Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (28 page)

“A dollar for your thoughts,” Deming said. “Inflation, you know.”

I shook my head. “Nothing special. It seems like Phaedra Jones got the worst of the deal while everyone else made out just fine.”

“Portia’s not so happy,” he snorted. “They may not nail her on murder, but that gold scam is a lock. She had the audacity to ask Pam to represent her. Impossible, of course.”

Ethical claims aside, I knew that Pamela Schwartz refused any client without a hefty bank account. Portia Amory Shaw was virtually indigent.

“Your esteemed sifu didn’t fare too well either,” Deming sneered, “although I’m sure some empty-headed heiress will come through.” He tightened his grip on my hand until I yelped.

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

Deming peered into the window of Loro Piana, fixated on the incomparable cashmere. “What do you think of that jacket? Maybe I’ll stop by there tomorrow after work.”

“Answer the question, Counselor.” I folded my arms and risked a mini-frown.

“Ming doesn’t interest me at all,” Deming said, “but he doesn’t fool me either. That guy is a charlatan, and he’s way too interested in you for my taste.”

“Pooh! Would you really have fought him that night?” I had to admit that the thought was thrilling.

“Sparring, Eja, not fighting. And to answer your question, yes, absolutely. I would have won too. If you and my mother insist on learning kung fu, go someplace else.”

“What about Master Moore?” I asked. “Is he a charlatan too?”

Deming’s jaw tightened. “According to my dad, Avery Moore is the real deal. Old school. Big on honor and tradition. Lives for that whole Shaolin Law stuff.” He nudged me toward the sidewalk. “Come on. We’d better hurry. Your dog is waiting, and we both know what that means.”

We walked the final block in silence, each of us bound by our separate thoughts.

THE FOLLOWING MONTH, murder charges against Portia Shaw were dismissed. Lack of evidence was the official reason, although the DA dropped dark hints about eventually reinstating them. Both state and federal authorities charged ahead with the gold scam cases, or as the
Boston Herald
famously dubbed them, the “Gilt Trip.” Portia’s claims of innocence were largely ignored by the popular press, particularly after news of her Swiss account was leaked on Twitter. While Horton and Heather honeymooned in France, Deming handled the many requests for interviews and insights into the Exley family, refusing all of them with a firm, “No comment.” The Internet was awash with stern images of his handsome face as he deflected inquiries with a luscious frown.

Then came the news that a novel, a tell-all roman à clef by a family member, had been auctioned to a major publisher and optioned for a movie
. Family Jewels
by Ames Exley became a literary sensation well in advance of its publication date. The author embarked on a media blitzkrieg, granting interviews to all the major outlets. I watched him smooze with Ellen, charm the ladies of
The View
, and ingratiate himself with nationwide audiences. Brown University had taught him something, but a lifetime with the Exleys had taught him more. He was sensational.

Anika and I lost our fervor for the martial arts, substituting the rigors of wedding planning for physical conditioning. I occasionally practiced the kicks, thrusts, and squats at home, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

Two months before the wedding, I received a call from Justin Ming.

“I bring sad news, Ms. Kane. Master Moore is no longer with us.”

“You mean . . . he died?” I was stunned into silence.

“His passing was peaceful and without pain,” Justin said. “But he entrusted me with something for you. Will you join me for tea so that we may discuss it?”

I spoke without thinking. “I’m so sorry, Justin. I know the master was very dear to you. Of course we can meet. How about this afternoon at the Courtyard Restaurant in the Boston Public Library?”

“Very well. Please bring Mrs. Swann with you also. That will please your fiancé I know.”

“Two o’clock, okay?”

“I will be there, Ms. Kane. Thank you.”

It took several spates of yogic breathing before I assimilated the news. Avery Moore seemed immortal, a creature immune to human frailty. How had he died, and why had he left a message for me, a virtual stranger? I hardly knew him, yet oddly enough his absence created a spiritual void in me.

Anika was shocked by the news but eager to join the action. She immediately rearranged her schedule in order to accompany me.

“Count me in,” she said, “but maybe you should check with Dem first. Or I can call Bolin.”

“They’re both in Manhattan for the day,” I reminded her. “It would only worry them. Besides, what can happen in broad daylight?”

I found Cato’s leash and spent an hour power walking around the Common, trying to anticipate the day to come. Perhaps the master left words of wisdom, rules for a happy marriage. Surely Shaolin kung fu had something to cover every type of union.

As usual, choosing an appropriate wardrobe posed a challenge for me. Black seemed pretentious, but bright colors suggested disrespect. I made the safe choice, opting for a sober charcoal-grey sweater dress with black buttons and a high neck. An engagement ring and watch were my only jewelry.

It pained me to take a taxi, but nerves made it a necessity. Plus, it would earn points with Deming and showcase the newly cautious Eja Kane, wife-in-training. Not surprisingly, I arrived far too early for our appointment. Call it the residue of parental strictures on promptness or a sign of social anxiety. Either way, the habit was deeply ingrained in my character and no surprise to anyone who knew me.

I checked my watch and realized it was early enough for a visit to the mystery section. Seeing my works on those revered shelves was unreal, a dream come true. I caressed the spines of the books like a lover and smiled with secret satisfaction.

“I thought I might find you here, Ms. Kane.”

Justin Ming loomed over me looking larger and more muscular than ever. Despite the hour, this section of the library was deserted. I moved back, bracing myself again the shelves for confidence. Early birds get worms, not praise. Why hadn’t I remembered that?

“You followed me up here, Sifu.” I said. “Tea doesn’t start for an hour.”

His smile highlighted a striking set of dimples. “I also arrived early. When I saw you, I decided to surprise you. Besides, our business doesn’t require tea, Eja. Come. Sit down with me.” He pointed to a couch hidden away from the main thoroughfare.

“Mrs. Swann will be looking for me. She’ll be worried.” I took a deep breath, trying to forestall a tide of panic.

Justin stared at me, more predator than sexy sifu. “Don’t fear me. We have time enough to do what must be done.”

I reached into my purse, cursing the tiny clutch I’d exchanged for my shoulder bag. A lipstick wouldn’t deter Justin Ming, but my pen might help. How ironic if I were saved by a writer’s tool. May the pen be mightier than the sword just this once.

“Don’t be silly, Justin. Shaolin Laws prohibit violence toward women.” I gulped, remembering the injuries that Phaedra had suffered. An army might not stop him if he chose to hurt me.

He nodded and took another step toward me. “Sometimes even a righteous man can err. My master knew that.”

Should I scream? Would my vocal chords function? No one could hear me if I did, and that might anger him even more.

His bright eyes mesmerized me. I was the hapless victim, the tethered goat awaiting sacrifice.

“Whatever Phaedra was guilty of, she didn’t deserve to be murdered. Your whole belief system teaches that.” I squared my shoulders and swallowed my fears. Control over women or the illusion of it fueled his every move. I refused to gratify that need.

“Time is running out, Ms. Kane. Follow me, please.”

Justin reached for my arm and pulled me toward him. He was strong, but I had the element of surprise on my side. If only I could remember some of those self-defense forms that Anika had demonstrated. The Snake might work if only I were able. My legs were leaden, and the hand that clutched the pen felt stiff. I uncapped it and pointed the nib toward his extremities. Even a sifu would feel pain when stabbed in his tender parts. Justin Ming would learn that lesson if he came any closer.

Before I acted, I heard an angel’s voice.

“There you are, Eja. I thought I’d find you here.” Anika, a blinding vision in white, stepped toward us. “Sifu Ming! I’m so sorry about the master.” She gestured toward the restaurant. “Shall we discuss things over tea?”

AFTERNOON TEA IS a highly civilized ritual that infuses calm and good behavior into those who partake. Suddenly, the idea of murder in a historic public library seemed like an absurd reaction to my own imagination and Justin’s sudden presence. Anika’s arrival had saved me from making a fool of myself.

Logic alone failed to satisfy my rubbery legs and rapid heartbeat. I leaned against Anika for support as I took my seat.

“Yum,” Anika said. “Look at the menu. So many choices.”

To my surprise, I was hungry. Famished. I helped myself to cucumber with herb cheese and smoked salmon canapés, determined to nibble, not gobble, the tasty treats. It felt unseemly to gorge oneself when discussing death.

Justin pointed to the menu. “Look, they have wedding tea. It is a very special blend, Ms. Kane, a favorite of brides throughout China. White tea, pink rosebuds, and lemon.”

“Perfect!” Anika clapped her hands. “It’s so delicious. They served that on the day I married Bolin.” She chose Dragon Pearl Jasmine tea; Justin ordered Earl Grey.

With the preliminaries over, it was time for the sifu to take the stage. Justin reached into his jacket and produced a thick vellum envelope that was addressed to me. The calligraphy was beautiful, the product of an ancient art and a skilled hand.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Did Master Moore write this?”

Ming nodded. “His skin was brown, but his heart was all Chinese. My master was the most honorable soul I have ever known.”

I was unsure of how to proceed—open the letter now or wait for privacy.

“He asked me to tell you first,” Justin said, “because you were a truth seeker. He knew you would do the right thing.”

That was a grave responsibility, depending upon what the note contained. I nodded in silent assent to the proposal.

Justin closed his eyes for a moment as if he were meditating. He placed his hands on the table, fingers touching, and began to speak. His voice was hoarse, barely audible in a room full of chattering people. “Master Moore saved me more than once,” he said. “He gave me a home and something to believe in—Shaolin Law, the creed by which he lived.”

“He was proud of you,” Anika said. “That was obvious to everyone. He thought of you as a son.”

Justin uttered a harsh sound that was more like a sob. “I betrayed him.”

“How?” I dreaded hearing the answer, but I had to know. “Did you murder Phaedra?”

That ended his fugue state in a hurry. “Me? Of course not. Why would I do that? My crime was far worse.” He raised his head, gazing at us with misery-filled eyes.

The tension at our table was palpable. Anika reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“What then?” she asked. “Surely Master Moore forgave you.”

For a moment I feared that Justin Ming might weep.

“He had a generous heart filled with compassion. Even when he learned of my sins, the master embraced me.”

I said nothing, even though my mind teemed with all manner of thoughts. Our conversation was attracting the attention of those around us. Several women at the surrounding tables were revving up the lust factor, boldly eyeing Justin Ming. I had no desire to cause a scene or participate in one, but Anika seemed perfectly at ease.

“According to the Bard,” she said, “mercy shows a true nobility of mind. I think that describes Master Moore perfectly. He had a special presence, an aura, if you will, that comforted people.” She leaned forward and patted Justin’s hand. “Tell me, Sifu, how did he pass? We had no inkling that he was ill.”

Justin closed his eyes once more and shuddered. “He did not suffer. Only those he loved were left in pain.”

The use of bromides and vague phrases breached my tolerance threshold. Either Justin was incapable of a direct answer, or he was still hiding something. Even a death certificate would be helpful at this point. Anika’s use of tact and diplomacy had failed. Time for a frontal assault.

“Bottom line, Sifu, how did Master Moore die?” I channeled Euphemia Bates, hoping for a firm, authoritative tone.

A curious transformation had taken place. Justin Ming was diminished, no longer the sexy stud that thrilled sentient females. He raised his head and stared at me.

“I’m responsible for his death,” he sighed. “I killed my master.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

I GULPED AN ENTIRE cup of wedding tea before speaking. “You
murdered
Avery Moore? You’re confessing?”

Anika clutched my arm and leaned toward him. “Explain yourself, Justin.”

“My actions dishonored the dojo and my master. I brought shame to Shaolin City. He tried to protect me, but it was too late. Too late.” Then Sifu Ming, that monument to male pulchritude, pushed back his chair and fled the room.

I took my time, studying the beautifully lettered writing and the red wax sealing the envelope. Master Moore had entrusted me with his written words, and I would honor his wishes. Besides, at that point my curiosity was almost crippling.

“Maybe you should wait for Dem,” Anika said. “There might be legal issues.”

I shook my head. “No. I’ll read this no matter what the repercussions. Let’s take it back to my place where we can have some privacy.”

After paying our bill we stepped out into brilliant sunshine where the Bentley, accompanied by the ever-faithful Po, was parked at the curb.

Anika rattled off instructions in Mandarin and cushioned herself in the glove-soft leather seat. “I don’t know, Eja. This could be very tricky.”

“Probably. But knowing Master Moore, I feel rather honored that he chose me.”

She gave me a hug. “Integrity and courage. That’s what Avery saw in you. It’s one of the many things I’ve always loved about you.”

We said very little on the ride back to Beacon Street. Even Jaime’s effusive greetings and Cato’s sharply worded protests failed to rouse us. We were focused on only one thing, and until that duty was discharged, nothing else mattered.

To my surprise, we found Deming sprawled on the library sofa, snoring lustily. When Anika roused him, he bounded to his feet, grumbling like a wounded bear.