Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (2 page)

Chapter Two

WE WALKED HOME in silence while I scoured my memory banks for scraps of information on the Bella Brigade and its initiator. I was pensive, but Deming’s spirits were sky-high.

“Quite an evening,” he said as we entered our lobby and nodded to the concierge. “That`s the longest conversation I`ve ever had with your ex. Informative.”

“He`s totally self-absorbed. I never recognized that until it was too late. Guess I was grateful that he chose me. Most women considered him a prize.”

Deming inserted the key into the elevator. “Amazing. You`re the real prize. Any man with sense would know that. I always did.” He kissed my forehead and laughed. “Gabriel Mann is nothing but a fool.”

We exited on the second floor and braced ourselves for a barrage of barking from Cato, our psychotic spaniel. He was a legacy from my dear friend and Deming’s twin CeCe. That made his canine tirades and bouts of temper almost bearable. Deming had a very different reaction especially since his shins often bore Cato’s teeth marks.

Our home was another homage to CeCe. Although we combined her original space with the adjoining flat, it retained many traces of my pal. Her spirit seemed to inhabit many of the spots she loved, and that comforted me. After all, 8,000 square feet was more than enough room for three to share.

Deming disappeared into his study while I placed a call to his mother. Anika Swann—my ally and mother by marriage—is an elegant former model who combines physical beauty with a steely sense of courage. My childhood had been spent running in and out of the Swann manse alongside CeCe and Deming. Anika and her husband Bolin had tolerated the commotion with incredibly good humor.

Before completing the call, I glanced at my watch. Midnight! Way too late to disturb Anika. She`d had difficulty sleeping since CeCe’s murder and often relied on pharmaceuticals to make it through the night. I lusted after her stash of Ambien and borrowed from it on occasion.

I curled up on the living room sofa, cocooned in down, watching the sparks dance in the fireplace. In a rare show of affection, Cato nestled on the floor beside me. Sometime later I awakened when Deming tucked a cashmere throw over me.

“Go back to sleep,” he said. “I came in and found you shivering.”

I patted the cushion. “Come on. Snuggle up next to me.”

That couch was a treasure. Forty-eight inches deep, velvety soft, and perfect for snuggling. Deming relit the fireplace and lay down, holding me so close that we melded into one sensuous blur.

“What were you up to in your study?”

“Studying,” he said as his lips explored the underside of my neck. “Now I’m up on the Bella Brigade, Sonia Reyes, and the whole gang.” He massaged my shoulder muscles until I groaned. “Can`t have my wife so far ahead of me. Bad form. You might dump me for someone sharper.”

I leaned back against him, feeling happier than I`d ever dreamed of being.

“Never,” I whispered.

WE SLEPT SO LATE the next morning that we barely made Sunday brunch. Deming is a foodie with very strict culinary standards and surprisingly fickle taste in restaurants. Currently he was enamored with the restaurant right up the street at XV Beacon Hotel. The omelets were superb, but I railed at the establishment’s name—Mooo. For a non-meat eater like me, the mere sound of it inspired ghastly thoughts.

“Come along, grumpy. Indulge me.” Deming beamed down, looking like something Michelangelo or a Hollywood producer dreamed up. How he managed perfection with so little effort was still one of life’s mysteries. His thick black hair formed ringlets on his collar, a perfect complement to the elegance of a tweed Kiton jacket. My husband was a hot hapa blend that caught the eye of any sentient female over twelve. Fortunately, he seldom noticed or acknowledged the attention.

I subdued my curls with gel, applied a touch of eyeliner, and grabbed an old Armani stalwart that elevated my confidence.

“Red. I love that color on you,” he said. “Subdued but very sensuous.”

“Really?” I made a silent vow to change my wardrobe. Soon Eja Kane-Swann, the crimson author, would seduce the reading population of the entire East Coast.

The restaurant was only two blocks away from our building, and Deming sprinted ahead, leaving me far behind. When it dawned on him that breakfast was a meal and not a marathon, he slowed his pace to match mine.

“Sorry,” he said, taking my hand. “Guess all that activity last night made me hungry. I must learn to pace myself, or you`ll kill me, Mrs. Swann.”

He knew that kind of talk made me blush and delighted in teasing me about it. Give me a grisly murder anytime, but discussing sex scenes challenges me as both a writer and woman.

“Aha. We finally made it.” Deming hustled up to the maitre d’ and nodded. “Hope we`re not too late, Frederick. I`m absolutely famished.”

The outcome was as predictable as his menu choice—Kobe dumplings and Belgian waffles. I settled for fresh fruit and an egg white frittata with carrot juice.

“What? No champagne?” Deming asked. “That`s not like you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

After six months of marriage, he had suddenly become obsessed with siring a brood. Cygnets—that`s the proper term for baby Swanns—I reminded Deming. Thus far the nest was empty.

I sunk into the plush leather booth and curled my lip. “Certainly not. Trust me, you`ll be the first to know.” I pointed to the heap of Kobe dumplings in front of him. “Although I did read somewhere that red meat reduces a man’s fertility after age thirty.”

His reaction was comical. Deming halted in mid-fork and stared at his plate. Only the sound of my laughter broke the spell.

“Funny, Eja. You should add stand-up comedy to your routine.” Deming shifted in his seat and did a double take. “Look! See that woman over there to my left? That`s Melanie Hunt, and her companion is definitely not your ex-husband.”

I tried that old drop-the-napkin ploy, pretending to fish it from under the table while I took in the scenery. Melanie Hunt was quite a looker—a tall, sinewy brunette with chiseled cheekbones and designer duds. She overshadowed her companion, a doe-eyed, twenty-something giant by a country mile even though the younger woman was at least six feet tall. Unfortunately, although their gestures were animated, their conversation was muted. I couldn`t hear a word.

“May I help you, madame?” Our attentive waiter was at my side with a new napkin.

I muttered a halfhearted thanks and locked eyes with Deming.

“Well? Any impressions?” He watched me closely.

“As you observed last night, Mrs. Mann is very attractive.”

“Hunt,” Deming said absently. “Never took Gabriel’s name, I understand.” He paused. “Perhaps I`ll just say hello. It`s only polite.”

He strode over to the table and turned on the charm machine. From the grins on the ladies’ faces, Swann magic was still alive and working. By the time he returned, our waiter had cleared the table and brought each of us a double latte.

“Was it worth it?” I asked.

Deming gulped his drink, paid our bill, and rose. “Let`s go home. Play your cards right, and I`ll tell you everything.”

MY HUSBAND WAS bluffing. He hadn`t learned anything interesting except that Gabriel was working, Melanie was sponsoring another dreary charity fundraiser, and her companion was a student volunteer from the college. Big whoop! I had to admire Melanie’s technique though. In between simpers and smiles she`d managed to snag a sizable donation from Deming for her charity du jour.

“Here you go,” he said, fumbling through a nest of paper in his suit pocket. “Note the date on our social calendar. I have the tickets somewhere.”

Fundraisers were de rigueur for the Swann set, a socially accepted vehicle for meeting friends, grabbing headlines, and doing some good in the process. Anika and Bolin chose a different path. They chaired the Swann Foundation, but the entire family pitched in including me. There were no elaborate galas or funding campaigns. Money was dispensed to worthy recipients without fanfare.

I settled down to an afternoon of writing while Deming immured himself in his study with a bulging briefcase. My latest mystery, the third in a series, was almost finished. I felt that tingling common to all authors when their characters behave, plot gels, and the end is near.

I wasn`t expecting a phone call. Very few people knew our unlisted home number, and I liked it that way. The stranger’s voice was pleasant but unfamiliar. I almost brushed her off until she announced her name. That intrigued me.

“Forgive me for disturbing you at home, Ms. Kane.”

“I don`t recognize your voice,” I said. “Have we met?”

The woman laughed. “I’m so sorry. I`ve read all of your books, so I feel as if I know you. My name is Sonia Reyes. I`m an English professor at Concord University.”

Her approach was smooth. Any writer succumbs to that type of flattery, especially a midlist marvel like me still hungering for acceptance.

“Of course,” I said. “I`ve read several of your position papers. You`re quite a celebrity yourself, Professor. Now what can I do for you?”

Surely Gabriel hadn`t arranged this. I knew for certain that he didn’t have our number, and after last night even a self-absorbed narcissist would have gotten the message. Gabriel was frequently obtuse but never stupid.

“It`s business. I`d like to meet with you as soon as possible to discuss a proposition of mutual interest. It`s an imposition, I know, but if you could just spare me an hour of your time . . .”

I checked my calendar and saw that Monday was clear.

“Actually, tomorrow looks good. I`ll have a friend with me if that`s okay.”

“Wonderful.”

Sonia Reyes gave me the location and rang off while I reached out to my favorite partner-in-crime.

Anika Swann answered on the first ring.

THE NEXT MORNING I spent an anxious hour debating wardrobe choices. Deming folded his arms, shook his head, and finally took charge.

“What`s the big deal, Eja? This woman is a professor after all, scarcely a style-setter.”

“A feminist professor,” I reminded him. “No point in looking too frivolous. On the other hand, I don`t want to look like a hag. This meeting probably concerns the Bella Brigade, and you know how they feel about lookism.”

An odd expression flashed across his face. “Hold on a minute. That name sounds familiar.” He sped into his office and came back waving an envelope.

“What`s that?” I asked.

“This is very strange.” Deming loved theatrical touches, a carryover from his childhood obsession with Perry Mason. “Melanie Hunt’s gala benefits the Bella Brigade. Now who in the world would figure that? I don`t believe in coincidence, do you?”

To a mystery writer, there are no coincidences just as there are damn few natural deaths. What were the odds that my long-ago ex-husband would appear one day followed by his wife and professional antagonist the next? Nonexistent.

“Watch your step today,” Deming said. “This might be some sort of setup.”

“Your mother will be with me. What could possibly happen?”

“Terrific. Now I`m really worried. Maybe I should go with you.” He checked his iPhone. “My client could be rescheduled.”

Deming has a protective streak a mile wide. Given any encouragement, he goes into overdrive especially when it involves his mother or me. He would wrap us both in cotton wool and store us in the attic if he could.

“Oops. I`d better leave right now. You know your mother is always on time.”

Before he lectured me, I grabbed my purse, blew him a kiss, and was halfway to the lobby.

Chapter Three

I`M NOT THE world’s best driver. The homicidal pace of Boston traffic unnerves me, especially the frantic quest for a parking spot. Anika Swann, on the other hand, has mad skills and no inhibitions. Shortly before noon, she swung her Mercedes into the driveway of our building and tooted the horn.

No woman was a better testament to good Swedish genes. Three decades after she had graced the runways, Anika retained a model’s lithe figure and elegance. Today she was a vision in peach, a color that warmed the skin and flattered her blonde beauty.

“Eja, I`m so excited,” she said. “We haven`t had an adventure in months.”

Our “adventures” were the source of Deming’s angst. Due to a run of bad luck, Anika and I had flirted with danger and imminent death on at least two occasions. Bolin Swann was more tolerant than his son. He laughingly referred to us as unindicted co-conspirators. Things would be different today. College professors were better known for polemics than felonies.

“I don`t know what to expect,” I said. “In fact, I couldn`t even find a decent photo of Sonia Reyes. Apparently it`s part of her lookism crusade. You know—hear my message but don`t consider my looks. Something like that.”

Anika made a somewhat risky U-turn, ignored blaring horns, and headed up Commonwealth Avenue to Storrow Drive and Cambridge.

“Very curious,” she said with a wink. “She and Gabriel are enemies, but he`s usually such a charmer, isn`t he? Makes all the ladies smile.” Anika knew my ex-spouse quite well. The Swanns hosted our wedding reception, and CeCe had been my bridesmaid. “Cecilia and I were both taken in by him. Of course Bolin sized him up right away, and Deming loathed Gabriel from the start.” She patted my arm. “But we know what that was all about, don`t we, dear?”

“I got the idea from Gabriel that this feud was as much personal as professional. Maybe they were closer than he admitted. I asked him straight away if they were involved, but he denied it.”

We exchanged knowing looks as Anika zipped into the entrance for the Adams Square Hotel and snagged a parking spot. Sonia Reyes was hosting a conference there for her group and had invited us to her suite. Apparently the Bella Brigade raised funds for female politicians of all stripes and linked up with EMILY’s List and several like-minded groups. I gave a mental thumbs up to Sonia’s skill as a tactician. After all, the more allies the better.

The Adams Square was one of the most revered hotels in Cambridge, an earnest red brick building that skirted JFK Boulevard, the Charles River, and Harvard Yard. Today the spacious lobby was festooned with placards touting the aims of the Bella Brigade. A group of enthusiastic women of all ages milled about, chattering and drinking endless cups of what looked like exceptionally strong tea. Most of the celebrants with their unadorned faces and nondescript clothing might be described as wholesome. Less charitable folks would term them plain. I focused on one woman, a Valkyrie type with flowing locks, large green eyes, and an air of command. She stood amidst them, an island of calm in the festive female sea.

We wreathed our faces with smiles and strolled toward the elevators enveloped in universal good will. So far so good. Before the doors closed I glimpsed the outline of a man who looked very familiar.

“Wasn`t that Gabriel?” I asked, pointing toward the exit.

“Where? I missed him.” Anika craned her neck. “Nope. Nothing there. You must be mistaken, Eja. Got him on the brain. He may be cocky, but even Gabriel wouldn`t crash this party. Not if he valued his life.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I am imagining things.” I stabbed the tenth floor button and stepped aside. “The Adams is rather pricey for a start-up operation, wouldn`t you say? Someone with deep pockets must be funding things. I got the idea that it was some grassroots campaign.”

“Depends on their supporter lists. Didn`t you say that Dem contributed? Very unlike my son. He rarely gives without a quid pro quo. He`s such a lawyer!”

I knew how proud Anika was of her son. Despite a wayward period during which he bedded half the debutantes on the East Coast, Deming had earned his place in the family firm through hard work. Outsiders often judged him on his spectacular looks and family connections, but I loved my husband for his kindness and intellect. Those qualities trumped beauty every time.

“I`m not sure what to expect,” I said. “Sonia Reyes has some agenda. That`s pretty obvious, but beyond that I haven`t a clue.”

Anika nodded. “Just let it play out. She said it was a business proposition.”

When the elevator opened we followed the yellow brick road to the Cambridge suite. No need to knock; the door was ajar, staffed by the same young woman who accompanied Melanie Hunt to Sunday brunch. She wore no makeup, an oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with the Bella Brigade emblem, and a nametag. Her size was intimidating, but her smile was curiously innocent.

“You must be Eja Kane,” she said. “I`m Duff Ryder.” Her voice was low and pleasant, almost melodious. “And is this Mrs. Swann with you?”

Anika stepped forward and shook her hand. “Glad to meet you, Duff. It looks like you have everything under control up here.”

The girl flushed as if compliments were a rarity.

“Not really. Sonia controls everything. She`s amazing, totally dedicated to the cause. I just help out where I can.”

“The women in the lobby looked very enthusiastic,” I said. “Friends of yours?”

Once again, Duff hung her head and whispered. “Most are members of COWE. I`m Sonia’s TA, so I coordinate things for her.”

Anika wrinkled her brow. “Wow! If you`re a teaching assistant, you must keep very busy. I`m not familiar with COWE. What is it?”

Duff straightened her shoulders and recited the answer. “Coalition of Women Empowered, sort of a splinter group of the broader movement. They`re very supportive. Lookism is something they oppose because of the harm it causes.”

I felt a curious sense of compassion and kinship for this ungainly young woman who worshipped at the feet of her idol. No doubt she was the type to toil in obscurity while flashier models took the lead.

Duff checked her watch and jumped to her feet. “Grab a seat and I`ll get Sonia. Sometimes she gets off schedule.” She nudged us toward the sitting room and stopped short. Every seating surface was filled with posters, flyers, and bumper stickers. “Oops. Sorry about that,” Duff said. “I`ll go get Sonia. She`s expecting you.”

Every movement needs loyal soldiers like Duff. Cannon fodder. No army could function without them. For better or worse, Sonia had inspired at least one follower with cultlike fervor. I hoped that she appreciated the girl’s devotion.

Anika leaned against the windowsill, alert and perfectly poised, but I was too anxious to follow her example. My enthusiasm waned with every moment that we waited. What made me get involved in this venture? It could only lead to controversy, discord, or tears. All three were unappealing prospects.

When the bedroom door opened, both of us stared at the woman who emerged. Despite an attempt to sublimate her looks, Sonia Reyes’ astounding beauty shone forth. Loose clothing and subdued makeup couldn`t camouflage creamy skin, lustrous black hair, and wide, intelligent eyes. Gabriel would be the proverbial moth drawn to his colleague’s flame.

“Ms. Kane, and you must be Mrs. Swann.” Sonia enveloped both of us in a generous hug mixed with a scent I recognized but couldn`t quite place. I`m not the hugging type, but I bravely endured the gesture without grimacing. Anika took everything in stride. I had to salute Sonia for putting aside her political beliefs in addressing Anika. My mother-in-law was an ardent feminist who adored her husband and preferred the title Mrs. to anything trendier. Somehow, probably with the aid of Google, Sonia had figured that out.

“You were so generous to come here,” Sonia said. “I know it was an imposition, but I had to see you.” She made a sharp gesture to her doting acolyte. “Tea, please, Duff, and clear a space for our guests.”

The girl mumbled something as she made several piles behind the sofa. She waved me away when I offered to help.

“It`s okay. I should have done this already. Sonia’s mission is too important for trivia. It`s sacred.”

Important maybe, but sacred? I detected a gleam of fanaticism in Duff’s formerly limpid eyes as if Sonia were a modern day Joan of Arc. Some of the world’s most dangerous zealots shared that look. Things usually didn`t end well for them or the causes they served.

It took a swift kick from Anika to focus my attention. While I was daydreaming, a slim fortyish male with thinning hair and a prominent nose had slipped into the room. He could have only come from Sonia’s bedroom.

“I`m Sorrel Yeagan,” he said, extending his hand to each of us. “Sonia’s agent and publicist. Pleased to meet you, ladies. Forgive me for intruding on your discussion.”

He had a self-effacing manner and a forgettable face, one that character actors or spies would envy. Yet something about this man with a soft, sibilant voice drew me to him. Was he the power behind Sonia’s throne?

“I`m forgetting my manners,” Sonia said. “Sorrel guides all my business matters. I have no head at all for finance.”

For an accomplished professional, Sonia certainly required a lot of maintenance. Her poor-little-me act was unconvincing and distasteful. It harkened back to another century when women hid their light under any convenient male vessel.

Once we were seated and sipping tea, Sonia came straight to the point.

“Eja, after reading your books, I knew you and I would be simpatico. Sorrel and I discussed things, and he agreed. That`s why I asked you here.”

I leaned forward and smiled. “You lost me, Sonia. Simpatico about what?”

Her smile grew more forced as if I were a backward child. “I need a biographer, someone to chronicle both my life and our cause. You are ideal, the perfect fit. Just think—you`ll be my Boswell!”

The idea had no appeal at all for me. I`d always considered Boswell a toady and the esteemed Dr. Samuel Johnson a great humbug. Besides, I had yet to form an opinion of Sonia Reyes or the Bella Brigade.

“Sorry, Sonia. It`s a great honor, and I`m sure your story is fascinating. Unfortunately, I only write fiction.”

“Really?” A hint of steel peeked out from her sunny persona. “One of your books was true crime, was it not?”

Anika immediately threw me a life preserver. “That book was very personal, Ms. Reyes. It described the hunt for my daughter’s murderers.”

Sorrel winced and put his hand on Sonia’s arm.

I heard the tremor in Anika’s voice although most strangers would miss it. She would never truly recover from losing CeCe though she seldom mentioned the subject to outsiders. Sonia’s eyes widened, and she pulled in her horns.

“I understand, of course. Forgive me for mentioning it. But since you`re here, can we just discuss my proposal? Think how many lives would be improved by the Bella Brigade.”

“Maybe we need more background on your group,” Anika said. “Press accounts are so distorted, and word of mouth is seldom any better.”

A frown marred Sonia’s perfect forehead. “If that word comes from Gabriel Mann’s mouth, you bet it`s distorted. That man spreads poison everywhere.”

I shivered, as the temperature in the room grew subarctic. “Gabriel has his faults, but he never really discussed the Bella Brigade. He`s too self-centered to think of anything but his own interests. Frankly, he was more concerned about ending his feud with you.”

Sorrel nodded as if he too favored a truce.

Sonia narrowed her eyes as she silently sipped her tea. For a moment I thought our meeting had abruptly ended. Duff, the ever-vigilant aide-de-camp, hovered in the background as if ready to spring into action and repel infidels.

“Are you his surrogate, Ms. Kane? In view of your past history that surprises me.” Sonia’s saccharine tones were enough to induce a diabetic coma.

I swallowed the anger that welled up in me as I envisioned Gabriel and his new playmate dissecting my flaws while frolicking under the sheets.

“Not at all. I`ve learned never to take sides.” It took effort, but my smile never faltered as I mouthed that lie.

Anika dipped a toe in the conversational waters by posing a question. “You are so lovely yourself, Ms. Reyes. Forgive me, but aren`t you an unlikely spokesperson for the Bella Brigade?”

I glanced at the placards festooning the room. We were surrounded by images of Susan B. Anthony, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Betty Friedan, brilliant women who were far from beautiful. Duff tensed, as if poised again to stomp out any heretics who challenged her crusade. Sorrel swooped in to calm troubled seas.

“Actually, Mrs. Swann, that`s why Sonia is the perfect representative. Beauty is power, and she uses hers for the good of others.” Passion for his cause or his client electrified Sorrel’s mild grey eyes. Now I understood his allure: signs of a first-class intellect blazed through his being. A brilliant man, even a plain one, is a major turn-on.

Sonia spread her arms wide. “Our message is simple, Mrs. Swann. Beauty is but one facet of a person. We ask—we demand—that the victims of lookism be heard, not judged or discounted.”

That sounded like a stump speech if I ever heard one. For a moment I almost felt sorry for Gabriel. Just for a moment.

Duff Ryder leapt to her feet. “Besides, men are affected too. Albert Einstein, Abraham Lincoln, Benjamin Disraeli—no one would call them beautiful.”

I felt rather proud of Duff for airing her opinions, but Sonia’s reaction was different. She shot her acolyte a look of pure venom that forestalled any further comments.