Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (22 page)

They faced each other, twin towers of testosterone. Neither moved a muscle or even blinked. If the contest got physical either one might prevail. Raylan was the bulkier man although not by much. Deming was trained in the martial arts, a long, lithe panther capable of inflicting pain. Oddsmakers might scratch their heads, but a toss-up was likely.

I broke the spell with a simple question. “Why kill Dario if he was on their side?” A traitorous thought made me up the ante. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to just eliminate Persus?”

“Nicely put, Eja.” Deming snarled at me as if I were the enemy.

“But worthy of consideration. I don’t see how these speculators would profit from Dario’s death. Seems like he was their ace.” Raylan wrinkled his brow, looking perplexed.

That’s why I decided to help him out. “Maybe someone counted on Dario’s heirs to seal the deal.”

“Paloma?” Raylan said. “That’s a bit of a stretch. I doubt that she’s even in the loop.”

Deming squeezed my hand and growled something. “She’s just speculating, Chief. Still, it might be wise to question that investors’ group. Their names are on the contract.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, staring at Raylan. “Do you finally admit that he was murdered?”

Raylan grimaced, as if the subject left a bitter taste. “Well . . . the medical examiner seems inclined to rule it death by misadventure. She’s not convinced that the fall was enough to kill him, and I respect her judgment. His head took quite a beating, you know.”

A warning signal buzzed in my brain. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said, ignoring Deming’s massive frown. “Cheech told us that Dario had all his gear with him. Why would he take off his helmet, for heaven’s sake?”

“Maybe it chafed, or the strap wasn’t working.” Deming dug his toe into the sand and made a mini-trench. “Whatever the reason, it was a bad mistake. Fatal.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe Dario wasn’t the one who did it. What if the killer ripped off the helmet and bashed his head in? That would explain everything.”

Raylan chuckled. “Easy to see that you’re a mystery writer. Usually the simplest explanation is the answer. Either way, the onus is back on me now, and I’ll handle it.”

Deming’s eyes lit up. “Good! Professionals should pursue the case. Hear that, Eja?”

I swallowed the retort poised on the tip of my tongue. Deming meant well, but he was clueless when it came to crime solving. Persistence paid off, even if the price was steep.

“Just one thing more, Chief,” I said. “Any luck finding out who assaulted Mrs. Cantor?”

His blank look told me nothing. Raylan Smith could frustrate a saint, and I was no candidate for that lofty perch.

“What about the break-in at Meeka’s house? That should be simple enough.”

A thundercloud flashed over Raylan’s face. He quickly replaced it with the bland mask of the perfect civil servant. “We’re pursuing some promising leads, Ms. Kane. Thanks for asking. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

I avoid confrontation, but I’m no wimp. When a principle is at stake, I don’t back down. Deming sensed this, and before I responded he whistled for the dogs and steered me toward the house. “Thanks, Chief,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Chapter Eighteen

BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning was a casual affair dimmed by the absence of Deming, Paloma, and Bolin. Before he drove away, Anika clung to her husband, giving him the long, lingering kiss of a bereft bride. I had watched them from my bedroom window, marveling anew at their intimacy. Few couples showed such tenderness after decades of marriage. I hoped that history would repeat itself with Deming and me.

Persus sat upright at the breakfast table, her perfect posture and elegant manners a triumph of breeding over circumstance. She presided over the meal without her usual vitality, reminding me of a sparrow, perched precariously on a slender twig that swayed with the breeze.

“What plans do you have today?” Persus asked. “Demmy left so early I missed him.”

I feigned indifference, but the effort was doomed. That’s the reason I never play card games. Every player reads my face like a road map.

Anika nodded. “He’s sulking, isn’t he, Eja? You know my son, total control freak. He tore after you yesterday in an absolute panic.” She turned to Krister who was filling the juice glasses. “Where did Mr. Deming go this morning?”

Krister kept the impassive look of the well-trained servant. “He didn’t say, madam, but he wore his cycling clothes.”

“Good,” Anika said. “Exercise calms him. Why don’t you go after him, Eja?”

“Me! I’m not the bicycle type.” The mere thought of slogging down the trails made me queasy.

“Oh, come on,” Anika said, dangling an elegant Cartier key ring. “It just so happens, he left the Porsche here. We’ll take the dogs and go out for a spin.”

Persus urged us on. “Don’t worry about me, you two. I have my yearly doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Krister will drive me.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to track him down,” I said, “but Ibsen won’t fit in the Porsche, and we’d better leave Cato here. He and Deming have a complicated relationship. Come to think of it, he’ll behave better if you’re with me. Deming, I mean. Cato never behaves.”

“Bolin was the same way when we were engaged. Treated me like precious porcelain.” Anika chuckled. “He insisted that we get married right away even though we’d just met. It scandalized all my relatives, I can assure you. They were positive that I was pregnant.” She kissed her aunt on the forehead. “Except for Aunt Pert. She never had one doubt.”

Persus smiled and returned the hug. “Certainly not. Bolin Swann was the best thing that ever happened to this family. I wish my own daughter had found someone like him.”

That was the closest Pert had ever come to criticizing Dario’s father, even though he had driven the car that had killed her daughter. Rumor had it that Bjorn Peters loved the fast life—horses, women, and sports cars. That exuberance—some called it selfishness—had claimed both of Dario’s parents at a young age.

Persus turned to me and squeezed my hand. “You hold on to Demmy, my dear. You’re good for him. He needs you. Now scoot, you two, before I get emotional.”

We left her there staring at the ocean, calmly sipping her tea.

ANIKA PRACTICALLY skipped over to the Porsche. “I love this car,” she said. “It’s got plenty of zip.” She looked like a buttercup in full bloom, a montage of lemon chiffon. “The boys think it’s a man’s car. That’s what they always say, but we’ll show them.”

“Let’s start at the bike shop,” I said. “I’m interested in your take on Cheech Saenz.”

“Sounds good.” Anika fired up the engine and headed out. I had to admit that she drove more competently than I would have.

“Persus really loves you, Eja. She never confides personal matters to strangers. She already considers you a member of the family.”

I smiled, but I was distracted, perplexed by a missing link that skittered around the fringes of my mind just out of reach. “Did you know Bjorn Peters well?” I asked.

Anika looked both ways and sped out onto the roadway. Deming’s Porsche moved very much like its owner, a long, lithe creature on the prowl.

“Hmm,” she said. “I lived in New York when Bjorn came on the scene. Kathryn, Dario’s mother, was very dear to me. She was a lovely girl, but sheltered, smothered really by her father. You met Lars a time or two, so you know what I mean.”

She took the long way, cruising along Ocean Drive. “Bjorn was a handsome devil. Couldn’t touch Bolin, of course, but handsome nevertheless.” She grinned. “At their wedding, he tried to maul me, not in fun, but seriously. Bolin ended that in a hurry. One karate move, and Bjorn hit the deck.”

“Oh, no,” I gasped. “How embarrassing for Kathryn.”

“We handled it. Bolin said it was an accident, and Bjorn went along. He stayed away from me after that, but Kathryn paid the price. There were signs.” Anika blew past a stop sign like it wasn’t there. “Bruises and the like and a kind of ruthlessness that was truly frightening. Bjorn got his way no matter what or whom he had to savage. He would have cheerfully killed Lars if he’d had the guts.”

No wonder Dario had been such a mess. A flawed father, cowed mother, and controlling grandpa made for quite a stew. Perhaps his brutal treatment of Paloma had been learned at his father’s knee. I pondered the trio of Bayview women I’d learned about: Meeka’s mother, Pert’s daughter, and Dario’s wife had all suffered either physical or emotional abuse. Their lives stood in sharp contrast to Anika, Meeka, and Pert, strong, spunky women who demanded and got respect. I had no idea where to place Merlot Brownne.

“Still with me, Eja? We’re here.” Anika swung into the driveway of Bayview Bikes just as a sleek black sedan pulled in. “Well, look at that.” She pointed to the occupant of the car.

Despite sunglasses and a headscarf, Merlot Brownne was easy to recognize. She hustled into the bike shop, head down, without giving us a second glance. That was fine with me. Anonymity was the best ally I could hope for in this claustrophobic community teaming with secrets.

“Let’s wait in the car a minute,” I said. “Something’s up. She doesn’t seem like the fresh air type to me.”

Anika nodded and whipped the Porsche around to the back parking lot. “We can watch her back here without being too obvious.” She squeezed my arm. “Isn’t this great! Just like old times.”

I mouthed a silent prayer that history didn’t repeat itself. Anika and I had narrowly escaped death on our last caper. Deming grew apoplexic just thinking of it. In fact, he’d extracted a promise from me to never again put his mother or myself in danger.

“Look!” Anika said. “What’s she up to?”

Merlot stood poised at the door, turned her head right and left, and exited Bayview Bikes with unseemly haste. As she lunged for her car, the psychic stuffed an envelope into her purse. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about it, just a plain white business envelope. The kind that often contains checks or cash.

Unlike most women, Merlot didn’t waste time freshening her makeup or combing her hair. She slammed the car door, fired up the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot tires squealing.

Anika and I locked eyes. “Wow!” she said. “What do you make of that?”

“Remember. Merlot was the first one on the scene. She found Dario and called for help. At least, that’s the story.”

Anika applied fresh lipstick and fluffed her hair. “Why would Saenz give her money? A payoff, maybe?”

I slid across the Porsche’s glove-leather seat and opened the door. “Let’s ask him.”

“I’ll take the lead, if you don’t mind.” Anika batted her eyelashes. “He’ll feel comfortable guiding a doting mama who wants a gift for her son.”

AS SOON AS WE entered the store, Cheech appeared, sporting the toothy grin of a Cheshire cat. “Ladies, what a pleasant surprise.” He nodded to me, but his eyes were glued to Anika. I didn’t mind one bit, in fact, I understood it. Her beauty was translucent, as spellbinding as Vermeer’s most celebrated work.

“Have you met Mrs. Swann?” I asked. “She’s Deming’s mother.”

Cheech took her hand and held it. “A pleasure. How can I help you?”

Anika beamed her dazzling smile his way. “It’s my son. I’d like your advice on a gift for him, and I know absolutely nothing about this sport.”

“Ah.” Cheech managed to look both pensive and eager at the same time. “Let me think. Mr. Swann is very well equipped.”

I stared at the floor, contemplating the truth of that statement. Cheech didn’t know the half of it.

Anika continued without missing a step. “Actually I was thinking more broadly. You know that Mrs. Cantor is my aunt. I’d like to consider a memorial, something involving cycling to honor Dario. My aunt would be so pleased, wouldn’t she, Eja? My son was very close to Dario. That’s the type of gift he’d value.”

No one had ever called Cheech a deep thinker. His mental inventory consisted of spandex and bicycle bits. I wasn’t sure where Anika was going with this, but I was with her all the way.

“Naturally, I’d need help, Mr. Saenz.” Anika turned the full power of lovely hazel eyes his way. “I’d pay you to serve as a consultant. My husband is very supportive too.”

Anika didn’t fish, but you’d never know it. She reeled in her catch like an expert angler, leaving Cheech speechless.

“Dario did a lot of research,” I said. “He seemed enamored by European bike trails.”

Light finally dawned on Cheech. “Oh, yeah. He was always talking about one of them places.” He furrowed his brow. “Copenhagen. That’s it. Dario said most of them pedal to work. That’s cool!”

Anika had done her research. She looked up at Cheech and sighed. “My son is a fan of Portland, Oregon, too. Lots of cycling there.”

“Yeah! Those dudes got it knocked. You thinking of racing tracks or what?”

“We favor a balanced approach,” I said. “Of course we’d need the support of the community. Bayview values its way of life.”

He nodded sagely.

“I’m sure Meeka Kyle would help,” I said. “And who knows. Perhaps Merlot Brownne has an interest too.”

Cheech stiffened. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

Anika turned on the charm machine again. “Oh, forgive me. We saw Merlot leave here a minute ago and I presumed . . .”

Right on cue, I joined in. “Ooh, that’s right. Didn’t you say that Merlot found him? Dario, I mean.”

Cheech turned wary eyes on both of us. “That’s right. She takes a lot of walks. Says it’s healthy.” He was nervous, rubbing his fingers together. They were stained, far darker than the rest of his skin. “Look, Mrs. Swann, I don’t know about this consultant gig. Things are pretty busy here. Let me think about it.”

“Of course,” Anika said. “Here’s my card. Call me when you have an answer.”

He hustled us toward the door. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

Before we left, another customer arrived.

“Mother! Eja! What are you two doing here?”

Deming Swann, a vision in perfectly coordinated cycling gear, removed his visor and glared at us.

“Did you have a nice ride, darling?” Anika was unperturbed by her son. “Eja and I wanted some fresh air.”