Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (24 page)

“Better let me take the lead again,” Deming said. “Fleur can be prickly.”

Something in his voice alerted me that all was not well. “She does know I’ll be with you, doesn’t she?”

“I’m sure I mentioned it.” He lengthened his stride, forcing me to skip after him. “Come on. Don’t overreact. Everything will be fine.”

“Stop!” Any visit to Fleur had to be closely orchestrated. “Maybe I should catch a cab and go home.”

He spun around and pulled me to him. “Be a good sport. I promise you can ask her anything you want.”

I mumbled several unkind things, but in the end we came to a rapprochement. Deming would use the soft soap, and I would play clean up.

Fleur’s office was typical government issue, one notch up from the police station. We navigated an unending rabbit’s warren of orange and brown cubicles before finding the executive suite. Even I had to admit that Fleur’s personal space, although Spartan, was impressive. Her private office managed to combine authority with a few feminine touches and some fairly impressive artwork with an Asian theme.

For Deming she was all smiles and girlish glee, but her face hardened the moment she saw me. We sat at her conference table for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries like the civilized beings that we were.

“Eja, what a pleasant surprise. Dem forgot to mention that you were free. We could have done lunch.”

Wormwood and gall, bitch! Deal with it.

“We had other appointments,” Deming said. “Thanks for fitting us in. We won’t take much of your time.”

She glanced at the clock on a side table.
“Nonsense. You’re always welcome. Both of you. Now how can I help you?”

Deming crossed his long, elegant legs, giving Fleur a full view of what she was missing. “Just a few points on this gold scam. Naturally, our firm has researched my client’s situation, but I have several questions.”

“Of course. Ask away.” Fleur leaned forward, exposing a hint of cleavage.

“How sophisticated would the promoters have to be? Phaedra had a smooth line of patter—she was the bait. Her partner must have been the strategist, and that requires brains.” Deming’s technique was interesting, cordial but professional.

“Horton thought she was a financial planner, but that’s unlikely.” I dipped a toe in the conversational pool. “Still, the company she claimed to represent is legitimate. Horton’s treasurer told me they researched it. That was the clever part. Sound company, phoney goods.”

Fleur’s smile was pained. “Didn’t he get an independent appraisal of the bullion? That’s SOP when a sizable sum is involved.”

Deming shook his head. “By the time the bars were delivered, my client was hooked. He did get a certificate of authenticity, though. Ms. Jones insisted on it for his protection.”

“Let me guess,” Fleur said. “It said the bullion was pure gold.”

Deming nodded. “She was quite a cool operator. That certificate looks very impressive. Things fell apart when the foundation’s insurer insisted on an appraisal. That uncovered the scam.”

Fleur enjoyed the joke. “Bogus, of course. They’re so easy to fake. I presume the police are tracing the fake gold bars. Not many places make a quality product like that.”

“Yeah. They traced the wire transfer Horton made to a Swiss account. Closed now, of course.”

“Nice touch,” Fleur said. “Swiss banks inspire confidence. If it had been the Caymans, your client might have smelled a rat.”

Deming rose and shook her hand. “Thanks for your time. We’ll make sure you get a wedding invitation.”

I tried not to smirk, but it wasn’t easy. Fleur recovered nicely and faked a smile worthy of Georgetown Law School.

“Make sure I get a synopsis of that scam too. I’ll include it in our files as a case study.” She shook my hand. “And once again, congratulations to both of you.”

“THAT WASN’T SO bad,” Deming said after we cleared the building. “Everything went rather well.”

“I guess Heather is out of the picture,” I said. “No way she fits the role of cunning strategist.” That left Ames Exley as the only viable suspect. Even though he made me shudder, I still didn’t see him as a villain, let alone a murderer. “Will you notify Lieutenant Bates?”

Deming blanched. “Are you crazy? My first job is to protect my client, not chase criminals. Let Euphemia Bates find her own suspect. That goes for you too, Eja.”

I ignored his rant and focused on a larger issue. By the time we reached the Porsche, the answer was clear. We made the assumption that Phaedra’s partner and her killer were one and the same. What if it wasn’t true?

“Horton or Heather might still be the killer,” I said. “We shouldn’t presume that the silent partner murdered Phaedra. Plenty of other people had reason.”

“Climb in, Sherlock.” Deming unlocked the door and tucked me into my seat. “Follow the money. That little maxim never fails. I say that Ames found a way to double his share of the take and eliminate a loose end.” He fired up the monster engine and eased into traffic. “Need I remind you that Ames has the skill to administer the
Dim Mak
?”

“You said he’s not that good.”

Swann confidence surfaced. “Everything’s relative, my love. Ames didn’t win competitions, but he could still do the deed. Trust me on that.”

I scoured my memory banks for something I’d heard recently, a scrap of conversation that bothered me. Unfortunately, my mind was clouded by too many thoughts and not enough rest.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Deming said. “We’re home.” He swung into the driveway and left the Porsche splayed across the cobblestones. “I have to go to work, and you need a nap.”

“Go on,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I’m just groggy.”

“No, ma’am. I’ll escort you to your door and check out the place first. Remember, a murderer is still at large. Ames wasn’t at the Foundation today, and neither was Heather.”

I protested a bit more even though I was secretly relieved when Deming gave me the all-clear sign. He planted a kiss on my forehead, deftly evaded Cato, and swept out the door with a promise to pick up dinner before he came home.

Chapter Twenty-Two

HOME. THE IDEA of living with Deming day after day felt so comfortable, so right, that it frightened me. I’d once consulted a shrink who told me that my feelings of inadequacy formed a protective barrier against both rejection and happiness. Even though he was the ultimate sleaze, the man made a valid point. I’d vowed to make an attitude adjustment that would widen my world. Thus far I’d only taken baby steps.

I glanced at my watch and lay down for a brief nap. Not too long, just enough to clear the cobwebs from my brain. When the phone rang, I leapt up drowsy and disoriented. Good Lord! It was almost five o’clock! Deming must be calling.

“Eja,” a familiar voice asked, “is Deming there? I’m in the lobby with some papers for him from Horton. Typical thing. Big emergency. You understand.”

“He’s at work, Portia. Come on up and leave them here. We can have a drink.”

I gave Jaime the go-ahead, marveling at the success of Deming’s carrot and stick approach. The concierge had transformed overnight from lethargic to hyper-vigilant.

My real motive was information gathering, not hospitality. I wanted Portia’s reaction to the Heather/Ames alliance as well as the profile of the accomplice that Fleur outlined. Something was missing, and a fresh set of eyes might close the gap.

By the time I bribed Cato with a chicken nugget and hastily untangled my curls, Portia was at the door.

“Welcome,” I said, ushering her in. “Don’t mind Cato. I’ll lock him in the kitchen if he gets too obnoxious.”

She lugged a weathered leather briefcase to the dining room table and sighed. “Wow! This thing is heavy. Whatever happened to the paperless office?”

I laughed. “Never going to happen as long as lawyers and lawsuits exist. Come on. Let me get you a drink. Chardonnay, right?”

Portia’s shrewd grey eyes looked weary. “I’ll take vodka rocks if you have it. This day has been a bear.” She placed a thick manila envelope addressed to Deming on the table.

My bartending had improved since hooking up with the Swanns. Nothing fancy. I substituted imagination for skill.

“How about a gimlet? I learned to like them after reading
The Long Goodbye.
If they’re good enough for Chandler’s ladies, why not us?”

A grin overtook Portia’s gloom. “Why not, indeed? Sounds great.”

I followed the traditional recipe, mixing Rose’s lime juice, a pinch of powdered sugar, and Deming’s latest enthusiasm, Reyka small batch vodka, into a shaker.

“Voila! See what you think,” I said. “Don’t you love cocktail glasses? I’m not keen on the taste, just the look.”

“Nice,” Portia said. “Just what the doctor ordered.” She sipped greedily and sighed. “I guess you heard about Heather and Ames?”

I nodded. “Did it surprise you? You’re so observant.”

“Hadn’t a clue,” Portia said. “All Heather blathered about was Justin Ming. She and Ames barely spoke at home.”

“Money shouldn’t be a problem. Massachusetts divorce laws favor the wife.”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Talk about sibling rivalry. I’m sure Ames has feathered his own nest too. He was always a sly one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Surely it occurred to you. A five million dollar nest egg would make anyone bold. Horton was so in love, he never even saw it coming. Imagine falling head over heels for someone named Enid.”

I felt a jolt in my brain, a reminder of another time she had used that name. “I’m surprised you know her real name. Lieutenant Bates just told us the other day. Quite a step down from Phaedra.”

Portia cocked her head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I? After all, I did the background check. These days it’s almost impossible to hide all your tracks.”

“You’re right. I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said that Horton wouldn’t allow you to check her out.” I glanced at the clock, praying that it had stopped. Surely Deming would be home soon to deliver me from Portia’s clutches. She was nice enough but tedious in that linear thinking, accountant way.

“Allow?” Portia snorted. “That will be the day! Horton Exley doesn’t know half of what goes on there.” She drained her glass and stared at the pitcher.

“How about a refill?” I asked. “A few snacks might hit the spot too.”

I went to the sideboard, brought over the pitcher, and replenished both of our drinks. Cato remained underfoot, emitting low growls every time Portia moved.

“Time for you to visit the kitchen,” I told him. “I’ll grab some snacks to hold us until Deming gets back.”

Portia’s face brightened. “I could use a little something. No time for lunch today.”

I forced Cato into the kitchen, found him a bone, and filled a tray with Brie, grapes, and crackers for my guest.

Portia was still planted in the same spot as before, staring moodily at her gimlet.

I cleared the table and placed the platter and serving dishes in front of her. “Here we go. Dig right in.”

Portia piled her plate with cheese, but I remained virtuous. Nibbling on grapes would have to suffice if I expected to squeeze into my wedding gown.

“We stopped at the FTC after lunch,” I told her. “Let me run a few things past you to see what your take on them is.”

“FTC? You certainly have connections.” She stopped snacking and gave me the gimlet eye. A nice touch considering our choice of beverage.

I shrugged it off. “Actually, the director there is an old school chum from Brown. She’s always been hot for Deming, but I was just along for the ride.”

Portia leaned back on the sofa, looking a bit tipsy. “So. What did you learn?”

“I’m convinced that Heather wasn’t involved. No way. Everyone says the same thing. Phaedra’s partner was intelligent and a master strategist. Now does that sound like Heather Exley to you?”

“Not likely,” Portia scoffed, “unless it was a fashion show or some martial arts thing. Heather is crafty in those areas. I have to admit that Ames fits the bill, though. He’s smart enough and has a mile-wide grudge against Horton. Cain and Abel, those two.”

Something—some inconsistency—was buzzing around my brain, irritating the hell out of me. I sipped my cocktail and nibbled a grape to absorb the liquor. Next time, I’d have to dial down the vodka in my gimlet recipe. Chandler’s dames must have been heavy hitters to gulp these babies every night.

“Maybe we’re looking at this whole thing the wrong way, Portia. What if Phaedra’s partner didn’t murder her?”

“Really?” Her reaction stopped just short of a sneer. “What are the odds on that? Follow the money, I say. Everything else pales in comparison. Swiss bank accounts, wire transfers, and phony certificates of authenticity—whew! Why stop at murder after all that?”

I suddenly recalled Anika’s words. Exleys are obsessed with money. Always were, always will be. Ames and Horton were Exleys, but so was Portia. I worked hard to control the chill sweeping through me. If I could just bluff, stall her until Deming arrived. He could handle Portia and get Mia Bates involved.

“Does Lieutenant Bates suspect Ames?” I asked. “You must have gotten some sense of it last night.”

“Not really. She plays things pretty close to the vest. Focused on the gold scam mostly. I think she suspects Horton, believe it or not. That
Dim Mak
thing ties both my cousins to the murder.”

Did Portia know kung fu too? Was I the only person in Boston without fighting skills?

“I’m hopeless at martial arts,” I said. “Uncoordinated as hell. Anika is great and Heather too. Phaedra was phenomenal.”

Her smile was genuine this time. “You’re not alone. I tried one class and made a fool out of myself. It’s important to accept your limitations and focus on your strengths. Yours is writing. Mine is making money.”

I suddenly realized that my stomach was at war with me. For some reason I felt quite unwell. I gripped the arms of my chair and rose halfway.

“Let’s walk Cato before Deming gets here. Frankly, I could use the fresh air. That vodka really hit me hard.”

Portia stared at me with glacial calm. “Let’s not.”

“But Cato . . .”

“Can wait. Unfortunately, you can’t.”

I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. “What have you done?”

“Don’t move. It’s less painful that way, and we can have our little chat. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Her eyes shone with triumph and something else—regret.

“Why?” Every syllable was torture.

“Just so you know,” Portia said, “I did not kill her. I’ve never hurt anyone until tonight. You kept pushing the partner theory until people started believing it. Those dead roses didn’t even faze you.”