels for someone named Enid.”

  I felt a jolt in my brain, a reminder of another time she had used that name. “I’m surprised you know her real name. Lieutenant Bates just told us the other day. Quite a step down from Phaedra.”

  Portia cocked her head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I? After all, I did the background check. These days it’s almost impossible to hide all your tracks.”

  “You’re right. I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said that Horton wouldn’t allow you to check her out.” I glanced at the clock, praying that it had stopped. Surely Deming would be home soon to deliver me from Portia’s clutches. She was nice enough but tedious in that linear thinking, accountant way.

  “Allow?” Portia snorted. “That will be the day! Horton Exley doesn’t know half of what goes on there.” She drained her glass and stared at the pitcher.

  “How about a refill?” I asked. “A few snacks might hit the spot too.”

  I went to the sideboard, brought over the pitcher, and replenished both of our drinks. Cato remained underfoot, emitting low growls every time Portia moved.

  “Time for you to visit the kitchen,” I told him. “I’ll grab some snacks to hold us until Deming gets back.”

  Portia’s face brightened. “I could use a little something. No time for lunch today.”

  I forced Cato into the kitchen, found him a bone, and filled a tray with Brie, grapes, and crackers for my guest.

  Portia was still planted in the same spot as before, staring moodily at her gimlet.

  I cleared the table and placed the platter and serving dishes in front of her. “Here we go. Dig right in.”

  Portia piled her plate with cheese, but I remained virtuous. Nibbling on grapes would have to suffice if I expected to squeeze into my wedding gown.

  “We stopped at the FTC after lunch,” I told her. “Let me run a few things past you to see what your take on them is.”

  “FTC? You certainly have connections.” She stopped snacking and gave me the gimlet eye. A nice touch considering our choice of beverage.

  I shrugged it off. “Actually, the director there is an old school chum from Brown. She’s always been hot for Deming, but I was just along for the ride.”

  Portia leaned back on the sofa, looking a bit tipsy. “So. What did you learn?”

  “I’m convinced that Heather wasn’t involved. No way. Everyone says the same thing. Phaedra’s partner was intelligent and a master strategist. Now does that sound like Heather Exley to you?”

  “Not likely,” Portia scoffed, “unless it was a fashion show or some martial arts thing. Heather is crafty in those areas. I have to admit that Ames fits the bill, though. H
e’s smart enough and has a mile-wide grudge against Horton. Cain and Abel, those two.”

  Something—some inconsistency—was buzzing around my brain, irritating the hell out of me. I sipped my cocktail and nibbled a grape to absorb the liquor. Next time, I’d have to dial down the vodka in my gimlet recipe. Chandler’s dames must have been heavy hitters to gulp these babies every night.

  “Maybe we’re looking at this whole thing the wrong way, Portia. What if Phaedra’s partner didn’t murder her?”

  “Really?” Her reaction stopped just short of a sneer. “What are the odds on that? Follow the money, I say. Everything else pales in comparison. Swiss bank accounts, wire transfers, and phony certificates of authenticity—whew! Why stop at murder after all that?”

  I suddenly recalled Anika’s words. Exleys are obsessed with money. Always were, always will be. Ames and Horton were Exleys, but so was Portia. I worked hard to control the chill sweeping through me. If I could just bluff, stall her until Deming arrived. He could handle Portia and get Mia Bates involved.

  “Does Lieutenant Bates suspect Ames?” I asked. “You must have gotten some sense of it last night.”

  “Not really. She plays things pretty close to the vest. Focused on the gold scam mostly. I think she suspects Horton, believe it or not. That Dim Mak thing ties both my cousins to the murder.”

  Did Portia know kung fu too? Was I the only person in Boston without fighting skills?

  “I’m hopeless at martial arts,” I said. “Uncoordinated as hell. Anika is great and Heather too. Phaedra was phenomenal.”

  Her smile was genuine this time. “You’re not alone. I tried one class and made a fool out of myself. It’s important to accept your limitations and focus on your strengths. Yours is writing. Mine is making money.”

  I suddenly realized that my stomach was at war with me. For some reason I felt quite unwell. I gripped the arms of my chair and rose halfway.

  “Let’s walk Cato before Deming gets here. Frankly, I could use the fresh air. That vodka really hit me hard.”

  Portia stared at me with glacial calm. “Let’s not.”

  “But Cato . . .”

  “Can wait. Unfortunately, you can’t.”

  I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. “What have you done?”

  “Don’t move. It’s less painful that way, and we can have our little chat. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Her eyes shone with triumph and something else—regret.

  “Why?” Every syllable was torture.

  “Just so you know,” Portia said, “I did not kill her. I’ve never hurt anyone until tonight. You kept pushing the partner theory until people started believing it. Those dead roses didn’t even faze you.”

  “You?” I gasped.

  She preened, showing a new and unpleasant side of her personality. “A nice touch, don’t you think? Ames is forever wearing that tatty Grateful Dead shirt. I knew that sooner or later you’d make the connection. Another nail in his coffin if needed.” Portia speared a cheese cube and smacked her lips. “Top flight, by the way. Hits the spot. This is really unfortunate, Eja. I actually like you. You’re not one of them. But you’re so stubborn. You just wouldn’t quit.” She shrugged. “What could I do? It’s self-defense. Surely you can see that.”

  The woman was delusional. I wouldn’t beg, but perhaps I could reason with her. Get her to call the paramedics.

  “I saw through that tart right away,” Portia said. “Prancing around the office, calling herself a financial advisor. You were right, of course. I checked out her references and her record. Enid Jones—what a joke.”

  I croaked out a response. It took effort not to close my eyes and put out the lights. My words were slurred, barely intelligible. “Why not tell Horton?”

  “Opportunity, Eja. I sensed my chance to make it big. Phaedra wanted to run at first, but I convinced her to stay the course and share the spoils. With my help, the scam was invincible.”

  “Huh!” I put a ton of venom in one word.

  “That insurance thing was Ames’ fault. It almost screwed up everything. So I told her to tell Horton she’d been swindled too. It worked. The dolt actually believed her.” Portia checked her watch. “Don’t worry, we still have some time. Deming got an emergency call, you see. He thinks that Pamela Schwartz was in an accident. By the time that’s sorted out, I’m afraid it will be too late for you.”

  “W-h-a-t?” My speech was slurred, and I was so weary. If I could hold off, Deming would save me. I knew it.

  Portia slipped a pillow under my head and pulled the cashmere throw up to my chin. “There you go, dear. No need to be uncomfortable. Just so you know, I dosed your gimlet with Rohypnol. In small doses it won’t kill you. I gave you a whopper, but your luck might hold. Not that you’ll remember anything.”

  Her throaty laughter rang in my ears as I fought to stay conscious. My limbs were powerless, floating in a sea of marshmallow fluff. My last memory was Portia’s saucy grin as she unlatched the door.

  “Someone did me a favor by eliminating Phaedra. Maybe two’s the charm.”

  I HAD THE WORST headache of my life. Even body parts I’d long forgotten conspired in painful mutiny. Opening my eyes was torture, but I had to try. In the distance, someone was calling my name.

  The voice was familiar. My hand was pressed against a larger one and gently kissed, over and over. Then a woman spoke, urging me to awaken. I knew her too. Slowly, painfully, sensation returned to me and with it a ghost of memory. The scratchy sheets, metal bars, and that light—that blinding light. Definitely not my home. I was in a hospital. The smell of antiseptic gave it away.

  Deming’s was the first face I saw. His beautiful eyes were misty, the way they looked when CeCe died. But I was alive and planned to stay that way. If nothing else, the excruciating pain proved that.

  I blinked not once but twice and cautiously opened my eyes, squinting against the blinding institutional light. Anika and Bolin stood on either side of the bed, their expressions set in neutral. Sprays of orchids, lilies, and baby’s breath decorated every vacant space—Deming’s handiwork, I presumed.

  “Don’t try to speak, Eja.” Anika leaned forward and felt my forehead. “Just nod if you can.”

  “I can talk.” It was more croak than speech, but to me that meant progress.

  Deming squeezed my hand again and grinned. “We’ll fill you in on what happened. Conserve your energy. This may be my only chance to ever get the last word in.”

  “You should have called me, Eja. What else are partners for?” Anika seemed a bit miffed at my facing danger alone. “I could have prevented all this. If Dem hadn’t found you when he did . . .”

  “Calm down, my love. Let’s update Eja.” Bolin exchanged tender glances across the sickbed with his wife. “The important thing is that she’s just fine or soon will be.”

  “You’re right, darling,” Anika said. “Forgive me for being testy. We were so worried about you.”

  I locked eyes with Deming, wordlessly urging him on as if we were partners in a bizarre game of charades.

  “We were lucky,” he said, pressing my hand until I squeaked. “When Jaime called me, I knew something was amiss.”

  “Jaime?”

  It takes a lot to fluster a lawyer, but Deming stammered until his cheeks grew crimson.

  “Tell her, Dem.” Bolin’s eyes twinkled. “It saved her life.”

  “Jaime and I had an arrangement,” Deming said. “Just a temporary measure, mind you. He agreed to notify me whenever you had visitors. A precautionary thing.”

  “Bribe,” I sputtered.

  Deming shrugged. “Okay. Whatever. Anyway, when he told me that Portia was there to deliver papers, something didn’t sound right. I called Horty, and he didn’t know anything about it.” A wry smile
spread over his face. “Not unusual, I get it, but with all that was happening I got suspicious. This supposed accident of Pam’s was just icing on the cake. My dad handled that, and I headed over to your place.”

  “He got two speeding tickets,” Anika said. “Almost ended up in jail until Euphemia intervened.”

  Deming laughed. “Her name even strikes fear into cops on the beat. Anyway, she met me at your condo. It seems that our favorite police lieutenant was already on Portia’s trail.”

  “Not surprising,” Bolin said. “Euphemia is a fine investigator.”

  When we visited the Foundation, Portia had mentioned a visit from Mia Bates. She’d made it sound as if Horton was the chief suspect, but I now knew differently. Mia was playing games, using a ruse to flush out Portia.

  “Please . . . let me finish this saga.” Deming was a logical thinker who loved to present things step by step. “We met Portia just as she reached the lobby. I have to admit, she played it cool. Said you were up there taking another nap. Naturally, the lieutenant didn’t buy that. She detained her in the lobby while Jaime and I went up to check on you.”

  His voice cracked as Deming described finding me passed out, unresponsive as the medicos say. He called the paramedics and the Swann family physician Jake Harris. Before long I was logged into Mass General with all manner of tubes and tests invading my body.

  “You could have died. Thank God you’ve never been much of a drinker. Portia gave you a whopping dose of that stuff.” He tried to sound casual, but the tender side of the man I love surfaced instead.

  Bolin squeezed his son’s shoulder and resumed the narrative. “Portia finally confirmed that she’d given you Rohypnol. She claimed that you asked for it so that you could sleep.” He shook his head. “An obvious lie. Jake suspected what it was anyway, but it helped to expedite treatment. Don’t be surprised if you have some memory loss about that night.”

  Anika jumped into the conversation. “That’s a mercy. Imagine spending an evening in your own home with a murderess.”