Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (17 page)

I SPENT THE NEXT morning outlining my new book, a mystery featuring murder, greed, and gold with a Shaolin twist. Finding the victim was a cinch until I considered the many casualties of greedy ghouls like Phaedra. Those caught in her scam were victims as surely as Phaedra’s crumpled corpse in the dojo. There were no winners in this story, just a long parade of losers with compelling motives.

At two p.m., I galloped out the door headed for Shaolin City. To my surprise, an unannounced visitor waited in the lobby. Heather Exley popped up the moment she spied me and strode my way. She was clad in head-to-toe black, like the angel of death or harbinger of doom. Come to think of it, I’d never seen the woman in bright clothing.

“Heather! What a surprise. I was just heading out.” I slowed my pace and glared at Jaime, our concierge, first line of defense and major wimp.

“You’re going to the dojo,” Heather said. “I’ll join you.”

We trotted up Newbury Street to Boylston, maintaining a healthy pace that left me winded. To disguise my problem and gasp some oxygen, I pretended to window shop at La Perla. Heather quickly put a stop to that.

“Don’t bother looking,” she said. “They don’t have your size.”

Now I truly was out of breath. Outrage, not exercise, fuelled my gasps.

She shrugged. “I shop there all the time. They don’t have anything past a D cup.”

I bit my tongue and changed the subject. “Not to be rude, Heather, but Anika and I have a private lesson,” I said. “With Justin Ming.”

Heather reeled back as if I had walloped her, and her poreless complexion lost all its color. It suddenly occurred to me that Heather had been dipping into the Botox bin and was very likely a BFF of other injectables. Although she was at least ten years my senior, the ravages of time had passed her by: no laugh lines, errant wrinkles, or age spots. I was officially jealous as hell!

“A private lesson,” she gasped. “I thought you were happy with Deming? And Anika has Bolin Swann. What more could she want?”

I finally caught her drift. To Heather, “private lesson” was synonymous with only one thing. That’s why payback was so sweet.

“Well, you know what they say. Variety is the spice of life, and I think we can agree that Justin has plenty of life in him. Spice too.”

It was surreal, standing frozen in place, with Boston’s self-absorbed upper crust strolling by us. When Heather reached into her Kelly bag and produced a gun, the tension kicked up a notch. My knowledge of firearms is strictly theoretical, based on research, not practice. Heather’s gun was small, pearl-handled, and lethal looking. In the manicured hands of a madwoman, it terrified me.

“What is that thing?” I asked. My voice held steady, and I was proud of that.

She cackled, a surprisingly vulgar sound for such a fine lady. “A double-barreled pearl-handled derringer. It’s a showpiece.”

“Well, put the damn thing away. You might hurt someone.”

Another scoff by Heather. “Not someone, Eja,
you.
Leave Justin alone, or you’ll regret it. This is a warning.”

I thought of my bravest fictional creation and how she’d handle this mess. Crying or fainting was not an option. Upper class scorn was called for. Of course in novels, I’m in charge and can spare my heroine. Real life is more complicated.

I launched a verbal assault. “You threatened Phaedra that way. I heard you, and Lieutenant Bates probably knows too.”

Heather opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. That gave me the opening I sought. With a show of bravado I imitated the Exley sneer, strolled away, and crossed the road heading toward Newbury Street. I hoped that my leisurely pace would rattle Heather. There was also the possibility that she would panic and fire a bullet into my back. Fortune favored me this time. The sudden appearance of a police cruiser prompted Mrs. Horton Exley to lower her weapon and flee to the nearest cab.

By the time I reached Shaolin City, my hands were shaking, and I felt uncomfortably familiar with my breakfast. Talk about life imitating fiction—I’d just been threatened by an unhinged, gun-toting socialite stalker! That kind of incident was fodder for my novels, not my life. Besides, pricey lingerie stores have strict behavioral standards for their clientele. If Heather had drilled me with her derringer, I’m positive that her days at La Perla would have ended. That penalty alone might deter a fanatical fashionista from committing murder.

The sight of Anika emerging from the Bentley elevated my spirits, as did the thought that Po was close at hand. My future mother-in-law was daisy-bright in a yellow two-piece number complemented by her perfect French braid. No wonder Bolin Swann doted on his wife. She made elegance seem so easy.

“Eja! You look positively shaken,” she said. “What’s wrong? Nothing about Dem, I hope.”

I shared my Heather story, embellishing my courage under fire just the teensiest bit.

“The woman’s a maniac,” Anika said. “She must be stopped.”

For safety’s sake, we scurried inside the dojo and headed for the locker room. Oddly enough, the murder scene felt safer today than the streets of Boston.

“Will you tell Deming?” Anika asked. “Someone has to know.”

“How about telling Euphemia Bates? If Heather pulls a gun on me, she might have canceled Phaedra Jones as well. Her motive was far stronger there.”

Anika mulled it over as she stepped into the changing room. “They cleaned this place up rather nicely, wouldn’t you say? No blood drops anywhere.”

Suddenly it hit me. Since Heather was so handy with a gun, why hadn’t she shot her rival?
Dim Mak,
the death touch, was a much trickier proposition, and there were no guarantees that a beginner like Heather could strike the right pressure point. Phaedra was fit and ruthless. She could defend herself in a fair fight with a woman, but not against a gun.

“Get the lead out,” Anika said. “Our session starts in three minutes.”

I scrambled into the changing room, shed my clothing, and donned the humble garb of a Shaolin wannabe. Call me delusional, but since starting my training, I felt fit and more self-confident. Not ready for prime time, but closer, less self-conscious. In five more months, I might glide down that aisle after all.

“She’s not hiding somewhere, is she?” I peeked out from behind the curtain, hoping history would not repeat itself.

“Of course not, Eja.” Anika said. “She’s probably in her psychologist’s office, crying her eyes out. Heather goes from high to low without the elevator, if you get my drift.”

“She’s bipolar?”

“Not at all,” Anika said, as we walked toward our classroom. “Everyone claims some malady these days to excuse bad behavior. Believe me. I’ve known Heather Exley for twenty years, and she’s as sane as both of us. Not crazy, just spoiled and egocentric.”

I respected Anika’s opinion and her unerring way of cutting to the chase.

“You don’t think she did it?” I asked as we entered our practice room.

“She’s certainly capable of it, but not in a fit of rage. Heather plans things out.”

I flipped the switch in the room and saw a dark figure huddled on the floor with his head down. “Shit,” I cried, “another corpse!”

Immediately, the figure came to life, and Justin Ming leapt to his feet. “Don’t worry, Ms. Kane,” he said. “I was only meditating. I believe you’ve had enough shocks for one day.”

He didn’t explain—he didn’t have to. Justin Ming was all business as he led us through stretches, basic forms, and some self-defense moves. Anika had no problem with acting the warrior princess. I was less successful, but Justin awarded me a great big A for effort.

“Keep trying,” he said. “You’ll eventually meet your goals.” Our eyes locked until he broke the stare and looked away. The sexy sifu was a complex man with a devious mind. From my observation, his affection for Avery Moore was genuine, but everything else was an elegant façade. Why then would Justin desert his mentor and devastate the Shaolin City family? He had a pretty sweet arrangement going as it was.

“When will we learn more aggressive patterns?” I asked him. “You know, the real fighting moves.”

Amusement spread over Sifu Ming’s face from the upturned corners of his full lips to those dimpled cheeks. “Are you in danger, Ms. Kane?”

“Life itself is perilous, Sifu.” I pasted an enigmatic smile on my face that rivaled anything he himself could offer.

Anika sized up the situation and immediately jumped in. “What about
Dim Mak
? Will we learn that?”

Justin held out his arms, palms up. “Ladies, we guide students toward enlightenment, not mayhem. Surely you realize that.”

“My husband and son have fighting skills, Sifu. Do you exclude women?”

He bristled. “Certainly not, but students must first progress through various stages of training. Combat is totally different. Some of our female disciples are versed in all techniques. They are veteran practitioners of kung fu, not novices like Ms. Kane.”

“You taught Heather that stuff,” I said. “She told me so.”

Justin Ming reeled back as if I had struck him. “Absolutely not,” he stammered. “Mrs. Exley never learned that here. Her husband is a longtime student of the master, but I cannot comment on his skills.” He narrowed his eyes, no longer the affable object of lust and laughter. “Perhaps you should consult the master about this.”

As we prepared to leave, I flashed a saucy grin guaranteed to irritate the hell out of Justin Ming. “Thanks for the suggestion. I just might do that.”

Chapter Sixteen

TONIGHT’S OUR DINNER with Horty,” I told Anika. “Time to find out the truth. No more stalling.”

“Focus on this gold scam. I don’t believe sex had anything to do with it.” She clucked her tongue. “No matter how besotted he was, Horton is still an Exley. Their behavior and thought patterns haven’t changed since the Mayflower landed. With old-line Bostonians it all comes down to money.”

I checked the time as soon as I got home. With a pinch of luck, I might reach Fleur Pixley before she left work. That former friend owed me big time, and her guilty conscience might nag her into shedding some light on Phaedra and her gold-digging ways.

It took persistence and several chats with her underlings before I penetrated the federal bureaucracy. No doubt after her recent bout of treachery, Fleur consigned me to the no fly list. Man-stealing traitors are usually quite adept at the runaround, but tenacious writers have limitless patience and very little shame. After ten minutes of excuses and evasions, Ms. Pixley got on the line.

“Eja! Sorry for the misunderstanding. My assistant is dreadfully protective of my time.” Fleur used that high-pitched, singsong voice that indicates a guilty conscience or a throat malady. “Now, how can I help you?”

Good thing I’m a disciplined person. Otherwise I might have suggested a permanent dirt nap. “Hey, Fleur,” I said. “Thanks for taking my call. Listen—I could use a quick tutorial on the gold scam Phaedra used. Think you can help?”

That suspicious nature surfaced again. Fleur hesitated and asked, “Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m having dinner with Horton and wanted to impress him. That’s all.”

“Will Deming be there?”

That was the Fleur I’d always known—obsessed, obnoxious, and totally tone deaf.

“Naturally,” I said. “I never let him out of my sight. So. Can you help me?”

She growled something unintelligible and answered, “It’s simple, Eja. Anyone can master it. Fueled by greed and a dollop of stupidity. In Horton’s case, it was sex. Whatever Phaedra gave him, that boy couldn’t get enough. The perfect mark.”

“Okay.” Patience may be a virtue, but it’s hard on the nerves. “I’ve read the FTC brochures about investment gold. Here’s my question. Would Phaedra need a partner, or could she go it alone?”

Fleur thought about that for a moment. “If it were gold stocks, no problem, but considering the numbers we’re talking about, she had to have help. Some shill, her partner, fabricated those faux gold bars and arranged delivery. I’ve seen the product Horton got, and it looked genuine. Remarkably good.”

“Maybe Phaedra got greedy, and her partner struck back.”

A long, low chuckle flowed over the line. The sound had a sharp, metallic quality that ticked me off. “Still trying to solve it, aren’t you? What about your business venture? Aren’t you and your mother-in-law interested in that dojo?”

“We have many interests, Fleur. You know how families are. I can hardly keep up with the Swanns.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I rang off, primed and ready to rock and roll. Horton Exley had some explaining to do.

Like most men, Deming appreciates beautiful women. Scratch that. During his storied sweep of debutantes, Deming prowled the East Coast like a hungry shark on a tear. His tastes and appetites were the stuff of legend. That upped the ante for me and generated plenty of rash-inducing angst every time a big occasion arose.

I tamed my curls, applied makeup, and slipped into a slinky, deeply discounted Valentino sheath that I’d snagged for a song. It was red—Bordeaux actually—and made me feel like a femme fatale. Irene Adler to Deming’s Holmes. No snooty server at L’Espalier could harm me now!

Another time, I might have welcomed a brisk walk down Boylston Street to the restaurant. The route passed plenty of tempting shops in addition to the typical human distractions. Tonight I chose a cab. No sweaty drama or wounded feet for me. Not this time. I stopped at the Mandarin Oriental, crossed the street, and made my entrance.

Horty had already claimed our table and was busy inhaling a martini. Not for the first time, I wondered whether he was nervous or a confirmed boozer.