Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (4 page)

“You’re daydreaming, Eja.” Deming herded me out the door and down the corridor. “We won’t sit around the table long. Think up some excuse.”

A door in the turret room creaked, emitting a sliver of light. I elbowed Deming and nodded toward the room. “Hush. Someone’s watching us.”

Deming narrowed his eyes, enveloping me in a bone-crushing hug. “Let’s put on a show. Can’t disappoint.”

I tried to stop him, but it took some time. He’s so much stronger than I am.

By the time we reached the sunroom, I managed to subdue my passions and breathe normally. We tiptoed in, murmured an apology, and quietly took our places.

Pert sat at the head of the table surrounded on each side by admirers. On her right, Laird Foster oozed oleaginous charm as he listened raptly to every word. I recoiled from him despite his handsome face and amiable air. He was polite, presentable, and up to no good. I sensed a cold, hard chill at his core. After all, Persus Cantor was a tempting target, a mega-rich widow made vulnerable by her recent loss. Laird Foster didn’t look like a gigolo, but who could say?

I accepted a steaming cup of Earl Grey and studied the stranger across from me. He was a man of middle years whose stiff, unyielding posture was disturbingly corpse-like. From the crisp cut of his three-piece suit, I surmised that he was a lawyer, banker, or bureaucrat. The term “hanging judge” also came to mind, for he was a humorless fellow who never cracked a smile.

“Forgive me, Eja,” Persus said. “This is Mordechai Dale, a dear friend of mine. He and Dario were in business together or planned to be.” Her eyes grew moist and she turned away.

“I understand you write,” he said in sepulchral tones, as if pronouncing a death sentence. He stared at me with unblinking eyes of faded blue, awaiting my response.

I nodded. “And you?”

“Attorney. Corporate.” Mordechai was a man of few words. He was also cautious. I could tell that by the way he sipped his tea in slow, measured steps.

Persus patted his arm. “Oh, Morde—so modest. He’s the engine that drives all of Bayview, Eja. Our parks, conservation lands, bike trails . . .” Her voice faltered as if recalling Dario’s accident. “Why, he’s been wooing me for years, not for me but for my land.”

“I lead Bayview’s Conservation Trust,” Dale admitted. “We have quite an aggressive program. Focus on the future, you see.”

Laird Foster’s smile grew sickly like a man fighting a long battle with dyspepsia. “I’m still head of the pack, Pert. Think of the happiness you could bring to some deserving families.”

Deming’s eyes narrowed just before the fireworks started.

“You’re a land developer, aren’t you, Foster? Funny. I never considered that a charitable endeavor.” Deming Swann, Esquire was in full battle mode.

A honking sound like the call of a mating moose split the air. Mordechai Dale was laughing. Guffawing actually. “That’s telling him, Swann. Laird thinks that building ten more mini-mansions will solve Bayview’s problems. His idea of good works.”

Just as hostilities escalated, Paloma Peters slithered into the room, folding gracefully into the chair next to Deming. Truth will out: that girl knew how to make an entrance. I would have tumbled on those strappy six-inch stilettos, but Paloma pulled it off quite gracefully. Her fashion sense was less successful. Although her thigh-high skirt was black, the fishnet hosiery screamed trollop, not grieving widow. She coiled around Deming like the serpent in the garden—lithe, limber, and lethal. He didn’t fight her. In fact, he seemed pleased at his good fortune. I studied the design on the flocked silk wallpaper and gave myself a mental pep talk. Before we’d gotten together, Deming had been the scourge of East Coast beauties from Long Island to Palm Beach. Despite everything, he loved me. An engagement ring didn’t magically erase a wandering eye or provide guarantees, but he chose
me.
He was no eunuch—far from it. Let him look as long as he didn’t touch.

“Paloma dear, how are you feeling?” Pert gifted her with a gentle smile. “You remember Dem’s fiancée, Eja.”

Deming got another bosom-crushing hug from Paloma; I was given a limp handshake and a quick backslide into anonymity.

“He won’t leave me alone,” Paloma whined. “Can’t you make him stop?”

Pert’s eyes looked blank. “Who, dear?”

“That beast. The one with the funny name. Dario’s slobbery dog.”

Now I had another reason to loathe her. Poor Ibsen was grieving for his master, but Paloma was too selfish to care about anyone except herself. Plus, she lied. Ibsen was a Leonberger, and I knew for a fact that they weren’t droolers.

Paloma stamped her hoof and angled her chair so that her head nearly rested on Deming’s shoulder.

For one instant, it seemed that even Pert had exhausted her store of goodwill. “Have some tea, dear. You’ll feel better.” Persus flashed a plucky grin and drained her cup. “The Brits sealed those stiff upper lips with tea, you know. Tons of Earl Grey. Works a charm.”

“Huh,” Paloma sniffed. “It’s boring here without Dario. No one likes me.”

Even sexy widows become tedious when they sulk. Deming did a quick appraisal and moved his chair my way. “What’s on your agenda today, Aunt Pert? Anything we can do to help?”

She checked her watch and gave a start. “Oh my goodness! I almost forgot. My appointment with Merlot is today.” Pert’s eyes twinkled. “I especially want both of you to meet her. She’s such a comfort.”

I watched the eye contact between Mordechai and Laird. Something—a message I couldn’t decipher—passed between them.

Mordechai spoke first. He cleared his throat as if he were preparing to deliver a sermon. Self-important men love to pontificate, and it maddens me.

“Now Persus, you know I want only the best for you. But I can’t condone what this . . . this woman . . . does. You’ll only get hurt or worse if you cling to her cockeyed theories. False hope I call it.”

“I concur, Pert,” Laird said. “She’s a predator. Preys on the bereaved.”

A shard of steel flashed through Pert’s eyes. She cloaked it with the kind of feminine hooey that had probably bamboozled poor Lars for decades. “You boys are just so sweet. Don’t you worry, Deming and Eja came here to sort things out.”

Mordechai Dale sputtered. “Writers? What good can writers possibly do?”

Deming masked his disdain with a charming smile. “Unfortunately, I have no literary talent. I’m only an attorney.” He nudged me. “My fiancée is the sleuth. I just play cleanup.”

The gulf between Pert’s guests and us rapidly became a chasm. After a few more minutes of small talk, Laird and Mordechai took their leave accompanied by Paloma.

While Krister cleared the table, Persus leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Forgive them, children. They mean well, but they’re so . . .”

“Stodgy?” I asked.

“Well, I was going to say traditional.” She wagged her finger at me. “Anika told me you were shrewd. Brave and smart, too.”

“Just a minute. I agree she’s all that with one addition—impetuous. Eja almost died stalking my sister’s murderer, and she dragged my mother into it, too!” Deming gave me his Perry Mason stare. “No more.”

My weapon of choice was silence. I’m normally a chatterbox, so as the occasional weapon, silence serves me well. Works every time.

“That was in the big city, Demmy. We take care of each other in Bayview.” Persus’s eyes sparkled. “Anika said it was the best therapy around. Avenging her daughter. Danger didn’t bother her one bit.”

Deming pushed back his chair and threw up his hands. “Fine. Whatever. Just know this: I plan to stick to both of you like Gorilla Glue. Understood?”

“Lovely,” Pert said.

FOR A PSYCHIC nubie like me, dress code was a puzzle. Deming was no help at all, and Aunt Pert told me to wear something that reflected my aura! I opted for a black on black outfit festooned with a gauzy scarf that lent an air of mystery. Upon reflection it resembled a Gasparilla Day costume more than a serious attempt to project my inner core. The unheralded fashionista in me shrugged and gave up.

Deming followed his aunt’s lead by choosing routine preppy gear. In deference to the occasion, he combed his thick black hair straight back, donned aviator shades and a hoop earring. The effect was stunning enough to quake my nether parts.

“You’ll relax immediately,” Persus said. “Merlot treats everyone like family.”

I elbowed Deming before he said something rude.

“She must be something special if you’re so fond of her,” I said. “Is it okay to ask questions?”

Pert lit up like the Hall of Mirrors. “Of course! Oh, I knew you’d understand. She’s so clever, even the name of her place is magical. Another World. That’s what Merlot calls it.”

“Maybe I should skip this,” Deming said. “You know, prowl around the local hangouts.”

“Yeah, you’ll blend right in,” I said. “Lose the earring for heaven’s sake, or they’ll lock you up.”

He pinched my cheek and loped off before I reminded him of his pledge. So much for Gorilla Glue!

Pert and I locked eyes and shrugged.

“Poor boy, he feels uncomfortable. Most men distrust the supernatural. Don’t scold him, Eja. You know how sensitive he is.”

Sensitive, my foot! Deming Swann was often pushy and frequently arrogant with testosterone levels that were off the chart! Little wonder he roiled my passions and made my blood boil. I pinched myself to banish the insecurity that gnawed at me. I couldn’t believe that a man like Deming would ever love me. It was irrational. I knew that. Like most women I focused like a laser on my every flaw. Men—especially ones like Deming—were shielded from that malady.

“Oh, he adores you, Eja. So sweet.” Persus smiled, sunny side up, and patted her hair. “You mustn’t worry. In some ways Deming reminds me of my Lars, pumped full of energy like a racehorse.” She sighed. “That intensity comes in handy at times. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I was dumbfounded, unable to frame a suitable reply. Pert’s vivid imagery made me ready to sprint, longing to be at the starting gate right then! It also painted a bold portrait of her conjugal joy with Lars.

DEMING’S DESERTION turned out to be a blessing. My plans for Merlot Brownne required subtle but deft interrogation. I’d have much more luck quizzing her if I were alone. Scoffing lawyers tend to stifle the flow of conversation. Besides, Deming was a Bayview regular. He might pick up useful information by smoozing with old cronies.

After some debate, we decided to walk the mile or so to the center of town. Pert was a firm believer in the healing powers of exercise, and I was too cowardly to challenge her. By the time we reached our destination, a foot massage seemed more desirable to me than a séance.

As Aunt Pert trotted up the sidewalk, I scanned the storefronts bracketing Main Street for a dwelling suitable for a mystic. Surely the supernatural would be hallmarked in a village that had experienced a nasty brush with spiritualism. Wrong! Another World
was similar to every other structure in picturesque Bayview—an airbrushed, homogenized dream requisitioned by the Chamber of Commerce. I’d expected drama and a hint of the macabre, but found instead a sunny yellow Cape with black shutters and a brightly polished brass nameplate.

Merlot Brownne opened the door, giving my writerly self a jolt that made me rethink stereotypes, lurid novels and my own wardrobe choice. I’d been captivated by fantasy, trapped in an outdated film script where veils and beaded curtains ruled the psychic day. No folds of gauze or wide gold hoops for this seer. She was a willowy woman my own age wearing sensible Ferragamo pumps and a silk dress adorned with a beautifully carved cameo. No crystal ball or deck of cards in sight, Merlot was far more stylish than Eja Kane.

“Persus, I’ve been thinking of you.” Merlot’s voice was low and musical, with no trace of an accent. She extended her hand, clutched mine, and smiled. The gesture was neither challenging nor hostile, and I found myself mesmerized. Her eyes were unique, round as marbles and grey—almost charcoal. Her auburn hair was masterfully styled and expertly colored. Merlot was a presence, a woman who could as easily chair the Junior League as tell my future. I knew with certainty that she was a fraud.

“You’re Eja Kane, the writer,” she said. “I read several of your works when Persus said you’d be visiting. Fascinating, especially the last one.”

I muttered something self-deprecating and followed her into the rear parlor. Compliments were nice to have but awkward to hear. I could take a punch more easily than accept a hug.

The sitting room was English cottage style, a high-end haven of chintz and comfy cushions that invited candor. Tasteful and reassuring, but much more feminine than most men preferred. I suppressed a grin, picturing how Deming would look sinking into the downy sofa.

“Are you a believer, Ms. Kane?”

“Excuse me?”

She chuckled. “Oh, Persus, I’ve offended your guest. I wasn’t prying, I assure you. My question wasn’t theological.”

“What then?” I asked as my composure returned. Time to seize control of this session before it veered into uncharted territory.

“She’s talking about spiritualism,” Pert said. “You know, communing with those who have passed.”

I stared straight into those charcoal orbs. “I’m not sure.”

Another laugh from Merlot. “Well. That’s honest at least. We’re very informal here as Persus can attest. No wires or spectral images.”

“What then?” I asked, repeating myself. “What can I expect?”

She shifted in her chair, as if the topic were less comfortable than the furniture. “Communication. At all levels with all creatures. My gift surfaced at an early age, you see. Sometimes it felt like a curse, but I reconciled myself to it. I realized how much comfort I could give to others and that helped.” Merlot exchanged fond glances with Pert.

Tears streamed down Pert’s cheeks. She blotted them with a lace hanky, seeming calm and at peace. A niggling doubt nipped the edges of my mind as I thought about money. Filthy lucre, the great leveler. Had Pert’s money furnished this cozy nest?