Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (22 page)

I had much to consider but was fraught with indecision, mesmerized by the vein throbbing in his forehead. Justin Ming inspired fear and admiration in equal parts. He was certainly capable of violence—but his claim of innocence rang true.

“Know this, Eja Kane. I will do anything to protect my master and Shaolin City. Anything.” He took a step toward me, flexing his hands as he did so.

I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. Instead, I relived those horrible nightmares everyone has faced—paralyzed vocal chords, immobilized legs—I had them all.

“Sorry I took so long.” Anika bounded into the room ready to exercise. “Dem called, Eja. He’ll pick us up after class.” Despite the angelic expression, a spark in her hazel eyes told me that she knew what was going on.

“Time for our conditioning drills,” Justin said. He commenced thirty minutes of sheer torture designed to hone flexibility and endurance. No wonder he didn’t harm me. Why bother when his exercise regimen would do the trick?

Because of her ability, Anika was promoted to doing kung fu forms, a higher-level use of hand, knee, elbow, and foot techniques. I was relegated to basic exercise routines.

“You may start with the Dragon form,” Justin told her, “an introduction to effective self-defense.” Anika was an apt pupil who soon won her sifu’s praise. “Excellent, Mrs. Swann. You’ll be doing Tiger form before you know it.”

Justin spent some time educating us on the revered place of the Dragon form in kung fu lore, especially its dedication to protecting the master. He stared pointedly at me as he extolled the virtues of such loyalty.

I’m no clock-watcher, but I stole several glances at my watch during the session, wondering if I could stave off collapse.

Our hour expired before I did, but not by much. As we limped toward the locker room, I observed two men locked in heated conversation. One was Master Avery Moore, but the other was a shocker. Why was Ames Exley skulking around the dojo?

They stopped as soon as they saw us. Avery nodded and turned away, but Ames stood there frozen in time and space.

“What a surprise,” Anika said. “Are you a student here?”

Ames tried to recover, shrugging and turning on the charm machine. Although duplicity was hardwired into his genes, his eyes gave him away. They had the panicked look of a man tumbling toward an approaching train. Ames flinched when he saw me, despite his show of bravado.

“Eja Kane, you pop up everywhere these days.” His words were friendly, but not his tone.

Justin Ming stood behind us, quietly assessing the situation. He said nothing, but his imposing presence made Ames squirm.

“May I assist you?” he asked. “Master Moore has other commitments.”

“Nah, it was nothing. Just business.”

Justin stepped forward. “I conduct all the dojo’s business. The master is our spiritual guide.” He opened a side door that led to his office and herded Ames through it. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said.

Anika and I exchanged puzzled looks and headed for the locker room. I immediately hit the showers, making a valiant effort to scrub away doubts and primp for my fiancé. Shaolin City had enough drama for a soap opera, but Ames Exley’s role was a mystery. I didn’t share Anika’s fondness for him. Still, I couldn’t cast him as a murderer. Not yet.

“What was that all about?” Anika asked. “Maybe Ames is a student here.”

“I don’t think so. Something important gave the master a major meltdown. You saw him—he was livid. That violates at least two of the Shaolin Laws, maybe three.”

We tiptoed down the corridor and out the door without meeting anyone else. Deming was waiting for us, leaning against the Porsche with his arms folded. Despite his dour expression, those outrageous Swann looks left me tingling. He could easily play a film heartthrob or a brooding Eurasian potentate. No woman would question either choice.

“Ladies,” he said. “Your chariot awaits.” He helped Anika into the back seat and belted me in beside him. “You behaved yourselves, I hope?”

“We tried, but something happened anyway.” I gave him my sunniest smile despite the storm clouds that blew in.

“It wasn’t about us, son. Ames Exley started something with Master Moore. Most discourteous.” Anika abhorred bad manners almost as much as violence. “They didn’t come to blows but nevertheless . . .”

I added my two cents about Justin Ming. “He swears that money came from his patrons, and I believe him.”

Deming gave me a measured look. “You do, huh? Maybe Ming-sanity is contagious.”

Even Anika raised an eyebrow at that.

“Wait,” I said. “You don’t understand. His devotion to Avery Moore is fanatical, almost old world. Shaolin City is his life. He’d never jeopardize that.”

Deming put the pedal to the metal and sped up Boylston Street. “You realize what that means, don’t you? Justin Ming would do anything to save his master. If Phaedra stood in the way—watch out.” He swung into the Swanns’ circular driveway and stopped. “Anything else, Mom?”

Anika leaned forward and hugged her son. “You two stay close. I don’t want Eja having any accidents.”

A mile-wide smile split his face. “That’s one thing you can count on. I’ll put her under house arrest.”

Chapter Twenty

DEMING’S CONCEPT of penal servitude was more like paradise. When we returned to my condo, I saw that the love god had paid a surprise visit. The living room was filled with the heavenly scent of my favorite flowers—lilies and orchids—and the Bose spewed soft, sultry jazz. On the inlaid French chest, a Gold Ballotin of Godiva chocolates, food of the gods, beckoned me. A magnum of Veuve Clicquot nestled in the ice bucket next to it.

“Wow! What did I do to earn this?” I could think of a dozen answers, all unlikely.

“You don’t have to earn anything. Just be yourself.”

My voice quivered. I hate it when it does that. “My feelings for you scare me sometimes. I lose control.”

His eyes softened as he stroked my cheek. “How come you never tell me that you love me? Not enough, anyway.”

“I do too.” My cheeks and every visible part of me flushed. “It’s just . . . when I see women like Pam, I feel so inadequate. Like I’m not enough for you. They’re so perfect.” I took a big gulp of air. “I’m afraid it’s a dream. That one day I’ll wake up, and it will all slip away.”

“Dreams do come true, Eja. I’m not going anywhere. I waited a long time for you.” He took my hand and gently kissed each finger. Deming has a romantic side that few would suspect. For years he’d submerged it in a surly shell that raised my hackles and led to pitched battles. I found out much later that he cared for me and always had. That revelation changed my life.

We attended to Cato’s needs, although he bristled at the abbreviated length of the walk and the absence of ball throws. After I bribed him with treats, the spaniel settled down, allowing me to focus on showing Deming through word and deed how very much I cared. The rest of the evening was magical, a testament to the strength of our bond. Only one thing marred the experience—the pall cast by the unsolved murder. I tried not to think about it, but Deming, the crackerjack lawyer, knew something was amiss.

“Okay. Out with it. Not thinking of another man, are you?” Deming held me at arm’s length, watching me closely.

“No.”

He beamed the legal death ray at me. “I’m waiting, Eja. Fess up.”

“It’s the murder. No one really seems to care, and time is slipping away.”

“Why do
you
care so much? I assure you Euphemia Bates is on the case, and nothing gets by that woman. Give it time.”

He was right. I couldn’t argue with his logic, but something told me the answer was within reach. My reach. Call it ego or a thirst for justice, whatever fits. I owed it to Phaedra and to myself.

“Lieutenant Bates has a big caseload. I can give it my full attention.”

Deming brushed his lips over my engagement ring. “You are a writer, not a detective. I need your full attention, missy. Our wedding is five months away, and I already feel neglected.”

That inspired me, causing a brilliant idea to bloom in my mind. “You’re right. Let’s find the answer together. That way you won’t have to worry, and I’d have a partner. Plus your mom, of course. She’d never forgive us if we left her out.”

Deming pressed his lips into an irresistible semi-pout. “That’s not good enough. My client’s interests are the only things that concern me. That and your safety.”

“Really? If we find Phaedra’s partner it would help your client too.” I sat down and flipped through the latest edition of
Architectural Digest.
“But that’s okay. I respect your decision. Anika and I will handle it alone.”

Suddenly Deming took notice. He grabbed a legal pad, jotting down several notations. Then my sizzling sweetie cleared his throat and summarized the case coolly and dispassionately like the brilliant lawyer that he is.

“Listen up, Ms. Kane. Lieutenant Bates said that Phaedra usually worked alone. Safer that way and no need to share the loot. If she changed her pattern, and assuming her partner is someone local, there aren’t too many possibilities. My money’s on Justin Ming, but I suppose Ames is a viable suspect too.”

“You’re excluding Horton, I notice. We have to question everything he told us. Who knows if it was true? And what about the women? According to your client, Phaedra never specified whether her partner was male or female. Heather Exley springs to mind.”

“Hold on,” Deming said. “A woman would have to be mighty strong to haul those bars.”

I leapt to my feet and made a muscle. “Sexist! You should see some of the babes who prowl around Shaolin City. They could take on almost any man. Not someone like you, big fella, but the ordinary garden variety guy.”

The more I thought about it, the stronger my suspicions grew. I’d assumed that the catfight between Heather and Phaedra was about Justin Ming. What if it involved something even more precious—gold? Heather mentioned “bullion” as they exchanged blows. Had her partner tried to cheat her out of her share?

Deming cleared his throat. “Earth to Eja. Come in.”

“Sorry. I remembered what your mother said. Exleys thrive on money. Maybe Heather decided to stockpile some of her own. Swindling her husband and colluding with his lover would make things extra sweet.”

He grinned. “I can see that devious mind of yours will keep me on my toes. Be real. You’re giving Heather way too much credit. She’s not sharp enough to pull off that kind of scam.”

“Okay, Perry Mason, tell me who is.” I folded my arms and scowled. Unfortunately, it didn’t faze him one bit. Deming laughed in my face instead.

“I don’t have the answer. If I did, I’d go straight to Lieutenant Bates. That’s her job after all.” Deming finally relented and took pity on me. “Here’s my suggestion. Let’s drop in at the Exley Foundation tomorrow. That’s where all this started, and I guarantee that Horton and at least some of the other possibilities will be there. You can nose around as long as I’m there to protect you.”

Anika’s advice about marital compromise rang in my ears, causing me to stop and push the mute button. Normally I would rail against the idea of protection. Not tonight. I’d asked for a partnership, and he’d agreed. Why quibble?

“Have they left yet?” I asked. “Ames and Portia, I mean?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Frankly, I don’t think they will. Just bravado if you ask me. Ames is basically lazy. He has it made there, and he knows it. Portia is your typical accounting drudge—dull and dependable. Not the type to cut and run.”

Speaking of accounting drudges made me think of Fleur Pixley. There were one or two questions that vixen could answer for me about the gold scam. With Deming at my side she might just do it.

“How do you feel about having company tomorrow evening?” I asked. “Just drinks, nothing special.”

Deming has a suspicious mind. He crossed his arms in front of him and frowned. “Out with it. Who’s the mystery guest?”

“Fleur Pixley. I can’t help thinking that we’re missing something about this gold scam. She knows all the ins and outs, and with you here, she’ll talk.”

He wasn’t happy, but he agreed with one proviso. “Not here. I’ll make an appointment for us to meet in her office. Less complicated that way.”

“Good idea,” I said. “It’s hard to interrogate someone when you’re dancing.”

He shook his head and moved my way. “You’ll pay for that one, smarty-pants. Just wait ’til I get hold of you.”

THE NEXT MORNING I decked myself out like a Back Bay matron or a writer’s fantasy of one. No one could fault my sober navy suit, high-necked blouse, or sensible pumps. Doing good works made one focus on worthy goals, not appearances. At least that was my theory.

Deming had a much easier task. He wore the impeccable male uniform of corporate America, looking every inch a dreamboat. Foxy men in business attire push every one of my buttons, and Deming Swann in charcoal pinstripes brightened the day like a dose of sunshine.

“You look different,” he told me as he straightened my collar. “Very prim and proper, a sort of school marm meets librarian look. The kind I’d love to ravage.”

“Down, boy. It takes work to look this plain. Besides, I even wore pantyhose. God, I loathe pantyhose! Some evil misogynist must have invented them.”

We could have walked there from my condo, but Swanns never walk when they have other options. Exercise is confined to the dojo, squash court, or polo field, and gratuitous sweat is frowned upon.

The Exley Foundation was located four blocks away on the third floor of a venerable Newbury Street brownstone. Sandwiched between Boylston and Commonwealth Avenue, the structure was so nondescript that I’d passed by many times without giving it a second glance. Only a discreet brass plaque stated the purpose.

As we made our way to the elevator, I admired the dentil molding, high ceilings, and proportions of the house. Once again I was awestruck by the history and timelessness of Boston’s Back Bay.