Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (26 page)

That memory of Portia was etched in my mind with the worst of my childhood fears. I pride myself on resourcefulness and self-reliance. All my literary heroines are marvels of courage. But fiction and life often diverge. In the end, I’d been a quivering mass of Jello.

I shook my head to avoid speaking. At that point, I was perilously close to tears, reduced to a sniveling stereotype of feminine weakness.

“We’ll stop by the police station tomorrow,” Deming said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

“Time for me to go home,” I said, grinning sheepishly at Anika. “I can’t hide out in the lap of luxury forever. Cato’s getting spoiled.”

That evoked a storm of protest from Anika’s distress to Deming’s outrage. Bolin remained neutral, but his expression was grave. I knew that flirting with danger brought pain to these three people I held dear. Each incident made them relive, as I did, the loss of their beloved daughter. They couldn’t know how fragile my courage was or how tentative my grasp on independence. Deming had once called me brave—foolhardy, actually. He never guessed how wrong that assumption was. I knew if I didn’t go back now, I’d never be able to live in my apartment again.

After the storm passed, Deming tried negotiating. “How about this?” he said. “After you submit your statement tomorrow, I’ll drive you and Cato home.” He held up his hand to forestall his mother’s protests. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll stay with her until this murder thing is sorted out. No one has to know that she’s there.”

Anika beamed her approval. “I’ll spend the afternoons with her. We can do all kinds of fun things—shopping, lunch, even our exercise classes.” She met Bolin’s eye. “Po can go with us. That way Eja won’t feel like she’s under house arrest.”

I’m a firm believer in compromise, and frankly, I was aching to resume my kung fu studies. Deming’s proposal seemed like the best of both worlds—freedom tempered with a pinch of caution. I gave them a thumbs up and sealed the deal.

EUPHEMIA BATES WAS gone when we arrived at the station the next morning. I completed my statement under the wary eyes of Officer Kevin Jennings, aka Officer Opie, while Deming hovered protectively. His brusque comments and questions seemed to cow the young officer, who resorted to quoting his boss and blushing furiously.

“When will you formally charge Ms. Amory Shaw?” Deming demanded. His firm no longer represented the felon in question due to conflict of interest.

“The lieutenant met with the DA yesterday evening.”

I ignored Deming’s instructions and asked Opie a question. As the saying goes, I am not a potted plant. “Any progress on finding the murderer?”

Opie swallowed several times, causing his Adam’s apple to bob erratically. “She found the murderer, ma’am. I thought you knew.”

“What?” I grasped the corner of the desk to steady myself. “Who is it?”

“They charged Ms. Amory Shaw. That’s where the lieutenant is today.”

I clutched Deming’s arm, squeezing it until he yelped. “Did she confess?” I asked.

Opie blanched, his freckles boldly splayed over pale white skin. “I’m not trying to be rude, but Lieutenant Bates should tell you that.”

A broad grin spread across Deming’s handsome face. “You see, Eja. No need to worry anymore. I suspected Portia Amory Shaw all along. This concludes the case.”

“She didn’t do it,” I told Opie. “Portia is a dreadful person and fully capable of murder, but she didn’t kill Phaedra. She told me so. Plus, how could she have hefted those gold bars without someone’s help? Everyone says they weigh a ton.”

He exchanged nervous “crazy lady” looks with Deming, beseeching him to deal with me. But my sweetie was far too wily to say anything that might cause a public scene. He preferred to placate me with vague assurances that meant nothing.

“Ask Lieutenant Bates to call me, Officer. She has my number.” He helped me with my jacket and herded me toward the nearest elevator post haste.

I loathe pouting, but this occasion definitely called for it. From the elevator to the car, I maintained a stony silence that unnerved Deming. He tucked me into the Porsche and took his sweet time cracking his knuckles and fumbling with his seatbelt.

“I thought you’d be happy, Eja. No more worries, nothing to fear. Case closed.”

I tried to analyze the situation calmly and rationally even if it meant that I was wrong about Portia. There were just too many unanswered questions, too many implausible scenarios.

How had a dull, dumpy accountant managed to corner a trained martial artist and administer a deathblow? It made no sense, especially with three black-belted Exleys on the loose. Each of them had the killer instinct and ample motive for eliminating Phaedra. Love and money held pride of place on my murder hit parade, but apparently Euphemia Bates didn’t agree.

“Cheer up,” Deming said. “Let go of your obsession with this murder. Now we can focus on planning our wedding.” He pinched my cheek. “Remember? White dress, big cake, gold rings—the whole shebang.”

“Will you be moving back to your place now?” My voice sounded puny and pathetic. I hated it.

“Not unless you want me to.” He leaned over and gently kissed my lips. “Just say the word.”

“Don’t ever leave,” I whispered. “Please. I need you so much.”

Actions speak louder than words. I spent the rest of the evening proving just that.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Cato, Anika, and I took a long walk on the Common. Spring’s beauty was slowly fading into summer, but the fresh, crisp air made even Cato mellow.

“Funny thing,” Anika mused. “Phaedra Jones was a serpent in the garden of Exley, luring them to their doom.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but Horton’s marriage was in trouble long before she slithered his way. Remember Justin Ming.”

Anika beamed her luminous smile. “Ah, yes. A gorgeous man can do so much damage. I’ve been lucky with my two. Bolin is the love of my life, and Dem is the finest son a mother could hope for.”

Our eyes met in silent tribute to the male Swanns.

“You don’t have to babysit me anymore, Anika. I feel guilty. Deming hasn’t moved out yet, you know.”

She threw Cato a stick and laughed as he tumbled end over end. “If I know Deming, he never will. That boy will be there until you say those vows. He won’t take another chance at losing you, Eja. It would destroy him.”

“Maybe we can stop by Shaolin City soon,” I said. “Strangely enough, I’ve learned to enjoy all that stretching and sweating. How does tomorrow sound?”

“Perfect. Shall I contact Justin?”

“Nah, I’ll give him a call later this afternoon. He left a message on my machine, but I haven’t had time to respond.”

We parted after Po pronounced my condo safe, and I slipped the bolt in the Medeco lock. I had several hours before Deming came home to finish my outline for
Dojo Death.
At least fiction allowed me to control my characters and determine the plot and the villain. Or did it? I zigged and zagged, unable to point the literary finger at any one person. I vacillated between a Portia clone and a snide playboy ala Ames Exley. As in real life, neither was ideally suited for the role of murderer. Portia was a planner, not a doer; Ames was too arrogant and lazy to make the effort. Even that fabulous married couple Horton and Heather failed the test. He was self-absorbed; she was stupid.

I welcomed the distraction of a phone call, especially when the velvety tones of Justin Ming wafted over the line.

“Ms. Kane, I’ve been worried about you.” The sexy sifu was at it again. Soon even I would believe his patent leather line.

“Sorry I haven’t returned your call. Things got a bit hectic around here.”

“Heather told me.” The man’s gift for understatement dazzled.

I took a temporary vow of silence. Men like Justin Ming were accustomed to women babbling nonsensically and drooling over their nicely tailored clothing. Silence upended the balance of power.

“Is it true?” he finally asked. “An accountant murdered Phaedra and tried to murder you as well?”

“So they say.”

He sighed. “You don’t sound convinced. Why don’t we meet somewhere and discuss it?”

Was I dreaming, or did menace lurk at the fringes of his message?

“No need. Mrs. Swann and I will be at the dojo tomorrow for our private lesson. We can sort things out then.” I opted for the spunky self-assurance of my literary idol Amelia Peabody. Justin Ming was attuned to every nuance, any hint of weakness. I had to project confidence.

“Of course.”

“Will you be teaching us?” I asked. Conversation with Justin Ming required the patience of ten vestal virgins.

“Yes. The master has other commitments.”

“Okay then. See you tomorrow.”

“Ms. Kane? Please understand that as your sifu, I am responsible for your welfare. I care about you as I do all of my students. Always remember to exercise caution. Phaedra was a skilled fighter, yet even she fell to an attacker.”

Justin Ming was up to something. His concern appeared genuine, but his warning chilled my soul.

I waited patiently for him to disengage the receiver and hang up.

It was a long time before I heard that comforting click and the deafening silence that accompanied it.

Chapter Twenty-Four

WHEN DEMING CAME home, we lit a fire and spent a cozy evening listening to music and sipping wine. He did the wine sipping, actually. After the gimlet wars, I confined myself to Pellegrino and let the deep, sexy sounds of Michael McDonald soothe my spirit.

“I played those songs the whole time we were apart,” Deming said. “I never thought this kind of happiness would be possible again.”

“You’re the one who took off for six long months,” I said. “Don’t blame me.”

He ruffled my curls and pulled me close. “Hush, baby,” he whispered. “Let’s not fight. Focus on our future.” He did a quick survey of the living room. “This place has happy memories. Too bad we’ll have to sell it.”

I pulled away from him. “Sell it? What are you talking about?”

He gave me that measured, prosecutorial look. “It’s fine for now, but not when we start raising a family. Kids are noisy, and you have a bunch of old coots for neighbors.”

“This place is 4,000 square feet, Deming. That’s twice the size of most houses. Besides, my only neighbors on this floor are the Sullivans, and they’re hardly ever here.”

He pulled me back beside him and rocked me as if I were an infant. “I spoke with a realtor yesterday. It’s time to put my place on the market anyway. We can live here for a while and consider our options.”

Possessions aren’t important. I know that. But my home had been CeCe’s, and her spirit still inhabited it. As long as I lived here, she stayed alive too. Metaphysics 101. Anika knew that. Bolin too. Selling would be a sacrilege, an abandonment of my dearest friend.

“Hey,” Deming said. “What’s this—tears? Don’t cry. We’ll think of a solution. Promise.”

He spent the rest of the evening demonstrating just how imaginative he could be.

THE NEXT MORNING, I was sucked into my own creative vortex. I fired up a continuous stream of Bonnie Raitt ballads and focused on writing. Ironing out plot details in
Dojo Death
and addressing the motives of the principals was therapeutic, far more sensible than revisiting the murder of an unsavory victim who was neither mourned nor loved. I excluded Horton Exley’s faux emotion from that statement. When push came to shove, his devotion to reputation and family honor exceeded any temporary allegiance to Phaedra Jones. Besides, the case had already been solved, tied up neatly with a big bow courtesy of Lieutenant Euphemia Bates. I had neither the courage nor expertise to question her judgment. Writers invent crimes—detectives catch criminals. Isn’t that the way it goes?

Shortly after noon, Cato forcefully reminded me that he too had needs. We compromised by snacking on chicken fingers and jogging three times around the Common for penance. Despite my recent dedication to martial arts, by the end of our excursion I found myself gasping for breath. I stumbled into the lobby, oblivious to my surroundings until Cato’s growls alerted me to trouble. Jaime, paid informer and my erstwhile guardian, was pointing to the seating area and gesticulating wildly.

On cue, Ames Exley folded his newspaper and rose, giving me the snarky smile for which he was famous.

“Eja! So glad I caught up with you.” He glared at Jaime. “Your man wouldn’t give me any information at all.”

I winked at Jaime and turned toward Ames. “Really? I wish I’d known. You could have saved me from an hour of jogging.”

“Do you have a minute?” he asked. “I need to discuss some things with you.”

His voice was cordial, but something else, an undercurrent of expectation and male privilege, made me bristle. Cato’s hackles were already raised at the mere sight of Ames.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m pressed for time. Anika will be here any moment, and I’m not even close to ready.”

“You two are certainly joined at the hip,” Ames snarled. “Quite the clever one, aren’t you, Ms. Kane? That Swann fortune won’t get past you.”

I controlled my smoldering anger and killed him with kindness instead. “You should join us for dinner sometime. Deming would enjoy your portrayal. Hmm. Greedy gold digger is kind of a new role for me, but what the heck? Oh, and do bring Heather along. Her wit enlivens any conversation.”