Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (17 page)

“Oh, come on now,” Deming growled.

Merlot was cagey, clearly in charge of the moment. We were pawns in her elaborate chess game, unable to move as she called checkmate. It was a hoax, an elaborate charade, the product of expert googling. It had to be. Yet, once again I felt the tug of truth in her words. Despite my own cynicism I bought at least some of her act.

“One more thing,” she said, her voice subdued. “She worries about you. She warns you to take care, especially you, Eja.”

I shivered as though the room were an ice cave. Deming put his jacket around my shoulders and moved closer. Feeling the soft fabric of his sweater and the strength of his arms restored me. I can take care of myself, but having Deming as backup was a comfort.

“That’s all I have,” Merlot murmured. “She’s gone.”

Deming quickly regained his composure. No more grieving brother; the Teflon litigator was in the house.

“Actually I have something for you, Ms. Brownne. I think you’ll find it very instructive.” He removed a sheaf of papers from his attaché case. “Perhaps we should use your real name if we can find it. Let’s see.” He thumbed through the file. “Oh, yes. Madame Zola. That served you well in Chicago it seems. Or, we could use your Brooklyn alias—Katay the clairvoyant.” Deming leaned forward, poised to strike. “My favorite was the one you used in Mystic, Connecticut. Great choice of location, by the way. Too perfect. Let’s see. Hecate—I like that one. Classy. Intriguing. Just a touch of mythology.”

Merlot folded her arms and met Deming’s gaze. “What’s your point? Many people change their professional names. It’s not illegal.”

“True, but grand theft larceny is a crime, certainly in this Commonwealth.”

I was transfixed, a spectator in a contest where the stakes rose with each revelation. They were almost equally matched, but I gave Deming the edge. Harvard trained its lawyers well in cutthroat tactics.

Merlot rose, slowly, deliberately, and stood by the window. “Such certitude. Armed with righteousness, aren’t you? Your research is very thorough so I’m sure you know that I’ve never been convicted of a crime and that proving larceny as you call it is difficult. Your aunt and others would probably testify on my behalf.” She spun around and stood toe to toe with Deming. “You don’t frighten me, Mr. Swann. Psychic practitioners have always been persecuted. It’s old news.”

Deming shrugged. “True. Legal and moral aren’t always the same thing. But somehow, bilking credulous widows out of thousands of dollars to ‘break their attachment to material things’? That sounds suspiciously like elder abuse. At least that’s what the authorities in Connecticut and New York said.”

Deming’s withering comments didn’t dent her self-confidence. If anything, Merlot seemed amused by his accusations. She projected a sense of glacial calm that I found impressive.

“All charges were dropped in both states. I deal with sensitive issues, things most people get emotional about. It’s not surprising that people react.” She stooped down to stroke Ra’s inky fur. “Typically it’s the relatives, not my clients. Afraid of losing influence or money, I suppose.” Merlot stood straight, squaring her shoulders. “Okay. Enough fencing. What do you really want?”

That was my cue. Before Deming interfered, I jumped in. “Why did Dario contact you? Don’t bother to lie. We’ve learned some fairly unpleasant things about him too.”

She waited, calculating the odds, or fabricating some bizarre tale. I couldn’t tell which. “Very well. Dario tried to pressure me. He was very determined.”

Sometimes I speak before thinking. This was one of those times.

“But you don’t have money, do you? What could he possibly get?”

Deming pinched my side, but it was too late. The question hung in the air, a spectral image demanding its due.

Merlot’s smile was quick and bittersweet. “Money I don’t have, it’s true. But influence. That’s also a valuable commodity. Dario asked me to intercede with his grandmother. About Brokind.”

“What did he offer you?” Deming asked.

“We never talked specifics. I told him I couldn’t help him. You see, I’d already made another arrangement.”

“What!” Deming’s temper flared to boiling.

The psychic countered with a superior smirk. “Naturally, all that’s confidential. Privileged communication. As an attorney, you appreciate that.”

This time I played peacemaker. I squeezed Deming’s wrist. Hard.

“Be real. Psychics can’t claim that,” I said.

Something made me uneasy. Maybe it was her demeanor or the glint of malice in her eyes. Merlot Brownne had something special up her sapphire sleeve, something that made her very confident. She reached into a side table drawer and extracted a file. “Here. Read this. Both of you.”

We hunched over the document, absorbing every noun, verb, and comma. Merlot crossed her legs and sat erect, a monarch whose triumphant smile bathed us in contempt.

Deming turned over the document and gave her that thousand-yard stare they perfect in law school. “Okay, Ms. Brownne. Your move.”

“As you can see, I am an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. My clients’ confidences are inviolate, part of a sacred trust. First amendment freedom.”

“Cut the crap!” He pounded the table with a force that sent Ra flying for cover. “How much do you want?”

Merlot never moved, but she tightened her grasp on the carved walnut arms of the fauteuil. “All institutions accept donations,” she purred. “I am no different. My services and assistance can be costly.”

Deming nodded, pulled out his checkbook, and promptly wrote a check. He hunched over the thing, using his body to shield it from me. Whatever the amount, Merlot seemed quite satisfied. She gave his check a cursory glance and slid it into the side table drawer.

“Okay,” Deming said. “Back to my original question. Who was your other client?”

Chapter Fourteen

“I WON’T NAME names.” Merlot didn’t flinch. “But I’ll share the substance of our discussion. My client, as well as others, was interested in only one thing—securing Brokind for his projects.” She gave a delicate cough. “People believe I have some influence with your aunt. Through Lars.”

I couldn’t help myself, despite the tight set of Deming’s mouth. I had to ask. “What did you tell them?”

“Lars speaks with Persus of many things, most of them personal. Their love story was unique, you know. It transcended death.”

Deming leaned forward, his brows knotted into a thunderous V. He was on a mission, and guile couldn’t deter him. “What projects? I’ll need specifics.”

“Brokind would make an excellent resort complex. Just think of it. Twenty-six acres on the ocean and all those trails. Pristine.” She leaned back and wiggled her toes. “Developers, casino managers—they’d die to have it. All those tourists needing hotel rooms.”

“Hotels!” I grimaced at the thought of Pert’s beloved refuge being ravaged by bulldozers, despoiled by day-trippers. “No way. Dario wouldn’t allow it.”

“Oh?” Merlot slid her certificate into the drawer. “Don’t be so certain.”

I bit back the retort that surged to my lips. Dario the ardent environmentalist; Dario the cycling zealot; Dario, darling of the Sierra Club. He had some redeeming qualities, didn’t he?

“You were fond of Dario?” Deming asked, baiting his trap.

She shook her head. “I understood him. In many ways, we were kindred spirits, willing to do what had to be done. So few people have that kind of courage.”

“Courage? I call it selfishness.” Deming stayed statue-still, a beautiful sculpture of a vengeful Greek god.

Another insolent shrug from Merlot. This woman knew the power of silence, a life lesson I’d never mastered. I stretched my shoulders to dissolve the mounting tension. Then inspiration hit me with the force of a body block.

“Dario tried to blackmail you, didn’t he? He found out about your past and threatened to tell his grandmother.”

Once again, Merlot said nothing, but Deming edged smoothly into the conversation.

“Excuse me, ladies, I’m having a nicotine attack. Can’t stand it another minute. Help me out, will you?”

Deming nudged my foot to shut me up. My health conscious fiancé abhorred cigarettes and gave stern lectures to anyone who would listen, and a few who wouldn’t, on the evils of tobacco. He was definitely up to something.

“I don’t smoke myself,” Merlot said, “but I’ve got some that clients left here. They’re not very fresh, I’m afraid.” She motioned toward a lovely chinoiserie chest on the far wall.

Deming loped over and opened the top drawer. “Wow,” he said. “You’ve got a little bit of everything. These Gitanes will do. They’re strong enough to survive anything. Brunes, I see. Who smokes these?”

Recognition flickered in Merlot’s eyes, a primitive instinct as old as the dinosaurs. “Couldn’t tell you. Take them with you if you like.” She gifted us with a frigid smile. “I’m afraid I have another appointment, so if we’re finished here . . .”

“For now,” Deming said, urging me toward the door. “Until the next time.”

“HOW COME YOU let her off the hook?” I asked as soon as we reached the Porsche. “We barely scratched the surface.”

Deming said nothing until we were belted into our seats with the engine purring. “Tactics, my love. Strategy.”

“Really? What was your strategy when you dumped me today for Meeka Kyle?”

He ruffled my hair and grinned. “Now who’s jealous? I took the opportunity to quiz the ravishing Meeka on several things. Behave and I’ll tell you about it.”

I was torn between curiosity and the strong desire to pitch a fit. Curiosity won out. “Okay, but this better be good.”

Deming cleared his throat and took his sweet time before speaking. I seethed with the injustice of it all but kept my lip buttoned. After he’d steered the Porsche into the street, narrowly avoiding a marauding Prius, he finally shared his story.

“Meeka and Dario were closer than she let on to you. As in Biblically close.” He smirked at the scowl covering my face. “So much for Eja, the crack interrogator. Better stick with your day job, toots.”

I’m a gracious loser. Despite Deming’s taunts, he’d won the contest fair and square. Could I help it if Meeka Kyle spilled her guts to a gorgeous man instead of me? Who knew what inducements my devious swain had used?

“Still with me?” he asked. “Here’s the problem: Meeka greased the skids for this cycling business. Lined up everything including the eco lobby. She’d made some concessions too. Had no choice.”

“Like what?” I envisioned the tradeoffs that Mordechai Dale and Laird Foster would demand. Human trafficking, biohazards—anything was possible.

“Are you listening to me?” Deming asked. Over the years he’d grown accustomed to women regarding his every utterance as Holy Writ. I broke that pattern and on occasion, it still vexed him. “I said that the project was in jeopardy, and the deadline was looming.”

“Okay, what was the holdup? Dario wasn’t a patient guy.”

Deming sped up Bay Street, oblivious to posted speed limits. “That’s just it.
He
was the problem. Dario couldn’t deliver.”

I have an agile brain and a first-class intellect, but for a moment I was mired in mind mud. It didn’t make sense. Dario was on the cusp of achieving his dream. What happened? I gave Deming my perplexed look, being careful not to frown. Wrinkles, you know. CeCe taught me those things.

Deming sighed and used his patient voice. “Remember I told you that Dario called me a couple of weeks before his death?”

“His
murder
.”

“Whatever. Anyway, he had questions about Lars’ will and the covenants concerning Brokind. Normally I couldn’t share that information, but in this case it’s public record.”

“Go on.” In times of stress, Deming reverted to type. Like most lawyers he elaborated on every detail to the point of tedium. I call it the billable hours syndrome.

He pulled into a spot overlooking the ocean and turned off the engine.

“Don’t you see? Dario wanted Brokind converted into a mixed-use property, mostly recreational but with a provision for some commercial use. It was the only way around competing interests in Bayview, so he made the tradeoff.”

Storm clouds appeared on my horizon, and I could see where this was headed. “So Dario had to wait until he inherited. Big deal. Persus is nearly eighty, for Christ’s sake.”

Deming braced his arms against the steering wheel. “That’s just it. Lars inserted a restrictive covenant into his will, and Aunt Pert refused to change it. The same restriction is in her will. Absolutely no commercial development or subdividing in Brokind.”

The light finally dawned on me, and I got that big “aha” moment. No wonder Dario pressured Merlot. Persus might change her mind if Lars via his favorite psychic, told her to. It all made sense. When he couldn’t deliver, someone eliminated Dario, believing that a grief- stricken Persus would yield. It was a diabolical but all too human scheme, and it might have worked.

“What’s the matter?” Deming asked, brushing aside my bangs. “You’re pensive, and that usually spells trouble.”

“It’s nothing. I was just thinking. Merlot found Dario’s body, and she’s already admitted how ruthless she is.”

“Now wait a minute. Are you suggesting . . .?”

We locked eyes, hazel on brown, and held that stare for what seemed like an eternity.

“Add it up. You know very well where I’m headed, Deming Swann. Merlot is tough enough—she proved that tonight. And don’t forget, she needs money. By eliminating Dario she might have gotten a big payoff from her other client.”

It made sense, yet I still railed against the idea. Merlot Brownne was typecast as a murderer. Admittedly the woman was a huckster who stretched the truth like a rubber band, but that didn’t make her a murderer. Unless. I resolved to speak with Chief Raylan Smith posthaste.

WHEN WE REACHED Brokind, Bolin had his own news to share. He’d lunched with Morde Dale and Laird Foster, a selfless act akin to heroism. Apparently between sales pitches and broad hints about charitable donations, he’d mined some gold.

“Tell them, darling,” Anika said, patting Bolin’s arm. “You’re so clever.”

Bolin grinned and sipped a cup of mulled cider. “That Laird is quite the salesman. No wonder he’s successful. Morde too. He’s very passionate about his causes.”