Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (12 page)

I patted his cheek. “Thank you, Counselor. That’s just what I wanted to know.”

He was still huffing impotently when he stalked out the door bound for a conference with Pamela Schwartz.

I ARRANGED A lunch date with Fleur Pixley at the Parker House restaurant, a historical spot not far from her office. Call me traditional, but I love the ambience and the learned spirits that inhabit the hotel. I waited for her, supposing the antics of the Saturday Club, where Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and even Charles Dickens had supped, argued, and spread their magic. Forget about Parker House rolls and Boston cream pie. The hotel’s literary legacy shone brighter than the Waterford chandelier or intricate woodwork. It captivated me, thrusting me into a writer’s paradise of long-forgotten lore. So much so that I ignored Fleur Pixley until she drew up her chair and rapped me on the knuckles.

“Wake up, Eja Kane. You haven’t changed one bit. Still lost in another world.”

Fleur hadn’t changed much either. Her pixie cut, freckles, and turned-up nose were a vivid contrast to the sober navy suit that covered her tiny frame. Her college nickname, Pert Pixley, was a moniker that even such grown-up attire couldn’t mask.

“I just can’t picture you as a handmaiden of the establishment,” I said. “At least I stayed true to myself. You defected to the Dark Side, big time.”

Fleur’s grin widened. “Bet your sweet ass. I enjoy fighting for the red, white, and blue. Sure beats consorting with criminals. Ask Dem about that.”

I ignored her jab and buried my nose in the menu. After debating the calorie count, I opted for virtue over appetite. Caesar salad with dressing on the side would fill me up even though I longed to plunge face down into fried chicken and lemon meringue pie.

“I read a few of your books,” Fleur said. “Believe it or not, I really liked them.”

Left-handed compliments activate my fighting spirit. Fortunately I’ve learned to control my temper. Otherwise that glass of Chablis might have found a home in Fleur’s bony lap.

“I’m not surprised that you liked my work. Why would I be? Most readers do.”

Fleur held up her hand, affecting innocence. “Whoa. No harm, no foul. It’s just that I don’t read much fiction. My life is one dusty tome after another. Financial instruments—what could be more boring? I know every bad CPA joke ever made. That’s why when Dem phoned, I jumped at the chance to see him.”

My hand tightened on that wine glass, but I managed a sympathetic nod. “It’s fun to revisit the past.”

Fleur bent forward. “You know, I had a terrible crush on him in college. Totally unrequited, I must say.”

We exchanged smiles.

“He’s more gorgeous than ever,” Fleur gushed. “Aren’t you the lucky one?”

My muscles ached from smiling and nodding, but I soldiered on.

“You know, I barely remembered Horton Exley,” Fleur said. “Not until Dem brought up his name. Naturally, I can’t discuss particulars with you. Confidentiality, you know.”

“Absolutely. Besides, his brother was our classmate. Ames. You must remember him. He had a major crush on you.”

Fleur brightened. “No kidding? I told Dem that I might have to recuse myself from the entire mess. I know his wife. Horton’s, I mean. I’m the treasurer for the Back Bay Garden Club, and Heather is the chief fund-raiser. We’re not friends or anything. Heather isn’t the type to have BFFs, if you know what I mean. Certainly not female ones. I would have looked into the whole bullion mess myself, but with all the connections, it was better to delegate it to my assistant.” She shuddered. “Gold! I’m only interested in getting a little band on my ring finger.”

“Ames is still unattached,” I said. “He told me someone is out to get his brother. Anonymous tips to the authorities. Bad business.”

Her smile was sly. “Actually, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal as long as no one was raiding the cookie jar. Embarrassing maybe, but not criminal. I’m surprised that Horton Exley would fall for something so contrived.”

“In some circles, scandal is criminal,” I said, “and reputation is everything.”

Fleur shrugged. “Dem handled it. God, he is brilliant. Rich, gorgeous, and smart—you won the trifecta, Ms. Eja.”

I ignored the panegyric. After all, who could argue with the truth?

“You must face this situation every day in your business,” I said. “What kind of person makes her living that way? The criminal, I mean. It’s so sordid.”

“It does take a jaded individual, someone who gets off on deceiving others. You know the type: a cold bitter person who thinks he’s smarter than anyone else.” Fleur chewed her scrod and thought about it. “Occasionally a whistleblower, someone with a conscience, comes forth and spills the beans. Lots of these foundations have huge pots of money to play with. Easy enough to tempt someone, especially when a middle-aged man who thinks with his zipper is in charge.”

I leaned forward, genuinely curious. “Don’t they vet these schemes? After all, that kind of fuss could destroy lives and reputations.”

“That’s the point. Con artists find the mark’s weak spot and exploit it. A guy who grew up in his father’s shadow wants to excel on his own. A slick piece of work would flatter him, play to his ego. You know how that is with a man like that.”

“Like Horton Exley, you mean.”

“You’re fishing for information,” Fleur said. “Don’t tell me you plan to write a book about it?”

I laughed. “No way. I just wanted to understand. Human nature and all that. I find it fascinating. I read everything when the Madoff scheme came undone.”

Fleur eyed me with the steely gaze of a hanging judge. “Well, for the record, our job is to verify the information, not investigate the tipster. If things go south, we’ll get an injunction to stop the bleeding.” She shrugged. “You won’t believe the kind of schemes that reasonably intelligent people fall for. These con artists are very smart, brilliant about human nature, actually.”

“I hear those gold commercials every night,” I said. “Hard to take them seriously.”

“Ah, yes. Gold. Most of them are legitimate,” Fleur said, “but they create just the window a con artist needs to ply his trade.”

I was curious, so I took a risk. “How could anyone believe Phaedra Jones? The woman even looked sleazy. I’m sure her financial acumen was limited to the size of a man’s wallet, or possibly something else.”

Fleur waved her arms and smirked. “Now you’re starting to get it. These people are geniuses at finding out what you want and giving it to you, even for one brief moment. We call it ‘affinity fraud.’”

“What does that mean? It’s like a foreign language.”

She always was a show-off. I counted on that when we scheduled our lunch.

“It’s simple, Eja. They usually find victims with similar needs and backgrounds—same social strata or religious beliefs. Anything that works. Then they use that to build an emotional bond.”

I got an
aha
moment. Phaedra Jones sought out rich, spoiled men who were hungry for sex and adventure. She flattered them, serviced them, and picked their pockets. It had worked like a charm, until she fell for Justin Ming. Then things had gone haywire.

Fleur signaled for the check and gathered her things. When I pulled out my wallet, she shook her head. “Nope. My treat. That way I can’t be accused of anything.”

“Bribes must come cheaply these days,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “You got that right.”

WHEN I GOT HOME, a surprise awaited me. Officer Jennings, the Opie look-alike and aide-de-camp to Euphemia Bates, was waiting in the lobby trying to look inconspicuous. Between blushes, he informed me that Lieutenant Bates wanted to see me. Immediately.

“Why?” I asked.

“The lieutenant will tell you, Ms. Kane.” Opie grinned. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

I could think of a hundred reasons not to go and only one reason to comply—curiosity. Deming would burst a blood vessel either way. I sent him a text and made a quick call to Anika.

“Mia Bates summoned me,” I whispered. “Is Bolin around?”

“Still at work,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll meet you there.”

There was no sense explaining that I wanted an attorney, not a co-conspirator. Besides, Anika’s advice was every bit as sound as any lawyer’s. I hopped into the unmarked sedan for the brief ride to police headquarters, praying all the time that Deming would ignore my text. If he hadn’t clammed up last night, I’d be better prepared for this encounter. Euphemia Bates was up to something, and I had to know what it was.

She was waiting for me in her office, looking as guileless as a six foot tall, gun-toting police lieutenant could ever hope to. Although I admired Mia’s bottle-green pantsuit, especially the jeweled belt encircling her waist, I kept that to myself. Bolin’s words rang in my ears—don’t lie, don’t volunteer anything.

“Ms. Kane. Thank you for stopping by.” Mia’s raven eyes probed me like a truth detector. “Sorry to disrupt your day.” She was lying through her teeth, and we both knew it. After offering me coffee or tea, she got down to business.

“I re-read your statement this morning and have some questions. I’m sure you can clear them up right away. Mr. Deming Swann has already contacted me about this
Dim Mak
business. You’ll need to make a further statement about that, of course.”

I buttoned my lip as Mia thumbed through a sheaf of papers. Silence is an effective weapon that most cops love to use. They say it makes even a strong man crack sooner or later. Meanwhile, I spent my time devising plot lines for my next mystery. The murderer looked awfully similar to Euphemia Bates, and the victim resembled Officer Opie.

Mia put aside the file and looked my way. “I saw you at the Exley house last night, so you must know what happened.”

“Not really,” I said. “Deming never filled me in.”

Mia spread her arms in the universal sign about obdurate men. It was a bonding moment that I ignored. “What do you know about Heather Exley?” she asked.

“Hardly anything. The woman is either incredibly rude or moronic. We’ve barely exchanged five sentences.”

“But you socialized with the Exleys,” Mia said. “Surely that means something.”

A tap on her door signaled the arrival of Anika Swann. My pal and future mother-in-law sailed in as determined as the Maid of Orleans girded for battle. She nodded at Mia and joined me on the sofa.

“Welcome, Mrs. Swann. Perhaps you can help us.” The lieutenant kept her voice low, as if we were girlfriends swapping stories. I almost forgot about Officer Opie taking notes in the corner and the shoulder holster that Mia wore.

“Of course,” Anika said. “I’ll be glad to help.” She fixed luminous hazel eyes on Mia. “Do we need our attorney, or is this off the record?”

“For now, most of this is just background. If we amend your statements, you might want to confer with counsel.” Mia donned oversize reading glasses and scanned the file once more. “Let’s see. You both saw Mrs. Exley and the victim together in your class. Is that right?”

We nodded like swaying tops.

“Okay. Now, I want you to describe this quarrel between Mrs. Exley and Ms. Jones. Give as much detail as possible.”

“I never saw the quarrel,” Anika said. “That was Eja.”

“May I see my previous statement?” I asked. “That should jog my memory.”

She didn’t like it, but Mia complied. She handed both of us our formal statements.

I quickly scanned the documents noting buzz words like “vicious quarrel” and “pointed talons.” From a writer’s perspective my statement was brilliant. A defense attorney might not agree.

“Okay,” I said. “Ask away.”

Mia ignored the sarcasm and beamed good will my way. “You mentioned ‘bullion’ as something Mrs. Exley said. What was that about?”

“I don’t know. Frankly, I was too busy watching the fur fly, so to speak.”

She nodded, pretending to believe me. “Does the term bullion jog your memory, Mrs. Swann?”

Anika tilted her head. “It has to do with money. Stocks, mines, nuggets. All that boring financial talk. You know.”

That earned her an appreciative smile from Euphemia Bates. “I’m asking because apparently our victim dabbled in the shady side of the gold bullion market.”

“No kidding?” I said, trying for the wide-eyed ingénue look. By Mia’s reaction, I realized that my act was rather rusty. Innocence constantly wars with my snarky side and loses every time.

“Money is an emotional issue,” Mia said, “even to those with plenty of it. No one enjoys being snookered.” She crossed long shapely legs and gave me the evil eye. “What do you know about the Exleys and a gold bullion confidence scheme? Remember, Eja. We’re talking about murder here.”

I hesitated, allowing Anika to throw me a life preserver.

“I’m not friends with Heather,” Anika said, “but my husband and I were very close to the elder Exleys, Horton’s parents. Fine people, Lieutenant. Absolute rocks. I refuse to believe that Horton Exley is capable of violence.”

“Anyone is capable of violence under the right circumstances,” Mia said. “What about his wife?”

I added my two cents. “Well, she certainly mixed it up with Phaedra that night. But in my opinion, money had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh?” Mia infused more meaning into that one syllable than I ever thought possible. No wonder Deming lectured me about volunteering. “You mentioned Justin Ming. Mrs. Exley was interested in him, was she?”

“All the women flirted with him, Lieutenant.” Anika’s eyes gleamed. “Except Eja and me, of course. But even I admit that he is a charmer.”

“Hmm. What’s your opinion, Ms. Kane?”

I had no allegiance to Justin Ming, serial philanderer. If Mia wanted gossip, I’d give it to her. I cleared my throat. “Sifu Ming told me that Phaedra was in love with him.”