Swann Dive

by Arlene Kay

  HE’D NEVER APPROVED of me. Even in grade school Deming cast malevolent glances my way whenever we met. That didn’t bother me since I’d always considered my best friend’s brother a Grade A prick. Maybe it was his smugness and air of casual superiority. He didn’t even have a nickname. How weird is that? CeCe used his middle name, calling him Brother Bjorn just to taunt him. I called him names that were unprintable.

  Deming Swann looked like a model crossed with a film star. Blonde Swedish mama and hot Eurasian dad—do the math. He’d spent his whole life hearing that from gaping, drooling females, and it showed. Even I appreciated his thick black hair and sculpted features, but male beauty aside, what little personality he had was unpleasant. He epitomized the strong silent type: a gym rat who was brusque to the point of rudeness. For CeCe’s sake we minimized hostilities and avoided each other, retreating behind a thin wall of civility. She’d always teased me about it, quoting a mangled version of Shakespeare. Believe me, if this lady protested too much, attraction had nothing to do with it. I’d spent the better part of thirty years loathing her brother.

  Things were different today. I flung myself into his arms and sobbed all over his Kiton suit. To his credit, Deming did the manly thing by producing a beautifully starched handkerchief and gently dabbing my tears.

  “It’s not true,” I babbled. “You know how she was, Deming. She wouldn’t even climb a stepladder. It must be a mistake.”

  He gazed down at me, grasping my arms. “It’s true, Eja. I just saw her body.” His voice broke. “My sister’s body. Go home and rest. I’ll handle everything.”

  It was tempting. So easy to bury my head in the covers and will away this nightmare. I raised my eyes to his and stopped in my tracks. Those eyes. He had her hazel eyes. Of course he did. They were siblings, fraternal twins, after all. Deming Bjorn Swann was the evil dark twin to her blond beauty. Seventy-four inches of pure menace. CeCe and Deming looked and acted nothing alike, except for those eyes. That was enough for me.

  I clung to him as he beckoned to Mia Bates. “Lieutenant, my parents asked me to act on behalf of our family. I’d like to see the security tapes and everything else connected with Cecilia’s death. Tomorrow, if possible.”

  Euphemia Bates wasn’t happy, but she bowed to higher powers: money and influence. That currency bought the same special treatment in Boston that it did in the rest of the world. She gave Deming a curt nod and checked her BlackBerry. “Ten a.m.?”

  “Thank you.” He turned, steering me toward the door. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  I waited to speak until we’d cleared the lobby. “Where are you going, Deming? You’re up to something. I know that look.”

  He’d always been arrogant. Deming Swann dusted off his impossibly fine suit coat and dismissed me. “Go home, Eja. This is a family matter.”

  My stubborn streak transcended my grief. He had eight inches and fifty pounds on me, but I had determination. I planted myself in his path, refusing to budge. “You’re right. I’m part of her family whether you like it or not. Deal with it, Deming.”

  He winced, and for once, I felt a twinge of compassion. He’d lost his sister after all. We should be consoling each other, not picking scabs.

  Deming eyed the doorman, who immediately sent a parking attendant scurrying for his Porsche. Employees anticipate the needs of people like the Swanns without ever hearing a word. They had something special, a look or gesture that communicated authority and privilege. CeCe wore it like a crown. That part of Swann magic had always eluded me, but it was alive and well in her brother.

  He opened the car door and spooned me into the soft leather seat. Deming was rife with contradictions, gentle or profoundly curt as the mood struck him.

  “I’m going with you,” I repeated, snapping my seat belt in place. “Don’t even think of stopping me. I know where you’re headed. If you dump me, I’ll tell Lieutenant Bates you destroyed evidence.”

  Deming wrenched the steering wheel to the right and edged into traffic. Emergency vehicles ringed the perimeter like metal sentries. All except one. The coroner’s van had vanished, along with the earthly remains of my friend.

  “You’re hysterical,” he growled. “I’m going directly home after I drop you off.”

  His face was impassive, harder to crack than Boolean logic.

  “No, you’re not.” I was calm now, almost tranquil. “You’re going to search CeCe’s flat. Wouldn’t want the cops to find anything embarrassing there, huh? I know all your moves. Let me help.”

  He stomped on the brake with such force that I strained against my shoulder harness. His frown joined the wrath of Ares with the pride of Narcissus. CeCe always joked that her goal in life was to separate Deming from his mirror.

  “You know nothing,” he hissed. “Stay out of this.”

  Horns blared as the Porsche remained splayed across the boulevard, blocking traffic. Deming mumbled several expletives before changing course. “Okay. Have it your way. We’ll both go there, though what you’re up to mystifies me.”

  I folded my hands in my lap like a perfect lady. “CeCe didn’t commit suicide. We both know that. She was buoyant, on top of the world. She’d always wanted to be a judge, even in grade school. Remember that little gavel she used to clobber you with?”

  Deming held out his right arm, traffic-cop style. “Hold on. What’s this judge stuff?”

  I could tell by his expression that he was serious. He really didn’t know. Had CeCe excluded her twin brother from the biggest coup of her career? I gingerly edged into the danger zone, hoping to soften the blow.

  “She just found out yesterday. Prescott Lewis . . .”

  “Lewis! What’s that scumbag up to?” Deming curled his lip in a particularly vile scowl that still looked rather sexy. “I told him to leave her alone.”

  I stared straight ahead, terrified of making a misstep. Prescott Lewis a scumbag? I doubted that the man even knew the term. He was the most white-bread guy imaginable; wouldn’t say excrement if he spread it on toast. The Lewis family was as close to Boston royalty as one could get short of disinterring a Cabot or a Lodge.

  “I’m waiting, Eja.” He swung the Porsche into a fire zone and turned off the engine.

  “Don’t threaten me. Apparently you and CeCe didn’t share everything, did you? She’d been nominated for the bench. Federal. At least, they planned to nominate her. What’s more, CeCe was in love. Seriously in love. She said so.”

  Deming’s smooth golden skin paled. “No. She would have told me.” He toyed with his car keys. “Truth is, we weren’t on the best of terms lately. If Prescott Lewis was involved that explains everything. We quarreled about him. Bitterly.”

  My curiosity was at the boiling point, but I buttoned my lip. Maybe he’d explain later, when the shock wore off. Deming unleashed the horses in that monster motor and veered into the fast lane. His eyes looked vacant, unfocused, as if he were on autopilot. By violating every traffic ordinance in Boston, he got us to Beacon Street in five minutes flat. Naturally, a toady with a specious smile appeared the moment we reached CeCe’s building.

  “Watch this for me, will you, Brendan?” Deming slipped the attendant a bill and hauled me out of the Porsche.

  Boston has plenty of august buildings, and the Tudor was right up there with the best of them. Just looking at it always inspired awe in me. Everything I lusted for and aspired to in a sanctuary was there: beautiful moldings, high ceilings, and location, location, location. CeCe loved it. Told me I’d have to kill her to get it. My eyes filled as I saw the French writing desk silhouetted in her second-story window, the bronze lamp switched on to illuminate its fruitwood curves. Mrs. Grey, her housekeeper, would have come and gone by now, oblivious to the tragedy.

  “I’ll find the concierge and get a key,” Deming said, nodding to the doorman.

 
“No need.” I dug into my bag and found CeCe’s key ring. Like everything she owned, it was elegant, an elaborate hunk of sterling with her initials entwined.

  “How’d you get that?” Deming asked. “She never gave me a key. Didn’t trust her twin brother.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “She said you were closer to her than any sister. I guess that proves it.”

  “Sounds more like typical sibling stuff. You were always protective of her, Deming. It’s a wonder she ever had a boyfriend with you glowering at any guy who gave her a second look.”

  He brushed back a wing of black hair and sighed. “I tried, especially after that fortune hunter conned her into eloping. Looks like I failed, doesn’t it?” He hustled me through the lobby into the mirrored elevator and stabbed the button. “My sister had horrible luck with men, but she kept hoping. Too bad she never found Prince Charming.”

  I’d forgotten CeCe’s ill-fated marriage. It didn’t last long—just long enough to break her heart. He was a charming cad who boasted an excellent game of tennis and enough blarney to co-opt the Eastern Seaboard. Young Cecilia Swann was mesmerized, swept up in the fantasy of love. Before anyone realized the danger, my friend said, “I do” in a sleazy Las Vegas wedding chapel staffed by Elvis impersonators. Fortunately, when confronted by the full force of the Swann legal team, her erstwhile spouse caved quickly. CeCe was only seventeen; he was thirty-seven with two ex-wives and a trio of children for whom he owed child support. A quiet annulment ended the escapade, and CeCe never mentioned him again—even to me.

  We sped down quiet corridors redolent with fifty years of glitz and glory. Each floor in the Tudor contained only two apartments, or residences, as they were termed. Sixteen lucky owners kept the surroundings pristine and private. Most of the other tenants were older, retirees or well-established married couples who shared but one common factor—enormous wealth.

  My hands shook as I inserted the key. Damn Medeco locks! Keep out everyone, including the owners!

  “May I? These things are tricky.” Deming opened the door with one deft twist.

  Immediately, a flood of memories assailed me: the French room scent, the art deco sculpture in her foyer, and the unearthly shriek emanating from Cato. Without warning, the irascible spaniel bared his teeth, charged, and attacked Deming’s shin.

  “Fuck! Cut it out, you little bastard!” Deming shook Cato off and grabbed him by the collar. “He’s always hated me. My sister thought it was hilarious.”

  “You’re not alone,” I said. “Cato hates everyone. Except CeCe, of course.” I’d learned from experience that bribes were the only way to Cato’s heart. I reached into a Chinese ginger jar, found a biscuit, and pitched it down the hallway. “Here. Go enjoy yourself.”

  Deming inspected his cuffs and shrugged. “That mutt is S.O.L. now. Back to the pound for him.”

  “What?”

  “He’s toast. No one with any sense will have him. I’ll take him over to the shelter myself tomorrow, bright and early. That’s one trip I’ll actually enjoy.”

  Reality hit me like a sledgehammer. She wasn’t coming back. Ever. My best friend since childhood was gone, and I’d never see her again. “I’ll take him,” I said without thinking. “CeCe would want that. For some reason, she loved Cato. Said he was the only man she could count on.”

  To my horror, I started sobbing and couldn’t stop. Deming looked about helplessly then headed straight for the wet bar. I glanced up to find a tumbler of Hennessy Ellipse coming my way.

  “Here. Drink this. I’ll join you.” He swirled the golden liquid in his glass. “I’m the one who started her on cognac, you know. Our dad’s a champagne man. Nothing but Krug for him. Mom’s even worse, almost a teetotaler.”

  I took long, slow sips of my drink. Anything to quell my tears and stave off the inevitable hiccups. The taste of cognac had never appealed to me, but I loved the deep, rich color. It was warm and comforting, two qualities I badly needed now.

  “Funny,” Deming said. “Your eyes are the color of this cognac. Caramel. Hmmph. Never noticed it before.” He seemed astounded that I even had eyes. After taking a vigorous sip, he shook off sentiment like Cato shed fleas. “Let’s drink a toast to my sister, shall we?” He waved an album my way that was stuffed with photos. “This was her memory book. That’s what she called it. Most of her photos are in here. The ones she cared about anyway. I think it’s appropriate to see them, reminisce a bit. Cecilia was sentimental. She’d like that. Then we’ll get down to business.”

  Three

  “LET’S GET ON with it,” Deming said. “Maybe we’ll see this mystery man you mentioned.” He turned away from me before I could protest.

  “Wait a damn minute!” I wedged myself next to him on the couch. “Haven’t you ever heard of sharing? Two heads are better than one, you know.”

  “Humph. Depends on whose head you’re talking about. Anyway, Swanns don’t share.”

  I caught a ghost of a smile on that handsome face. He’d always enjoyed a good joke at my expense, but no matter. His opinion of me was irrelevant. I was only there for CeCe.

  “What if the cops show up?” I asked. “They’ll confiscate everything that’s even remotely suspicious.”

  Deming shrugged. “Unlikely. That lieutenant”—he checked her card—“Bates, Euphemia Bates. Anyway, she’s convinced that Cecilia killed herself. They don’t waste resources searching the home of a suicide.”

  “CeCe’s a Swann, not some anonymous statistic. That name means something, buddy boy, and from what I saw, Mia Bates is nobody’s fool. She’ll cover all the bases.”

  Deming paused, looking uncertain, curiously vulnerable and almost mortal.

  “We can take things over to my place,” I offered. “That way they’ll be safe.”

  “I suppose that’s okay. After we meet with her tomorrow I can always come back and finish up. Gather up the photos and anything you see on her desk while I find a bag. She must have something we can use.”

  “Try her closet,” I said, as he stood frozen in place. “Never mind, I’ll do it.”

  CeCe was a connoisseur of every upscale tote, handbag, and luggage brand in existence. I found two large Bottega Veneta satchels in her closet and began stuffing them with loot.

  “A little help,” I snapped at Deming. Cognac had made me feisty and left him lethargic. He resembled a cold, bloodless sculpture straight from the Louvre.

  We filled both bags with photos, correspondence, and anything portable. I shrugged off any misgivings I might have had about invasion of privacy by using the greater good theory. We might find something, some clue only we could decipher that would lead to CeCe’s murderer. She’d understand. Hell, she would lead the charge if she could. Better us than some brash policeman who neither knew CeCe nor cared. We loved her and always would.

  Deming lugged the totes to the elevator while I corralled Cato. His lead and potty bags were neatly arrayed in the utility closet along with toys and kibble. Seeing them made me ache even more for my friend and the void in my life. She inhabited this space so fully that I could almost touch her. If only that were possible.

  I trussed Cato up in his harness, tiptoed out the door, and joined Deming at the elevator.

  “What if Jaime sees us taking this stuff?” I asked him. “The cops always ask the concierge about anything suspicious.”

  Deming snorted. “That guy will only see the hundred bucks I hand him, believe you me. He knows which side his bread is buttered on.” He pressed the button and moved out of range of Cato’s teeth.

  Sure enough, Jaime was so busy bowing and scraping to imperious Mr. Swann that he was oblivious to everything else.

  After we stowed the bags I lifted Cato into the back seat.

  “That mutt better behave if he knows what’s good for him,” Deming growled. “One tooth mark on that seat, an
d he’s history.”

  We sped through Back Bay, the nation’s most elegant landfill, aided by a temporary lull in traffic. My condo building lay in the shadow of the soaring Prudential Tower bracketed by other anonymous, featureless structures of similar design.

  “Where’s your garage opener?” Deming asked.

  “Nowhere. I don’t have a car, remember? No need to pay for a space.” I pointed upward. “You’ll have to park in the Prudential garage. That’s safe enough. Pricy, though.”

  He dropped off Cato and me and zoomed away in a cloud of dust. My shoebox condo was only 800 square feet—closet size for a Swann but a cozy nest to me. It was the one tangible relict of my marriage complete with a whopping mortgage. By using CeCe’s decorating tips, I’d managed to transform a mundane space into a chic pied-a-terre. I was proud of it.

  I watched Deming closely while he surveyed the place, looking for even a hint of condescension. To my surprise he nodded briskly.

  “Not bad. Small, but serviceable. It suits you.”

  “Thanks. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to drink but Pellegrino.”

  He reached into a satchel and produced his answer. “Don’t worry. I brought the Hennessy with me. Just in case.”

  “I guess we might as well get started.” I unpacked the first satchel and spread the photos in CeCe’s memory book on my coffee table.

  “Do you believe this?” Deming fumed. “She had a regular rogues’ gallery here.” He shuffled and dealt photos as if they were playing cards. The first face I saw was my least favorite person, Jem Russell, in quite a memorable shot. He sported a thick mustache, toothy grin, and a barely-there pair of bulging Speedos.

  “Ugh! Gross! CeCe destroyed all his pictures,” I said. “We even had a special ceremony. I watched her burn them.”

  “Apparently not.” Deming gritted his teeth as he turned over the photo. “This thing is dated last month. They must have reconnected.”

  I thought about CeCe’s threat to bring Jem to brunch. She was teasing. Had to be. On the other hand, that Speedo bulge was rather impressive, especially on cold, lonely nights when the urge struck.