by Arlene Kay
I knew Justin’s weakness. We all have them, but his was based on kindness not malice. He traded pleasure for the funds of frivolous women who wanted more. He did so to sustain me and the dojo. It violated Shaolin Law, yet I could not condemn him.
Phaedra Jones was a predator, a temptress who found moral soft spots and burrowed in. She abused her fellow beings and entangled men in evil.
I too fell victim to her charms. For the first time ever, I was captive to the flesh, willing to sacrifice everything I believed in for her favors. I gladly gave my money and my heart and helped her with her schemes. She discarded me when I no longer served her and turned to Justin. She vowed to trap him, implicate him in scandal if he refused her advances.
That was why I killed her.
I feel no guilt, though you may judge me harshly. Either way, I am at peace.
Please share this with the authorities and anyone else you so choose.
Grand Master Avery Moore.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, and Anika dabbed her eyes with a tissue. She buried her head on Bolin’s shoulder and sobbed.
“We should have known,” Deming said. “It was the logical solution. The killer was conversant with the dojo, skilled in martial arts, and probably one of Phaedra’s victims. It makes sense.”
Bolin showed no emotion save for the tenderness toward his wife. “Avery Moore was an honorable man. He made a choice and took responsibility for it. I respect that.”
“Dad!” Deming said. “That’s why we have a legal system. Avery Moore should have exposed her and made Phaedra pay for her crimes.”
In the silence that followed, Bolin answered his son. “That’s exactly what happened. Phaedra chose that path and paid with her life. Avery did too. A different kind of justice but a satisfying end.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if justice or another master had been served.
WHEN WE MET with Euphemia Bates that next morning, I was dry-eyed and calm, aided by a soothing night in Deming’s arms. Mia listened without comment to my narrative and scrutinized Avery Moore’s dying declaration.
“We’ll verify the handwriting, of course,” she said, “but this puts paid to the murder of Phaedra Jones.” An impish grin transformed her face. “Men! I thought a spiritual being like Avery Moore was wiser than that. Just goes to show you.”
Deming folded his arms across his chest. “What about the autopsy results? Any news?”
“According to the medical examiner, our master died of natural causes. No obvious signs of trauma.” Mia’s eyes were depthless pools, impenetrable to outsiders. “Toxicology results are still pending.”
“You’re not satisfied, are you?” I didn’t expect an answer.
“I’m a cop, Eja, trained to be suspicious. Justin was a son to Master Moore, and most parents would shield their child at all costs.”
“It makes sense though,” I said. “Phaedra broke just about every Shaolin Law there is. At least this explains how she transported those gold bars.”
“I wonder . . . but I suspect we’ll never know for sure.” Mia stood and shook Deming’s hand. To my surprise, she bent down and kissed my cheek. “Best wishes on your marriage. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
AS OUR WEDDING grew near, Deming tackled the issue we had both avoided. We were comfortably settled in the home that I loved, CeCe’s home, now ours. Even Cato had opted for a temporary truce with Deming and his shins. His bachelor pad sold quickly to a childless power couple that reveled in urban life. That left only one issue unresolved.
“We need to talk about something,” Deming said. “I know it’s on your mind.”
“Really? Is mind reading part of your repertoire now?”
He lobbed a pillow at me and stood hands on hips. “This is serious. Stop fooling around.”
I gave a mock salute and faced him. “Yes sir, Counselor. Take your best shot.”
Deming patted the sofa cushion. “Come on, baby. Sit next to me. Please.”
My heartbeat quickened as I stepped his way. I loathed cowardice, especially when I was the coward in question. Better to confront the issue head-on.
“We discussed what to do about this place. Once we start a family, that is.” He raked his hand through that lush Swann hair. A sure sign of nerves.
“As I recall, we were miles apart. Discussion implies give and take.”
He gave me that blank, lawyerly look. “Let me finish, Eja. Anyway, I mentioned it to my dad, just kicking around ideas, nothing sneaky. He suggested something I think you’ll like. Naturally, he ran things by my mom too.”
A shiver quite unrelated to the outside temperature ran down my spine. Was this a Swann conspiracy? Was I the last one to know about issues affecting my life?
“Go on,” I said. “This sounds interesting.”
He pulled me close and kissed my hand. “Just listen for a change. Dad saw old Mr. Sullivan at some charity lunch, and they got talking.”
“Fergus Sullivan, my neighbor?”
“Yeah. Anyway, it seems that Mrs. S wants to split their time between Paris and Palm Beach. Better weather or something like that.”
“Okay.” I refused to make things easy for Deming. Let him suffer.
He swallowed hard and continued. “Bottom line, Dad made him an offer for his place—cash of course—and Sullivan accepted.”
Here’s where my brain fog started. Would Bolin and Anika be my new neighbors? I was dumbfounded, and for once, I had nothing to say.
“Don’t you get it? My parents are giving the place to us as our wedding present. Subject to your approval, naturally. There’ll be some renovations, probably a whole bunch of them. The Sullivans lived in that place for forty years, and you know how old people are. But that way we’ll have the entire floor to ourselves. Plenty of room and privacy for whatever comes our way.”
Eight thousand square feet was a hell of a lot of house, kids or no kids. It meant preserving CeCe’s space and adding a bunch more that was exclusively ours. Despite the inevitable construction and confusion, I liked the idea.
“There’s more,” Deming said. “Just one proviso. If we ever feel for whatever reason that we need a house, Mom and Dad will swap the one they live in for this one. That way, it will never leave the family.” He shrugged. “You know how they are about anything to do with Cecilia.”
I try to avoid sloppy sentimentality, but all rules have their limits. At that moment I felt CeCe’s presence more than ever. She was somewhere close, clapping vigorously and cheering us on.
Deming cracked his knuckles until I grabbed his hand.
“It’s not a good idea, it’s inspired! I love it Deming, and I love you. Thank you. There’s no better present I could ask for.”
We sat in front of the fireplace, toasting that bargain and our future life. One chapter had concluded, but the best remained unwritten.
The End
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Mantrap
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About the Author
Arlene Kay spent twenty years as a Senior Executive with the Federal Government where she was known as a most unconventional public servant. Experience in offices around the nation allowed her to observe both human and corporate foibles and rejoice in unintentional
humor.
Those locations and the characters she encountered are celebrated in a series of mysteries including Intrusion (2011) and Die Laughing (2012) both from Mainly Murder Press; The Abacus Prize (available now on Amazon); and the Boston Uncommons Mystery Series (Swann Dive; Mantrap; and Gilt Trip); now available from Bell Bridge Books. She is currently writing the fourth installment of the Boston Uncommons Series—Lookback.
Ms. Kay holds graduate degrees in Political Science and Constitutional Law.