Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (8 page)

“She knew there were others, I suppose?”

He nodded. Justin Ming used words sparingly and to great effect. He volunteered nothing.

“Were you involved in the bullion scheme? I heard all about it.”

“Bullion? I don’t understand. Our relationship was sensual, Ms. Kane, not business. Frankly, I had few discussions of substance with Phaedra or any of the others during our time together.” He smiled again. “They preferred it that way.”

His manner morphed from superior to arrogant, and it annoyed me. Good looks and incredible abs were no substitute for humility. There had to be a Shaolin law about that.

“How did you identify your ‘special’ clients? Some secret code?”

Justin shook his head. “Martial arts trains one to be observant, and I am skilled in nuance. I identified their needs during class,” he shrugged, “and pursued it later.”

Had I given off some needy vibe? I had to ask.

“What about me? I’m engaged, happily so, I might add. And my mother-in-law is totally in love with her husband.”

He took a slight step back and bowed. “My mistake. Forgive me.”

I yearned to smack that smirk off the sexy sifu’s face, but good sense prevailed. He posed as the poster boy for customer service, but Avery Moore might see things differently. Justin had violated the Moral Way, the basic underpinning of Shaolin law.

“The master might have banished you,” I said. “Then what would you do?”

His expression was one inch short of smug. “I am not without resources, Ms. Kane. Several of my clients have made generous offers.”

“Really? You mean you’d go to the highest bidder?”

He bowed his head. “Exactly.”

Chapter Eight

WHEN ANIKA PHONED later that evening, I fought a losing battle to remain calm and coherent. Despite taking yogic breaths and visualizing puppies, Justin Ming’s treachery left me outraged.

She let me rant for a while, then spoke in soothing tones. “Hold on, Eja. I’m on my way.”

That jolted me back to reality. At that hour, Bolin would insist on accompanying his wife. Before long, Deming would join the mix, and the entire incident would escalate into a Swann-sized mess. My big scoop wouldn’t matter if Deming brawled with Justin Ming.

“Wait! I overreacted, Anika. Everything’s fine.”

She sighed. “Are you sure? Po can drive me over. It’s no big deal.”

I filled a brandy snifter and drained the glass. “There. I’m much better. Besides, we’ll see each other tomorrow night. You’ll be at Horty’s party, I hope.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Anika giggled. “Bolin tried to bow out, but I insisted. Horton’s mother was a fine woman who was very kind to me. Just think. With a little luck, we might uncover a murderer.”

Her euphoria froze me in my tracks. Horton Exley had the big three in the crime pantheon—motive, means, and opportunity. His mama wouldn’t care for that.

“Does he know what we’re up to?” I asked.

“Who, dear?”

“Bolin. Deming knows some of it, but not what happened tonight. You know him. He’d go berserk. He’s already suspicious of Justin Ming.”

Another laugh from Anika. “So sweet. That boy adores you, Eja. He takes after his father that way. Bolin protects those he loves at all costs.”

“How well do you know Heather? I’ve never really spoken to her.” I discounted the nasty looks that Mrs. Horton shot my way and her imperious snubs.

Anika paused. “Not well. Just social chitchat at different functions. I seem to recall that she is wild about fashion. That might be an opening.”

“For you, maybe, not me. I met Horton’s brother years ago at some literary mixer that Brown hosted. Ames seemed nice enough, and he was really into creative writing. Plays, I think. Maybe I can build on that.”

“Just be careful, Eja, and remember, I’ve got your back.”

Once again I thanked the Heavens for Anika Swann, my sleuthing partner and so much more. “Don’t worry. I’ll plot tomorrow’s strategy and fill you in.”

I heard Bolin call Anika up to bed. After we said our goodnights, I checked my watch. Eleven o’clock. Deming had had enough time to discuss and restructure the entire tax code with Fleur Pixley. Good thing I’m not the jealous type.

Armed with my Surefire Defender flashlight, I hustled Cato outdoors for his evening constitutional. Commonwealth Avenue was deserted beneath a magical sky carpeted with stars. The beauty of the night trivialized my fears, especially those of Justin Ming. He might be a high-end rent boy, but that didn’t make him a murderer. Besides, in a contest between Phaedra’s word and a respected sifu’s, Master Moore would surely believe Justin.

Unless she had proof. If Phaedra Jones was wily enough to fleece men of their money, she might easily have kept a souvenir or two. That would up the stakes for both Justin and Horty, not to mention those private clients she rounded up. I crawled into bed and fell asleep counting motives.

FLEUR PIXLEY CALLED the next morning before I’d finished my espresso. It was still early, although to a bureaucrat, 9:00 a.m. might seem like the shank of the day. We spent a few minutes in meaningless chatter before she came to the point.

“I had dinner with Deming last night. He’s so charming and better looking than ever.”

“Indeed.” I didn’t trust myself to say much—spiteful comments were unworthy of me. I could picture Fleur fluffing her pixie cut as she sat entombed in her federal cubicle. The poor dear probably appreciated a good meal at a fine establishment.

“Have you set the date yet?” she purred. “I couldn’t get any specifics from Deming.”

“Soon. Very soon. Deming loathes fuss. He’d just as soon elope tonight, but his mother has other ideas.” I kept my voice friendly, as if my former classmate’s agenda were a total mystery.

“Oh. You lucky thing. He’s a divine dancer, but I don’t have to tell you that.”

Actually, Deming and I seldom went dancing. Make that never. I love music but I’m not the most graceful gal on two feet. I laughed and muttered something in response.

“You know, we were very close to your place last night,” Fleur said. “You’ve probably been to Rise plenty of times. It’s right on Stuart Street. Such a cool club. I should have known that Deming Swann would be a member.”

Now I knew why Deming hadn’t called last night. That rat was up to his ears in something, and it wasn’t paperwork.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said. “Let’s do lunch sometime soon.”

“When?” Fleur had certainly cultivated her killer instinct. Maybe enforcement work demanded that.

“How about next week? I’ll text my mother-in-law and call you back.”

“Mother-in-law? Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you, Eja?”

Now was my turn to twist the verbal knife. “You know how it is. We are so close that Anika already seems like family. Bolin too.”

“Wow! Bolin Swann is on the Forbes list. One of the richest billionaires in the world, or something like that.” Clearly, Fleur was staggered by my proximity to greatness.

“I know. He was really embarrassed when they issued that thing. Swanns like to keep personal matters low key. You understand.”

Fleur soon made her excuses and ended our chat, leaving me very curious about Deming’s tete-a-tete and the impact on Horton’s money problems.

THAT EVENING I agonized over wardrobe options before settling on my old standby—a black scoop-neck Armani with matching lace jacket. It made me feel elegant and slightly decadent, especially when a strand of Grandma’s pearls dangled near my cleavage. Fortunately, my minimalist approach to hair and makeup could be done on autopilot. I had no time and little patience for fussing.

Deming, or Twinkle Toes as I now called him, had texted our departure time. At six thirty p.m. I was ready and waiting to embrace the Exley throng, if not my fiancé. With him, I was a bit miffed.

“You’re lovely, Eja,” Deming said, putting his arms around me. He looked pretty nifty himself in a charcoal grey Brioni suit. In truth, he looked spectacular. Deming had the dark, sizzling Byronic thing down pat. Constant praise from women was something he’d grown to expect, so I meted it out sparingly. Besides, I was confident that Fleur had shored up his ego last night during their dance session.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “Sorry I didn’t call you last night. Things got really hectic.” He was fidgeting, and if he followed the script, he’d soon be cracking his knuckles. Despite an elegant facade, even Deming occasionally felt guilt. Mangling knuckles was his concession to nerves.

“No problem,” I lied. “I was pretty busy myself.” True enough, if you considered fending off a sex-crazed sifu and potential murderer all in a night’s work.

We evaded Cato, caught the elevator, and were soon motoring to the Exley spread.

“By the way,” I said. “Guess who phoned me this morning? Fleur Pixley. She wants to get together for lunch next week.”

Deming’s frown was a thing of beauty. “Bad idea, Eja,” he growled. “This foundation matter is a delicate thing. Fleur agreed to look into it, but I think we should limit any other contact.”

I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll think up some excuse. After all, your dinner was strictly business, but our lunch would be personal.”

Deming stomped on the gas pedal and sailed into traffic heading west on Storrow Drive toward Brookline. A pack of homicidal drivers jockeyed for position as they made their homeward pilgrimage. That focused Deming on road congestion, leaving me the opportunity to share a bowdlerized account of my session with Justin Ming.

“He came to your apartment?” Deming bit his lip as his complexion paled. “What were you thinking, Eja? The man might be a murderer.”

“Your trainer comes to your place all the time,” I said. “So does your masseur, as I recall. What’s the harm?”

“Harm? For one thing, I am fully capable of defending myself.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at me. “How would you fend someone off—with a cutting remark?”

“Good one,” I said. “Let me write that down. Just stop fuming and listen for just a minute. You’ll find this very interesting.” I delivered a summary of events that was a model of brevity. When I finished, Deming gripped the steering wheel as if he were facing a death squad.

“Why didn’t you mention
Dim Mak
before? We need to notify Lieutenant Bates at once.”

“Don’t blame me. I’d never heard the term before. And Justin volunteered it. That’s something a guilty man would never do.” I folded my arms and rested my case.

“Let me get this straight,” Deming fumed. “Maybe I didn’t hear it right. Justin Ming is a prostitute? Is that what you’re saying?”

I shook my head. “That’s rather harsh. More like an escort or paid companion. No one thinks twice about it when some nubile girl does that. What’s the difference? Let’s just say, Justin learned to capitalize on his assets. With Phaedra Jones pointing the way, he identified receptive women who became his private clients, including our hostess, Heather Exley, wife of your client.”

“How in the hell did you pry that information out of him?”

I shrugged and tossed my hair. “No problem. We drank tea and I just asked.”

Deming massaged his temples as if he were fending off a migraine. “Unbelievable. Let me summarize. Horton was doing the murder victim, while his wife was schlepping the sifu. What else?”

“Don’t forget that Justin and Phaedra were also an item. That man has plenty of stamina. Apparently she was in love with him and wanted an exclusivity clause.”

“Christ!” Deming was seldom profane. His anxiety level must be stratospheric. “Don’t mention this tonight. I’ll broach it to Horton later on.”

“Fine,” I said. “I want to relax and have a good time. You know, mingle, have a few drinks. Maybe we can go dancing afterwards. Know any place good?”

His perfect profile turned to stone, but Deming gave nothing away. “Sure. Sounds like fun. It might not work tonight, though. I need some time alone with Horton about foundation business.”

He turned up the music as a soul medley played on the Porsche’s super-duper Burmester surround sound system. As luck would have it, Nina Simone added her two cents by belting out, “The Other Woman.” I hummed along, word for word until Deming cracked.

“Listen, Eja, I don’t know what Fleur told you, but everything was very innocent last night. We had dinner and dropped by a club to listen to music. Period.”

“Okay. You know that I trust you.” I hid my hands under my purse so that he didn’t see my crossed fingers. “What’s the story with the FTC and the Exley Foundation?”

He sighed. “They got a tip—anonymous source—that Horton was involved in a scam, using the foundation’s treasury as his personal piggy bank. That alone is enough to trigger an inquiry, unless I can convince her that Horty is a fool, not a felon.”

I gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “You can be very persuasive. Your client is one lucky guy.”

The hint of sarcasm wasn’t lost on Deming. His guilty flush proved that.

“Does Horton blame Phaedra for his problems?” I asked.

“Nope, that’s just it. He thinks Phaedra was an innocent dupe.”

From what I’d seen of Phaedra, she’d left innocence behind in her cradle. The woman had a lot going for her, if you like a sultry blend of sex and avarice, stirred not shaken.

“Mrs. Exley might see things differently. She’s got plenty of muscle from her workouts and seemed more than willing to use them.” I recalled her parting threat to Phaedra in the locker room. The venom literally spewed from Heather’s lips.

“Just chill, Eja. Let Lieutenant Bates do her job, and you do yours. For tonight, just act like the brilliant novelist and loving fiancée that you are. Put that detective shit on hold.” He pinched my cheek. “I know you can do it.”

I had no time to react. My mind was boggled by the first glimpse of the Exley manse, an English manor house whose gabled roof and lush grounds resembled a movie set more opulent than Downton Abbey.

“Good Lord!” I gaped. “That house is huge. It must be fifteen thousand square feet.”

“Twenty at least,” Deming said coolly. “It’s insured for a pile of money. Historic register and all that. Merry Meadow has lots of space, plus a gym, theatre, and fantastic wine cellar. The name’s misleading, though. Not much joy in those rooms.” He squeezed my hand. “What’s the matter, my love? Overwhelmed by a stately home? It was built to house large families with plenty of kiddos running around.”

I’d never considered Deming very child-centric. His preoccupation with progeny was recent and somewhat puzzling. Was he vying for father of the year? The thought sent chills up my spine. I fully expected him to paw the ground like a stallion in rut.

“Come along, Eja,” he said. “I need to speak with our host before the others arrive. You can entertain Mrs. Exley.”