Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

EVEN NOW, IT`S hard to describe the unmitigated chaos that followed. After her outburst, Nadia leapt over her stunned colleagues and raced for the exit. That started a stampede as audience members jumped to their feet, screamed, or tried to evacuate the building. I hustled down from the stage, intending to pursue Nadia.

“Stop her,” I cried. “Don`t let her escape.” Unfortunately, I collided with a determined matron who planted herself like a mighty oak directly in my path. I careened into the aisle, landing on my posterior in an ungainly heap.

“Leave her alone,” the woman growled, extending her hand and hauling me off the floor. “She won`t get far.”

I gazed up at Zarina. “You knew, didn`t you? You sheltered a murderer!”

She erased all trace of emotion from her face, giving me no clues except the icy glint of her baby blues.

“Mind your own business. Nadia is a troubled girl, something you with your book sales and wealthy family wouldn`t understand.”

How do you spell outrage? Before I launched a counter-offensive, Sorrel Yeagan appeared at my side.

“Come on, Eja. Let me get you home. We`ve had enough excitement for the night.”

“But . . .” I seldom sputter, but in this case it was understandable “She`ll get away.”

He shook his head and pointed toward the rear exit sign. Nadia Pinsky had hit the police equivalent of a brick wall—the long, lanky form of Lieutenant Phineas Keegan.

“What`s he doing here?” I asked.

“Don`t know. He said you invited him. Come on.” Sorrel nudged me toward a side exit.

“Maybe we shouldn`t leave now. Keegan may need me.”

I was very familiar with the look on Sorrel Yeagen’s face. His raised eyebrows and slight grin suggested that the man doubted my motives. Deming had perfected the same routine.

“Lieutenant Keegan knows where to find you,” he said. “Besides, right now he has his hands full.” He pointed toward the back of the room where Keegan and Zarina were locked in a battle of wills with Nadia trapped between them. Discretion was certainly preferable to valor this time. I followed Sorrel out into the night.

His car, a nondescript black sedan that suited him perfectly, was one street over wedged between a weathered Jeep and a Volvo SUV. Sorrel helped me adjust my seatbelt and immediately switched on a classical music station. Our trip from Cambridge to Beacon Hill was a long, silent one punctuated by Mozart, Beethoven, and far too many ghosts. I was absorbed in reverie; Sorrel seemed lost in his own memories.

“Sorry you had to hear that about Sonia,” I said. “It must have been painful.”

“Painful?” He gave me that quizzical look again. “That`s one way to describe it.”

I cursed myself for insensitivity and buttoned my lip. When we finally reached the Tudor, the atmosphere lightened.

“Care to join me for a drink?” I asked. “Deming should be home any minute, although I must warn you, our dog is very protective.”

I expected him to refuse, but Sorrel surprised me.

“Thanks for asking. I could use the company—human and canine.” He parked in the driveway and trotted obediently behind me through the lobby.

My warning about Cato was unnecessary. The moment I wrenched open our front door the wretched spaniel became Mr. Personality. Perhaps he sensed in Sorrel a kindred spirit. More likely he just wanted to screw with me.

We settled down in the library while Sorrel savored Deming’s drink of choice, Laphroaig single malt. Scotch drinkers, men in particular, love the rituals involved with it—bouquet, floral notes, and scent. Personally I loathe the nasty stuff. Give me Pellegrino with a slice of lime any day.

“Your home is spectacular,” Sorrel said as he glanced around the room. “Class and comfort, a rare combination.”

Before I responded, a sound at the front door startled me.

“It must be Deming,” I said. “Excuse me for a moment.”

When I saw him, I leapt into my husband’s arms, forgetting about Sorrel Yeagan, Nadia Pinsky, and the entire mess. I buried my face in the lapel of his soft Kiton blazer, inhaling the scent of Royal Oud.

“Here now, what`s all this?” Deming glanced down at me. “I`ll go away more often if this is the reception I get.” He dropped his suitcase and slid his hand down the front of my dress. “Let`s go upstairs and get comfortable. You can tell me all about your evening.”

“We have a guest,” I said. “Sorrel. He`s in the library.”

Deming sighed, but good breeding trumped his baser instincts. “Okay.”

“Come on.” I took his hand and tugged him toward the library. “The evening was bizarre. You won`t believe what happened.”

As soon as he greeted our guest and was seated in his favorite chair—drink in hand—I recounted the strange tale of the Story Club. Sorrel didn`t contribute much. He sipped his Scotch and stared vacantly into space. Who could blame him? Although her name was never mentioned, the spirit of Sonia Reyes was a noxious cloud hovering over the proceedings. The literary crowd had tears and applause for Duff but precious little sympathy for Sonia.

“Are you saying she confessed?” Deming asked. “That cuckoo-bird actually committed two murders? I don`t believe it. She probably just wanted attention.”

“She never mentioned killing Duff,” Sorrel said, “even by accident. I`m positive she didn`t do that.”

Deming shot him a high five. “Exactly! She would have cracked immediately if she killed her friend. Zarina probably popped her into the nuthouse already.” He grinned. “Man, I do not envy Keegan going toe to toe with Zarina.” He leapt to his feet saying, “Wait here for a moment. I`ll call Keegan and see what I can find out.”

After Deming left for his study, something clicked in my brain, something that had bothered me since Nadia’s outburst. It had to do with the method of murder. Nadia admitted bashing Sonia on the head, but according to Keegan that was not the cause of death.

“Are you okay, Eja?” Sorrel turned his liquid brown eyes my way. Those eyes brimmed with curiosity and something else—sorrow and deep, unquenchable pain.

I didn`t want to hurt him. Lord knows he`d gotten enough misery from the woman he had coddled, protected, and loved. A strange, unrequited job description—Sorrel Yeagan, knight-errant.

I hesitated, long enough to stall. When Deming bounded back into the room, I was saved from myself.

“Okay,” he said. “Here`s the latest scoop. Nadia has been arrested but sent to McLean Hospital for observation. Apparently she was catatonic by the time they got her to the station. Didn`t make a sound.”

Sorrel grimaced as he took another swallow of Scotch. “What was the charge?” he asked.

“Assault. According to Keegan that`s all they could get away with for now.”

“She didn`t kill Sonia or Duff Ryder for that matter.” Sorrel spoke calmly. “Keegan must know that.”

Deming and I locked eyes. Asphyxia is such a clinical term. Smothering is even worse. I summoned my courage and plunged into the fray.

“Keegan told us how Sonia died.”

“She was smothered,” Sorrel said. “Clobbering her with that award didn`t help matters, but it didn`t kill her. Keegan told me that too.”

Deming sighed. “We don`t have to discuss this now. After all, Duff’s killer may well have murdered Sonia too. Keegan has to resolve that first.”

Sorrel leaned back against the bergere and closed his eyes. “That`s okay. You`re very kind—both of you—but this thing must end. I will not let that girl suffer for something she didn`t do.”

“Who then?” Deming asked. “Gabriel Mann is still in play, and he`s not the only one.”

I bit my tongue, a painful but effective deterrent to an ill-advised comment. Defending Gabriel was never a smart move with Deming at my side.

Sorrel shook his head and spoke in a whisper so faint that I strained to hear. “Gabriel is guilty of many things but not this. I know who murdered Duff. I always have.”

I loathe passivity, especially in men. Had Deming not pinched my side, I would have shrieked at Sorrel to spit it out!

“Have you told Keegan?” Deming asked. “He needs to make an arrest.”

Another vague smile from Sorrel. He seemed to be enjoying this cat and mouse game. “Not necessary. The perpetrator is beyond his reach.”

“Who is it?” I cried. “We deserve the truth for once, Sorrel.”

Deming’s face was set in stone, a sculpted beauty worthy of Michelangelo. When he touched me, his hands were ice-cold.

“Why did she do it?” he asked. “Why did Sonia kill her friend?”

I reared back against the cushion, too stunned to speak. Sonia murdered Duff? Surely I misheard.

“It must have been an accident,” I said, “poison intended for Sonia.”

Deming put his arm around me. “Hush, Eja. Let him tell us.”

“I loved Sonia from the first time I saw her,” Sorrel said, “but I had no illusions about her either. She had everything others dream of—beauty, brains, charisma—but she lacked something. A moral compass, empathy for others, self-restraint, call it what you want. Sonia was a willful child who would stop at nothing.”

Aunt Vesna had said the same thing, and Branca echoed the sentiment. Some detective I was. I hadn`t really listened.

“But Duff adored Sonia,” I said. “Why would she hurt her?”

Sorrel held up his glass for a refill. After Deming poured the Glenlivet, he took a swallow and continued his tale.

“Duff lived by principles. Integrity was hardwired into her being, and when she found out, she couldn`t, wouldn`t, stay quiet.”

Something didn`t make sense. According to Nadia, Duff caught Sonia
in flagrante delicto
with Gabriel. Surely a minor sex-capade didn`t prompt a murder. It was too banal.

“All this about Sonia’s personal habits?” I asked. “It seems so trivial.”

Sorrel laughed, a loud, genuine sound. “No, Eja. You`ve got it wrong. This wasn`t about sex. I knew all about Sonia and Gabriel. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. No. Duff discovered something much more damning. She was puttering around my home office, fetching something for Sonia, when she found the draft for
Worm in the Apple
. It was careless of me to leave the file open. Most people wouldn`t notice, but Duff knew right away.”

I took a deep breath. Of course. Sorrel wrote Sonia’s school papers—Branca told us as much. Why would he stop once she became a professor?

He was watching me closely, daring me to state the obvious.

“You wrote
Worm
? No wonder Duff got cut in for ten percent. It was a bribe.”

“True. Unfortunately, Duff’s conscience prevailed. She planned to expose Sonia as a fraud.” He stared down at his hands. “Ridicule was something Sonia couldn`t take, even though it was really no big deal. I wrote the damn thing, but the plot and ideas were all hers. It was so unfair.”

Deming kept his tone neutral as he asked his questions. “I assume she filched some cyanide from your tintype supplies.”

Sorrel nodded. “I didn`t realize it until it was too late. She confessed right away and begged me to help her. Naturally I agreed. I could refuse her nothing.”

Despite the room’s mild temperature, I shivered. Sonia was cunning and very persuasive. She probably urged Duff to use her throat spray, faked a concern for the girl, and watched her die.

“Zarina must have figured it out,” I said. “She finished the job that Nadia started. It has to be.”

“You are quite the detective, Ms. Kane. Unfortunately, you`re also wrong.” Sorrel’s smile showed a touch of arrogance.

Deming drew me close and clutched my arm. “Why?” he asked.

Sorrel’s chin trembled as he answered. “Oscar Wilde had it right, you know. All men kill the things they love. I saw what needed to be done and did it.”

Chapter Thirty

I TRIED UNSUCCESSFULLY to speak. Twice. All that emerged were the cawing sounds of a crow. Deming’s reaction was far more subdued. He shrugged as if homicidal acts were a normal part of his lawyerly routine. Perry Mason would have loved his aplomb.

“You waited long enough,” Deming said. “What made you finally act?”

Sorrel’s pale cheeks bloomed with color as he told his tale. He was reminiscing, addressing his memories more than his audience.

“I couldn`t save Duff,” he said. “Her death shocked me, but there was nothing I could do. Sonia’s reaction was quite troubling. She shrugged it off as if it were a small matter—no big deal.”

I recalled Anika’s comments about selfish, willful children who`ll do anything to get their way. Sonia Reyes had an air of entitlement, but I had never considered her homicidal. My mistake.

Deming sat silently, sipping his Scotch, fully engaged in this tale of mayhem. His eyes were a hazel blaze, focused on Sorrel’s every word.

“I waited, hoping things would settle down, but the murder emboldened her. When she threatened someone else I knew it had to end.”

This time I found my voice. “You mean, Sonia tried it again?”

He shook his head. “No, but she planned to. Her obsession grew until I knew what would happen.”

“Who was it?” I asked. “The target, I mean.”

Deming tightened his grip on my hand and scowled. Given his druthers he might have gagged me.

“I once said that Sonia envied you.” Sorrel gave that sly grin as if he were sharing a private joke. “Surely a mystery writer can find the answer.”

“
Me
? Sonia planned to kill
me
?”

He nodded. “I came into the office after Nadia hit her. Sonia was bleeding but conscious and in a rage. She blamed you and your book for her troubles. It was irrational, I know, but very real to her.”

I shivered, recalling Sonia’s pitch-perfect performance when Duff died. No one suspected her. She was most convincing.

Deming’s body was a coiled serpent, lean, lethal and ready to strike. “So you dealt with it.”

Sorrel folded his hands in his lap and looked down. “Yes. I kissed her goodbye and then I put my darling to sleep.”

AFTER SORREL LEFT, we sat on the sofa for some time holding each other. It was still early, barely ten o`clock when Deming leapt to his feet and beckoned to me.

“Come on, Eja. Grab the hellhound and follow me.”

I didn`t ask. I knew where we were going. Before long, we were gathered around the fireplace in the Swanns’ spacious library, sharing the news with Bolin and Anika.

“I don`t know what to say,” Anika gasped. “Sorrel loved her. I knew that right away. How tragic for him.”

Deming exploded. “Tragic! He killed her, Mom. For Christ’s sake, the man was deadly calm, quoting Oscar Wilde, if you can believe that!”

“Ah, yes,” Bolin said. “
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
, if I`m not mistaken. Very apropos. That line about all men killing the things they love.”

I thought about that for a moment. According to Wilde, the brave man kills with the sword. Others like Gabriel kill with a bitter look or even worse with a coward’s kiss. By that standard, Sorrel was a very brave man.

“He saved Eja,” Anika said. “I`ll always be grateful to Sorrel for that.” She moved closer to Bolin’s shoulder. “What will you do, Son? Go to the police?”

Deming shook his head. “Sorrel will handle it. Without Sonia, he doesn`t care about living anyway. He`s perfectly willing to go to jail.”

When I asked why he hadn`t confessed immediately, Sorrel shook his head and gave me a look that mixed pity with scorn. It was all about Sonia. He wanted the others to think of her and suffer just a bit. The chaos at the Story Club forced his hand, and he had to act.

A score of unwanted visitors haunted my dreams that night. The antics of Duff, Sonia, and Sorrel swirled through my mind, banishing any hope of rest. Deming, that sensible, cynical soul had no such problem. He put his arms around me and immediately dropped into the land of Nod. That gave me plenty of time to reminisce and count my blessings unencumbered by logic or sentiment.

Not all love stories have happy endings like mine. I know how lucky I am. Some fizzle out and disappear while others end in sorrow, tears, and death. It took a long time for Deming and me to connect, but the outcome was well worth it. Sometimes the best things come to those who wait.