Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (6 page)

Our co-op board is a very private, terminally staid group that believes every day is a day of rest. Only the Swann pedigree and money would save us from a blistering reprimand. To make matters worse, Gabriel confronted us outside the lobby door. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and I noticed some stray wrinkles under them. His luscious blond waves were matted, and his shirt had seen better days. All in all, my formerly perfect ex, was a grimy shadow of himself. Heavenly.

“Melanie, I thought you might come here.” His voice had a strange quiver in it. “Please. No scenes.”

Deming decided to play Lord Bountiful. “No harm, Mann. Melanie felt a bit weak and agreed to recuperate at our place. You`re welcome too.”

“We`re having tea,” I said with all the sweetness I could muster.

“Anything stronger than tea?” Gabriel asked. “Hair of the dog, you know.”

“Absolutely.” Deming clapped him on the back in a rare show of fellowship. It was the first time ever that he had touched Gabriel, although he had threatened to thrash him often enough.

We trooped through the lobby single file, a silent fifth column that Keegan would loathe. When he entered our home, Gabriel whistled at its opulence.

“Wow! Fantastic. Quite a move up from our little studio. Remember, Eja?”

“Vaguely.” I had no intention of travelling down memory lane with a cipher from my past.

“We sold that place immediately,” Deming said. “Paid about two months’ maintenance for this old heap.”

“Heap indeed,” Melanie said. “Your home is lovely.” Her tears had dried, but mascara streaks marred her perfect cheeks. “Oh dear. I`m rather a mess. Powder room?”

I led her to it and played hostess by brewing a pot of bracing Earl Grey. By the time I rejoined the boys, they had each downed a brandy, Gabriel’s cheeks regained their color, and Deming’s smirk was firmly in place.

“What did Keegan ask you?” I said. “He was pretty cagey with me.”

“That`s just it. He asked about the dust-up with Sonia and spent the longest time gabbing about tenure. Can you believe it? He`s quite old-school, by the way. Women in their place—you know the drill.”

I avoided Deming’s eyes. He always maintained that Gabriel was a pretty boy with a second-class intellect. This conversation seemed to clinch it.

“He wanted to know my whereabouts the entire evening.” Melanie rejoined the group, perfection restored. “Believe it or not, he already knew that Duff and I had brunch together last Sunday.” She shot a vile look my way. “I suppose you told him that.”

My reply was polite. Poisonous but polite. I was proud of my self-restraint and good manners. “Absolutely not. I told him the truth and nothing more. Speculation and gossip I leave to others.”

Deming poured oil on troubled conversational waters. “Keegan is fairly shrewd. At least that`s my assessment of him. He`ll follow the trail until he finds the killer. Then watch out. I`ll bet you he`s checking every lab and industrial outlet even as we speak.”

Melanie wrinkled her nose. “Why?”

I got it right away. No wonder Deming leapt out of bed so early. That boy wanted to show me up and demote me from Holmes to Girl Friday.

“Aha,” I said. “Keegan was looking for the cyanide. The murderer had to get it from somewhere. Very smart.”

“Cyanide?” Melanie reeled back in her seat.

Deming nodded. “Just a guess—red face, convulsions, coating around the lips, and quick death—probably cyanide.”

Melanie rose unsteadily to her feet. “I need to go home. Come, Gabriel.”

After they left, Deming turned to me. “Was it something I said?”

Chapter Seven

WE WERE LATE FOR brunch, but Anika didn`t notice. She was too engrossed in our tale about Melanie and Gabriel. True to tradition, the midday meal was taken in the Swanns’ splendid dining room, one that could easily accommodate fifty if the occasion demanded. Today we dined
en famille
, although only a billionaire like Bolin or an oil rich pasha would call it casual. As always the table was set for five. Anika insisted on one place setting for CeCe, at her preferred spot on the end nearest to the window. It`s a comforting ritual for those of us who loved her still. She`d been gone now for three years, but her memory was as vivid as the day she was taken from us.

Bolin began the feast with our usual toast. “To absent friends and those we love.” We clinked flutes, savored the crisp, fruity taste of Perrier-Jouet, and paused for just a second. This man who dined with presidents and dealt with moguls nodded toward his daughter’s empty chair and squeezed his wife’s hand. His silence was eloquent.

Po had arranged an astonishing array of hot and cold dishes on the sideboard. The international spread included Anika’s smorgas, muesli, and smoked salmon plus several Chinese additions that celebrated Bolin’s heritage. Deming piled everything on his plate, but despite my hunger pains, I settled for congee, a type of rice porridge, and fresh fruit.

“Melanie Hunt verged on hysteria,” I said. “She really believes that Keegan has her in his sights. Not to mention her vendetta against me.”

Anika put down her fork. “You? Whatever for?”

Deming thought the entire incident was hilarious. He took pains to describe Melanie’s rant and Gabriel’s boneheaded assessment of Keegan.

“I always knew that guy was a dolt,” he sniped. “Zero self-awareness. Melanie leads him around like a toy poodle.”

“That`s strange,” Bolin said. “Keegan gave Sonia a thorough going over too. For a moment I thought she might really need a lawyer. It was very preliminary of course, but he was fixated on those death threats.”

“Why didn`t they report them to the cops?” I asked. “Duff told us that they had.”

Anika nodded. “Could be a bureaucratic snafu. The police have so many demands on them these days. Or maybe, Sonia didn`t take them seriously.”

One question continued to plague me: why Duff? Was she the unintended victim or the actual target? Until we knew more about her, the puzzle would never be solved. On the face of it, Duff Ryder wasn`t important enough to murder. No wonder Keegan zeroed in on Melanie and Gabriel. His spies probably told him about their situation.

“One thing just occurred to me,” Deming said. “Did you see how easily Melanie Hunt slipped into our powder room this morning?”

Bolin raised his eyebrows. “You`ll have to explain that one, Son.”

Deming’s point was genius. Anyone could ask to use the restroom and easily gain access to Sonia’s throat spray. She complained to everyone about her ailment, drama queen that she was. It was too routine to attract notice. That expanded the suspect list to anyone who had ventured into Sonia’s suite. The list was long and loaded with possibilities.

“I may accept Sonia’s job offer,” I said. “At least for the time being. Sonia is the type who invites controversy—thrives on it. Duff was a true believer. Maybe she found out something damaging and had to be eliminated.” Even as I said the words, I remained unconvinced. Poisoned throat spray was an elaborate murder method, way over the top for dispatching a simple soul like Duff.

By the time I zoned back in, Deming was in mid-rant. “I warned Eja about getting involved. Reason with her, Dad. Please.”

Deming pointedly excluded his mother because he knew where she stood on such schemes.

Bolin spread out his hands. “Sorry, Son. This is Eja’s decision.”

“Quite right,” said Anika. “Besides, I`ll hang around as much as possible. Two heads et cetera.”

“What`s your angle going to be?” Bolin asked.

She exchanged glances with her husband. “Universities always need donors, right? I`m sure Dr. Paskert would appreciate the Swann Foundation’s interest.”

Bolin grinned. “No doubt.”

Deming pushed away his plate. “Now, wait a minute. You plan to dangle some financial incentive at that English professor? He`s a total letch. We saw him in action last night.”

“Your mother can handle herself, Dem. She`s had plenty of practice fending off

men.”

“Besotted swains,” I offered. “I love that phrase. It`s so Victorian. Otherwise, the idea is brilliant! How about a scholarship in Duff’s name for students interested in community activism?”

Much to Deming’s chagrin, Anika and I slapped hands in a girl power salute.

“I`ll contact Sonia tomorrow,” I said.

“And I`ll liaise with Dr. Paskert. Naturally, Sonia can take some of the credit,” Anika said. “In fact, we`d need her insights on Duff.”

“What about your ex-husband?” Deming snarled. “I don`t trust that guy one bit.”

“I guess we`ll use you as muscle,” I said. “You always wanted to be a bouncer.”

DEMING SULKED MOST of the day. Finally, he packed his briefcase and decamped to Sevier, Miles and Swann to catch up on neglected paperwork. Or so he said.

After exercising Cato, I spent my time in splendid isolation, plotting and scheming.

In austere times, universities were starved for donations. Hooking a fish—a whale—like the Swann Foundation would make Fess Paskert an academic rock star with Sonia as his backup singer.

Anika’s motives were simple. She was a willing partner, always up for adventure. However, Duff Ryder’s brutal murder resonated on another level with a mother like Anika whose daughter had been slain. A nudge from the Swann Foundation was a small price to pay for a further validation of CeCe.

I needed background on Duff, so I turned to that great repository of information, social media. She had a Facebook account, but it was a puzzler. Photos and friends’ listings were few, shielding information from prying eyes like mine. She had “liked” the websites of COWE, the Bella Brigade, and Wattpad but had never posted anything personal. Her reading taste was eclectic but predictable—Jane Austen, Emily Dickenson, and contemporary tomes by Betty Friedan, Germaine Greer, and Marilyn French. All in all, a portrait of a worthy, terminally boring young woman.

On a hunch, I clicked Wattpad and input Duff’s name. Nothing. I moved on to websites. The Bella Brigade was another dead end—posts rhapsodizing over Sonia and decrying lookism filled most of the site. Duff’s name appeared as an organizer and events scheduler.

COWE`s site was more informative. Duff appeared in several video clips, exhorting her fellow members to join the lookism crusade. This was a different side of the mousey young woman, and I was astonished at the girl’s vivacity. Maybe Sonia intimidated her, repressed her buoyant personality. One comment posted anonymously caught my eye. “Another stirring speech by Easy Ryder,” it said. I assumed it was a wry reference to the film of the same name rather than a dig at Duff’s virtue. Either way, it was worth scrutinizing.

I returned to Wattpad and keyed in Easy Ryder. Up popped a greeting, short story listing, and directory of followers. Apparently, Duff Ryder dabbled in fiction—short stories mostly—and was a contender for a Watty Award, the site’s highest honor. Her opus had an intriguing title:
Worm in the Apple
.

I clicked on the story and inhaled sharply. According to the synopsis, it was a novel of treachery and deceit in which a shrewd, poisonous young woman insinuated herself into the life of a VIP and proceeded to ruin it.

She had only uploaded three chapters—just a teaser. Those thirty odd pages mesmerized me, leading me down a twisted path. In true Internet fashion, I typed in the only appropriate phrase—OMG!

DEMING WAS CONTRITE when he returned. He planted a big goofy kiss on my cheek and offered to walk Cato as an additional penance.

“I acted like a jerk,” he said. “You don`t deserve that.”

“No harm, no foul. Besides, I need to pick your lawyerly brain.”

“Why stop at my brain? Pick any part you want, my love.” He gave a comic leer and hugged me tight. “I live to serve.”

I handed him the printout from Wattpad and waited. Deming reads quickly. He locked eyes with me and grimaced. “Wow! Hot stuff. I wonder who the worm in question is.”

“Nothing to speak of on Facebook, but I think Duff was leading a double life.”

Deming stroked his chin. “Hmm. A quisling, huh? Makes sense. Lots more interesting than the mousey creature wearing a potato sack. Of course, there`s another way to interpret this.”

“How?”

“She hints at some pretty kinky stuff. Somehow, that doesn`t sound like Duff. Not to be sexist, but she was scarcely the garter belt and thong type. Let`s face it, the girl was huge.”

“That`s so mean,” I said. “No wonder most women suffer from a poor body image. Even starlets and models. That`s the appeal of this lookism crusade.”

Deming took my hand and pulled me toward him. “Not you, Eja. You are absolutely gorgeous.”

If only he knew. Like most women, I winced at bad photos and viewed mirrors and scales as potential enemies. No matter how many compliments Deming gave me or professional accolades I earned, doubts always lingered. Beautiful broads prospered in life, but plain ones lagged behind. Gabriel had taught me that.

I got a sudden brainstorm. “You know, there`s another site I should check.
Academia.edu
. University types share their papers and follow research studies on it. That kind of thing. Maybe Duff did too.”

Deming laughed. “I have one that`s a lot more fun. Based on this
Worm in the Apple
, stuff, this site might be more apropos.” He held out his hand. “Come on. We`ll check it together. Could be interesting.”

We lounged on the leather sofa in his office with Cato perched on a nearby cushion. “Okay,” Deming said. “Now, first a disclaimer. I`ve never personally checked this one out so I can`t vouch for anything on it. Could be pretty raunchy.”

That aroused my curiosity and something more. “No problem. We`re both consenting adults. Go for it.”

Deming typed
Fetlife.com
into his iPad, and a brand new world opened up.

“Dear Lord!” I said. “What is this thing?”

Deming chortled. “This, little girl, is the preserve of the BDSM and fetish community—the organized kinks of society. Look at the number of users—over two million. Obviously, there`s a demand for this sort of stuff.”

“Not by me,” I said. “Ugh. Why would someone wear a bridle and saddle?”

“The better to ride you with, my dear. Hey, it`s BDSM—bondage, dominance, and sadomasochism. Not my kind of thing, but the big question is this: was it Duff Ryder’s fantasy or someone else`s reality? Maybe someone she knew or wrote about.”

“Don`t join their site,” I begged. “We might get on some pervert`s list.”

Our email was already surfeited with sleazy messages about Viagra, although Deming Swann was the last man on earth who needed an aphrodisiac.

“Think for a minute,” he said. “What screen name would Duff use?”

That was a tough one to process. In one day I`d gone from regarding Duff as a naïve, innocent student to envisioning her as a mistress of the dark arts.

“Try Easy Ryder,” I said, hoping I was wrong.

Fortunately, the system rejected that name, and I heaved a gigantic sigh of relief. Maybe Duff had an active imagination. After all, fiction allows an author to flex her moral muscles and escape convention. Bondage, dominance—Deming was no de Sade, and I was certainly no Charlotte Corday. The whole thing creeped me out. I shivered thinking of the antics described so vividly in
Worm in the Apple
.

“Don`t be a prude,” Deming chided. “This is research. After all, you insisted on getting involved.” He wagged his finger at me. “Just don`t get adventurous unless I`m here. More fun that way.”

“Oh ha, ha. You should have your own peep show. I`ve had enough for the night.” I jumped up and headed for our bedroom. “A nice hot shower is what I need after all this.”

A slow, sensuous smile lit up Deming’s face.

“Go on. I`ll be right in to join you.”

SONIA MADE MY task easy. She contacted me early the next morning begging for my help. In a hoarse voice, barely above a whisper, she pleaded, “Eja, now I really need you. Who knows when the murderer will strike again?”

I wasn`t impressed, but I was ready with a cover story. If anything, Sonia overplayed her hand by focusing on herself instead of poor Duff.

“Listen, Sonia. I`ve been giving this some thought. I have no interest in doing a biography, but true crime might work. If you agree, I`ll focus on Duff’s murder and your devotion to the cause. I think Duff would like that. She was so ardent about lookism.”

“I guess so. The important thing is the message. I try to shun personal publicity anyway.” After telling that big whopper, Sonia paused. “Can you meet with me today? I`ll be in my office all afternoon preparing for Duff’s memorial service.”

“Of course,” I said. “I`d like to attend the service too. Pay my respects. My mother-in-law will probably join me.”

“Fine,” Sonia said absently. “Duff didn`t have any family left. Most of the faculty and my students will likely be there and naturally the members of the Bella Brigade and COWE. Fess—Dr. Paskert—will officiate.”