Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (19 page)

Sometime later Deming ambled into the room, carrying two mugs of mulled cider and a load of guilt. He bent over, kissed my cheek, and mumbled an apology.

“Forgive me for being a jerk,” he said.

I couldn`t resist. “Pompous prick was more like it. Don`t worry. I know you can`t help yourself. It`s congenital.”

Deming rolled his eyes. “You are a brat, Eja Kane. Maybe that`s why I love you.” He bent over the computer screen and scowled. “Okay. Print me a copy, and we`ll rehearse this scheme of yours. Just don`t expect me to chat up Gabriel Mann or act like his pal.”

“I never even considered it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

SORREL YEAGAN’S home surprised me. I expected dreary bachelor digs, a small colorless efficiency with a whiff of desperation much like the man who owned it. I couldn`t have been more wrong.

When we pulled up to the townhouse on Brattle Street, Deming gave a practiced nod. “Hmm. West Cambridge. Very nice.” He pointed to the other units in the enclave. “See. Just seven of them. Not too noisy, decent size, and just far enough from the madding crowd of students. I approve.”

The Swann seal of approval was high praise indeed, particularly from a real estate shark like Deming who made it his business to know both price and value. He frowned at me as he continued his assessment.

“I thought you said he had no money. These places go for at least a million bucks.”

“Search me. I was judging from his office and his clothes. Not terribly impressive.” In truth, I had no concept of cost, especially when something had more than six figures attached to it. Before inheriting CeCe’s condo, I inhabited a small one bedroom on a low floor adjacent to the Prudential Tower. On his first visit, Deming could barely wipe the sneer from his face.

He angled the Porsche into a parking space and turned off the engine. “Okay, super sleuth, we`re here. Any more marching orders?”

“Nope.” I pointed to a cab that was discharging its passengers. “Look. It`s Zarina and Nadia. Better watch your virtue, Mr. Swann. Zarina has a big crush on you.”

The expression on his face mingled horror with scorn. “Big is the operative word. I have nothing to fear,” he said. “After all, I`m a married man.”

We both grinned at that since Gabriel, Fess Paskert, and many more were eager to shed their vows and clothing when opportunity knocked. Fortunately, Deming had sown his wild oats—enough to feed an entire army—long before we got together.

“Ignore both of them,” Deming ordered. “I want Nadia to sweat for a while.”

I gave him my sweetest smile. “And Zarina? You can easily make her sweat.”

“No comment.” Deming herded me toward Sorrel’s front door with the vigilance of a border collie. “Come on. Let`s get this farce underway.”

The moment we rang the bell, our host appeared and ushered us and his other guests into the foyer. Nadia kept her head down, but Zarina boldly eyed Deming as if he were a tasty treat that she yearned to sample. I yelped as he tightened his grip on my arm in a desperate bid for cover. Deming Swann, scourge of womanhood, had finally met his match!

Other guests had preceded us. Fess Paskert, Gabriel, and Melanie Hunt were seated on beige suede sofas that flanked the fireplace. Each had a champagne flute in hand. Unlike most New England homes, the floor plan was open, modern but far from austere. Large Aubusson carpets in muted shades of gold covered gleaming bamboo floors. With the exception of one piece, the artwork was an eclectic blend of European oils and bold abstracts. My eyes were drawn to an incredible portrait of Sonia that held pride of place over the fireplace mantel. The sepia image was so vivid that I cried out and grasped Deming’s arm.

“Like it?” Sorrel asked. “Sonia called it soul-snatching. Too revealing.”

“It`s lovely,” I said. “Almost alive. It certainly captures her beauty.” Upon reflection, it captured something else as well—the duality that made Sonia such a formidable person. The face that stared down upon us was bold, confident, and somewhat contemptuous, much like the woman I had known.

Deming stepped closer to examine it. “Tintype, isn`t it? You don`t see many of those anymore. Kind of a lost art.”

“My hobby I confess,” Sorrel said. “At one time I had artistic leanings. Couldn`t take it to the next level, of course, but I still kept my hand in.”

“Wow! It looks amazing.” I stepped closer to study the image.

Sorrel shook his head. “Trust me, it`s not that difficult to master. The process can get messy though, so Sonia always exiled me to my studio.”

Deming peered down at him with more intensity than I had expected. I was surprised at his interest in something as esoteric as tin typing. The lad never ceased to astound me.

“Isn`t it hard to get the proper supplies?” he asked.

“Not really,” Sorrel said. “We`ve had a resurgence recently. Lots of younger artists—gifted ones—are experimenting with tin typing. Me, I`m just a dabbler. Cambridge has some really serious students of the craft.”

While they discussed techniques, I wandered over to greet my fellow guests. Gabriel leapt to his feet with courtesy he had never extended when we were a couple. Melanie stayed seated, fidgeting with a string of spectacular South Sea Island pearls that dipped down deep into her décolletage. She shared a limp handshake and a tepid greeting with me.

“Nice to see you,” I said mendaciously. “Such a fitting tribute for Sonia.”

“Humph,” Melanie sniffed. “She loved attention. Craved it.”

Gabriel tensed like a heat-seeking missile. Probably concerned that Fess Paskert would hear his wife`s comments. Maybe he was also trying to head off any worrisome speculation about Sonia’s sexual adventures. More likely as a man awaiting a promotion, he was focused on damage control.

“Are Anika and Bolin coming?” he asked. “I heard about that scholarship they`re funding. Very generous.”

Fess Paskert reared up at the mention of money. It was a genetic quirk, a coping mechanism peculiar to fundraisers everywhere.

“Ah, the Swann Foundation. Such commitment to gender equality. You must be very proud, Ms. Kane. How is your book coming along, by the way?” After a quick peek at Melanie’s cleavage, Paskert turned to me.

“Slow but steady,” I said. “Naturally, the murders complicated things.”

The
M
word jolted Paskert back against the couch. “Quite,” he murmured. He beckoned a waiter circulating refills of champagne and leapt for a glass.

When Bolin and Anika arrived, the group heaved a collective sigh of relief. Bolin was garbed in understated elegance, a form-fitting Brioni suit that few men of any age could manage. Anika’s Chanel dress was simplicity itself, if a garment costing $5,000 can ever be considered simple. I gladly abandoned the sad specimens on the couch and joined Deming and his parents.

“What a lovely home,” Anika said to Sorrel. “So beautifully done. Do those French doors lead to your garden?”

Sorrel nodded. “We . . . I . . . have a small terrace that adjoins them. Sonia—she loved it there. The flowers, you know. She was always out among them weeding and pruning. Such a perfectionist.”

Anika took his hands and squeezed them. “I understand how you feel. That tintype of her is an extraordinary tribute. You`ve captured her exactly.”

Sorrel swallowed and met Anika’s eyes. “You`re very kind. Would you like a tour of the house? It was very special to Sonia and to me.”

Anika nodded, and I seized the opportunity to horn in on their tour.

“Mind if I join you? I love viewing homes. It gives insight into a person in a way that other research seldom does.”

“Oh, yes,” Anika said. “I forgot about the book. Eja has a title for it, did you know that?”

Sorrel’s eyes widened, and he looked bewildered.

“Everything`s very tentative,” I said. “My publisher has the final word on titles. Anyhow, I`m calling it
A Passion for Cause
. Seems like that covers both Sonia and Duff.”

Sorrel flashed another sad smile and led us through the kitchen to a back stairwell. Thankfully Deming was stopped in his tracks by a word from Bolin. This mission required a deft touch rather than an inquisition. It was more spiritual odyssey than public event.

“Sonia didn`t cook much,” Sorrel said. He laughed as though it were a familiar joke.

“And you?” Anika asked.

He shrugged in that self-deprecating manner I now found off-putting. As the evening progressed, what had originally appeared to be humility seemed more like a well-honed charade.

“Actually I`m a pretty fair cook,” Sorrel said. “I enjoy it. Challenges the artistic side of me I suppose.”

The kitchen was fully equipped with top of the line appliances: Sub-Zero fridge, Wolf stove, and Viking cook top. My culinary skills are limited, but my appreciation of stainless steel beauty abounds.

Sorrel pointed to the staircase. “Two suites are upstairs, mine and the guest space.”

Anika was too well bred to ask where Sonia slept, so it was left to me.

“May I see Sonia’s room?” I asked. “If it`s not too painful for you.”

He flashed that mystic smile again. “She had her own quarters downstairs. It was intended as an au pair suite, but Sonia loved the independence of it, especially the separate exit to the street. She had a feline quality to her, that girl. Sonia belonged to no one but herself.”

Anika nodded. “I`ve always admired that about cats. You can`t buy their love, and you never really tame them. Fascinating creatures.”

“Exactly.” Sorrel and Anika exchanged soulful glances.

I had long suspected that Sonia and Sorrel had a Heloise and Abelard relationship going on. All poems and romance, no sex, the ennobling but frustrating passion of courtly love. Poor Abelard had been castrated, so his options were limited. Of course considering his own physical disability, Sorrel wasn`t much better off. Apparently he compensated for it by serving Sonia in every other way.

I felt Anika’s elbow jab my side and looked up. Sorrel had obviously asked me something important.

“Sorry. I was daydreaming.”

“Her room,” he said, pointing to the lower level. “Please feel free to experience it. I`ve left everything untouched. Just as it was that last day.”

I scurried down the stairs before he changed his mind. Suddenly this home felt more like a mausoleum than a charming showplace. Sonia’s space was a luxurious three-room suite complete with fireplace and dressing room. All the furnishings were exquisitely made and artfully presented. The living room rivaled the salons in Versailles—filled with Louis XVI décor, antique settees in muted shades of blue and gold, and mirrors—many more than an ordinary home would have. I suspected that all of them had been designed to reflect Sonia’s special beauty. She and Marie Antoinette—both outrageous beauties with an edge had shared a similar fate, but at least Sonia died with her head intact.

I expected to find a home office with the detritus common to all writers, however the only trace of her work life was on the exquisite bureau plat in a far corner. Sonia’s laptop and iPad were lonely sentinels keeping watch over the empty blotter. There were no files or reference materials in sight, not even a printer. Just a whiff of her signature scent still lingering in the air.

I stepped forward to admire the marble fireplace surround with its elaborately carved mantel. Photographs of all sizes in lovely silver frames hugged the stone contours, vying for pride of place. Sonia’s face dominated all of them along with a cast of characters both famous and obscure. Oddly enough only Sorrel was unaccounted for. Was that omission deliberate or coincidental? Could a man be content to stand forever in the shadows?

Her bedroom was a further extension of the shrine. Personal effects—even her hairbrush and comb—littered every surface in the place. When it came to cosmetics, hair products, and creams, Sonia’s stash rivaled or exceeded CeCe`s. It made no sense to me, but then I lacked the makeup gene. My morning routine was so basic that it bored even me.

I was no closer to finding the real Sonia than I had been before. Her possessions were remote and expensive, things that demanded admiration without yielding anything in return. Much like the personality of Sonia herself.

When I returned to the main level, I found Sorrel and Anika huddled on the landing, speaking quietly.

Sorrel turned to me with a rueful smile on his face. “Well, Ms. Kane. Did you unlock all her secrets?”

I shook my head. “Not a one. She`s still a mystery.”

“A glorious puzzle,” he said. “Always withholding the final clues.”

“One thing surprised me,” I said. “Most novelists have tons of material—books, notes, file cabinets—but Sonia’s area is pristine. Those beautiful bookshelves were virtually empty.”

Anika remained silent, but her bright hazel gaze saw everything.

Sorrel grimaced. “She tidied up after finishing
Worm
. I have the drafts and outlines in the upstairs office. We shared that space most of the time.” Once again his voice shook with the pain of intolerable loss. “Duff was a constant visitor, you know, especially during the editing stages of the book. Nadia and Zarina too.” He pressed his hand to his forehead as if to sweep away pain and memory. “Oh, my. I`ve been a poor host. Shall we rejoin the others?”

“You still intend to publish
Worm
then?” Anika glanced at Sorrel quizzically as she linked arms with him.

“Of course. Sonia would have insisted on it. That way her name will live on.” His face glowed as he spoke her name. Frankly, I couldn`t decide if that was touching or just plain creepy.

We reached the living room in time to witness a scuffle between Nadia and Melanie Hunt. Voices rose, tempers flared, and quite unexpectedly Nadia flung herself at Melanie’s throat.

“You bitch! Take that back.”

Melanie’s glacial stare never faltered as she faced her adversary. “Make me.”

Bolin moved with a panther`s grace to avert bloodshed. In a flash, Deming was at his father`s side, forming an elegant human shield that separated the combatants. Gabriel hesitated, arms outstretched, seemingly torn between the two Furies. The least active participant was Fess Paskert, who sat helplessly with his mouth hanging open like a gaffed fish.