Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (27 page)

My sarcasm was wasted on Ames. “Heather,” he spat. “That’s off. She went running back to big brother the moment he got the five million back. Now I’m odd man out. Horton won’t allow me back at the Foundation, let alone his home.”

“What a shame,” I simpered. “You must miss Portia too. I know you worked closely together. Still, some things worked out for the best. At least one marriage was saved.”

Ames clenched his fist and stepped forward. Cato’s growls accelerated, growing more urgent by the second. Jaime stood poised by the phone.

Despite the situation, I felt empowered. Ames Exley didn’t frighten me. Not in the elegant lobby of my own home with residents going to and fro. I wasn’t foolhardy enough to invite him upstairs, but in a public space I felt invincible.

“Next time, Ames, phone first. Better still, wait for Deming. He lives here now, and I know he’d love to see you.”

I’d been to the New England Aquarium many times studying the cold dead eyes of sharks. Beneath his civilized veneer, Ames Exley had that same impersonal air of a killer. He shot me a venomous look, pivoted, and stalked out the lobby without saying another word.

Jaime was close to hyperventilating. “I tried, Ms. Kane. Something about that gentleman made me go all cold inside.” He rubbed his hands together. “You’ll tell Mr. Swann, won’t you? I tried to protect you.”

I walked over to the concierge and patted his arm. “Between you and Cato, I felt perfectly safe. Mr. Swann will probably want to thank you personally.”

Dollar signs replaced the angst in Jaime’s eyes. He saw himself as my savior, sure to cash in on Deming’s gratitude. He insisted on locking the lobby door while he personally escorted me upstairs.

“If that man tries to get in again, Jaime, call Mr. Swann or his father immediately.”

The thought of contacting Bolin Swann was almost a game changer. Jaime gulped but stood his ground. “Okay, Ms. Eja. Don’t worry about nothing while I’m here. I’ll pass the word to the night man too.”

I spent precious minutes doing deep breathing exercises, calming my brain, and lowering my heart rate. A woman’s home should be inviolate, not besieged by visitors popping up willy-nilly like toadstools. Maybe a moat would fend off marauders.

My old college chum was toxic, a true biohazard. Both Ames, and Fleur Pixley, for that matter, sowed poison while hiding behind bland countenances and empty smiles.

After a thorough scrubbing in the steam shower, I applied a touch of makeup, tousled my curls, and transformed myself from writing nerd to wushu warrior.

As soon as I stepped outside, I spied Anika, waving from the back seat of the Bentley. A bracing blast of cool air, and a dose bright sunlight immediately lifted my spirits. Let Ames skulk about bemoaning his fate. I was officially out of the detective business. Unless of course he really was the murderer.

I couldn’t wait to share my Exley encounter with Anika. She gave the appropriate
ooh
s and
ah
s and added a warning.

“Be careful, Eja. His behavior is peculiar. Very odd. Maybe you should call Lieutenant Bates.”

“No way! Deming will deal with him if he gets out of line. Meanwhile, I have a wedding to plan and an exercise program to master.”

We bumped fists and chattered about menus for the big occasion. I said the right things, but my heart wasn’t in it. The old Eja Kane was tenacious, a soldier in the army of truth. Would Mrs. Kane-Swann become a society cipher absorbed by charity galas, PTAs, and fashion trends? I shuddered as a wave of panic surged my way.

“Are you ill?” Anika asked. “Maybe we should skip our session.”

“No. It’s nothing that an hour of jabs and kicks won’t cure. Hope I haven’t forgotten the routines.”

As soon as Po rounded the corner on Boylston Street, my anxiety lessened.

Remember Julius Caesar, I lectured myself: “Cowards die many times before their deaths.” You are no coward, just a jittery bride-to-be with too much imagination. Deal with it!

Shaolin City was bustling again, a sure sign that the stigma of murder had been erased. Anika told Po to pick us up in ninety minutes and hopped out of the car with the grace and verve of a twenty-something. I checked for traffic and lumbered out behind her.

“Come on, Eja,” she urged. “Let’s stow our things in our lockers before class.”

Ever since we’d found Phaedra Jones, the locker room creeped me out. I couldn’t confess that to Anika. Correction—I refused to acknowledge my cowardice. Characters in my novels were fearless, but this was real life. Before Deming had moved in, I slept with a night-light and stashed a hammer under my bed.

The reality of the locker room was less threatening than I had imagined. A row of overhead lights now brightened the space as did the lively banter of several young students. The traces of tragedy had vanished except for those that lingered in my mind. Phaedra Jones was a ghost, abandoned even by her spiritual home. So much for the caring sifu and distraught master.

“Are you okay?” Anika asked. “I think this dustup with Ames traumatized you.”

I grinned sheepishly. “Nah. I’m writing a novel about a kung fu murder.
Dojo Death
. Snappy title, isn’t it? I sort of got carried away.”

Anika rolled her eyes and urged me on. “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry. Come on.”

We scurried down the corridor, reaching our classroom precisely at 3:00 p.m. Justin Ming was there, imperturbable as ever, waiting patiently for us.

Neither time nor grief had withered his dimpled smile and chiseled abs. If anything, the sexy sifu seemed more appealing than ever. Perhaps Phaedra’s death had resolved more than a few of Justin Ming’s worries and breathed new life into the dojo.

“Ladies,” he said with a curt nod, “shall we begin?”

Following an interval of stretching and internal breathing exercises, we plunged into a gut-wrenching series of competency-based tasks. As the star pupil, Anika was permitted to advance from the basic Dragon form to the Snake. She earned Justin Ming’s praise by replicating each phase of her training with minimal adjustments. My performance was more nuanced, or in other words, a big mess. The sifu frowned as I fumbled the stances, punches, and kicks that had once come easily. My performance was off the charts. On a ten-point scale it was subterranean.

“Come now, Ms. Kane,” he said. “Let me assist you.”

For once I had no trouble being humble. “I’m sorry, Sifu. I’ve lost my focus.”

He stepped behind me, bending my arms into the correct posture. “These exercises are designed to build confidence, Eja, not to punish. You are tenacious. Eager to learn. You will not abandon any task you want to master.”

He glanced at me, his almond eyes telegraphing a more sinister message. My feelings changed from shame to rage as I watched him. Must every man try to intimidate me today?

Propelled by adrenalin, I completed a perfect set of punches, kicks, and thrusts. When I finished, Anika clapped her hands, and Justin did a double take.

“Excellent, Ms. Kane. I commend you.”

I heard more clapping and turned toward the door. Deming stood there garbed in his own wushu outfit with a black belt wound tightly around his trim waist. He nodded to Justin Ming as they locked eyes.

“My pardon, Sifu. I came to escort my mother and fiancée from their lesson.”

Anika and I exchanged smiles. The air teemed with testosterone as each man took the other’s measure. They were similarly matched—Deming was taller by about two inches, but Justin was more heavily muscled. Both embodied every trait I lusted after in a man.

“You are most welcome, Mr. Swann.” Justin gestured toward the practice mats. “You would honor me by sharing a practice session.”

FOR ONCE I yearned for my cell phone with its nifty camera. Watching two magnificent creatures in combat was the equivalent of viewing stallions at the starting gate. The very idea was a major turn on.

Alas, it was not to be. Before their match began, another man joined the party. Master Avery Moore glided into the room, beaming his vague, luminous smile.

“Mr. Deming Swann, I believe.” He bowed. “A pleasure, sir. You are a practitioner of the Shaolin arts, I understand.”

Deming nodded. “I trained with my father, Master.”

“Excellent. Bolin Swann has been a most generous supporter of our community.” The master gifted Anika and I with a nod. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I need Sifu Ming’s assistance.” He beckoned to Justin and led him from the room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Deming. “You’ve spoiled my surprise.”

“Surprise? You’ve been dragging my mother here for almost a month. It doesn’t take a wizard to figure things out.”

Anika put her arm around Deming’s waist and hugged him. “Now, children, don’t quarrel. Eja has been working so hard on this project, Dem. It was her wedding gift to you.”

“Really?” His surprise was almost insulting.

“I thought you’d be proud of me. You know, becoming a fitness buff.”

His eyes met mine in a look that singed my heart. “I’m always proud of you. You don’t have to change anything. Besides, I thought we could walk home together. You too, Mom.”

Anika shook her head. “Nope. Po is waiting outside, and Bolin and I have dinner plans.” She kissed my cheek and slipped out the door. “I’ll get your things for you, Eja. Wait here a minute.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Don’t go alone.” I sped down the corridor after her, narrowly averting a collision with Justin Ming.

“We missed our discussion,” he said. “Next time, perhaps when Mr. Swann is busy elsewhere.”

I paused, just long enough to unsettle Justin Ming. “There’s nothing to discuss, Sifu. Phaedra’s case is closed. Her murderer has been arrested. The police are satisfied and so am I. Good evening.” I faced forward, heading toward the locker room at a leisurely pace. Was the sexy sifu battling Ames for creep of the year, or was something more sinister at play?

The moment I reached the locker room, Anika gave me a quizzical look. “What happened? You’re a million miles away.”

“Nothing. There must be a full moon tonight or something. Every man I meet is half crazy.”

Anika grinned as she handed me my bag. “You underestimate yourself, Eja. Men are drawn to you.”

I loved her explanation. Too bad it wasn’t true. A different more sinister thought swirled through my brain, making me shudder. Despite evidence to the contrary, Portia Amory Shaw was innocent of murder. She was certainly a criminal, but someone else—someone with a very different motive—had murdered Phaedra. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew it was so.

Chapter Twenty-Five

OVER THE NEXT few weeks, life settled back to normal or what passes for it after a murder. Deming and I combined households, Anika assembled our gift registry, and I resumed my schedule on the lecture circuit. Most events were inconsequential—book signings, seminars, and library readings. At first Deming protested, but eventually he agreed that my life was no longer in jeopardy. An audience of bibliophiles was unlikely to harbor an assassin.

One evening after a session at the Boston Public Library, an unlikely duo appeared. Horton and Heather Exley trotted to the front of the line, books in hand, asking for an autograph. He was garbed in Brahmin casual, a combination of cashmere blazer and well-tailored cords. Heather had abandoned her customary black for a stunning red pantsuit that hugged her whippet-thin figure.

“How are you?” I asked, gaining points for originality and sprightly dialogue.

“Nice talk, Eja. Very informative.” Horton thrust my first novel at me with a request. “Sign it for Jonathon. My boy likes mysteries.”

Heather nodded, adding her own contribution. “My book club meets every month. Maybe you could speak to us.”

Book clubs and Heather Exley didn’t go together. Still, the quest for customers was unending.

“I guess you heard about Ames,” Horton said. “Flew the coop. About time, I say. That boy had to stand on his own someday.”

I was flabbergasted. “Where’d he go?”

Heather shrugged. “Somewhere in the West. Hollywood, I think.”

Horton curled his lip at the thought of it. “He wrote some kind of screenplay. Said you inspired him, Eja. Calls it
The Family Jewels.
Can you believe it? Kind of a dumb title if you ask me.”

No wonder Ames tried to contact me. He wanted my advice, not my life. I recalled the wicked sense of humor he had once displayed. Who knew? The screenplay might be a big success. Certainly the Exley family contained a wealth of material.

“When is your wedding?” Heather asked.

“Soon,” I said. “In a few months.”

She glanced at Horton, a strange look filled with secret longing. “We’re going to Paris next week.”

Horton’s complexion grew ruddy with either emotion or high blood pressure. “New start. Second honeymoon.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

I shook his hand. “Congratulations and the best of luck to you both.”

They walked away arm in arm, leaving me to think about Phaedra and her tangled legacy. She was now a mound of ashes, while the Exley dynasty motored on. Portia hadn’t confessed to anything, but despite some craters in the evidence, the Suffolk County District Attorney had charged her with first-degree murder. Both he and Euphemia Bates were convinced of Portia’s guilt. Why wasn’t I satisfied?

When I left the library, there was Deming sitting on the library steps waiting. As usual, he was hunched over his iPad, glued to the latest fiscal news from Wall Street doomsayers.

“Wow! What a pleasant surprise!” I bent down and kissed his cheek. “How do I rate a personal escort?”

He leapt to his feet with a panther’s grace. “Get used to it, toots. As Mrs. Deming Swann you’re entitled to that and much more.”

My reaction was mixed. The feminist part of me bristled, but the romantic side of me melted like triple cream Brie. True, I was and always would be Eja Kane, married or not. My guilty secret was the pleasure I felt in hearing my name linked with his. Mrs. Deming Swann. It sounded heavenly.

“Come along now,” he said. “Even famous authors need their rest.” He took my hand and scrambled down the steps, his toned glutes inspiring lustful thoughts in any sentient female.

We wandered through Copley Square, turned on Dartmouth, and made our way to Newbury Street, reveling in the starry sky and cool, fresh air.

My scoop about the Exleys rated a big yawn from Deming.

“Old news,” he said. “I meant to tell you. They’re back together now, bound by hoary tradition.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It will never be a love match, but as Horty’s lawyer, I’m relieved. Divorces are messy affairs, especially when a family fortune is involved.”

Messy affairs. Exleys knew all about that. I wondered if Heather had quenched her wanderlust, or if Horton would find a new “soul mate.” Maybe Ames was the smartest of the bunch after all. He was well equipped to deal with Hollywood soul-suckers, no matter what nonsense they threw at him.