Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3)
Page 21
Something was wrong. I tried to penetrate the brain fog that gripped me, teasing me with forgotten information.
“Horton intends to prosecute her civilly,” Deming said. “Family connections be damned. Exleys take money very seriously.”
“No,” I said. My voice sounded weak, but at least the synapses were firing.
Three pairs of Swann eyes stared at me.
“Portia didn’t do it,” I sputtered. “Not the murder.” My memory was still hazy, but I distinctly recalled sitting across from her, sipping cocktails, and chatting about Phaedra. When I put Cato in the kitchen and got snacks, Portia must have put the drug in my glass. No gratitude for being a good hostess!
“Things look grim for her,” Deming said. “Lieutenant Bates is interrogating Portia about Phaedra’s murder. Plus, our old buddy Fleur Pixley came through too. Her guys traced that Swiss account right back to Portia.”
I did a double take. Weren’t numbered accounts in Switzerland sacred? Impenetrable? World secrecy standards had taken a nosedive.
Bolin must have read my mind. “Swiss authorities are much more cooperative now than in the past. Makes stashing untraced money more of a challenge.”
“She comes from a good family,” Anika said, shaking her head. “Apparently she never forgave them for disowning her. Understandable enough, but murder?”
I shook my head and slowly formed the word. “No.”
“Rest, Eja,” Anika said. “It will all come back to you.”
I gripped Deming’s hand with all my strength, remembering Portia’s parting shot. I had to make them understand. She bragged that someone had done her a “favor” by disposing of Phaedra. That someone was the killer, and he or she was still at large.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I SPENT ANOTHER restless night at Mass General with Deming by my side. Despite polite suggestions and urgent requests, he refused to leave. The staff finally took pity and brought in a cot for him to sleep on. No doubt the yearly seven-figure donation made by the Swann Foundation influenced that decision.
After a final checkup the next morning, the hospital officially released me to Deming’s tender care. Po drove the Bentley to the exit, and with the aid of Anika and Deming I was delivered to the Swann manse for R&R.
I’d opted to return home, but that was immediately vetoed. Deming nearly hyperventilated at the thought of it, and Anika pleaded for me to reconsider.
“You said Portia’s not the murderer,” he said. “That means someone is out there, and you might be a target. Again.”
Recuperating in the lap of luxury was a minor concession. It allowed me plenty of time to hash over theories with Anika, my co-conspirator and eager partner-in-crime. I also received some curious visitors.
Fleur Pixley led the parade armed with flowers, gossip, and faux sympathy.
“I never dreamed you’d be in danger,” she said, “but then you always were the impetuous type.”
Fleur confirmed that the federal case against Portia was humming along. “She violated at least six federal statutes. Let the local cops nail her for murder. We’ll get every penny that she stashed in Switzerland. Count on it.” The venom in her eyes was chilling. I’d never realized the depth of her dedication to justice.
That afternoon, we had more callers. Under Po’s watchful eyes, Ames and Heather Exley plied me with another Ballotin of Godiva truffles and more expressions of shock.
“Portia never showed an ounce of temper,” Ames said. “Who knew she was capable of murder?”
“Sheer jealousy,” Heather growled. “Some thanks we get for taking her in. That little thief stole five million dollars from her own family. I hope she gets the death penalty.”
“Unlikely in Massachusetts,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think she killed Phaedra. She had no reason to lie to me about that under the circumstances.”
Ames passed the truffles my way. “Here, Eja. Invalids deserve to indulge themselves.”
After my dustup with death, I was reluctant to eat anything from an Exley. “I’ll save the treats for dinner,” I said. “That way the whole family can enjoy them.”
He wasn’t finished. “You really believe Portia is innocent?”
Anika moved next to me on the couch and playfully wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Ames, I doubt that Portia’s ever been innocent. Listen to Eja. She has great instincts about this kind of thing.”
“Wasn’t she home with you that night?” I asked Ames.
He shrugged. “Couldn’t say. I went to Cambridge to meet a friend. Unfortunately, she stood me up.”
“I stayed in my room,” Heather said. “I suffer dreadfully from migraines.”
“My mistake,” Anika said. “I thought I saw you at the dojo that night with Horton.”
Judging from the look on Heather’s face, murder was well within her skill set. “My husband has his own schedule, Mrs. Swann. And so do I.”
They left a few minutes later.
THE NEXT MORNING brought an official visit from Euphemia Bates. We assembled in the study, joined by Deming and Bolin, and fortified by cups of espresso. Unlike my other callers, the lieutenant came fully armed with Officer Opie at her side.
“How are you feeling?” Mia asked. She was garbed in charcoal grey with subtle hints of cream at her throat and wrists. Her smooth leather boots were midnight blue.
“I’ll survive,” I said. Deming sighed at my bravery.
“We need a formal statement,” Mia said. “Drop by the station as soon as you can.” She handed me a typed list of questions. “Take a look at these and give me your reaction.”
I repeated everything I recalled, starting with the conversation at the Exley Foundation and ending with my second vodka gimlet.
“She didn’t dose the first drink,” I said. “It never left my hand. But she was alone while I went to the kitchen for snacks.” Cato sidled up to Mia and gave her his paw. “Funny thing. Cato growled the entire time Portia was there. I should have listened to the little fellow.”
“Did she admit killing Phaedra Jones?”
“No. By the way, Portia called her Enid, not Phaedra. Portia was way too sharp not to discover that sham identity because she’d done all the vetting. That’s how she got connected with Phaedra in the first place.”
Mia nodded to her officer and checked off several items. “You’ve told people that Portia was not the murderer. Why? She had no problem trying to eliminate you.”
“It was an opinion, Lieutenant, not a fact.” Deming edged closer to me.
I recalled another scrap of our conversation that evening. “Something else came up. Portia was doing her best to hang everything on Ames, and we both admitted having absolutely no skill at martial arts. It was a throwaway comment, nothing planned, but since Phaedra died from a Dim Mak, that made an impression on me.”
The look in her eyes told me that Mia was not impressed. No doubt she’d encountered plenty of wily killers during her stint at homicide, and this was nothing new. She rustled papers, preparatory to ending the discussion.
“We also agreed that Heather Exley wasn’t intelligent enough to be the silent partner. If you’re looking for Portia’s weak spot, that’s it. She’s smart and proud of it.”
“Good point, Ms. Kane. If you think of anything else, you can include it in your formal statement.”
I saved the best for last. My memory had slowly returned, and one vivid scene haunted my nightmares. “Before she left, Portia tucked me in as if I were sleeping. She gloated and said that someone had done her a favor by eliminating Phaedra.” I grabbed Deming’s hand. “She had no reason to lie to me at that point. I believed her, Lieutenant.”
AS SOON AS MIA left, Deming pounced. “Where did that last comment come from—out of left field? It’s the first we’ve heard of it.”
That memory of Portia was etched in my mind with the worst of my childhood fears. I pride myself on resourcefulness and self-reliance. All my literary heroines are marvels of courage. But fiction and life often diverge. In the end, I’d been a quivering mass of Jello.
I shook my head to avoid speaking. At that point, I was perilously close to tears, reduced to a sniveling stereotype of feminine weakness.
“We’ll stop by the police station tomorrow,” Deming said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“Time for me to go home,” I said, grinning sheepishly at Anika. “I can’t hide out in the lap of luxury forever. Cato’s getting spoiled.”
That evoked a storm of protest from Anika’s distress to Deming’s outrage. Bolin remained neutral, but his expression was grave. I knew that flirting with danger brought pain to these three people I held dear. Each incident made them relive, as I did, the loss of their beloved daughter. They couldn’t know how fragile my courage was or how tentative my grasp on independence. Deming had once called me brave—foolhardy, actually. He never guessed how wrong that assumption was. I knew if I didn’t go back now, I’d never be able to live in my apartment again.
After the storm passed, Deming tried negotiating. “How about this?” he said. “After you submit your statement tomorrow, I’ll drive you and Cato home.” He held up his hand to forestall his mother’s protests. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll stay with her until this murder thing is sorted out. No one has to know that she’s there.”
Anika beamed her approval. “I’ll spend the afternoons with her. We can do all kinds of fun things—shopping, lunch, even our exercise classes.” She met Bolin’s eye. “Po can go with us. That way Eja won’t feel like she’s under house arrest.”
I’m a firm believer in compromise, and frankly, I was aching to resume my kung fu studies. Deming’s proposal seemed like the best of both worlds—freedom tempered with a pinch of caution. I gave them a thumbs up and sealed the deal.
EUPHEMIA BATES WAS gone when we arrived at the station the next morning. I completed my statement under the wary eyes of Officer Kevin Jennings, aka Officer Opie, while Deming hovered protectively. His brusque comments and questions seemed to cow the young officer, who resorted to quoting his boss and blushing furiously.
“When will you formally charge Ms. Amory Shaw?” Deming demanded. His firm no longer represented the felon in question due to conflict of interest.
“The lieutenant met with the DA yesterday evening.”
I ignored Deming’s instructions and asked Opie a question. As the saying goes, I am not a potted plant. “Any progress on finding the murderer?”
Opie swallowed several times, causing his Adam’s apple to bob erratically. “She found the murderer, ma’am. I thought you knew.”
“What?” I grasped the corner of the desk to steady myself. “Who is it?”
“They charged Ms. Amory Shaw. That’s where the lieutenant is today.”
I clutched Deming’s arm, squeezing it until he yelped. “Did she confess?” I asked.
Opie blanched, his freckles boldly splayed over pale white skin. “I’m not trying to be rude, but Lieutenant Bates should tell you that.”
A broad grin spread across Deming’s handsome face. “You see, Eja. No need to worry anymore. I suspected Portia Amory Shaw all along. This concludes the case.”
“She didn’t do it,” I told Opie. “Portia is a dreadful person and fully capable of murder, but she didn’t kill Phaedra. She told me so. Plus, how could she have hefted those gold bars without someone’s help? Everyone says they weigh a ton.”
He exchanged nervous “crazy lady” looks with Deming, beseeching him to deal with me. But my sweetie was far too wily to say anything that might cause a public scene. He preferred to placate me with vague assurances that meant nothing.
“Ask Lieutenant Bates to call me, Officer. She has my number.” He helped me with my jacket and herded me toward the nearest elevator post haste.
I loathe pouting, but this occasion definitely called for it. From the elevator to the car, I maintained a stony silence that unnerved Deming. He tucked me into the Porsche and took his sweet time cracking his knuckles and fumbling with his seatbelt.
“I thought you’d be happy, Eja. No more worries, nothing to fear. Case closed.”
I tried to analyze the situation calmly and rationally even if it meant that I was wrong about Portia. There were just too many unanswered questions, too many implausible scenarios.
How had a dull, dumpy accountant managed to corner a trained martial artist and administer a deathblow? It made no sense, especially with three black-belted Exleys on the loose. Each of them had the killer instinct and ample motive for eliminating Phaedra. Love and money held pride of place on my murder hit parade, but apparently Euphemia Bates didn’t agree.
“Cheer up,” Deming said. “Let go of your obsession with this murder. Now we can focus on planning our wedding.” He pinched my cheek. “Remember? White dress, big cake, gold rings—the whole shebang.”
“Will you be moving back to your place now?” My voice sounded puny and pathetic. I hated it.
“Not unless you want me to.” He leaned over and gently kissed my lips. “Just say the word.”
“Don’t ever leave,” I whispered. “Please. I need you so much.”
Actions speak louder than words. I spent the rest of the evening proving just that.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Cato, Anika, and I took a long walk on the Common. Spring’s beauty was slowly fading into summer, but the fresh, crisp air made even Cato mellow.
“Funny thing,” Anika mused. “Phaedra Jones was a serpent in the garden of Exley, luring them to their doom.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but Horton’s marriage was in trouble long before she slithered his way. Remember Justin Ming.”
Anika beamed her luminous smile. “Ah, yes. A gorgeous man can do so much damage. I’ve been lucky with my two. Bolin is the love of my life, and Dem is the finest son a mother could hope for.”
Our eyes met in silent tribute to the male Swanns.
“You don’t have to babysit me anymore, Anika. I feel guilty. Deming hasn’t moved out yet, you know.”
She threw Cato a stick and laughed as he tumbled end over end. “If I know Deming, he never will. That boy will be there until you say those vows. He won’t take another chance at losing you, Eja. It would destroy him.”
“Maybe we can stop by Shaolin City soon,” I said. “Strangely enough, I’ve learned to enjoy all that stretching and sweating. How does tomorrow sound?”
“Perfect. Shall I contact Justin?”
“Nah, I’ll give him a call later this afternoon. He left a message on my machine, but I haven’t had time to respond.”
We parted after Po pronounced my condo safe, and I slipped the bolt in the Medeco lock. I had several hours before Deming came home to finish my outline for Dojo Death. At least fiction allowed me to control my characters and determine the plot and the villain. Or did it? I zigged and zagged, unable to point the literary finger at any one person. I vacillated between a Portia clone and a snide playboy ala Ames Exley. As in real life, neither was ideally suited for the role of murderer. Portia was a planner, not a doer; Ames was too arrogant and lazy to make the effort. Even that fabulous married couple Horton and Heather failed the test. He was self-absorbed; she was stupid.
I welcomed the distraction of a phone call, especially when the velvety tones of Justin Ming wafted over the line.
“Ms. Kane, I’ve been worried about you.” The sexy sifu was at it again. Soon even I would believe his patent leather line.
“
Sorry I haven’t returned your call. Things got a bit hectic around here.”
“Heather told me.” The man’s gift for understatement dazzled.
I took a temporary vow of silence. Men like Justin Ming were accustomed to women babbling nonsensically and drooling over their nicely tailored clothing. Silence upended the balance of power.
“Is it true?” he finally asked. “An accountant murdered Phaedra and tried to murder you as well?”
“So they say.”
He sighed. “You don’t sound convinced. Why don’t we meet somewhere and discuss it?”
Was I dreaming, or did menace lurk at the fringes of his message?
“No need. Mrs. Swann and I will be at the dojo tomorrow for our private lesson. We can sort things out then.” I opted for the spunky self-assurance of my literary idol Amelia Peabody. Justin Ming was attuned to every nuance, any hint of weakness. I had to project confidence.
“Of course.”
“Will you be teaching us?” I asked. Conversation with Justin Ming required the patience of ten vestal virgins.
“Yes. The master has other commitments.”
“Okay then. See you tomorrow.”
“Ms. Kane? Please understand that as your sifu, I am responsible for your welfare. I care about you as I do all of my students. Always remember to exercise caution. Phaedra was a skilled fighter, yet even she fell to an attacker.”
Justin Ming was up to something. His concern appeared genuine, but his warning chilled my soul.
I waited patiently for him to disengage the receiver and hang up.
It was a long time before I heard that comforting click and the deafening silence that accompanied it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WHEN DEMING CAME home, we lit a fire and spent a cozy evening listening to music and sipping wine. He did the wine sipping, actually. After the gimlet wars, I confined myself to Pellegrino and let the deep, sexy sounds of Michael McDonald soothe my spirit.