Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (26 page)

That seemed to amuse her. Zarina reared back and laughed heartily. “Good one! I don`t suppose your handsome husband will be there?”

Luckily I avoided her trap. Let her think that my personal superhero would be at my side. That prospect alone might back her off if nothing else did.

“We do most things together, especially in this case. As you know, Deming was there when we found Duff.”

Zarina flinched as if I had slapped her. “Funny thing. I`m banking on your ex-husband or that worthless wife of his. Sex and ego, you know. Combustible.”

For some reason I no longer feared her. “You`re a shrink. Is that your professional opinion or just wishful thinking?”

She patted Cato’s head and turned away. “A little bit of both, I suppose. See you soon.” Zarina strolled away, showing surprising agility and an inspired sense of timing.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

WHEN THURSDAY arrived, I felt a stomach-churning, chest-tightening sensation that spelled disaster. Presentations didn`t bother me. Words flowed effortlessly, and I seldom got nervous. My big concern was the aftermath. Would one of the suspects crack, or was I wasting my time? Crime solving was an intellectual challenge that appealed to me. Confronting a double murderer in person—not so much.

Deming had phoned me long after midnight the previous night. He tried hard but was unable to hide the note of triumph in his voice. After the preliminaries were over, I coaxed him into spilling his secrets.

“What happened? Come on. Get it over with.”

He switched into rational lawyer mode after a few more teases. “I had dinner at restaurant Daniel. You know how I love their baked sea bass.” After a short digression into every aspect of the menu, Deming collected his thoughts.

“Who went with you?” I asked.

“Just Pam and our client.” He had the good sense not to dwell on that part. I was bedeviled by anything involving Pamela Schwartz and Deming. It had more to do with my own insecurity than the thought of sweaty, steamy sex between two road warriors.

“Okay. What`s the big deal?”

“We ran into someone. Someone who shared interesting tidbits about our murder victim.”

“I`m listening.” Actually I was close to meltdown, but good sense prevailed.

Deming seldom gossiped even though he was privy to some really big scoops. This had to be a blockbuster.

“Apparently Duff Ryder made a deal with a prominent New York publishing house granting them exclusive rights to
her
novel
.
Got a sizable advance too. What they call a `very nice deal. ` Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad at all. You`re talking six figures. Nothing to sneeze at.” I powered down. This was puzzling but hardly earthshaking. “We knew she was writing something. Sorrel probably arranged the whole thing.”

“Wrong. Duff negotiated this herself without an agent. Don`t you see? She cut Sorrel, Sonia, and that whole COWE bunch out of her life. Cut the cord, so to speak. She planned to move to New York and get her PhD at Columbia.”

I gave that some thought. Obviously Duff wasn`t the clueless clone she`d appeared to be. From the sample I`d found on Wattpad, she had also been a very polished writer.

“What was the novel about?”

Deming stalled, trying to up the ante. Had he been here, I would have shaken him or kicked his shins.

“Come on,” I growled. “What was it?”

“You`re no fun at all. Okay. According to my source it was an expose about a militant feminist group whose members had mixed motives. My friend was ecstatic. Said it had it all—sex with all food groups, rape, treachery, and murder. A surefire best seller.”

I pondered that. “Sort of like an updated, Internet version of
The Group
.”

“Huh?” Deming was clueless about popular fiction, particularly anything classified as a woman’s novel. Before our merger, he read my books in secret to avoid tarnishing his macho image.

“Mary McCarthy’s huge best seller. Blew them away in the 1960s. Never mind. I`m proud of you. Nick Charles couldn`t have done any better.
Thin Man
, here we come!”

We spent a few moments on more personal issues that had nothing to do with Duff Ryder, Pamela Schwartz, or Sonia. Afterwards, I felt mellow and totally renewed.

“Tomorrow night should be very interesting,” I said. “I may have to revise my presentation.”

“Promise me you won`t do anything foolish. Sorrel Yeagan is hardly an ideal bodyguard. Zarina or even Nadia could smash him like a bug.”

“I`ll be careful,” I said, crossing my fingers. “You have my word.”

PERSONAL APPEARANCE means little to me although with Anika’s tutelage I`ve improved. “It`s not about vanity,” she often said. “Looking good is a strategic option. Think of it as a woman’s most potent tactical weapon, next to brains, of course.”

Sonia had certainly sung from the same hymnal, and look where it got her! I had no intention of following that path, but I needed all the leverage I could muster. Tonight’s audience at the Story Club was one tough crowd. After a quick trip to the temple of beauty, aka The Salon, I fed Cato and girded myself for battle.

The results pleased me. Although I ran a poor second to Pamela Schwartz, my appearance wouldn`t tarnish the Swann name. Respectability with a touch of authority—that was the look I was aiming for. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that I had hit the mark. My dress and jacket were a violet haze that lifted the spirits and heightened my complexion. Sensibly heeled boots and a discreet touch of jewelry completed the look.

I hailed a cab and watched the cityscape float by. Storrow Drive was packed as always, and the path to Cambridge was strewn with bicycles, pedestrians, and an astonishing array of commercial vehicles. As we turned on Massachusetts Avenue and passed the stately dome of the MIT campus, my anxiety rose. Fortunately, we arrived at the Cambridge Improv with minutes to spare. Gabriel was already prowling about, arms folded and brow furrowed. I knew that look. It appeared whenever things had not gone according to schedule—his schedule.

“Eja, thank God! I thought you might chicken out.”

I hissed a response through gritted teeth. “I always honor professional commitments, Gabriel. Surely you remember that.”

He patted my shoulder in a failed attempt at humor. “Yes, yes. Just teasing. Always the good girl.” He nudged me toward the door. “Time`s a wasting. We`ve got quite a crowd tonight. A tribute to you.”

Trust Gabriel to pour on the soft soap when only a drop would do. Lubricious—that`s what CeCe had called him. At the time, I rushed to defend the man I loved. Much later, I realized just how right she had been.

The main room was packed. Seats were arranged in rows facing an unadorned stage on which a lonely microphone occupied pride of place. I spotted the Concord University crowd immediately. Fess Paskert, professorial and solemn, waved from a prominent aisle seat. Nadia lowered her head when she caught my eye and huddled near Zarina, her formidable protector. Aloof from the masses, Melanie Hunt sat ramrod-straight. Her raven locks were pinned in a tightly coiled dancer’s knot that mirrored the set of her shoulders. She was not a happy camper. Had her own guilt consumed her, or was it the unsettling thought that Gabriel might have murdered two women?

Both of them had ample reason to eliminate Sonia, but several others also had a stake in Duff’s death. Although their motives varied, any one of them was fully capable of murder.

I shuddered as Gabriel leapt to the stage and seized the microphone. His lust for the limelight and naked ambition repulsed me. Not everyone felt that way. One glance at Melanie confirmed what I had long suspected. Despite her tough talk and feigned indifference, Melanie Hunt was obsessed by her husband. Were blond curls, reasonable intelligence, and a trim body an acceptable trade-off for fidelity? Only she could answer that. I had learned the lesson years ago and made my choice. Truth be told, he made it for me by finding my replacement.

Gabriel recited the Story Club rules, emphasizing that three readers would be drawn by lot. As the so-called featured performer, I would make the final presentation and provide feedback to the others. Constructive comments by the audience were encouraged. The session would last ninety minutes, which for my purposes was more than enough time.

As a gangly youth bounded to the stage, I steeled myself for the worst. Memoir is a genre that bores me silly. In the hands of an expert it can be instructive, but far too often it masquerades as cut-rate psychotherapy for self-indulgent whiners. The first reader proved my point by droning on for eight excruciating minutes about his self-awakening under hypnosis and the deep changes it inspired.

After a few suggestions by me and several pointed remarks from the audience, we moved on to reader number two, Dr. Fess Paskert.

I sat straight enough to shame a Victorian as Fess told his tale. It featured a female politician who found compassion and redemption in an online alternative community only to have it snatched away by an extortionist. The piece, an obvious
roman a clef
, was evocative and oddly touching. When I asked how the novel ended he paused and stared straight into my eyes.

“I don`t know. I haven`t gotten there yet.”

After Paskert’s presentation, tension heated up, particularly within the Concord crowd. Even I felt it. After commending Paskert on his work I nodded to the final presenter: Zarina, mistress of COWE.

She strolled toward the podium, slowly and deliberately, with a monarch’s grace. Oddly enough Zarina looked regal this evening. No baggy unisex threads tonight—she wore a silky silver caftan that shimmered under the lights. Her unbound hair, thick and shiny, cascaded to her waist. This was a very different Zarina from the looming hulk who had stalked me on the Common.

“Last month I lost someone who was very dear to me.” Her voice faltered as her eyes scanned the audience. “In honor of Duff Ryder, I will read a passage from her novel.”

Zarina’s reading left the audience spellbound. I closed my eyes, hearing the timbre, pitch, and intonation of a voice silenced by death. She became Duff Ryder, inhabited her being as thoroughly as if she had channeled the girl’s spirit and willed it to speak.

The reading dealt with loyalty, friendship, and betrayal, the sacred triumvirate upon which so many unions foundered. Duff’s language was pure and unequivocal. It entranced the listeners, leaving us saddened and hungry for more. Zarina paused at the end and gazed at the crowd. A smattering of applause grew into a standing ovation.

“I thank you on behalf of Duff. Some want to sweep her murder under the carpet because she wasn`t famous or beautiful.” Zarina stepped forward and clenched her fist. “We won`t let that happen.”

The crowd’s murmur became a roar. Led by COWE members, half the audience leapt up, stamping their feet and chanting Duff’s name. Gabriel sputtered helplessly, unable to quell the disturbance. Only Zarina was up to the task. She raised her arm and shouted, “Enough!”

That one word had a magical effect. Silence more poignant than sound descended on the auditorium. Gabriel seized the microphone, attempting to regain control and self-respect. He shared a hammy grin with the crowd as he introduced me.

“And now, our featured speaker, someone I have known and admired for years—the award-winning author, Eja Kane.”

I could have done without the hyperbole and the gooey kiss that accompanied it. Thank goodness Deming wasn`t on the scene. He was aching for a chance to mix it up with Gabriel, and that might have been his excuse.

Before beginning, my eyes scanned the crowd for Sorrel. A movement in the rear aisle seat caught my attention as he gave a half wave then seamlessly blended back into the crowd. In casual attire, Sorrel seemed diminished, as if he had stripped himself of his identity and his life force. Since Sonia’s death, the man had slowly faded into a carbon copy of his former self. Maybe it was possible to die from a broken heart after all.

“My reading is a work of fiction,” I said, “inspired by recent events in Boston. I have learned that murder lays bare an array of secrets and that everyone involved has something to hide. The working title is
Duplicity,
a tale of beauty, betrayal, and death.”

I glanced at the Concord University group. Fess Paskert sat with his arms crossed, steeling himself from pain; Nadia averted her eyes and stared at the floor; Melanie Hunt clutched her pricey designer handbag as if it were a shield. Only Zarina looked unmoved. She trained her blue marble eyes on me and smiled. I`d seen that look before during our encounter on the Common. It had more challenge than pleasantry, more menace than mirth. I called it her “shrink smile,” an expression of superiority and control.

“My story starts at a funeral. A young student is mourned by those who loved her or the image of her each had. They didn`t really know her. This talented character was complex—and that led to her death. Did she die in place of another, or did something in her own life cause her demise?”

Somewhere in the audience someone gasped, but I soldiered on, heedless of time or consequences.

“Was she the devoted acolyte, the idealistic follower, or a sly observer who used the pain of others for her own gain? Soon another player falls, struck down in the very workplace where she felt safe.” I paused again. “She didn`t realize that an enemy lurked among colleagues and friends she thought she knew, someone who wanted her dead. Each was on the scene when a killer seized a convenient weapon and ended her life.”

The next part was tricky, but I summoned my courage and went for it. “I know who murdered these two women. Soon the police will too.”

With that I bowed and returned to my seat. Gabriel approached the podium, looked around, and swallowed before speaking. His pronounced pallor—while attractive—was a far cry from his typical master-of-the-universe style. Clearly, Gabriel was shaken by the events of the evening. I felt a bit unsettled myself.

Sometimes I lead with emotion instead of logic. Deming lectures me ad nauseum about responsible risk-taking in tricky situations. In retrospect publicly challenging a murderer might have been a strategic blunder. Bolin’s insistence on a fall back plan now seemed divinely inspired. Sorrel Yeagan, my hero!

I stole a look at Melanie Hunt. She was impassive, a cold marble sculpture in a room roiling with emotion. She was either poised as hell, oblivious or fortified by guilt. Instead of leaving, the audience sat in stunned silence. The oppressive atmosphere at the Improv was no longer a laughing matter. It reeked of fear and danger.

As the audience gathered its belongings and prepared to leave, all hell broke loose. A sudden shriek shattered the room and a voice cried out.

“She deserved it! I took that statue and smashed her on the head.” Nadia Pinsky jumped up and burst into tears. “I`m not sorry. I`m glad she`s dead.”