Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (12 page)

Typical Paloma. When in doubt, shriek.

Deming leapt out of the cruiser before it was fully stopped and sprinted toward the ambulance. I fumbled with my seatbelt and made a mess of it.

“Here, Eja. That thing always gets stuck. Let me help you.” Raylan leaned over and untangled me. “Take your time. We don’t want another accident.”

I met his calm espresso gaze and felt better. “You’re sure it was an accident?”

“I’m not sure of anything at the moment.” Raylan swung open the door and vaulted toward the knot of people milling about.

Deming, Krister, and Paloma had been joined by Laird Foster, his sidekick Mordechai Dale, and both dogs. Paloma was still wild-eyed, although she’d traded shouts for hiccups. Morde thumped her back in an ineffectual effort to stem the tide.

Laird nattered on for a bit before Deming stopped him cold. “She’s okay. I’ll ride in the ambulance with her, and Eja can drive my car. He pressed the keys into my palm and squeezed it. “Call my dad before you leave.”

My fright for Persus was eclipsed by sheer panic at the thought of driving the Porsche. Deming babied that car like an anxious parent, never allowing anyone else to drive it. Ever. On two occasions, he’d let me get behind the wheel. Under strict scrutiny and maddening criticism, of course. Those jaunts and Deming’s sharp comments almost doomed our relationship forever. Obviously his concern for Pert had dwarfed every rational impulse the man possessed.

“Where will they take her?” I asked Raylan.

“Cape Cod Hospital. Don’t worry. She’ll get excellent care there. I’m going over after I check out a few things. Maybe you should calm down and wait for me. I’ll be in the cabana asking some questions.”

I took several deep breaths and exhaled slowly. It was hard to think with Cato’s shrill bark punctuating every thought and the occasional deep woof from Ibsen. Chief Smith made a good point. By becoming the proverbial fly on the wall, I might learn something valuable—the truth about what happened to Persus and Dario.

THE WORD
CABANA
conjures up a simple wood structure with thatched roof to shield bathers from the sun’s harsh rays. Not so at Brokind. This was a traditional and far more opulent cabana specially constructed to complement the architecture of the estate. Lars’ touches were all over the place from the handsome slate roof and stuccoed walls to the antiqued cathedral ceiling. I’d lived comfortably for many years in spaces half the size of the great room alone.

Raylan herded us into the sitting area, where we huddled around the massive stone fireplace. Krister played host, fetching hot tea and brandy from the lavish kitchen and bar area. Anyone needing comfort found it here in spades.

“I won’t keep you long,” Raylan said. “Just need to set the record straight. Can anyone tell me what happened to Mrs. Cantor? Rather a brisk day for swimming, wouldn’t you agree?”

Morde Dale spoke first. “We were in here. All of us, having tea.” He looked pointedly at Laird and me. “Well, most of us were. It’s very cozy here with the fireplace lit, and Pert is particularly fond of it. Lars loved this thing, don’t you know.”

“Okay . . .” The chief’s tone said he was long on patience and short on time. “Then what happened?”

Paloma rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes. I expected her to snore at any moment.

“This was a friendly gathering?” Raylan asked.

No one spoke until Paloma suddenly leapt to her feet and pointed at Morde. “Go on, tell him. I know you want to.” Her sobs were a gushing, uncapped fire hydrant.

Morde’s skin was mottled with crimson blotches. He collected himself and faced us again. “There was a . . . a lively exchange of views, and Pert stepped outside to catch a breath of fresh air. When she didn’t return, Krister went out and found her.”

Raylan zeroed in on the soft spot immediately. “What caused this ‘lively exchange’? I assume that’s the genteel expression for an argument.”

“Well . . . I wouldn’t exactly say that, Chief.” Morde backpedaled like an Olympian. “You see, Paloma and Merlot got into it about Dario, and tempers frayed.”

Both the chief and I sprang to attention. “What about Dario?” he asked. “And where is Merlot?”

Morde shrugged. “I couldn’t say. She and Paloma slipped out about the time that Persus left.”

“Yeah,” Paloma chimed in. “Right after she took the money.”

“Money?” Raylan and I said the word together.

“Now, Paloma, you don’t know that for sure.” Mordechai Dale blotted his mouth with a bright red napkin.

“I saw it. Mrs. Cantor gave her a check and put it in a white envelope. So there.” Paloma’s defiance was curious. She seemed untroubled by Pert’s accident, but enraged by a handout to Merlot Brownne.

I suddenly remembered my promise to Deming. After excusing myself, I dialed Anika’s number and spoke to both Swanns on speakerphone.

“It’s dreadful,” Anika said. “So unlike Persus to just drift off. Not when company is there.”

Bolin’s soothing voice took over. “Dem texted us that Aunt Pert is holding her own. Tell Krister we’ll be up there tomorrow. I’ll stay the weekend, and Leda will watch over Persus. She’s staying in the hospital overnight for observation anyhow. At her age, they can’t be too careful.”

The idea of seeing two friendly faces comforted me, especially the faces of my almost in-laws. Bayview was far from the idyllic hamlet I’d originally envisioned. Too much Agatha Christie, I guess, although she’d laced those perfect English gardens with evil and murders galore.

Truth be told, Deming and I had failed. We were outsiders, “wash-ashores,” unable to penetrate that legendary Cape Cod reserve. Friendly smiles, polite answers, and well-chosen words masked the truth about Dario and his death. They may also have hidden a murder. I’d felt it everywhere: in the restaurant, Brokind’s opulent rooms, even the police station. Maybe Anika, a Bayview regular who knew everyone, could make a difference.

“We’ll plan everything tomorrow, Eja. Tell Dem to calm down and not worry.” Anika laughed as she thought of her son. “You know how he gets. He thinks we need protection.”

“I wonder why,” her husband said.

WHEN I RETURNED to the great room, most of the gang had cleared out. Only Cato, Ibsen, and Raylan Smith remained. The chief threw me a lifeline, a face-saving option that would deliver the Porsche and me to Hyannis without mishap. It took me all of two seconds to accept his offer to drive the shiny beast. I’d rather deal with Deming later then spend time dithering with a standard shift. Besides, I had to consider Cato’s safety.

The feisty spaniel leapt into the back seat of the police cruiser assuming his most angelic pose. It was tripe, pure and simple, but Raylan bought his act.

“Your dog is terrific,” he said. “Obedient. I love dogs, all animals actually. Someday I’ll have a bunch of them.” He saluted his officers and drove slowly down the driveway to the Porsche.

Like many men, Raylan was a car nut. He gaped at Deming’s prized possession as if it were the Holy Grail.

“Wow! I’ve never driven this model before. Read about, dreamed of one. I guess most guys do. It’s new, isn’t it?”

“Fairly. Deming loves the thing.” I tossed Raylan the keys and watched him slobber over the sports car.

“Panamera Turbo S. Do you know how fast this baby can go? Man, that’s an automatic ticket.” For a moment Chief Raylan Smith was a teenage boy salivating over a flashy hunk of metal.

I shrugged. I neither knew nor cared as long as Deming drove the damn thing safely when I was with him.

“You’re sure it’s okay if I drive? Mr. Swann won’t mind?”

I lied without compunction. “Heavens no. He lets everyone borrow it. I drive it all the time.”

Raylan didn’t hear a word I said. He was starstruck, fixated on a car with more gadgets than most airplanes. “This color is cool too. What is it—plum?”

“Yep. Metallic something or other. Ready to try it?”

A grin the size of Nantucket Sound split his face. “Oh, yeah. I need to speak with Mrs. Cantor’s doctors, anyway.”

Right on cue, my phone vibrated. Deming Swann on the case.

“Where are you?” he barked. “Nothing wrong with my car I hope. Remember not to strip the gears. Stick to the side roads. Avoid the highway.”

I’d grown used to Deming in Master of the Universe mode. When he spit orders and issued commands, every instinct told me to rebel. Sometimes I used the nuclear option, but today I chose self-restraint. Better to ignore him than get into a shooting war with Raylan sitting beside me.

“Everything’s fine, Deming. I’m really getting the hang of this thing. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“We?”

I pictured the danger signals, flashing lights and steam spewing from my beloved’s ears and quickly doused the flames with petrol. “Chief Smith and Cato are with me. What floor is Persus on?”

He hesitated before answering. “Three. I hope you’re focused on driving, Ms. Kane, not flirting with the sheriff. You shouldn’t even be using your cell phone in the car. It’s illegal.”

“Not a problem. I have pull with the chief. How is Persus, by the way?”

I heard Deming cracking his knuckles as he always does when he’s tense. Those knuckles are the only unattractive part of his otherwise spectacular body. It’s comforting to know that he’s not totally perfect.

“Persus is resting comfortably so they say. They gave her an IV and some kind of sleeping pill, probably Valium, your favorite. Come find me when you get here. I’ll be waiting in her room.”

I tried but couldn’t hide the smile that lit up my face.

“Everything okay?” Raylan asked as he entered Route 6, shifted into gear, and passed two oil trucks. “Never drove a seven-speed before. It’s wild!”

“Deming’s worried about his aunt. We all are.” I watched him closely. “Is she in danger?”

Raylan shrugged. “Probably not. Of course, we won’t know for sure until Mrs. Cantor tells us what happened. Either way, I’ll post an officer outside her door. Better to be safe.”

Safety was my concern too, as the Porsche zigged and zagged around other vehicles. Ten miles went by fast—way too fast. I closed my eyes and prayed until we reached exit seven and followed the signs to Cape Cod Hospital.

I didn’t exhale until we sailed into the parking lot and claimed a spot. Cato hadn’t moved a muscle or made a sound since we started. He cowered in his seat, displaying all the symptoms of canine catatonia.

Raylan, on the other hand, could barely contain his joy. He opened my door and reluctantly tossed me the keys. “That was memorable, quite a treat. Thank Mr. Swann for me, Eja.”

“Don’t even mention it,” I said. “Really. Deming gets flustered when people thank him.”

Judging from the sharp look he gave me, I think I overplayed my hand. Raylan was a shrewd operator even though he’d been taken in by Cato’s quiet act. As we entered the hospital, I broached a different subject.

“I read the medical examiner’s report. Funny thing. He didn’t list Dario’s cause of death. Called it ‘undetermined,’ whatever that means.”

Raylan pushed the up button on the elevator, folded his arms, and stared down at me. Big men often try that to intimidate you. I call it the John Wayne maneuver. Whatever the game or the name, Chief Raylan Smith was very good at it.

“First of all, Ms. Kane, the medical examiner is a she. Dr. Glenda DeLeo, a cautious, very well respected professional. If she says ‘undetermined’ that’s exactly what she means.”

Score one for Raylan. I’d been hoist on my own sexist petard. It was unfortunate but not fatal. Persistence is my middle name, especially when a whiff of contempt drifts my way. The Smith solution was to pat the little lady on the head and send her packing. It didn’t work.

“You’re still investigating, I guess. Is that what it means?”

“It means, Ms. Kane, that Dario’s death is a police matter. Butt out.”

We reached the third floor in stony silence. Raylan stopped to speak with his officer, giving me the opening I needed. My smile was angelic; my message was not. I clutched the door handle to Pert’s room and spun ’round.

“Sorry, Chief, but I can’t sit this out. I promised to help Persus, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Chapter Ten

SHE LOOKED SO tiny in that hospital bed, more like an image from Madame Tussauds than a living being. I took a deep breath and slowly counted past ten. Way past. Hospitals unnerve me—tubes, beeping machines, imperious nurses, and the feeling of helplessness and utter panic. A civilian has no chance at all.

I focused on Pert, watching her inhale and exhale, following the faint rhythm of her sighs. The tiny room was immaculate, but the residue of institutional cleaners assaulted the senses. My eyes closed, and before I knew it, Deming’s arms surrounded me.

“Didn’t know you were a fainter,” he said. “Good thing I was here.”

“I didn’t faint. I was . . . resting.”

Deming snorted, giving falsehood its due. “Here. Sit down while she sleeps. It won’t be long.”

“What!” My heartbeat hit the stratosphere. “I thought she was okay.”

He held up his hand. “Chill, Eja. She’s fine, or soon will be. Be warned though. She doesn’t recall much.”

“Raylan wanted to question her. He hoped that maybe she saw her attacker. Assuming there was one, of course.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Deming puffed up like a cranky cobra. “That’s just tough. Persus needs her rest. Your admirer will learn to live with it.”

Pert’s eyelashes fluttered, and she struggled to sit up. “Eja . . . Demmy . . . What a fuss over nothing. I’m so ashamed of myself.”

“Whoa there, Aunty. No hurry. Relax.” Deming moved to her side and squeezed Pert’s shoulder. “Do you feel like talking? We’ll stay with you either way.”

I did my part by grinning foolishly. “Anika and Bolin will be here tomorrow.”

“Oh no,” Pert said, patting her hair. She seemed more flustered than comforted by the prospect of company.