Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (9 page)

Even after years with the Swanns, conspicuous consumption makes me uneasy. Blame it on my socialist parents who would have been scandalized by Horton and his crowd. They had loved CeCe and applauded Bolin’s generosity to the poor even as they showered me with Marxist bromides and warnings against capitalism. In our household, Bertrand Russell, not Horatio Alger, was a role model.

“How many people live here?” I asked, as we walked up the cobblestone driveway.

Deming shrugged. “Horty’s family, of course, and Ames too, I believe. He never married, although he’s in his mid-thirties now.”

“Really?” I said. “He was a ladies’ man in college. Coeds considered him quite a catch.”

That earned me an eye roll from my sweetie. “I seem to recall that a cousin lives here too. Priscilla, Orphelia—no, Portia. I knew it was something Shakespearean. Portia Amory Shaw, a first cousin or something. Disowned by the Amorys when she married beneath her. Divorced the husband and hasn’t a cent to her name.”

“Hmm. Everything is quite Victorian, wouldn’t you say? Genteel poverty amid excess.”

“Stow it, Eja. I can hear those wheels turning. This is not some English country house mystery. We’re five miles from the heart of Boston, for God’s sake.”

I beamed the practiced smile of the submissive hausfrau. Occasionally, I dabbled in womanly arts just for fun. Deming was not deceived.

“Stop screwing with me, Eja. I mean it. I know your tricks.” He hustled me along the path to an enormous walnut door and pressed the buzzer.

When the door opened, I gasped.

There stood the perfect replica of an English butler in full livery, straight from the pen of Dorothy Sayers or Christie herself. His elegant posture accentuated a whippet-thin frame coupled with a look of unassailable dignity. He was an ageless relic of the good life, with unremarkable features and a thin-lipped smile. If his name was Bunter, I’d lose all self-control.

“Evening, Carlisle.” Deming nodded toward me. “This is Ms. Kane.”

Carlisle bowed and led us down a long hallway filled with ancestral portraits. I made that assumption based on the prominent Exley nose sported by each subject. The males could carry it off, but a large proboscis was less attractive on the females.

“They’re in the parlor,” Carlisle said. “Except for Mr. Horton. He’s in his study.”

“Take me to him,” Deming said. “Ms. Kane will join the other guests.”

The last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a confined space with Heather Exley and company. However, in the spirit of pre-connubial bliss, I said nothing.

“See you later, darling.” Deming’s voice held a hint of triumph.

“Of course, Twinkle Toes.”

I STOOD IN THE doorway, observing the group and admiring my surroundings. The parlor was actually comprised of twin rooms divided by a concealed pocket door. Elaborate wood moldings, offset by a sprightly selection of French pieces in lemon and red, were anchored by a phenomenal Aubusson carpet. Tasteful accessories were sprinkled among more utilitarian items; antiques coexisted with modern art. Whatever her personal failings, Heather made one hell of a decorator. Either that, or she had the good sense to hire a pro.

She was not much of a hostess, however. Most of the dozen or so partygoers were engrossed in conversations or cackling with alcohol-fueled hilarity. Heather stared me down, turned her head, and dismissed me as she would an errant serf. Only when Anika waved from the far end of the room did Mrs. Exley stir.

Her impeccable attire was a vivid contrast to her manners. Heather wore a column of shimmering white silk with long, graceful sleeves and a scalloped hem.

“I’ve seen you at the dojo,” Heather said, her voice a breathy whisper. “Eartha, Erma, something like that. I’m hopeless when it comes to names.” She extended a slim hand bedecked with diamonds.

“Actually, it’s Eja Kane.” My smile oozed synthetic charm as I lowered my voice and shook her hand. “We share the same sifu instructor—Justin Ming.”

Heather’s lovely eyes widened, and her skin lost its bloom. When I touched her arm, she grimaced. “I don’t understand.”

I recalled Deming’s assessment of her as a dim bulb. Oh yes. Before I succeeded in leveling our hostess, Anika glided our way in a swish of satin. Unlike more timid souls, Mrs. Bolin Swann had chosen a fiery orange frock that bared her shoulders. Her uber-hot hubby was at her side.

“Have you two met?” Anika asked, putting her arm around me. “Eja will soon be my daughter, Heather, although she’s been part of our family for years.”

“We were just discussing that,” I said. “Anika is my workout buddy at Shaolin City. She also trains with Justin Ming.”

Heather clutched her throat and coughed.

“May I get you a drink?” Bolin asked. “Perrier or something stronger?”

Her eyelashes fluttered as she played the coquette. “That’s so gallant of you, Bolin. It must be allergies.” She seized his arm and headed for the bar, leaving Anika and I alone and bemused.

“What in the world did you say to her?” Anika asked.

I shrugged. “Not much. I think her guilty conscience went into overdrive. Remember, I saw that tiff between her and Phaedra Jones.”

Anika patted my arm. “Well, don’t worry. I chatted her up about fashion and decorating, her favorite topics. Believe it or not, she really knows her stuff. Anyhow, we’re meeting for lunch on Monday. Care to join us?”

My grin enveloped her like London fog. “Count on it.”

Chapter Nine

SOMEONE TAPPED MY shoulder as I stood at the bar sipping wine. I spun around, startled by an apparition from my past. Ames Exley, the younger, cuter, brother of Horty grabbed me in a tight, decidedly friendly bear hug and squeezed.

“Eja Kane! How come you still look like a coed?”

I dismissed the flattery, although it warmed me more than I cared to admit. Ames himself showed a touch of Dorian Gray in his lean, lithe body and curly brown hair. Like the graduate student of yore, his perfect teeth framed a wry, disarming smile that never reached his eyes.

“So, Ms. Eja, you’re a prize winning author, and all I can say is wow! The rest of us talked a good game, but you delivered.”

I felt the flush move up my neck and creep across my cheeks. “Do you still write? As I recall, you were keen on finishing a screenplay—sort of a Henry David Hwang concoction.”

Ames waved his arms. “Quite some memory you’ve got. Actually, I haven’t written anything in years. No time.”

My patience had been rewarded. This was the opening I had hoped for. “So. What keeps you busy?”

He flashed that grin again. “Let me buy you lunch, and I’ll fill you in. But be warned, it’s rather dreary. Typical family saga. You know the drill.”

“Great.” I handed him my card, but before we made arrangements, a strong arm gripped my waist.

“There you are,” Deming said, giving me a squeeze. “Thanks for keeping my fiancée company, Ames. She does tend to get lonely.”

“Deming Swann—too long, buddy.” Ames exchanged one of those male bonding moves. “I forgot. You’re the lucky guy who snagged the prize.” He shook his head. “Last I heard, you were pursuing every debutante on the East Coast. Glad you finally got some sense.”

Deming showed his stoic side, but I paid a price for it. His arms gripped me in a vise that had more tension than passion. “We’ll make sure to send you a wedding invitation and a front row seat to the christening.”

“Whoa! I had no idea. Congratulations, man. You too, Eja.”

“He’s joking, Ames. We are getting married, but the christening is years away.”

The moment was salvaged by the arrival of a petite woman with undistinguished features and a knot of mousey brown hair. By the way she deferred to Ames, I assumed that this was the impoverished cousin who survived on family sufferance. Portia Amory Shaw wore classic Brahmin apparel that had seen better days. Her dun-colored twinset was enlivened by a circle pin and a single strand of pearls. The matching tweed skirt and kitten heels were so dowdy that I glowed like a supermodel in comparison.

“We haven’t been introduced,” I said. “I’m Eja Kane.”

She blinked and mumbled something unintelligible. Despite the humble act, I decided that Portia was sly, not shy. It was something in those watery blue eyes, a sharp intelligence masking a hint of malevolence.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, extending a slightly limp hand. “I’ve read your books.”

Like most writers, I’m a glutton for praise, no matter what the source. “Really? Are you a mystery fan?”

Portia shrugged diffidently. “Not really. I prefer serious literature, but your books were already in our library.”

Ames jumped in to salve my ego. “I confess, Eja. I’m an unabashed fan. The others have to fight me for your books. Perhaps you’d consider signing them for me.”

“Careful, Ames,” Deming said, squeezing my arm. “You’ll give her a swelled head. Eja’s won some national competitions, you know.”

I counted way past ten, hoping in vain to remain calm. For two cents, maybe less, I would kick mousey Ms. Shaw across the room. “Sure. I’ll gladly sign them whenever you like.”

Ames crooked his finger. “Mind if we steal away to the library, Dem? I’m sure Portia has some legal questions she’s dying to ask you.”

He led me across the hallway to a magnificent walnut-paneled room packed floor to ceiling with books. “Here.” He pointed to an imposing partners desk with gilt mounts. “Sit down and get comfortable.”

True to his word, Ames produced hard copies of all five of my books. “Try this pen,” he said, thrusting an elaborate lacquered instrument my way.

“Wow. This pen is really special. Italian, isn’t it?”

“German, actually.” Ames beamed foolishly. “It’s a Pelikan Toledo, gold nib and all. I collect fine writing instruments. Sort of a hobby. This one is new, and I can’t think of a better use for it.” He sat opposite me at the other partner’s space.

I inscribed each copy with a personal message that might be meaningful to Ames. Knowing Deming, our time together was growing short, and I had to maximize the opportunity.

“I spoke with an old Brown classmate of ours just yesterday,” I said. “Fleur Pixley. You must remember her.”

His reaction surprised me. Ames grew pale, and he leaned back as if I had struck him. “Fleur? Oh, yes. Redhead with an overbite. Always hanging around Deming as I recall.”

“That’s the one. She’s an executive with the FTC now, you know. Some bigwig in charge of fraud and Ponzi schemes. Stuff like that. Isn’t it weird how everyone settles into a different profession? In college, we all seemed destined for academic careers.”

“Not me,” Ames said ruefully. “I yearned to be a cross between Eugene O’Neill and Arthur Miller. Silly dream.”

I summoned my small store of feminine wiles. “All dreams sound silly in daylight, but it’s never too late to start. What’s keeping you busy these days?”

Ames leaned over and lowered his voice. “Family. I ride herd on Horton, you know, do my bit with the family trust, or try to. Our mother was a do-gooder in the best sense of the word. That trust meant a lot to her.”

“I have no head for business,” I said. “Just managing the paperwork and regulations must be difficult. Not to mention the taxes. Ugh!”

That ignited a spark in his eyes, as Ames embellished the topic. “Such drama you wouldn’t believe. I swear that money causes more feuds than religion, especially when one person controls everything.” He tented his hands in prayer. “There are so many needy causes, Eja. Those of us who have been blessed have great responsibilities.”

The link between Fleur Pixley, the FTC, and the Exley trust grew clearer. The anonymous tipster might well be sitting on the other side of the partners desk, beaming his pious smile. Before I reacted, the door burst open, disgorging Horton Exley and my fiancé.

“Portia said you two came this way. What’s going on here, Ames?” Horty glowered. “We have guests, you know.” He glanced at me and gave a brisk nod. Deming flashed a triumphant grin my way but said nothing.

“Chill, big brother,” Ames said. “Eja and I were reminiscing, and I lost track of time.” He stacked my books into a neat pile and pushed back his chair. “Guess I better go earn my keep. Thanks, Eja. That trip to the past was fun.”

His genial tone was negated by the murderous look in his eyes. Deming caught it, but Horton seemed oblivious to his brother’s moods. Perhaps he didn’t notice. Maybe he just didn’t care.

“I think I’ll get something to eat,” I said. “You fellows can have your privacy.”

My real plan had nothing to do with food. I zeroed in on the slight form of Portia Amory Shaw languishing in a corner like yesterday’s wallflower. Be kind, I chided myself. Maybe the woman is shy or socially awkward. A sharp inner voice told me to trust my instincts. Ms. Shaw was a stealth bitch who bore watching.

I plucked a lemon tart from a tray, took a bite, and pasted a friendly grin on my face. “This is sinfully delicious, don’t you agree? Worth every calorie.”

Portia curled her lip in a semi-sneer. “I avoid desserts. They’re bad for you.”

“So many things are,” I agreed. “Sometimes, one just has to take a risk and go for it.”

She shrugged and gave me a mile-high stare. “I suppose.”

I took a deep breath and soldiered on. Portia had the social skills of a mollusk, but I had tenacity on my side. Everyone has an ego, even a drab specimen like her. The trick was finding the right key to unlock it. Writers are paid to fabricate things, so I had no problem with a little white lie.

“Ames mentioned that you help out with the foundation. Indispensible, he called you.”

Portia’s eyes brightened immediately. “He did? I do my best, of course, but others help out as well. I’m an accountant by trade. A CPA.”

Why was I not surprised? The woman probably had a calculator for a heart. That explained her diffident manner and bland attire. Accountants see life as one great balance sheet with debits and credits queuing up in the ledger. Their creativity is predictably low. After all, creative accounting lands one in the pokey.

“Wow! Numbers are not my thing, and I’m in awe of anyone who can master them. Deming minored in finance, and he’s always lecturing me about precision.” I shook my head. “Boring!”