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

Perhaps exercise really does release endorphins. After returning home, I spent three productive hours outlining the plot for my next mystery.

I resisted the temptation to browse Internet sales or to Google wedding sites. Even the telephone kept its vow of silence. When five o’clock rolled around, I leapt up, ready to storm the dojo in search of perfection.

I trotted through the Back Bay as if I owned it, smiling at strangers, jaywalking with abandon. As I approached Newbury Comics I noticed a couple in the doorway locked in a passionate embrace. The man was a stranger, but something about his partner’s expert haircut jogged my memory. Of course. It was the saucy brunette who had slobbered all over Justin Ming. She had an odd name that I couldn’t quite recall, something Greek I think. This time she confined her favors to the slightly paunchy middle-aged man at her side. Here was a woman who took Shaolin Law number one very seriously, especially the part about loving your fellow disciples. I added
fickle
and
nympho
to my mental image of her and shrugged it off.

Following orders is a skill set of mine, ever since Catholic school. I entered the Shaolin City pro shop and dutifully extracted a list of must have items. Justin Ming hadn’t stinted on anything, and despite my good intentions, the resulting tab gave me sticker shock. I surrendered my credit card, signed a disclaimer, and was given an official locker key that conferred an immediate sense of belonging. Maybe I
could
achieve my fitness goals and pass for one of the Swanns’ social set. Stranger things have happened.

Back in the changing room I donned roomy black pajamas and preened in front of the mirror. Was it my writer’s imagination, or did I already look lean and mean? Speaking of mean . . . a heated conversation, conducted in furious whispers, caught my ear. I never deliberately eavesdrop, but writers learn so much by observing others that it is almost their duty. In this case, the female antagonists from the other night were at it again. Heather Exley was pinned to the back wall by the pointed talon of the unnamed brunette. She sprinkled expletives into the mix and growled the name Justin along with a puzzling reference to bullion. I leaned in, trying to make sense of a tricky situation. Unfortunately, just at the point where blows might have been struck, a gong sounded. As both women stopped the fracas and filed into the main meeting room, Mrs. Exley fired a passing shot at her adversary.

“This isn’t over, bitch,” she hissed. “Fuck with me, and you’ll be sorry.”

I scrunched into a corner, yearning for a cloaking device. Innocent bystanders can easily become victims, and I was a stranger in a particularly foreign land. My scheme seemed to work until something alerted the brunette. She turned and snarled a warning at me. “Mind your own business, whoever you are. It’s healthier that way.”

The encounter robbed me of enthusiasm for our group session. I filed in like an obedient serf after keeping a weather eye out for trouble. Master Moore explained that we were exploring the second Shaolin Law that required students to be diligent in pursuing their art. He mentioned something alarming about physical and mental fitness too. I tried to observe the two combatants, but they were positioned on opposite sides of the room beyond my line of sight. Besides, I was there to improve my conditioning, not to stir up controversy. I stretched valiantly and made a tentative, somewhat feeble effort to learn a basic kung fu pattern. Justin Ming appeared and strolled down the line, observing each participant. He paused when he reached me.

“How are you, Ms. Kane?” He stepped behind me and moved my hands into the correct position. “There. That’s much better. Side stretch, there you go. Now try a thrust.” The bland expression on his handsome face called the double entendre into doubt. Was I suspicious, too inclined to tar everyone else with my own lascivious brush?

“Much better. Keep practicing.” Justin whisked away and returned to the center of the room.

Heather Exley curled her lip and refocused on the sifu. I envied her limber body and the way she maneuvered it so effortlessly. Even in my youth, I was ungainly, despite lessons in tap and ballet. During gymnastics class, I earned the distinction of being the only child unable to perform a cartwheel or climb a rope. Talk about humiliation.

A sudden thought brightened my gloom. According to Deming, Heather Elliot Exley was one of least intelligent females on the face of the earth. Perhaps the Creator had compensated for mental deficit by awarding her great beauty and a kick-ass body. I’m uncertain which of us got the better bargain.

Justin Ming clapped his hands and gestured for silence. “Now we try the squat and kick.” He modeled the exercise for us, moving in a rapid, sensuous blur that was worth watching but impossible to follow. Apparently most of the class shared my view.

“I will ask our student, Miss Phaedra Jones, to also demonstrate. Learning is facilitated by viewing another student.”

I experienced one of those “aha” moments as the brunette brawler from the locker room stepped center stage. Phaedra Jones. So that was her name. I had to admit it was pretty cool, a Greek morality play straight from the pen of Euripides. His Phaedra also failed to control her emotions and had paid the ultimate price. I hoped that her modern namesake would fare better.

All that ruminating cost me. I totally missed Phaedra’s little show and Justin’s narrative. When we were told to replicate her movements, the rest of the class sprang into action. My version was woefully inadequate, but I was shielded from shame by a sizable pillar. My relief was short-lived when I glanced behind me and spied Master Avery Moore, beaming gently, missing nothing. I had skated by the first Shaolin Law, but with my lackluster performance and spotty record, commandment number two was a problem. I had a bad attitude.

Class ended at 8 p.m., and I prepared to flee. My escape plan was perfect. Only the master’s smiling visage stood in my way.

“You are troubled, Ms. Kane. Frustrated?” His voice was gentle, but the words had bite.

“This is difficult for me, Master. I must try harder. Tomorrow I start private sessions.”

“Fine. Guidance is something we all require. But it must be reinforced through discipline and practice.” He patted my shoulder and glided toward Justin Ming, the sizzling sifu, who was surrounded by his honor guard of doting females. Heather Exley led the pack, but the one called Phaedra was nowhere to be found. Had she slipped out to tryst with her other sweetie, or was she nestled in Justin’s office awaiting a very private lesson?

I puzzled over that while walking up Newbury Street. Thus far, my quest for improvement had hit some major snags. Most of them were attributable to my own sloth and inertia. On the other hand, material for my next novel was plentiful. Lust, love, and jealousy combined with exertion and sweat—a virtual Pandora’s Box lay open at Shaolin City.

Several blocks from home, he cornered me. As I passed an alcove, a pair of strong arms encircled my waist and pulled me close. I didn’t scream or even panic. Those arms were very familiar as was the faint scent of Creed’s Royal-Oud.

“Okay, Mystery Minx, what’s the story?” Deming used a stern courtroom voice, an outgrowth of his youthful obsession with Perry Mason.

“Alert the media. I’m taking a walk.” I wiggled free and trotted up the street with Deming at my heels.

“Not so fast, missy. You’re up to something.”

Here’s a tip for confounding a lawyer. Go on the offensive and admit nothing.

As we waited for the stoplight to change, I whirled around, hands on hips, and faced him. “I thought you were working tonight. You owe me an explanation.”

Deming showed the advantages of multi-culteralism by sputtering outraged comments in three languages. “Don’t get mad. I finished early and came over to find you.” He raised his finely chiseled chin and glared. “You weren’t home so I decided to take a walk too. That’s it.”

I shivered as a brisk wind ravaged my hair. “I’m hungry, but I need to freshen up and walk Cato.”

“Ugh! That little brute gets more attention than I do.” Deming is adorable when he pouts.

We entered the lobby of my building under the watchful eye of the concierge. The Tudor ranked among Boston’s most august structures. It had everything I lusted for and aspired to in a sanctuary: privacy and pristine surroundings. Who could argue with beautiful dentil moldings, high ceilings, and location, location, location? The corridors were whisper-quiet, ultra-thick walls redolent with fifty years of glitz and glory. Each floor contained only two spacious flats, or residences as they were called.

Much to Deming’s delight, the Medeco lock gave me fits. “Here. Let me handle that,” he said with an unmistakable note of triumph in his voice. “You’re hiding something. Come on. Out with it.”

Fortunately, the door swung open, and Cato charged, giving me some thinking time. He made a beeline for one of Deming’s pant legs and held fast to the cuff.

“Stop it, you little bastard! That suit is brand new.” Deming prided himself on sartorial splendor and was especially fond of anything made by Kiton. The suit was pricy, and teeth marks were not an approved accessory.

I lured Cato away with a treat and faced the accusing stare of my fiancé. It was hard to ignore those hazel eyes, particularly when they blazed with passion.

“You were saying . . .” I folded my arms.

Deming assumed his bland courtroom face and eyed me. “You hate exercise.”

“You’re always nagging me to improve. Some thanks I get for listening.”

He put his arms around me and squeezed. “You never listen to me, Ms. Kane. I still think you’re up to something.”

“How about a drink?” I asked. “You’re terribly cranky.”

Deming sighed and pointed toward the scotch. Personally, I loathe the nasty stuff, but he considers Johnnie Walker Blue mead from the gods.

“We can order out if you want to relax,” I said. “Let me loosen your tie.” I spent some time playing with the silken fabric, slowly unfastening the buttons on his shirt. By the time I brushed my lips over his collarbone, he was half asleep, and I was awash with sensation.

“I’ll go freshen up,” I whispered, covering him with the cashmere throw. “Won’t take long.”

I soothed my aching muscles in the steam shower and loaded up on French honey gel. My feeble efforts at the dojo had antagonized body parts I didn’t even know I had. Master Moore’s homily echoed in my brain: discipline and practice. Tomorrow was another session, this time a private one under the gimlet eye of Justin Ming. His wary look this evening told me that he hadn’t bought my act one bit. Perhaps with Anika’s help, I could pass the second Shaolin Law and keep in step. Diligence and practice—my new watchwords.

Chapter Four

DEMING WAS WIDE awake, clutching his iPhone when I entered the living room. After issuing a series of terse commands, he ended the conversation and looked me up and down.

“Hmm. Nice cleanup job, Ms. Kane. Why waste that beauty by staying indoors?” He jumped up and held out his arm. “Come on. We can make No. 9 Park if you’re quick about it. It’s only two blocks away.”

“But we don’t have reservations,” I protested.

Deming gave me a pitying look reserved for the uninitiated. I’d forgotten. Swanns never need reservations. “Chop, chop. Can you walk in those heels, or shall I carry you?” The gleam in his eyes said he would do just that.

I gave Cato a quick hug and sped out the door. “Bet I beat you there,” I said. “This is a challenge.”

Deming laughed all the way to the elegant townhouse that was No. 9 Park. He was no stranger to the hostess, who beamed like a searchlight and immediately seated us. I should be used to it by now, but it doesn’t seem fair. The queue of diners waiting patiently in the bar probably agreed with me.

I chose a tuna appetizer and asparagus, but Deming went whole hog. Kind of. He avoided pork but chowed down on halibut and a potato so large it needed its own dinner plate. When he finished chewing and swallowing, I made my move.

“Why so upset? You usually blow off whiny clients.”

Deming sighed. “It’s not that simple in this case. Sometimes you just can’t save them.”

If a client went down for the count, Deming took it very personally. Since he specialized in uber-rich, overly-indulged juveniles, it wasn’t surprising. He couldn’t tell me much without violating his attorney/client relationship. Just as well. I never disguised my contempt for spoiled brats insulated from the facts of life.

Deming suddenly snapped his fingers. “Hey! Don’t you have a friend who’s a big deal in the FTC?”

“The Federal Trade Commission?” I surfed a wave of temporary amnesia and drew a blank. Very few graduates of Brown University choose a government career. Fewer still cross over to the dark side and join the Feds.

“You know. The redhead. Always popping up when you least expect her.”

“Fleur Pixley? You’ve got to be kidding. I haven’t talked to her since CeCe’s funeral. Besides, you know her too. She shadowed you for three years.” I patted his cheek. “You scraped her off your shoes like chewing gum, as I recall. Quite brutal.”

“Come on. I need your help. Give her a call and set something up.”

“What? She’ll ask, you know. Fleur’s a bright woman. Got her CPA and graduated from Georgetown Law.”

Deming grunted with the disdain a Harvard man felt for lesser institutions. “My client has a problem with the IRS, but it involves the FTC as well. A friend at court would help.”

I felt my heartbeat quicken. “A criminal? You’re talking about Horton Exley, I bet. Tell me more.”

He gulped a slug of scotch. “He’s no criminal, unless stupidity is a felony. Look, forget I said anything.”

I know Deming’s game. He’s accustomed to women falling over themselves to do his bidding. I refuse to play. Indifference is an effective weapon against him when wielded judiciously.

“Okay. Sorry.”

He leaned forward and clasped my wrist. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. I can give you her phone number though. She’s right over at the JFK Building. Something to do with consumer protection.” This time I pinched his cheek. “That’s all I know, unless you read me in on more details, of course.”

Swanns are notoriously poor sports. Losing at anything makes them peevish.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, that will have to do. I can’t divulge confidential information, and you know it. Give me her number when we get home.” Deming retrieved his platinum card from the tray, added the gratuity, and watched as the waiter noiselessly whisked it away.

He was seething, that was obvious. I ignored his behavior and waited as he gathered my things and helped me out the door. Tenderness is a secret side of Deming Swann that few people see. His outward demeanor is crusty, but he is devoted to those he loves. Whenever I can, I prod him to loosen up and relax. He never listens.