by Arlene Kay
I felt better after that dab of introspection. The next time we met, I’d shake Deming’s hand as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe it hadn’t. Things would get back to normal soon enough, and our nights of passion would fade to black. I cursed myself for ever thinking otherwise.
Eleven
I PROMISED CATO that after one more turn around the Common we’d pack up and catch a cab for my place. Deming had no key to my apartment, probably sneered with Pam at its compact size and downscale location. No matter. It suited me, and Cato seemed to like it just fine. That’s all that mattered.
My cell phone rang as we headed toward the lobby. Despite the sensible self-talk, my heartbeat skyrocketed. Maybe it was only business. Maybe he did love me . . . Maybe I’m a credulous fool.
“Eja—what’s up?” Jem Russell’s voice was loud enough to evacuate the building. He was proud of it, once said he had stage presence.
“Nothing. What’s going on with you?” Haven’t they arrested you yet?
“We need to talk.”
“Kind of busy right now, Jem. Have to get dressed and take Cato back to my place.”
“I’ll help. Are you at CeCe’s?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Wait outside for me.”
Shit, hell, damn! Vulgar language is the refuge of the intellectually bereft. I’ve said that many times, but today I just couldn’t catch a break. I’d earned the right to wallow in Anglo-Saxon expletives.
Jem’s call intrigued me. Who knew what that simpleton might disclose? If I wormed some information out of him, it was worth the inconvenience. There was also an added bonus: It would drive Deming mad when he found out. I plunged into CeCe’s luxurious shower, lathered up with honey cream, and did my daily minimum. After plundering her makeup and closet, I managed to make myself look human again.
Deming’s words rang in my head. You’re beautiful. Don’t you own a mirror? I took a chance and peered warily into CeCe’s looking glass. Typical of her, it had special bulbs and merciless lighting. I didn’t look too bad. Not beautiful by a long shot, but passable, good enough for the likes of deadbeat Jem Russell.
Anika called as I was rushing out the door. Her voice was hushed, as if she were whispering.
“It’s me, Eja.”
“Is everything okay, Anika? Isn’t Prescott there yet?’
She lowered her voice even more. “He’s on his way. I don’t want Po to hear me, or Bolin. Listen, can you meet me this afternoon at Dr. Townsend’s office?”
“Of course, but . . .”
“Great. See you at three.”
I’d always believed that Anika was key to finding the murderer. Wesley Townsend could easily rebuff me with secrets and self-serving lies, but he couldn’t turn away a grieving mother, especially a former patient. I had plenty to ask him about his billing practices and CeCe’s acrophobia.
When we reached the lobby, Jaime was waiting, shifting from side to side, his eyes bright with excitement. He dodged Cato and beckoned to me.
“Miss Eja, he’s waiting for you. Outside.”
“Who?”
“Miss Cecilia’s friend. The one who was just here.”
I resisted the urge to grab his collar and shake him senseless. “Oh. You mean Mr. Russell? You saw him recently, Jaime?”
“Oh, yes. The day Miss Cecilia . . . the day she died. That morning.”
My pulse throbbed like a castanet. Cato sensed the drama and growled.
“You said you didn’t work that day. How could you have seen him?”
Jaime hung his head like a penitent. “I wasn’t. I stopped by first thing to get my check. Thought I’d lost it.”
I remembered the security tape from Jem’s building. CeCe entered at 8:30 that morning. If Jaime was correct, Jem had seen her much earlier, or more likely, had spent the prior night with her. Suppose CeCe had refused his plea for money? That gave him a compelling reason to push her off the rooftop. Jem was volatile, quick to anger and forgive, like a petulant child. He was also cagey enough to omit any details that might incriminate him. Plenty of women would provide an alibi. Foolish females abound.
I patted Jaime’s arm. “You’ve been a big help. Make sure you contact Lieutenant Bates and tell her what you saw. I know the Swann family will be very grateful.”
Jaime’s eyes brightened as he contemplated the type of gratitude that implied. I grabbed Cato and hustled out the door, more eager than ever to confront Jem Russell.
He was parked on the corner in a splashy red vehicle they call a muscle car. My uncle had owned a similar one, a Camaro Z28. I’d seen pictures of him polishing that beast, grinning with a teenager’s optimism. When he died, fresh out of college on foreign soil, my grandmother couldn’t bear the sight of it. She’d sold that car and destroyed every trace of it except some photographs.
“Wow! That’s some car,” I said. Cato sniffed suspiciously at the tires and then decorated them.
The grin never left Jem’s face. “Yeah, she’s a sweet ride. Restored it myself. Every part.”
“Sure it’s okay for Cato to get in? We can catch a cab.”
Jem opened the door and waved us in. “Don’t sweat it. CeCe brought him with her all the time. She took that mutt everywhere.”
His manner was subdued, and that made me suspicious.
“Turn left at the light,” I said. “I’ll direct you from there.”
His reaction was swift. For a moment, Jem dropped the genial mask he habitually wore. “Don’t bother. I know where you live, Eja. Thought we’d take a little ride first.”
I forced myself to remain calm. Jem Russell was an irresponsible cad but not necessarily a murderer. I glanced out the window, hoping to see a patrol car, fire engine, or even an ambulance. My deliverance came in the form of a phone call. I grasped my phone as if it were a lifeline. It may very well have been.
“Where are you?” Deming barked. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“Nice to know,” I said. “Jem was kind enough to offer Cato and me a ride home. We’re with him now.”
Deming’s answer was crude, ungentlemanly, and very reassuring. “I told you not to get mixed up with him. Don’t let him into your apartment. I’ll be right over.”
I raised my arms helplessly and plastered a big faux smile on my face. “Change of plans, Jem. Deming wants me to go right home. He’s on his way, and you know how excitable he is.”
Jem Russell was physically strong but feckless. He had the skills to challenge Deming but not the will. Without saying another word, he swung his muscle car around and headed toward my condo. His weakness fed my spirit. I felt empowered, bold, and sassy.
“You lied to us, Jem. You saw CeCe the day she died.”
He curled his lip in a bad imitation of an Elvis sneer. “Prove it.”
“I don’t have to. It’s on the security tapes from CeCe’s condo. What’d you do, spend the night with her?” My building was in sight. That pumped even more courage into my veins. “She said no, didn’t she? Turned off that financial spigot.”
To his credit, Jem kept his face an unreadable mask. I reached into my purse for the super sharp tweezers I always carry. They’re hell on stray hairs and anything else in their path. If he grabbed me, he’d get more than he bargained for.
Jem braked at the stoplight and turned toward me. “Listen, Eja, you got it all wrong. CeCe liked my idea. Said it had potential. She told me to whip up a business plan and meet her at that bar.” He shrugged. “I made it, but she never showed.”
Surprise, surprise. I believed the big lug. Still, I’m old school. “Trust but verify” always works for me. As he swung into my driveway, I summoned my iciest stare.
“Email me a copy of that business plan,” I said. “Then we�
�ll talk. Otherwise, my next chat will be with Lieutenant Bates.”
I DOUBLE-LOCKED my condo door and switched on every light in the place. CeCe would have called it paranoid yet the facts spoke for themselves: Someone had murdered my friend, and Jem Russell might well be the guy.
Moments later, Deming pounded at my door. It was barely eleven o’clock, and I hadn’t even caught my breath. The forthcoming session with Anika and the shrink weighed heavily on my mind. I needed time to compose myself, but I knew he’d batter down the door if I ignored him.
Deming swept into my hallway like a new age angel, all glistening ebony locks and superb tailoring. Apparently his nine a.m. business meeting had only been a quickie. I got a perverse satisfaction out of that.
“Where is he?” Deming barked. “Are you okay?”
“Jem’s gone.” My voice was a bit shaky, but I breathed deeply and soldiered on. “He had me worried though.”
He was at my side in three quick steps, glowering down at me. “I told you not to go near him. What’s wrong with you? Are you some kind of adrenaline junkie? Do you have a death wish?”
I grimaced and turned my face away from him. A man who played Don Juan had no right to give me orders. Who knew how many females the great Deming Swann had in his thrall? One less wouldn’t matter a bit.
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Jem insisted on giving us a ride, and I thought . . . that is I hoped . . . to trick him. You know, a damaging admission.”
“Fuck! Do you think you’re Nancy Drew or something? This isn’t one of your mystery stories. My sister’s dead. Don’t you get it?”
I expected fireworks when I told him what Jaime had seen. True to form, Deming exploded. “I told you! I knew that scumbag killed my sister. Wait ’til Dad finds out!”
Until CeCe’s death, I’d never seen the volatile side of her brother. He’d always played the aristocrat—cold, dispassionate, and arrogant. CeCe laughed when I’d told her that. “You don’t have a clue about Brother Bjorn,” she’d said. Naturally a sister’s perspective differed wildly from an outsider’s. My immediate goal was to calm him down and shove him out the door before he bulldozed my session with his mother.
“See if Jem produces that business plan,” I said. “Admittedly he’s a sociopath, but I think he cared about CeCe. In his way.”
Deming snorted something unpronounceable. “I want you to stay put until we figure that stuff out. Dad called a meeting for six tonight. With all that went on today we’ll have plenty to discuss. I’ll pick you up at five thirty.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll meet you there. I’ve got things to do.”
He clenched his fists as if anger had curdled into full-blown rage. “Don’t do this, Eja. Please. The cops are indifferent, Dad’s unavailable, and my mom floats around the house like a wraith. It’s been almost four days.” Deming closed his eyes. “They say the first forty-eight hours are the most critical. After that, the chances of catching anyone are close to zero.”
This was something new for him—helplessness. Most of us learn to live with it, but Swanns are accustomed to controlling people and events. CeCe would have winked at me, glad that even Deming must occasionally feel mortal.
It should have pleased me to see him humbled, but that didn’t happen. I kept my arms at my side, afraid that I’d reach out to comfort him. Touching Deming had become a habit, one that grew harder to break each time we were together. He wasn’t serious about me, he couldn’t be. He was merely seeking comfort in the first available set of arms. I’m the one who sizzled when he touched me and dreamed of what might be. He was the brother devastated by loss who clung to his sister’s best friend until the horrors receded.
“Promise me you’ll be careful.” Deming blinded me with his glance.
I retreated to the safety of my old persona—calm, sensible Eja, truth-seeking missile and family friend.
“What about her work life?” I asked him. “Did Pamela have any ideas?”
His cheeks flushed with emotion—anger or embarrassment—I couldn’t tell.
“I really didn’t have a chance to question her,” he said.
I fussed with my shoelace to hide my confusion. From personal experience, I knew that Deming got right down to business where lovemaking was concerned. Maybe Pamela demanded more foreplay.
“I suppose the cops have already sealed CeCe’s office.”
He nodded. “It got testy. You know, privacy of client files, that kind of stuff. As I understand it, Cecilia was working on some fairly important cases. Of course, she would have handed them over if that federal appointment came through.”
“Of course.” I edged a safe distance away from him, far enough to break the spell.
Deming rose slowly, gathered up his things, and headed toward the door. “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay.”
If he left now, I had just enough time to make myself presentable and research Dr. Wesley Townsend before our meeting. No sense in glamming it up. Anika would laser in on any changes in my person or behavior and draw her own conclusions. Lately I’d detected a certain amusement in her eyes whenever Deming and I were in the same room.
It was easy in the old days when we were enemies and I was my nondescript, asexual self. I’d never felt awkward with him then. True, our conversations were often heated and always acerbic, but they were comfortable. Sort of like a worn pair of sheepskin slippers. I was out of practice navigating the twisted corridors of the male mind without CeCe as my spirit guide. On my best day the bar was set low. Without my friend, it was non-existent.
I stroked Cato’s silky coat as a diversion. “See you then.”
Deming nodded briskly and marched through my door without another word.
WESLEY TOWNSEND’S office was comfortably situated in the middle of a shady Beacon Street neighborhood only blocks away from the Tudor. Small wonder that CeCe found it so tempting to nip in to see the good doctor whenever her demons surfaced.
I’d never consulted a shrink. In fact, I’d never even considered paying someone an exorbitant fee to tell me what I already knew. Chalk it up to my middle-class roots. CeCe couldn’t believe it. Everyone in her social set had a therapist on speed dial. Only dull, sensible Eja plodded through life doing the best she could.
Researching Dr. Wesley Townsend wasn’t easy. I tried the Boston Medical Society website, even scanned Angie’s List and Yelp, hoping to find something—anything—to substantiate CeCe’s feelings about him. I learned that no malpractice claims had been made against him in the past twelve months. Of course, anything that had been settled informally wouldn’t show up anyway. The only hint of trouble surfaced in the Boston magazine “Top Docs” section. Townsend had been a fixture on the list for years. Curiously enough, his name had been omitted the last two years. Maybe it meant nothing. After all, they must maintain a Shrink Emeritus list somewhere. Maybe I was boxing with shadows.
I stumbled into the corner Starbucks, guided by a thirst for caffeine and Anika’s frantic waves. She looked wan despite her impeccable attire and perfectly painted face. No wonder Deming called her a wraith.
“Oh, Eja, thank heavens you made it.” She clasped my hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. As our fingers touched, I jerked away. Anika’s grip was frigid, encapsulated in ice.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Your hands . . .”
“Just fine.” Her eyes acknowledged the lie on her lips. “It’s just . . . I feel so distraught every time I come in here.” She shook her head. “It makes no sense. I know. Wesley cured me when all those nicotine patches and shots didn’t help at all. Bolin was ecstatic.”
She took a healthy swig of espresso. “Don’t mind me. We’re here for Cecilia. It’s just that I was never comfortable with hypnosis. The loss of control, you know.”
“Wha
t about Dr. Townsend? Do you like him?”
Anika shrugged. “He’s okay. Insincere. Somewhat obsequious. You know the type.”
“CeCe wasn’t his biggest fan,” I said. “I guess Mr. Swann . . . Bolin . . . told you about this billing issue?”
“Yes. Very curious. Cecilia loved spending money, but she was tight as a tick about getting value. She’d never pay someone unless she was satisfied with him.”
“I might introduce that into our conversation. Think it’ll work?”
Anika flashed that complacent smile only a beautiful woman can manage. “Bolin says Wesley likes me. Too much in his opinion. That’s why I didn’t mention this visit to him. Why complicate things when it can work for us? Let me broach the subject.”
She pushed back her chair and winked. “Ready?”
Twelve
SOME COLORS HAVE the power to soothe. In the sixth-floor office of Dr. Wesley Townsend tranquil pastels were king. Baby blue, mint green, and cream predominated in both paint and upholstered pieces. The color scheme repeated itself in the tropical fish swimming calmly through the large tank and in the tasteful mauve suit of the receptionist. If I hadn’t been anxious, I would have taken a snooze.
The doctor himself ushered us into his office. He embraced Anika and shook my hand, looking all the while like a bereaved healer. There was nothing wrong with his appearance either. Wesley Townsend was a middle-aged white man who had the whole tall, dark, and distinguished thing down pat. He was practiced at his art, full of gentle touches and soft words that emitted a faint whiff of insincerity.
Anika explained my role as CeCe’s best friend and biographer. Then in a daring lie that took my breath away, she added that I was also her future daughter-in-law.
“How wonderful,” Wesley said, displaying perfect teeth. “I understand you want to talk about Cecilia.”
While Anika dabbed at her eyes, I jumped in. “We told the police about CeCe’s acrophobia, doctor. There’s no way she would have jumped off that roof. It’s impossible!”