Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (13 page)

The Swann name was the Balm of Gilead. It soothed Melanie, reminding her that I had impressive connections that rivalled her own. She took a deep breath and another forkful of pancakes. Between bites, she loosened up enough to reminisce.

“Duff Ryder was a pleasant girl, quite the camp follower. Questions. She was full of questions. Some were quite impertinent.”

“No kidding? She didn`t seem like Gabriel’s type. Not glamorous enough, if you get my meaning.”

Melanie laughed. It was a harsh, metallic sound, not at all pleasant. “You`re on the wrong track, Ms. Kane. Duff wasn`t interested in Gabriel or any other man that I know of. Sonia. That`s all she cared about.”

I summoned my best poker face and made a final assault. “Hard to sort out the players in this drama, isn`t it? Keegan has me completely baffled. For some reason he thinks you were there around the time that Sonia died. Crazy, isn`t it?”

No more smirks from Melanie Hunt. She stopped in mid-chew and gasped. Her eyes filled, and for a moment I feared she might choke. Fortunately for her, a hearty gulp of water alleviated the crisis. My knowledge of the Heimlich maneuver is mostly theoretical and not quite ready for prime time.

Melanie grasped my wrist with surprising strength. “Please. You must understand. I went there to confront Gabriel, but his office door was locked. I knew someone was in there. He had that damn fuck music on. Show tunes. Whenever he does it he plays Broadway songs. Usually
Porgy and Bess
.”

A more sensitive soul would have stopped there, but I had a book to write and two murders to avenge. Keegan had never mentioned Melanie Hunt, but sometimes even a shot in the dark hits the mark.

“I understand. You went looking for Sonia. I`d have done the same.”

Bad Melanie surged back with a vengeance. “God, you`re thick. I thought
Sonia
was the one in there with him. So typical of Gabriel—too cheap to rent a hotel room.  I couldn`t pound on the door like some fishwife. Hunts don`t behave that way. I forced myself to leave.”

She might have been bluffing. Hunts might abhor scenes, but violence was a distinct possibility. Someone Sonia knew and didn`t fear coshed her on the back of the head. Melanie was tough enough to do just that. One thing puzzled me: why expend energy on Gabriel when would simply find a replacement? She could do the same.

“Just so you know,” Melanie said. “When this mess is over, Gabriel and I are getting a divorce. It was inevitable, I suppose. Naturally, my attorneys wrote an airtight prenup. He won`t get much of my money.”

I don`t like the Melanie Hunts of this world. They are overprivileged creatures that contribute very little to society. But on this issue we were humming the same tune. Gabriel Mann was a decorative parasite who wasn`t worth killing for. She was better off without him.

I picked up the check and pushed out my chair. “Good luck, Melanie. I wish you well.”

Chapter Fifteen

EVERY DAY I DEVOTE two hours to reading books. They expand my professional horizons and occasionally buoy my ego. The world is awash with dreadful novels, but some inspired works still exist. I categorized today`s session—which involved a thorough read of
Worm in
the Apple
—as research. Kinky research bordering on prurient interest but research nevertheless. As soon as I returned from my session with Melanie and attended to Cato, I fixed another espresso and dove into the book. It was the only thing that linked the two murder victims with all of the suspects. That suspect list had expanded after my discussion with Melanie. It now included Nadia Pinsky and Mrs. Gabriel Mann herself. I didn`t buy her bored sophisticate act one bit. If Melanie cared enough to confront her husband at his office, she might also have silenced her rival. I shivered thinking of the malevolent look in her eyes as she hissed at me.

Funny thing about names. Melanie Wilkes of
Gone With The Wind
fame was one of my favorite literary characters. A gentle soul by nature, she was Teflon tough when her home was threatened. No wonder she was called Melly. I`ll bet no one had ever called Gabriel’s wife Melly. They wouldn`t dare.

I gathered my notebook and set myself a goal of one hundred pages. Normally I`m a voracious reader, but this time I had to scrutinize each character and research some of the more bizarre practices. There were plenty of them.

Basically,
Worm
chronicled the life of Synthia, an ill-fated young woman who insinuated herself into an academic community and used every tool at her disposal to gain power. The narrator, a friend, fellow student, and admirer, starts her narration at Synthia`s funeral. How ironic that literature followed life so faithfully.

I recognized some of my suspects straight away. The lothario who seduced the minds and bodies of his students had to be Gabriel. Sonia called him Lance and made no secret about his manly charms and enormous ego. He falls in love with Syn and is subsequently brought down by a charge of harassment after she forms a pact with his jealous wife.

Sonia used literary license to describe Lance`s vast sexual appetites. Unless he had changed dramatically, Gabriel preferred mostly missionary-style sex. He once proclaimed that the size of his equipment coupled with superior technique satisfied his conquests and made them clamor for more. Like most men he didn`t ask for any feedback.

The book eviscerated another character, Arthur, for his second-rate intellect and literary pretensions.
Worm
portrayed Arthur as a figure of secret ridicule and a weak and ineffective leader. The young protagonist Synthia lured him into her bed and proceeded to knock his learned socks off. I consider myself worldly, but I am no libertine. The sheer variety of Syn`s sexual shenanigans astounded me. Arthur`s particular preference, a most unhygienic act, is still illegal in several states.

Once Syn swept away his inhibitions and peace of mind, Arthur was beset by demons—terrified of losing her and equally afraid of being outed. That sounded very like a former chemistry professor with a cranky wife and a lot to lose.

One final character was introduced in the first few chapters. Gawain, a gentle courteous man, defended womanhood in general and Syn in particular. He maintained a passionate but chaste relationship with her and tried to protect her from her destructive impulses. Since Sonia was a medieval scholar, the parallels to “courtly love” and Sorrel Yeagan were quite pronounced, particularly the unconsummated part.

I put the book aside and called Anika, who agreed to join me for a bracing jog through the Common with Cato. Besides being the perfect prescription for what ailed me, it would be instructive. I knew from her text that Anika had already finished the book!

Sonia/Synthia`s world was a quagmire, a disquieting and vaguely alluring taste of another side of life. Deming would taunt me about it, so I didn`t dare ask. His experience in the dark arts vastly overshadowed mine. On issues such as these, marital privacy was sacrosanct. On the other hand, Anika would listen and never judge. She was too sophisticated and far too kind to do that.

We met at the Tadpole Playground in front of the Thinker Frog. To forestall disaster, I growled Cato into his best behavior—no lunges, nips, or barks allowed. When Anika bounded up behind me, the surly spaniel morphed into Mr. Personality. Only wags and sweet kisses for the woman he adored.

The autumn chill was perfect, cold enough to deter children but not too nippy for adults. Anika glanced wistfully at the monkey bars as if visualizing the grandchildren she might never have. With CeCe gone, I was her only hope. She rarely mentioned it, but I saw the longing in her eyes. My burden to bear or privilege to fulfil.

“How far have you gotten?” Anika asked. “I read the whole thing in one sitting. Bolin too.”

“Bolin read
Worm in the Apple
?”
My voice squeaked a bit when I said that.

“Sure. Why not? We made it a joint project, so it was kind of fun.” She pointed to an empty bench. “It outlined our suspects, didn`t it? Especially the murder part.”

“Hold on,” I said. “I didn`t finish it yet. Give me the highlights.”

Anika reached into her tote bag and produced Cato’s treat. Not an ordinary biscuit of course but a sautéed chicken gizzard. As I suspected, the magic tote held still more goodies. A shining silver thermos, complete with cups and marshmallows, yielded steaming hot chocolate. “Po packed this himself,” Anika said. “So thoughtful.”

We savored our drinks as we discussed the book. It made perfect sense. Both chocolate and kinky sex are addictive. They blend sensual decadence with forbidden pleasure and dire consequences for overindulging. What`s not to like?

According to Anika there were several other suspects worth considering: Nanette, an acolyte and aspiring coquette; Mandy, the vengeful wife; and Zoey, the social activist.

I held my hand over my ears and moaned. “Enough already. I can barely keep the real suspects straight let alone their noms de guerre. Let`s just use their real names.”

“Fine with me.” Anika shrugged. “Naturally the outcome in
Worm
doesn`t track. The Duff narrator kills Sonia then disappears. Still, it provides some interesting insights.”

“Anything we didn`t know?” I asked.

“Maybe not. But it did confirm some things.” She ticked off the list on her fingers. “We now know that Fess Paskert was involved, Melanie was jealous, and Nadia and Zarina played a part. The Gabriel and Sorrel stuff is nothing new.”

“How strange are the antics?” I asked. “Routine sex is hardly a big story these days.”

“Maybe not, but that FetLife stuff flirted with perversion. Even Bolin said that.”

I held out my cup for more coco. This was thirsty work! “As they say, one woman`s perversion is another`s passion.”

Anika turned cool hazel eyes my way. “Who says that, Eja?”

“I don`t know. The Supreme Court? Anyway, you get my drift. Here`s the question. Did Sonia plan to publish this thing, or was it merely leverage?”

Anika gave that some thought. “Sonia signed a publishing contract. That sounds serious enough. Sorrel certainly expected her to publish the book. In fact, he still plans to go through with it.”

“But she`s dead. Is Sorrel her heir or something?”
“Just for her literary estate. It may come to nothing of course.” Anika sighed. “But this much I know. That man loved her despite all this other nonsense.”

Love
. Both murders seemed to revolve around love. For all we knew, Sonia may have manufactured the hot scenes to capitalize on a growing market trend. Except for the bits about Gabriel, of course. That slug was an easy mark for any woman on the make.

I had learned one thing today at the yoga studio. Despite her bravado, Melanie Hunt loved her husband. Her expression when she said his name gave her away. I`d seen that look before—hell, I`d had it myself. Gabriel was a nasty virus that infected your system and sickened you. Until Deming and I found each other, I vowed to never marry or have a serious relationship again. The downside was far too painful.

“Still with me, Eja?” Anika asked.

“Yep! We have some work to do tomorrow. Can you arrange another meeting with Sorrel? I have some things to discuss with him.”

Anika’s smile was one inch short of smug. “That won`t be any problem. Trust me.”

“Good. I`ll interview Gabriel. Maybe Deming will come with me.”

Sometimes I forgot that Anika, my confederate and partner, was Deming’s mother as well. “That`s a smart move,” she said. “You know how protective that boy is of you. Just like his father.”

The senior Swanns had a fairy tale marriage. That comparison surprised me, but it didn`t disappoint. I can live with perfection.

DEMING WORE A secret smile when he breezed through the door that evening. I was curious but disciplined. Instead of shaking him senseless, I stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, and flashed my most winsome smile. The gambit worked perfectly.

“Aren`t you the least bit curious?” he asked. “We`re supposed to be partners on this case, but if you won`t share, why should I?”

I motioned him toward the study and sat on the couch, watching covertly as he loosened his tie and removed his jacket. Deming’s abs were a testament to the power of superior genes and conditioning. The view from the rear was equally inspiring. Call it aftershock from Sonia’s steamy novel, but my lips felt dry and my throat parched. I seriously considered tackling him.

Instead, I patted the sofa cushion. Deming slid in next to me and leaned his head against the pillows. “I`m bushed,” he said. “Doing two jobs takes it out of a guy.”

“Two?”

He gave me the full power of those dreamy eyes. “Oh! Didn`t I mention it? I had a little chat with Keegan this morning. Very instructive, I must say.” He checked his watch. “In fact, he should be here any minute.”

“What?” I was finally getting the hang of this monosyllabic thing. Not bad.

“Keegan wants your advice.” Deming touched my cheek. “You should be flattered. He`s not fooled by just your pretty face.”

I leapt up as if a cattle prod had impaled me. “I`ve got to get dressed! He`ll imagine all kinds of things if he sees me like this. That man has a dirty mind.”

Deming ran his fingers slowly down the garment dubbed a hostess dress by Neiman Marcus. “Don`t be silly. Purple suits you. This cashmere is sensuous. Soft and sensuous, just like you. Did I buy this?”

“Nope. I got it from an admirer.”

“That might be a problem,” Deming said, tightening his grip. “Swanns don`t share.”

I shivered as he continued his exploration. Buying frivolous things was a challenge for me. Trotskyite guilt, a parental legacy, seeped from every pore of my social conscience. Anika said dressing the part was normal in my new situation, something that Deming took for granted. She prescribed an intensive program of retail therapy, a type of shopping boot camp. I gritted my teeth and bore it with the stoicism of my peasant forbearers. Hence the cashmere hostess-dress.

“You`re beautiful, Eja Kane Swann. Can`t you see that?” He drew me to him and slowly unbuttoned the bodice of my dress. “Mmm. Such soft, beautiful skin. As a kid, I used to watch you gabbing with CeCe and wonder what that skin would feel like. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. “You were a very naughty boy, and now you`re even worse.”

“Come here,” he said, “and I`ll show you how bad I can be.”

This was way better than anything
Worm
envisioned. Parts of me—unmentionable in polite society—melted from the heat of his hands. I removed Deming’s tie and brushed my lips across the exposed triangle of skin on his chest—gently, tenderly, just enough to make him moan.

That`s when Cato sprang into action. He launched himself at the door, snarling and barking, even before the buzzer rang.

“Damn,” Deming said with a glance that seared my nether parts. “Bad timing. That must be Keegan now.”

I hastily buttoned up and patted my hair. Deming merely laughed.

“To be continued,” he said.

PHINEAS KEEGAN kept his cool as his eyes did a quick appraisal of our home. We sat in the double parlour, one of my favorite spaces. Room-sized Keshans, butter yellow walls, and walnut paneling kept the cavernous rooms cozy. Logs crackled in the fireplace, illuminating our faces and our motives.

“Nice,” he said with a brisk nod. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

Deming’s eyes sparkled with mischief, but after offering our guest refreshments, he stayed silent. Keegan brightened when he saw the whiskey that was offered.

“Macallan 25,” he said. “Mighty fine choice.”

“I`ll join you,” Deming said. “Eja is almost a teetotaller. No fun at all.”

I prefer to keep my wits about me and my mind uncluttered. Keegan was still an adversary no matter what soft soap he applied. His clear blue eyes were laser sharp, untouched by Scotch or sentiment. Like Cassius, that lean and hungry man, Keegan thought too much. He was dangerous.

“How can I help you, Lieutenant?”

He took a measured sip of Scotch before replying. “Look, this is irregular, but I know you have some experience aiding the police.” He crossed his legs and watched the fireplace for a moment. “I assume you`ve read that book,
Worm in the Apple
. Hell of a name, by the way. Hard to believe an educated woman—college professor no less—would make up such filth.”

Actually, I agreed with some of what he said, but on behalf of writers everywhere, I bristled.

“Sex sells, you know. It`s right up there with violence and murder. Think of the classics that were `banned in Boston,` or check the best-seller lists for that matter.”