Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (10 page)

I MET MEEKA FOR lunch at the Bayview, an art deco bistro brimming with seaside attitude. Deming dismissed it as a tourist trap, but the cozy spot provided perfect camouflage for two wary women with an agenda.

She was waiting for me, having already commandeered the choicest booth in the place. Meeka Kyle reeked of class, breeding, and superior genes. Her hair fell in soft waves around a face that a camera would love. Knee-high boots of creamy butterscotch leather topped her thin wool dress. In short, she was typecast as a monarch holding court with the peasantry. I played the supplicant in this drama.

“Ms. Kane. Eja. I’m so glad we got together.” Meeka extended a slim, impeccably manicured hand my way. “I’m delighted to meet the woman who tamed Deming Swann.”

My mouth opened in surprise as I buried my chipped nails under a napkin. “I thought you didn’t know Deming.”

“Oh, forgive me. Several of my friends pined for him over the years. He cut quite a swathe through the debutante circuit, you know.”

I nodded and changed the subject. Deming’s wayward days were still a sore point for me, even though he’d reformed.

“Dario was Deming’s boyhood friend. Closer than brothers, I’m told. They’d lost touch recently, but still cared for each other.”

Meeka’s clear green eyes brightened. “I see. You’re here about his death.”

“His
murder
, I think. That’s why I asked to meet you, hoping you might help.”

She was a cool one, I’ll grant her that. Meeka said nothing for a moment as if she were assessing me and my comments.

“You’ve spoken with Raylan, I presume?”

“Not officially. We’re meeting this afternoon.”

Meeka calmly sipped imperial green tea the same shade as her eyes. I opted for a cuppa British courage—Earl Grey with milk.

“Have you ever lived in a small town, Eja?”

Before I applied the mental brakes, my snarky side asserted itself. “No, but I’ve read every Miss Marple book, and St. Mary Mead is hardwired into my DNA.”

Meeka gave me a nod and a semi-smile, as if I’d scored points on some arcane game show. “Villages like Bayview are riddled with rumor and innuendo. Character assassination is an art form here.”

Now it was my turn to pause. “Why so cynical? Surely you’re on home ground.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice for my ears only. “I love Bayview, but I’m not blind. As a privileged woman of color, I’m an easy target. Don’t think my friendship with Dario went unnoticed.”

“By Paloma?” I asked.

“And others. Paloma suspected every woman of seducing Dario, just the way that she had. It’s her modus vivendi, you see.”

“Ah ha.” I’d seen enough of Paloma’s antics to endorse that view wholeheartedly.

We paused as the server distributed salads and refilled our tea. By exercising restraint, I avoided pillaging the breadbasket or begging for butter. Meeka looked like the abstemious type, free from normal human impulses.

As soon as the coast was clear, she stabbed the air with her fork. “You don’t understand. What Dario and I shared was more dangerous than sex.”

I braced myself to meet her gaze without blinking. Sex was only one of the combustible materials floating around Bayview. “Tell me, please. It’s not just idle curiosity. Persus asked for my help.”

Meeka ignored her salad in favor of yet more tea. She’d float out the door if she kept that up.

“Dario and I shared a common vision. That’s what bothered some people.” Meeka tensed as if recalling a vivid memory. “We were committed to major, large scale change, and that scared the hell out of people. Even moderates like Raylan had misgivings.”

“Enough to murder someone?”

Her smile mixed contempt with an equal part of pity.

“Absolutely.”

My sweet Wellfleet oysters suddenly seemed briny. Meeka’s matter-of-fact statement had shattered my whole Bayview game plan. I’d always regarded our trip as a lark, a chance to spend quality time with Deming, while comforting a charming old lady and scoring points with my in-laws. Now, against my better judgment I’d become embroiled in a death that might easily be murder. In novels, I alter facts to suit my fancy, but this was real life, a chilling example of “nature red in tooth and claw.” Once again, Deming’s caution had been warranted.

“Something wrong, Eja?” Meeka stared at me placidly, as if we hadn’t uttered the “M” word. I’m told that spies, psychopaths, and tax collectors have that same untroubled gaze.

“You actually believe Merlot Brownne? That surprises me.”

“I’m a realist, Eja. I don’t consult psychics or read tea leaves.” Meeka leaned back in her chair and adjusted her headband. “Our Ms. Brownne is a con woman—a very smooth, sophisticated one. Even that pretentious way she spells her name shows a hint of style. She’s a great comfort to Persus, but a fraud nevertheless.”

“That kind of comfort isn’t cheap,” I said, thinking of the fifty thousand dollar “loan” that Merlot had finagled.

“Might as well pay it to her rather than some Freudian with an axe to grind.” Meeka grinned. “Believe me, I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime. At least Merlot listens to Pert.”

My window of opportunity was closing fast, so I turned the conversation back to Dario. “Tell me about the changes you guys proposed. Why so much emotion?”

“Bayview is an old, traditional society as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Very different from Boston, not that Boston is a beacon of change either.”

Meeka took yet another swallow of tea. The woman must be part camel to store that quantity of water inside her. Diuretics made me bolt for the restroom after thirty minutes. Most men had even less endurance.

“Our plan was bold,” she said. “We holed up every Tuesday, perfecting it.” Meeka chuckled. “Think about this: no more development; Main Street closed to motorized vehicles; and the pièce de résistance—bike lanes and trails that would draw cycling enthusiasts from all over the world to Bayview. Pretty radical, huh? At least that was Dario’s hope.”

I shrugged. “Surely he knew the odds on that? Dario wasn’t naïve.”

Another secret smile from Meeka. “He was focused—intent on getting his way. Of course Dario spread a healthy dose of charm when he had to. Most people underestimated him.”

Her frown included me in that group of naysayers, and she was right on target. Meeka’s portrait of a brash, cunning Dario Peters was at odds with the man I had known. Correction. The man I knew as a youth, not an adult. Perhaps the mature Dario had more grit and brains than I gave him credit for.

Their bold plan was a certified long shot. Local interests could easily coalesce and block major provisions of it. And yet . . . there was always the matter of twenty-six pristine acres of oceanfront property. Persus Cantor might throw a spanner in the works at the behest of her nephew.

I flashed my sunniest smile at Meeka. “Ooh, I don’t think you’d make Laird Foster’s Christmas card list with that agenda, although Mr. Dale would certainly approve.”

Meeka shrugged. “You writers! So insulated from the world. Laird’s a realist. Morde too. Sometimes you take half a loaf or risk getting nothing. I knew that, but I’m not sure that Dario did. He was an all or nothing type of guy, and he usually got his way.”

“What about this casino issue I read about in the
Globe
? That would sabotage your dreams.”

I got a momentary glimpse of the real Meeka, an “Off with their heads,” Queen of Hearts type of gal. She recovered quickly and favored me with a neutral smile.

“Trade-offs are inevitable in a democracy, Eja. Our business plan was flexible except when it came to the environment. No compromise on that. Besides, no one is seriously pushing a casino in Bayview. Not enough land.”

A dark disturbing thought marched across my mind. As long as Dario lived, Persus would never sell her land. Dario was her heir, which meant that time was definitely on his side. After all, Persus was closing in on eighty. With Dario gone, all bets were off and anything was possible.

I SAUNTERED OUT of the restaurant, too absorbed in my thoughts to watch where I was going. Meeka Kyle was a piece of work—elegant, smart, and rather smug. Her disparaging comments about writers irked me, especially since she’d never had to worry about money in her privileged life. Like most writers, I’d toiled in relative obscurity, cobbling a livelihood together as best I could until very recently. Deming Swann had changed all that. In my heart of hearts, I pegged Meeka as a snob and potential suspect. Perhaps she was Dario’s lover as well as business partner, and they’d had a falling out. She didn’t look like a smoker, but that was misleading. After all, Paloma looked like a hooker and wasn’t. Not anymore.

Meeka’s description of Dario perplexed me. If it was accurate, a number of people had a solid motive for killing him. His proposal could have spelled ruin for a number of local livelihoods.

Everything that followed happened in slow motion. I stepped off the curb, brakes squealed, and the front bumper of a silver Range Rover hurled toward me. I didn’t move, couldn’t save my own life. The driver’s frozen face mesmerized me as I registered each detail with startling clarity: her silent scream, bugged eyes, even the cell phone she still clutched to her ear.

At the last moment, a pair of strong arms pulled me back from perdition. I heard a strained voice, hectoring me for my carelessness. Nothing registered until Deming clasped me to him in a tight hug.

“What the hell, Eja? Suppose I hadn’t been here?” He spun me around, nuzzling my cheek. “You never learn.”

My heartbeat slowed as I finally regained my senses. I gulped, trying to keep lunch down and my muscles under control. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. You saved me again just as you always do.”

Deming has protective urges that just won’t quit. It’s part of his identity. He obsesses about me, his mother, and any other being in his charge, even Cato. Lord only knows how he’ll react when he’s a father. He was trembling, shaking with either rage or fear. I felt his arm vibrate as he tugged me toward the Porsche.

“Here. Lean against the car and get your sea legs. That must have been some lunch you and Meeka had. I can’t wait to hear all about it. Later.” Deming shook his head. “You need a bodyguard, Ms. Kane. Full time, twenty-four/seven.”

“Hmm. Interested in the job? Let’s see your credentials.”

He raised an eyebrow at that one. My fiancé tries valiantly to loosen up, but he’s still a Swann, hidebound by three centuries of propriety, prudishness, and inhibitions.

“I’ll pass, thank you very much. Don’t want to be a convicted sex-offender. All those nasty lists and police shakedowns. Wouldn’t do much for my legal career either.” Deming dusted off an imaginary speck from the fender. “Mind if I join you at your next stop? Or is your meeting with the sheriff a private matter?”

This was a new development in Swann-land. He was jealous, a modern Othello pea-green with envy and love struck. I liked it even though I’d pass on sharing Desdemona’s fate. My transition from dull, stolid Eja to sultry temptress was a minor miracle and a fantasy that would fade soon enough. I planned to savor every minute.

“Police chief, not sheriff,” I said. “Chief Raylan Smith. Anyhow, what about your court date? Didn’t you plan to work some legal magic with Dario’s will?”

He shrugged and looked down. What a blessing that Deming didn’t gamble! His fortune wouldn’t last a week with such an obvious “tell.” He was hiding something. Something I needed to know.

He helped me into the passenger’s seat, tucking my skirt in before he closed the door. By the time Deming turned on the engine, adjusted his sunglasses, and patted his mane of hair, I was antsy as hell.

“What gives?” I asked. “Did you find something interesting? A clue?”

Deming tickled my chin and smirked. “Surely you’ve heard of attorney-client privilege. I was Dario’s attorney as well as Pert’s. Suffice it to say that the really big stuff is still tied up with Pert’s holdings. After that, my lips are sealed.”

He mimicked turning a key, a gesture from childhood that was our special sign for locked lips and guarded secrets. That small memory pummeled my heart like a mallet, transporting me to a time long ago when Deming, his twin sister CeCe, and I romped through my parents’ yard, acting out childhood fantasies. Now she was gone and so was my innocence. I fought back tears and reached for my sunglasses.

“Hey.” Deming’s voice was a soft caress. “Don’t cry. I miss her too. Every day.” He touched my cheek, blotting an errant tear. “She wouldn’t want you to be sad. Not CeCe.”

I knew she was still with us, watching, giggling, and doing all the things that made her who she was. Deming wouldn’t agree. His views on the hereafter differed radically from mine, straddling the thin line between occasional heresy and Agnosticism. A strange thought suddenly flashed through my mind: Merlot Brownne would understand. She might be a charlatan, but there was something otherworldly about her.

“You know,” Deming said, “I can’t divulge any client information, but Aunt Pert has copies of all these documents. She might share them with you since you’re her very own detective.”

He buried his head in my hair. “Private detective—that suits you somehow. Famous writer suits you even better.”

“You’re laughing at me. I get it.” I checked my watch. “You know, I can walk to Raylan’s office by myself. It’s only a couple of blocks from here.”

“Oh, Raylan, is it? Pretty chummy for just one meeting.”

I could play along too. It might be fun to indulge Deming’s jealousy, just a little. Fun for me at least. “It was an encounter, not a meeting. Besides, I really liked him.”

Before Deming responded, his iPhone buzzed angrily. He frowned and held his hand up to forestall any objections.

“Swann, here.”

I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but Deming grimaced, disconnected, and told me he had a client with a big problem that couldn’t wait.