Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (7 page)

“Huh?” The term was unfamiliar except for its usage in the famous Edgar Allan Poe story. Come to think of it, there may be similarities after all.

Deming drummed his fingers on the table and sighed. Patience has never been his strong suit. “Keep up, Eja. I haven’t got all day.”

“I assume you mean Horty was obsessed by gold.”

“Correct. Acquiring it, talking about it, and what’s worse, touching it. He insisted on buying bullion—coins and bars. The man thought he was Midas, for Christ’s sake, or Croesus, running his fingers through the stuff.”

I sorted out the myths separating King Midas from Croesus and refocused on Deming. “Wait a minute. Isn’t there a storage issue? I read something about complications and the dangers of theft.”

Deming narrowed his eyes into glorious hazel slits. “Not for him. Horty rented an entire vault, if you can believe it. Had the stuff trucked in all the way from Manhattan.”

I had to hear the whole story, even though I could predict the ending. Somewhere, Deming had to connect the Exley Foundation, its entire portfolio, and the Feds.

“How much did he invest?”

The glum expression on Deming’s handsome face said it all. “About five million dollars. Not the entire endowment, but a significant chunk of it. Enough to trigger an audit and attract the attention of the FTC.”

I took a deep breath and plunged right in. “He could reimburse the foundation. But it’s more about his reputation, I bet. Did someone rob him?”

“Nope,” Deming said. “You see, the Board of Directors got involved. Insisted on an independent appraisal for insurance purposes. Horty found out that his precious coins and bars were phony—fool’s gold. He’d been taken, snookered, hung out to dry.”

“Let me guess the rest,” I said. “The person responsible for the fraud was none other than Phaedra Jones.”

He nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”

Chapter Seven

HORTON EXLEY WOULD be skewered when Euphemia Bates found out. King Midas, indeed! Even Pam Schwartz couldn’t deny the money motive and the connection to Phaedra Jones. Still, why would Horton murder Phaedra? He obviously still lusted after her. I’d seen ample proof of that with my own eyes.

“He didn’t seem to hate her,” I reminded Deming. “Quite the opposite.”

Deming poured Pellegrino into a crystal tumbler and sipped. “Men are like that, my love. Carnal instincts trump good sense every time, especially when a beautiful woman is involved. You above all people know that.”

I closed my eyes and tried to be objective. Had Phaedra Jones been beautiful? Not really. Seductive and exotic certainly, but beautiful? Only if you consider sharp features and a smoking hot bod with more twists than a pretzel alluring. Most males would give an emphatic thumbs up to that one.

“Your eyes are closed,” Deming said. “Ready for a little nap?”

I ignored the double entendre. When Deming and I napped together we seldom slept.

“Sorry. I have a meeting with my publisher and some details to work out with your mother.” I patted his cheek. “Nothing that would interest you. Besides, doesn’t Pamela need your help?”

His smug smile irritated me. “Pam still gets to you, doesn’t she? Relax. We only hooked up for sex. It was never about love.”

“Excuse me if that doesn’t comfort me.”

Pamela Schwartz was blond, beautiful, and tall. She was also meaner than a rattlesnake and twice as lethal. I both feared and envied her.

“I forgot to tell you,” Deming said. “Tonight I’m taking Fleur Pixley to dinner at Bistro du Midi. She was dying to try it.”

“Make sure that’s all she samples,” I said, stepping on tiptoe to kiss him. “You’ve become quite the man about town lately.”

Deming wrinkled his nose. “You never explained that whole dojo thing. What were you and Mom doing there? Ogling Justin Ming?”

“Exercising. That seems fairly obvious.” With Deming, less information is a better strategy. He has an annoying habit of expecting the worst and probing until he finds it.

“Well, don’t go back there,” he growled. “That goes double for my mom. A murderer is running around loose.”

I arched a brow and laughed. “Pretty bossy these days, aren’t you? Don’t issue commands until we’re married. Even then I can’t guarantee anything.”

Deming huffed enough to power a wind farm. “You never listen. I should know better by now and save my breath.” He took my hand and kissed it. “At least be careful. Promise?”

One glance at those hazel eyes melted my defenses. “Of course. I’m only interested in exercise.”

He released my hand slowly, bent down, and gently kissed my lips. “One more thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“No Ming mania, if you please. You’re already spoken for. I’d be forced to dust off my wushu gear and fight him to avenge your honor.”

I gave that scenario some thought. Any female would fancy having two hunks vie for her favors. On the other hand, Deming was man enough for any woman, and high drama made me edgy. Monogamy suited me very nicely.

“Justin is polite and friendly. Purely professional, nothing more. Besides, your client’s wife would claw out my eyes if I even flirted with him.” I reprised the locker room brawl between Heather and the late Phaedra Jones. “What
was
Horty doing there that night? Pretty risky juggling his wife and his mistress at one time.”

Deming shrugged. “Ask him yourself. He invited us to his place for cocktails tomorrow night. Heather is quite a hostess, or so I hear.”

“Will your parents be there?” Anika was a valuable ally in the information wars. She knew everyone on the social circuit and could charm information from a clam.

“Probably. Be ready about seven o’clock.” Deming checked his watch and headed for the door.

“Will you stop by after your date, Mr. Swann?”

He wrinkled his brow. “Doubtful. I have tons of paperwork to do.”

“Oh. Is that what they call it now?”

He dodged Cato, spun ’round, and winked. “Wish me luck.”

PER ORDER OF the Boston police and Euphemia Bates, Shaolin City was closed until further notice. Every student received an email with the bad news, but I got a phone call as well. If Justin Ming’s voice astonished me, his suggestion floored me.

“You know about the closure,” he said. “We’ll probably be out of commission for a few days, maybe a week. Lieutenant Bates wouldn’t say.”

“That’s a shame.” Caution was both watchword and friend. My response was neutral, noncommittal.

His voice sounded strange—subdued but focused. Weird. “I know you’re under a time crunch,” he said, “so I thought you might want a private lesson. Tonight.”

I’m usually quick on the uptake, but that had me stumped. “Where? I thought the dojo was closed.”

“There are other things we can do,” Justin said. “Perhaps at your apartment?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Our living room has lots of space, and I’m not busy tonight. Should I call Mrs. Swann too?”

He paused, as if I’d broken protocol. “That’s your decision.”

“What time will you be here?” I checked the Swedish Mora clock in the corner. It was nearly two o’clock, and I had things to do.

“Does six o’clock suit you?” His velvety baritone seeped through the phone lines.

“Sure. I’ve been reading the material you distributed, and I do have a few questions.”

No doubt Master Moore was eager to fill the empty coffers. Justin Ming, like many personal trainers, was trying to build his clientele and keep them satisfied. I phoned Anika immediately and explained the situation.

“Private sessions? Hmm. Very entrepreneurial. Unfortunately, Bolin made dinner plans, so I can’t join you.” Anika hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, but maybe you shouldn’t tell Dem about this. You know that boy has a short fuse when it comes to you.”

“Really?” The idea thrilled me. “Call me when you get home, and I’ll give you a full report.”

I spent the next three hours running errands and reviewing galleys with my editor. No three-martini lunches for that girl. She was a workhorse who expected and got the same stamina from her authors. At five o’clock, I slipped into wushu gear and trotted Cato around the Common for his thirty-minute constitutional. As usual, his surly nature asserted itself, and he rebuffed all attempts to civilize him. Wise pedestrians gave our duo a very wide berth.

When Justin Ming arrived promptly at six o’clock, Cato charged the door, prepared to do battle. Then an amazing thing happened. The sifu entered, bent down, and spoke softly to Cato in a language I couldn’t understand. It might have been Mandarin or magic based on the impact his words had on my dog. Instead of baring his teeth, the irascible spaniel licked Justin’s hand and rolled over for a tummy scratch. Was this the technique Ming used to soothe the females who vied for his attention?

“You look like a serious student,” he teased. “All decked out in your uniform. Even got your white sash.” Justin’s black belt, the highest rank in wushu, was draped around his trim waist in a toothsome display of male beauty. He surveyed the spacious living room and nodded. “A lovely space, Eja. Tranquil.”

I’d pushed back furniture to clear the area, although I wasn’t sure what Justin had in mind. CeCe, whose parties were legendary, had loved to entertain in that room. She had hosted fifty or more guests for cocktails with room to spare.

Justin motioned me into the center of the room. “We will start by stretching,” he said. “Then we can try some basic kung fu patterns.” He moved with a grace that any panther would envy, stretching, lunging, and twirling like a top. “Your turn,” he said. “Stretch.”

My attempts to imitate him were a dismal failure reminiscent of my worst childhood memories. Under Sifu Ming’s watchful eye, I sank like the
Titanic
. The mirth-inducing strikes and lunges were pathetic efforts that even Cato would scoff at.

“Eja. Ms. Kane.” He moved behind me and gently straightened my shoulders. “So much tension there. No wonder you are struggling.” He took my hand and led me to the sofa. “Do you meditate?” he asked.

“Not really. My thoughts start swirling around, and it spoils the mood.” I gulped a lungful of air. “I’d like to learn, though. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping.”

Justin nodded. “That will be our task this evening. Decreased stress through mindful thought. Many of my clients find relief that way.”

Mindful thought? Shaolin doctrine was centuries old, but this sounded like new age nonsense. Either way, I was up for anything that promoted sleep. It certainly beat hoarding Ambien like a miser’s gold.

“Do I need to sit on the floor?” I asked.

“Not right away. We can manage right here. Bend your neck forward.” He found the pressure points and massaged my back and shoulders until I purred.

“I didn’t realize this was part of the process,” I said.

“We adapt to the needs of the individual. Remember, the second Shaolin Law requires physical and mental health.” His hands kneaded my muscles with a strength that banished every ache.

“Do you often make house calls?” I asked.

“Sometimes. For special clients.”

Justin’s hands moved slowly down my back and slid toward my breasts. Danger signals, vivid, flashing lights, interrupted my meditation. I wiggled out of his grasp and sat upright.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Kane?” His expression was bland and untroubled, the picture of innocence.

“I . . . I don’t feel comfortable with this. Let’s go back to stretching.”

“As you wish.” Justin Ming leapt to his feet with the agility of a feline. For the next twenty minutes he guided me through patterns so basic that even I excelled. When we stopped, I confronted the sexy sifu.

“Phaedra Jones was one of your private students,” I said. “Heather Exley too.”

“Why do you ask?” Justin Ming was the most self-contained man I’d ever met. “As you know, Shaolin Laws are never forced on followers. They are guides for spiritual and emotional cultivation.”

I no longer felt fearful, awkward, or shy around Justin Ming. A surge of anger emboldened me beyond reason. “I assume there is an extra fee for special services,” I said. “Emotional cultivation can’t be cheap.”

He permitted himself a small, measured smile. “My disciples are often generous. They donate as their circumstances allow.”

“Master Moore approves of this?” I asked, unable to keep the scorn from my voice. Justin Ming was one sexy step up from an escort service. It galled me that someone I had admired, and yes, lusted after a bit, had me so completely fooled. I’m just a writer after all. Even one of our presidents lusted in his heart.

Justin’s voice was soft but unapologetic. “The master is unworldly. He has no part in this.”

“Phaedra Jones did. I could tell by the way she looked at you.”

A faint blush stole over his cheeks as Justin Ming bowed his head. “Our laws oblige us to be chivalrous and spread love.”

“Really?” I grabbed a folder and flipped through the Ten Shaolin Laws. “You forgot the eighth commandment, Sifu. ‘Forbidden to abuse power official or physical.’ The rulebook says you can be banished for any violations.” I slapped the folder down on the coffee table. “Someone might take exception to spreading that much love.”

He locked eyes with me, sending a shiver straight down my spine. I’m a risk-taker, who doesn’t always think before acting. Sometimes, audacity makes me stupid. Justin Ming, a powerful man who could snap my neck with one lethal blow stood only two feet away. Cato was my only hope, and he was firmly in the enemy camp. I flashed back to the crumpled corpse of Phaedra Jones. Would I suffer the same grisly fate?

Justin must have read my mind. “Don’t be afraid. I am not a violent man. I have many failings, but never would I injure anyone.”

“Small comfort to Phaedra Jones,” I said. “Someone with your skills finished her off. It happens all the time in the movies.”

He chuckled, a sound of mirth that seemed inappropriate and downright insulting. Villains in my books were awesome evildoers, not smiling hunks with dimpled cheeks.

“Ah. You are thinking of
Dim Mak,
the touch of death. It is true that I know the technique, but never would I use it, especially against a woman. It violates every principle of the Shaolin code.” He stretched, treating me to a fine display of muscle magic. “Filmmakers have no such restrictions. They kill with impunity.”

Dim Mak!
The last testament of Phaedra Jones was suddenly clear. As a martial arts groupie, she knew all the kung fu hot buttons, including the one that killed her.
Dim Mak.
She had the chance to name her killer but chose not to. Surely that absolved Justin Ming.

The tension in the room dissipated, and my fight or flight instincts went from boil to simmer. Time to quiz the sifu about murder. After all, Horton Exley prized my detective skills. He was counting on me.

“I’ll brew some tea,” I told Justin. “We have to talk.”

And so we talked over cups of herbal tea. He answered my questions without hesitation, even the personal, impertinent ones.

“Was Phaedra Jones blackmailing you?” I asked.

Justin laughed. “I have no money, Ms. Kane.”

Our eyes met, acknowledging what each of us knew. The currency of blackmail was frequently power and control over others.

“Okay. What did she want?” I steeled myself for something sleazy, but the sifu surprised me.

“Phaedra thought she was in love with me. She wanted an intimacy I couldn’t give.” Justin cleared his throat. “Our time together was pleasant but unremarkable. At least for me.”