Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (8 page)

He shrugged. “There’s a goldsmith on 6A whose work I like. He does custom pieces.”

“But it’s too much,” I protested, praying that he’d ignore me.

Deming scooped the necklace into a velvet pouch and kissed my cheek. “Get used to it, kiddo. I can afford it. Now let’s get ready for Aunty’s party.”

THAT EVENING, Persus Cantor showed that she too knew a few tricks about jewelry. The neckline of her simple blue gown was festooned with a sparking garland of diamonds and pearls that brightened her skin and enlivened her pale blue eyes. As for the diamonds—they really were a girl’s best friend.

“You look beautiful, Eja,” Pert said. “Red is absolutely your color. And that necklace! Isn’t it some of Ross’s work?”

“Yes, ma’am. You always could spot the good stuff.” Deming bent down and whispered in my ear. “She’s right, of course. You’re quite a knockout, Ms. Kane.”

A grown woman has no right to blush when she gets a compliment. Nevertheless, that’s what I did. Would my febrile quest for approval ever end? Probably not. I resolved to give myself a stern lecture at the earliest opportunity. Some day soon.

I wasn’t the only one who looked spiffy. Tuxedos burnish the image of every male, but Deming Swann, gorgeous since birth, was off the charts. He had that long, lean, and lethal look all sewed up, and he quaked my soul to its core. I suppressed the urge to lose control and strip him naked. It would be unseemly, a vulgar display from a gently raised female and alumna of Brown University. It was also impracticable in a room soon to be filled with guests.

Deming scooped up Pert and twirled her around. “What’s the matter? I’m all dressed up too. Don’t I look beautiful, Aunty? You’ll hurt my feelings if you’re not careful.”

“You are a rogue, Deming Swann,” Pert said. “As if you need an old woman’s compliments to boost your ego. Put me down. Our company’s almost here.” She turned to me. “He’s imitating Lars. These big men always let you know how strong they are, don’t they, Eja?”

I have nothing against big, strong men. In fact, the sight of sculpted muscles turns me to mush. Pert was probably right. I knew for a fact that Deming hadn’t learned that move from his own father. Elegant Bolin Swann playing caveman—no way!

“Boys,” Pert gushed. “So silly. Demmy and Dario started this nonsense when they were teenagers.” She bit her lip as if those sweet memories now tasted of wormwood and gall. Her voice dropped, becoming more dirge than chatter. “Those were happy times for us.”

Deming hugged his aunt and gently placed her on the ground as a pall descended upon us. We walked silently, single file, to the salon looking more like mourners than merrymakers.

MY PARENTS’ HOME didn’t have a salon. To us, salons were the spot for a shampoo and set. A living room suited our communal needs although the one in our modest Cape could have been tucked quite comfortably into a corner of Pert’s palatial residence. Despite my Trotskyite upbringing, I had to admit that unbridled wealth was less of a hardship than I’d imagined. Apparently our dinner companions agreed. They seemed perfectly at home in the lap of luxury, sipping cocktails and nibbling canapés furnished by the ever-vigilant Krister.

After greeting everyone, I glossed over Paloma, Mordechai Dale, and Laird Foster and focused on the newcomers. They stood apart from the others, engrossed in heated conversation. The female had to be Meeka Kyle; I had no idea who her companion was.

Meeka was a stunner, that’s for sure. She was tall for a woman, closer to Deming’s height than my own, with braided black hair and beautiful café au lait skin. As Meeka turned to greet us, her full lips curved into a smile. “Quite an eclectic group you’ve assembled, Persus. Should be a lively evening.”

“Oh, Meeka, I’m so glad you were free. I did so want you to meet my nephew and his lovely fiancée.” Pert waved her arm toward us. “Deming Swann and Eja Kane. Deming is Anika’s son, and Eja is a famous mystery writer.”

Meeka arched her brow slightly at the word
famous,
but who could blame her. Eja Kane was not exactly a household name. Not yet, anyway. Her eyelids flickered as she did a subtle appraisal of Deming. Like most women, she seemed pleased by what she saw.

“Ms. Kyle.” Deming nodded politely. “I’m surprised we’ve never met before. Aunt Persus says you virtually run this town.”

A becoming flush stained his aunt’s cheeks, giving her the look of an ingénue. “Oh, Demmy, you’re such a tease. Meeka worked closely with Dario, you know. He respected her judgment. We all do.”

I stole a glance at Paloma. She’d abandoned any pretense of wearing widow’s weeds, opting instead for the look of a downscale cabaret artist. Her eyes, alight with malice as she beamed a death ray toward Meeka, suggested that the Widow Peters had a very sharp axe to grind. It was also evident that when measured against the urbane Ms. Kyle, Paloma came up short on everything except her skirt.

“I heard tales about you from Dario,” Meeka said, giving Deming an eye roll. “I was at Wellesley while you two were raising Cain in Bayview. Glad I missed it.” She winked and pivoted my way. “Tell me about your writing, Eja. I’m a voracious reader.”

We spent a few minutes chatting idly about the sad state of the publishing industry and the demise of independent bookstores. Although she was courteous, it was plain that Meeka’s attention was elsewhere. She angled her shapely body sideways, never losing sight of Paloma. At the first opportunity, Meeka excused herself and stalked out of the room like a woman on a mission.

I found myself alone, abandoned by Deming and ignored by the locals. It was fine, nothing that another cocktail couldn’t fix. That’s when my plan failed. As I reached for a glass, an explosion of fur upended the tray. A martini plopped in my lap as Ibsen wagged his doggy way into the room, grinning sheepishly.

“Here. Let me help.” Meeka’s companion, the man I’d dubbed the “swarthy stranger,” leapt to my aid, armed with an oversized linen napkin. He corralled Ibsen and gently guided the big dog toward the door while I soaked the cloth with Perrier and mopped my dress.

Hmm. Useful as well as decorative
. My savior was Deming’s age and height with the broad shoulders of a linebacker and the taut muscles of an Olympic athlete. He rejoined me and extended his hand.

“Now that we’ve met, I should introduce myself,” he said. “Raylan Smith, police chief.” His large, dark eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Rescuing damsels in distress is one of the best parts of my job. I’m also a crime buff, Ms. Kane. Your mysteries always intrigue me.”

It was my turn to blush, but Chief Smith didn’t seem to notice. He embarked on a lengthy discussion of my first book, focusing on several of the major plot points.

“Are you here researching another novel?” he asked. “I’d be glad to answer your questions if I can. I admire anyone with imagination and talent. Unless, of course, he’s a criminal.”

For some reason, I felt at ease with the man, even though he was a stranger.

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you. About Dario.” I scanned the room to ensure that we were alone. “Persus is convinced it wasn’t an accident.”

Raylan sipped his drink and studied me. “I’m very fond of Mrs. Cantor. She’s a real lady. The old-fashioned kind who treats everyone with respect.”

I nodded, liking both the comment and the man. “We’re worried about her. Deming—my fiancé—and me. She’s all alone and vulnerable. If Dario was murdered . . .”

Before Raylan answered, a strong arm snaked around my waist, and Deming materialized at my side. “There you are, my darling.” His eyes connected with the lawman’s, telegraphing a male message about property rights. “We’ve never met,” he said. “Deming Swann. Persus is my great aunt.”

“Of course. I’ve met your parents several times. I’m sorry about your cousin. He was quite a character.” They shook hands, and it occurred to me that despite their differences, these two were more alike than not. They shared a rare brand of self-assurance based on strength, mental agility, and a whopping dose of testosterone. The room fairly steamed with it. That pleasurable digression made me lose focus and miss most of their discussion. I applied the mental brakes and forced myself to concentrate.

As the guys swapped memories of Dario, I noticed something. An intricately wrought wolf’s head dangled from a braided silver chain around Raylan’s neck.

“Something wrong, Ms. Kane?”

Busted! Chief Raylan Smith had me dead to rights. Deming emitted his dragon stare and inched closer to me.

I shouldn’t stammer. I’m an accomplished professional and a feminist to boot. After hemming and hawing like a stage-struck ingénue, I got to the point.

“That’s a beautiful piece of jewelry. Are you Native American, Chief?”

Deming leapt into the breach. “They prefer the term Native People, Eja. It’s more culturally sensitive.”

I shot him a sour look. Since when had Deming Swann, Eurasian prince of Boston, become politically correct not to mention sensitive?

“Either term is fine,” Raylan said with an easy smile. “I’m Wampanoag. Cape Cod lifer. My family has lived around here since before the Pilgrims arrived.”

That explained the coppery glow of his skin and those devastating cheekbones. It didn’t explain or excuse Deming’s bad behavior, but that was an issue for another time.

I’d once researched the Wampanoag tribe, and their history had captivated me. This was a rare opportunity to insert a Native American character into my novel and portray him accurately.

“Well, that beats my family by about 300 years,” I said. “They slipped through Ellis Island in 1892. Steerage.” I’d often heard the family saga about my great-great-grandparents and their journey from the old country. My parents stressed their work ethic and perseverance as a teachable moment for me. Needless to say, whining about schoolwork or chores got me nowhere.

Krister suddenly appeared at the door and signaled to Pert. I could tell by the anxious look on her face that someone or something was amiss. Breeding and class triumphed however, and promptly at 8:00 p.m., she announced that dinner was served. Good thing. Our little group had munched and crunched through every hors d’oeuvre in sight. Further delays might have imperiled the fine woodwork.

Pert held her arm out to Deming, while the rest of us paired up. I hoped to continue my discussion with Chief Smith, but it was not to be. Sadly I drew the dour Mordechai Dale as my dinner partner. Meeka claimed Laird Foster, and it was Paloma, the merry widow, who clutched Raylan’s arm.

“Ms. Kane,” Mordechai intoned, offering me his scrawny elbow. “Charmed.”

As we marched lockstep into the dining room, I resigned myself to an evening of tedium. Only the prospect of a catfight between Meeka and Paloma offered any hope of diversion.

Pert’s dining room was an elegant space, ablaze with candles and crowned by a spectacular chandelier and matching candelabras. Baccarat, unless I missed my guess. Even the jingoistic Lars had apparently bowed to the superiority of French crystal.

We were seated by place cards, which doomed me to a scintillating night with Morde Dale on my right side and Laird on my left. Deming flashed me a snide look that said I deserved my fate. Easy for him: he’d launched a charm offensive that left both Aunt Pert and Meeka all smiles. As Krister wheeled in the soup, our sedate little group got a jolt.

Merlot Brownne, the picture of unflappability, strolled into the room. She was perfectly coiffed and clad in a luminous silk caftan that caught the candlelight. Before speaking, she stood calmly at the head of the dinner table and surveyed her fellow guests.

“Forgive my tardiness, Persus. An urgent matter arose.” Her gray eyes darkened, matching the flannel of Morde’s sober suit.

Laird Foster leapt up with the agility of a much younger man. “Here. Take my seat, Ms. Brownne.” His unctuous grin never faltered even as the psychic looked beyond him.

“Thank you, but I really can’t stay.” She waved away the chair he offered her.

Before Laird reacted, Deming glided over, exuding Swann Magic.

“Nonsense. Dinner has barely started, and I’ve been waiting all evening to meet you. Plus my aunt will be devastated if you leave.”

“Oh, yes, dear. Please stay.” Persus’s sunny smile was a golden ray among the storm clouds. The sudden appearance of her favorite psychic swept away her prior restlessness. One thing was certain: the unexpected arrival caused dinner chitchat to halt. All eyes were on Merlot Brownne as she took her seat.

“So sorry to disrupt your dinner.” Merlot paused and turned to her hostess. “I really had no choice. You see, I was speaking with Dario.”

Chapter Seven

THE REACTION WAS immediate and volcanic. Pert clutched her throat and lost all color; Laird gasped; and Paloma squealed. Mordechai Dale showed very little emotion, but that didn’t surprise me. He always looked ossified. The coolest cucumbers around, excluding Deming and me, were Meeka Kyle and Raylan Smith. She said nothing, but the sardonic gleam in her eyes spoke volumes. He calmly pushed back his chair and sat on its edge, as if poised to render aid.

Deming signaled to Krister, and when the wine had been poured he pressed the glass against Pert’s lips.

“Drink up, Aunty. Just one sip.”

Pert accepted the drink and smiled tremulously. The color that stained her cheeks might have been emotion rather than alcohol. She clutched Merlot’s arm, took several short breaths, and pleaded.

“Tell us. What did Dario say?”

The psychic broke Pert’s hold and leaned back in her chair. “It’s a private matter for your ears only, Persus. His words weren’t meant for everyone.”

“Why not?” Laird asked. “You’re among friends here. Every one of us loved Dario.”

“Liar!” Paloma’s words cracked like a whip. “You fought with him the day he died. I heard everything.”

Laird’s smooth veneer of civility cracked around the edges. He recovered quickly and managed a pained smile. “Just a difference of opinion. We parted as friends. If you were there, you know that, Paloma.”

I made a mental note to quiz Paloma about the incident. She was a dim bulb, but when it came to Dario, her instincts were right on target. As Mrs. Dario Peters, she’d swanned around Bayview, playing the grand lady. Her manner had more Becky Sharp than gentry in it, a fact noted with some asperity by her detractors. Still, Paloma had been a power-player when Dario was alive. Now she was yesterday’s news, pitied rather than reviled by those who bothered to think of her at all.