Swann Dive

by Arlene Kay

  He tut-tutted and cast a wary eye on Anika. “Nothing I knew suggested that Cecilia was suicidal. She seemed in very high spirits, other than some issues at work.”

  “When did you last see her?” Anika asked, turning those hazel orbs his way. “I know how much she relied upon you.”

  “Whew!” He ran manicured fingers through his razor cut. “I’d have to check my files, Anika, but it was a while ago. Cecilia was very strong-willed, as you know. She’d decided to tough things out without professional help.”

  Wesley Townsend favored us with a practiced smile and sighed. “She was something special, your daughter.”

  “You’re so right, Doctor. CeCe told me just the other day that it was still a big issue. Her thing with heights, I mean.” I shrugged. “We told the police, but they disregarded it.”

  Right on cue, Anika stifled a sob. “I knew you’d understand, Wesley. Bolin always mentions your kindness.”

  Bolin Swann’s name worked like a cattle prod. Townsend’s leg twitched as he shifted in his seat. “Of course. Anything I can do.”

  Anika plucked a Hermes notepad from her bag. “We’ve been sorting through Cecilia’s things, Eja and I. It’s very difficult . . .” No need for acting; her tears were genuine. “Anyway, I found something puzzling. My daughter wrote checks to you for the past three years, even though she said she’d stopped treatment.” Anika shook her head. “I can’t make heads or tails of it, but Bolin’s counting on me.”

  I watched his reaction through lowered eyes. Townsend was cool under pressure, but human enough to show discomfort. Was it guilt or confusion?

  “Some of my patients keep secrets, Anika. Even from their mothers. Anyhow, I don’t deal with the finances. That’s Brenda’s job.” He rose and put his arm around her. “Ms. Kane, could you give us a minute? I need some time alone with Mrs. Swann.”

  After Anika nodded, I left for the reception area. The lady in mauve, who wore a discreet nametag with Brenda on it, glanced up immediately. She was slim, impeccably groomed, and on the sunny side of forty. Her large chestnut eyes radiated intelligence and empathy, making her a perfect choice to calm the roiled seas of shrinkdom. I sensed a kindred spirit.

  “I’m so sorry about Ms. Swann,” she said. “She was different from most of our patients—very in charge but charming. So charming. Stylish too. Her purses were to die for, especially that Hermes one.” Brenda sighed. “Mine are fakes from street vendors.”

  CeCe’s fixation with fine leather was the stuff of legend. My heart lurched as I pictured her strutting around her condo, savoring her treasures. “Lawyers can be quite challenging, I guess. All that confrontation.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes. “Amen. My sister works with them every day. You should hear the stories she tells.”

  I tested my hypothesis. “What did you think of her new hair color? Personally, I loathed it, but you know CeCe. So bold.”

  Brenda frowned. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t Ms. Swann a natural blonde? Why would she change? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”

  I laughed. “She must have come in on your day off. You see so many people, I’m not surprised that you’d overlook something like that.”

  “Not likely.” Brenda’s tone was emphatic. “I’m here every day. She spoke with the doctor quite regularly but not in person. Not here.”

  Brenda had no reason to lie. None that I could think of. We’d learned nothing that explained why my razor-sharp pal had paid Dr. Freud a small fortune for phantom sessions. The checks I saw were endorsed by him and cashed immediately. Hardly uncommon, not illegal, but somehow suspicious. Unless, of course, he was Raven. The missing money might constitute love offerings to her fiancé.

  “Must be kind of fun. I mean, working with a doctor who’s so cultured. A regular renaissance man! Poetry and all. I’m a writer, and I appreciate a man like that.”

  She was accustomed to crazies, so Brenda didn’t challenge me. Not outright. “Dr. Townsend is a very smart man. But poetry? No way. He’s more the medical journal type.”

  My people skills are sound. They told me that Brenda was nobody’s fool.

  “She didn’t do it, you know. Kill herself, I mean.” I approached her desk and whispered. “Someone lured my friend to that rooftop, and I won’t rest until I find him. Or her.”

  Brenda’s gaze was calm and untroubled. “Good. I never believed that girl would harm herself, no matter what anyone said.”

  I handed her my card.

  “Ah, you’re a writer. How nice.” She must have been one hell of a poker player. Her expression was smooth as steel and equally impenetrable.

  This was an opportunity I didn’t intend to waste.

  “I’m creating a tribute for the family. You know, a memoir of Cecilia. If you think of anything—anything at all—give me a call.”

  Brenda nodded. When the doctor’s doors swung open, she was busily tapping her computer keys, and my card had magically disappeared.

  Anika’s pale face and grim expression worried me. I nudged her toward the elevator, wincing as she gripped my arm in a vise.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  We were wedged in a space crammed with office workers thirsting for freedom and that first evening cocktail. Neither one of us said a word until we’d cleared the building and found a table in Starbucks.

  I checked my watch. “That meeting’s at six. We don’t have much time.”

  She laughed. “I told Bolin we were going shopping. You know, girl stuff. He won’t expect us ’til then. He needed to chill out anyway. Our session with Prescott made him crazy.” She put her finger to my lips before I could ask. “We’ll discuss that tonight. Let the boys have the stage.”

  It sounded way too flippant. Shopping after a horrific murder—your daughter’s murder? Who does that? Was this some bizarre palliative of the uber-rich?

  “We have no packages. He’ll know something’s up.”

  “Eja, Eja. No one carries packages anymore. It’s tiring and attracts muggers. Bolin knows I have things sent home.” Anika grabbed my arm again. The woman was far stronger than she looked. Sneakier too.

  “Something happened with Wesley. He tried to hypnotize me again. To relax me, or so he said. It didn’t work, mostly because he was so distraught. Our questions about Cecilia really shook him.”

  I closed my eyes, replaying the scene at his office. Dr. Wesley Townsend was a piece of statuary until I mentioned money. For some reason that spooked him. Medical practices get in trouble all the time for overbilling insurance companies or Medicare, but neither category fit the Swanns. Plus, CeCe was paying him for sessions she’d never had. Brenda was certain about that, and I believed her. Moreover, the checks weren’t made out to the practice. They were personal checks made to and endorsed by Wesley Townsend. It was weird, as if CeCe were paying hush money or blackmail. Had her shrink been blackmailing her?

  “He’s pretty free with that hypnosis, isn’t he?”

  Anika laughed. “He’s had great results with it. Of course, my daughter absolutely refused. That’s why Wesley called her a difficult patient. I agreed to almost anything he suggested. Not CeCe.”

  I sipped my latte while Anika shared more memories of my friend. She rambled a bit, but I didn’t mind. It was good therapy for both of us. When I heard Pamela Schwartz mentioned, I almost spilled my drink.

  “What’s the story with Pam?” I asked. “Deming wouldn’t tell me much. I know for a fact that she was no favorite of CeCe’s.”

  There was that enigmatic smile again. Anika crossed her elegant legs and wagged her finger at me. “You know Dem. So secretive, especially about his social life.”

  I felt that full body flush. Maybe Dr. Jake was right. Deming was in love with her and too ashamed to admit it. My boon companion, that mile-wide streak of masochism, asser
ted itself. I had to know, no matter what the cost.

  “Are they . . . involved? CeCe never mentioned it.” I dove into my purse for a tissue. Anything to avoid her probing stare.

  “My son is like catnip to women, Eja. Always has been. All ages, colors, and types throw themselves at him, and most are really nice. I pity them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because inevitably, he’ll leave and break their hearts. Deming has never been in love, or at least, he’s never acknowledged it. I’m his mother. Trust me, I’d know.”

  I felt deflated, like a punctured, rimless tire. What made me think for even one minute that he cared for me? No matter. My loyalty was to CeCe. I’d do whatever it took to help, then slowly disengage from the Swanns. All of them. It made sense in a sick, gut-wrenching sort of way and would spare me pain in the long run. If I avoided him, the ache would subside.

  “We need to check out CeCe’s workplace,” I said. “Deming wasn’t keen on the idea, but you and I could pull it off. You know, chat up the office staff. Speak with her colleagues. I’ll pretend I’m writing that memoir about her. You can give me cover.”

  “Okay,” Anika said. “I’m in. It makes me feel less impotent. Like I’m doing something to help my daughter.” She gathered her purse and rose. “But Eja. Keep this between the two of us. Bolin and Deming mean well, but . . . you know men. So emotional.”

  THEY WERE WAITING for us when we arrived: Deming, prowling around the room with a brandy snifter, Jake Harris hunched over a computer, and Bolin paging through The Wall Street Journal.

  “It’s about time! Where were you two?” Deming whirled around, scowling as if I were the sole culprit.

  His mother patted his cheek and kicked off her shoes. “Sorry. Time got away from us, you know.” She walked over to her husband and hugged him. “I could use a drink, darling. Eja looks thirsty too.”

  Bolin’s arms clutched his wife’s side. “Everything okay, Leda? I was worried.”

  “You never said you were meeting my mother.” Deming shot hazel daggers at me.

  “Didn’t I?”

  Jake Harris put down his paper, watching the verbal gymnastics. “Can we discuss your meeting with the senator? I’m anxious to hear what he said.”

  “We can do better than that,” Bolin said. “The whole thing was recorded.” He pressed a button, summoning Po. “Our security system is state of the art, but I normally wouldn’t infringe on anyone’s privacy.”

  Deming growled. “Nothing about this situation is normal. Let’s see it.”

  We sat facing the giant plasma screen as Po inserted the disc and doused the lights. Bolin was right—everything was state of the art. The Swanns welcomed their distinguished visitor and observed the usual proprieties. Senator Prescott Lewis had bearing, looks, and a voice that any casting director would covet. When he said CeCe’s name, he hung his head and gulped. Either his grief was genuine, or he was the most jaded sociopath on the planet. I favored the former explanation. Whenever I’d seen him with CeCe at some social event or political rally, he’d shown a tenderness toward her that defied a simple explanation. I knew for a fact what Deming only suspected: Prescott Lewis had once been her lover. CeCe had shown the bloodless Brahmin a vivid slice of life that was foreign to him. Passion, both emotional and erotic, soon enslaved him. He offered everything—his name, fortune, and future, but it hadn’t been enough. CeCe set him free and reclaimed her life without losing a step. Prescott loved her, but he wasn’t Raven. His mind was too conventional for poetry. That didn’t get him off the hook though. He might have traded obsession for murderous rage.

  When Anika slipped the Raven word into the conversation, Prescott looked more blank than usual. His reaction seemed genuine, but he was a politician, cunning enough to lie whenever it served his purpose.

  “You’d mentioned a federal appointment for my daughter.” Bolin’s patrician features were granite smooth. “That was kind of you, Prescott, but wasn’t it premature? Cecilia was just thirty-three.”

  Prescott fingered a shock of steel grey hair. “Just what we needed on the bench. Youth, enthusiasm—she had both. We looked at others. In her own firm even, but no one was a better fit than Cecilia. Not even Pamela Schwartz.”

  Anika inched closer to her husband, clasping his hand. “Would she . . . was it a sure thing?”

  “Absolutely. She would have been perfect.” He looked away for a moment. “Honestly, I had no idea she was distraught. Cecilia loved the idea. You know how enthusiastic she’d get. Clapping her hands and laughing, almost like a little girl.”

  “She wasn’t distraught.” Bolin pressed his lips into a tight smile that never reached his eyes. “My daughter didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.”

  Prescott blanched. “But the police . . . I had assurances at the highest levels. They said things would be handled. Laid to rest with a minimum of publicity.”

  “You’re right,” Bolin said. “Things will be handled. I’ll handle them. Can we count on your help too?”

  Prescott Lewis, family friend and spurned lover, suddenly morphed into Senator Lewis, politician. He spread his hands wide in a gesture common to cowards, weasels, and candidates.

  “Of course. You understand I have to be discreet. I hadn’t seen Cecilia in weeks. But anything I can do . . .”

  Bolin gave him an amiable nod that fooled no one. “Thanks. I’ll hold you to that. Anika and I have always admired your integrity and dedication to truth. I hope you’ll be running for office again next year. You’ll have the support of the Swann family, of course.”

  Prescott bowed his head. “That means a lot. Thank you.” He shook Bolin’s hand, kissed Anika’s cheek, and fled the room.

  No one spoke until the lights went on.

  “What the hell!” Deming’s eyes gleamed with hate. “That phony bastard wasted our time.”

  “Language, Dem.” Anika nodded toward me. “Eja’s here.”

  “She knows me,” he said. “Too well.” For a second our eyes connected, telegraphing a very different message.

  Color stained Anika’s cheeks as she leaned against her husband. “I’m not sure we learned anything except the obvious. Prescott was being Prescott.”

  Jake raised his brows in inquiry.

  “He’s always been a wuss,” Deming spat. “I told her to stay away from him, but she never listened to me. He used her to suck up to our family. The man has a cash register for a heart.”

  I had to tell them despite the consequences. CeCe wouldn’t mind. Deming was right about one thing though. Corpses have no right to privacy.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “Prescott Lewis loved CeCe. Wanted to marry her in fact. He was willing to scrap his career, go through a messy divorce and all the attendant publicity just to have her. She dumped him instead.”

  I expected something—anger, disbelief, surprise. What I got was silence. Dead silence. Anika was the first to recover.

  “Glad to see my daughter had good sense. Prescott’s not nearly smart enough for her. Plus, Cecilia was no home wrecker.”

  “He’s nothing but a gigolo,” Deming said. “Willing to trade wife number one for a younger, richer model. What could she possibly see in him?”

  I couldn’t suppress a sudden cough. Once again, all eyes were on me. “I think . . . that is, CeCe said . . . the Senator had hidden assets.”

  “Nonsense,” Deming huffed. “I ordered a full financial report on him. Plus his holdings are in that annual disclosure report they all file. Everything he has is in his wife’s name.”

  Anika caught on right away. She smiled up at him. “Eja’s being discreet, dear. She means physical assets. You never know with a man until it’s too late.”

  Deming turned crimson, Bolin looked away, and Jake Harris grinned broadly.

  “Well, what do you
know,” Jake said. “Senator Lewis is a stud.”

  Thirteen

  WE ADJOURNED TO an exquisitely presented dinner of broiled lobster and fresh vegetables that tempted no one. Deming usually wolfed down anything Po put in front of him. But tonight he listlessly picked at his food, just like the rest of us.

  “I have a confession to make,” Anika said as we finished dessert. “Eja and I did some investigating.” She touched Bolin’s hand. “Nothing dangerous, darling, but instructive. Very instructive.”

  Deming’s frown lacerated me. He clenched his jaw as he spoke. “Snooping, you mean. All right. Tell us.”

  Anika summarized our encounter with Dr. Wesley Townsend. “I know we should have waited, but I just had to do something.” She turned to Jake. “You understand, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “I did some snooping of my own. Spoke with a few colleagues about Wesley.”

  Deming glared at his friend. “Well. Let’s have it, man.”

  Jake dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “It’s nothing conclusive. Mostly gossip, and you know how unreliable that can be.”

  “Get on with it!” Deming walked the tightrope between anxious and rude, drumming his fingers on the table.

  Bolin touched his son’s arm and leaned forward. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Jake.”

  “Okay. There’s nothing formal. Wesley’s too clever for that. It’s just . . . a few things that concerned me. Whispers. Just hints, nothing more. Some of it’s probably prejudice. You know how conservative our profession is, and Wesley’s always been keen on hypnosis. He’s written any number of journal articles on it.”

  “So?” I controlled my impulse to shake the good doctor until he spilled his guts.

  Jake turned to Anika. “I know he helped you, but I don’t think you should see him again. Not if it involves hypnosis.”

  She shuddered, turning an even whiter shade of pale. “Say it, Jake. You’re scaring me.” Anika grasped her husband’s arm as if she were drowning.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “One of his patients claimed that Wesley molested her. It was never proven, and she’d been under hypnosis. Had a history of delusions. I understand that such accusations are not uncommon in that field.”