Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) (24 page)

“Good,” Deming said. “Hand over the little monster and meet me in the bedroom.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

FESS PASKERT WAS unavailable. He made that clear in a return email that was brief to the point of curtness. That made me very curious. Why would the old codger avoid me unless he was hiding something? Surely it was nothing personal.

My response was sweeter than honey. I suggested two other days and mentioned that Mrs. Anika Swann would also accompany me. It was a craven but effective strategy that produced results. Within the hour he agreed to a Tuesday afternoon meeting.

With Deming gone, I spent Monday puttering aimlessly about the house, trying to strategize. Cato had other ideas and made them abundantly clear. I harnessed him, grabbed his gear, and asked myself why I succumbed to his every whim. Such weakness didn`t bode well for impending motherhood. I envisioned obstreperous baby cygnets ruling the Swann roost and racking up jail time in the process—a nightmare, not a dream.

After our first lap around the Common, my iPhone rang. Frankly the interruption was welcome. Cato sets a lively pace that exhausts those of us not inclined to vigorous exercise. I plopped down on an unoccupied bench and listened.

“Eja! You`re out of breath. Hope I didn`t interrupt something personal.” Only Gabriel Mann could leer over the phone. It`s his special gift.

“Nope. Just getting my morning exercise. How can I help you?”

“I need a favor.” Glib as ever, Gabriel sounded confident of the outcome.

“What is it? You`ve used up your favor quotient for the century.”

His cheerfulness irritated me, but I played along anyhow. Gabriel interpreted silence as consent.

“Ha, ha. You were always a card, Eja. That`s why I thought of you for this.”

My patience had stretched to the breaking point. “For God’s sake, Gabriel, spit it out! I`m busy.”

Cato was tired of delays too. He launched into his macho act, lunging at passersby and generally playing the fool.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “You`ve heard of Story Club Boston, I presume? I`m one of the sponsors.”

I feigned disinterest. Story Club was an offshoot of Improv Boston, a trendy Cambridge product frequented by literary hipsters. Although I had never gone there I knew it mixed open mic, live theatre, and quirky stories told in eight-minute chunks.

“Congratulations. I`m hanging up, Gabriel.”

“Wait! We mix amateurs with professional writers for eight-minute segments. It`s really cool! Good publicity, too. You know,
noblesse
oblige
. Published authors extending a hand to the great unwashed.”

“Sorry. I gave at the office.”

No one ever accused Gabriel of being a quitter. He was persistent if nothing else.

“Ah, come on. The gang from Concord University will all be there. You`ll have fun. What`s one evening out of your schedule? I`ll bet Deming would like it.”

Suddenly my mental light switch clicked on. Suppose my eight-minute story was the tale of Duff, Sonia, and their murders? Most of the suspects would be there, and Deming could observe their reactions. It was pure genius straight out of Agatha Christie.

“I suppose I could do it, but you have to guarantee a big audience. Get Zarina and her crowd to join us too. When is it?”

Gabriel used his grateful, grovelling voice. I`d heard it plenty of times and recognized a meaningless act of theater designed to cement the deal.

“You`re the best, Eja. Be there 6 p.m. on Thursday. Do you know the address?”

“I`ll find it.”

I powered off and ended the charade.

THE BALANCE OF the day passed in a frenetic haze as I veered between finalizing the questions for Fess Paskert and crafting an eight-minute dose of dynamite. I am a realist with a dollop of optimism on the side. No one would confess. That parlor trick was the preserve of Perry Mason, whose escapades Deming, CeCe, and I had gobbled up like candy in our youth. Perry inspired them to become lawyers. He motivated me to craft fictional crimes and solve a few real ones.

My modest hope was that the guilty party would betray him or herself by word or deed, allowing Keegan to drop the net on the offender. Then I could settle down and write the damn book. The more I said it, the weirder it sounded.

Anika was excited about making another run at Paskert. Because he was an oily devil who might easily evade the issue, I emailed her the pertinent points and modified them based on her suggestions.

“That doesn`t sound too hard, does it?” Anika said. “I`ll swing by and pick you up tomorrow afternoon. We can meet Bolin afterward and compare notes. Dem probably won`t be back until Wednesday anyway.”

I couldn`t admit it even to Anika, but I already missed Deming. Whenever we were apart I felt odd as if I were starved for oxygen. That`s quite an admission from a fiercely independent, card-carrying feminist like me who had sworn to always live alone. Even as children, though we battled over everything, Deming and I were seldom apart. The three of us—Deming, CeCe, and me—were the musketeers, linked forever and inseparable.

I loathe whiners, especially when the offender in question
c`est moi
. Time to shake off the self-pity and get to work. With gritted teeth and grim determination I tackled my eight-minute morsel and polished the questions for Paskert. Deming phoned just as I finished my chores.

“I miss you,” he said. “Wish I were home.”

“Me too. I miss you, and so does Cato.” I ignored his disgusted snort and forged ahead. “Oh well, it`s just one more day. Besides, staying at The Pierre is hardly roughing it. You are in the lap of luxury.”

He cleared his throat and exhaled. “True enough, but there`s a problem on this end. I`ll probably be here until Thursday straightening things out.”

I thought about my plan for a grand finale at the Story Club. No need to mention the details. Deming would only worry.

“Okay, Eja, what`s going on? You`re up to something, and I know it.”

“Calm down. I`m doing an event on Thursday evening, that`s all.” I told him about the program without mentioning Gabriel or my topic.

Deming has a lawyer’s suspicious mind. “Kind of sudden, isn`t it? I`ve never heard of that place before.”

I explained the lofty goals of the Story Club and my humble role in furthering them. “It should enhance my visibility,” I said. “It might even be fun.”

His silence said that the wheels were turning in that big brain of his. “I`ll try to get back in time, but just in case be careful. That part of Cambridge can be rough.”

“Don`t worry, I plan to drive.”

“Drive?”

“Sure,” I said. “You left the keys to the Porsche on the hall table. No problem.”

He gasped but kept his composure. “Maybe Po should drive you. Parking is a mess there.”

I resisted temptation and took pity on him. “Just kidding. Your mom will probably go with me anyway. You know, the power of two. What can possibly happen?”

“Don`t remind me,” Deming said. “I`ll do my best to finish early.”

I knew that as soon as we hung up, Deming would put Bolin on alert. Fortunately, I reached Anika just as she was leaving. “Is everything okay, Eja? Bolin and I are on our way to dinner.”

“I`m fine. How does Thursday night sound to you? The game`s afoot—maybe.”

“Oh no! We`re booked on Thursday. An employee gala at Bolin’s firm.”

My heart sank, but I quickly recovered. “No biggie. I`ll give you a full report.” After hanging up, I couldn`t escape a niggling fear that something might go wrong. Then in a move worthy of Scarlett O`Hara, I tabled my doubts and vowed to think about them another day.

I AWAKENED SEVERAL times during the night. After disquieting dreams of violence and blood, I crawled out of bed, took an Advi,l and pulled on my exercise duds. Cato raised his head, looking baffled at this surge of predawn energy. One double espresso later, I was ready to roll.

Six a.m. was the golden hour in Boston. Warm diffused sunlight bathed the sky in a breathtaking titian glow while the Common bustled with joggers, dog-walkers, and briefcase-toting businesspeople charging toward their future. For once I enjoyed being part of the anonymous herd. Even Cato trotted out his party manners and behaved sensibly.

I surfed the tide of goodwill all the way home until an unexpected phone call shattered the spell.

“Melanie Hunt.” She barked out her name in a whiny adenoidal voice that would shame a strangled mouse.

“Yes?”

“Is this Eja Kane speaking?”

I knew which buttons to press with a class-conscious harpy. “This is the Swann residence.”

Dead silence. Whatever her mission, Gabriel’s wife reconsidered her tactics.

“Oh. I . . . forgive me for phoning so early. I`m on my way to yoga class.”

“How nice.” Playing the harridan was fun. I resolved to try it more often.

“Listen, Eja, this is about Gabriel.”

“Really?” Monosyllabic responses were rather effective. Another tick mark on my to-do list.

“He asked me—no,
ordered
me—to attend some dopey writers` workshop on Thursday. Said he promised you. I want to know why.” She didn`t screech, but her voice hit the upper registers. “Tell the truth. Are you having an affair with my husband?”

“What!” This time I wasn`t acting. The idea was so outrageous that it stunned me. Several responses came to mind, scoffing, spitting, or cursing among them. “I assure you, Melanie, that I have zero interest in Gabriel. Haven`t for years. It`s strictly a writing event, and I`m doing him a favor.”

Her response was meek, as if she were a punctured balloon losing altitude. “Forgive me. It`s just that I never attend those things. They`re hideous, filled with pompous losers who bore me silly.”

“Quite. I feel the same way about most charity socials. Well, to each her own. Was there anything else?” I toed the thin line between convention and rudeness.

“No. Perhaps I will go to this thing. Forgive me for intruding.” Before ending the call, she spoke again. “I`d consider it a favor if you didn`t mention this call to Gabriel or your husband.”

“Understood.”

Sisterhood is power.

I DID A DOUBLE take when I saw my mother-in-law and co-conspirator pull into the driveway. Anika Swann was a vision straight from a Vermeer canvas. Her golden hair, artfully arranged in an elegant topknot, highlighted exquisite bone structure and a complexion to die for. A string of large, creamy pearls completed the illusion.

“Ready for the fun?” she asked, after I hopped in the Mercedes. “I drove Bolin crazy last night dreaming up all kinds of crazy scenarios.”

“Fess Paskert won`t be much of a challenge,” I said. “Where did you go for dinner?”

“Blue Ming. Bolin is crazy about their sablefish.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You`ll never guess who we saw.”

I shrugged. “You know I`m a really bad guesser. Come on. Put me out of my misery.”

She took a right onto Arlington Street, narrowly missing a plodding BMW. “Sorrel Yeagan! He was dining with Harrison Tate.”

“
The
Harrison Tate from Random House? You have got to be kidding.”

“Nope. Bolin stopped by their table and chatted for a moment. Harrison plays squash with him occasionally.”

The wheels in my brain were spinning at warp speed. Obviously Sorrel intended to proceed with
Worm in the Apple
. It made sense and yet . . .?

“We might want to update Fess Paskert. That`ll really put him off his feed.”

“Good idea.” Anika sped up Storrow Drive toward the Cambridge exit. “Tell me. What is your endgame today? I want to play my part.”

I`d given it plenty of thought. No more evasive manuevers by Dr. Paskert. I needed his frank appraisal of Sonia and her power over him. Would he kill to protect his reputation and position? Others had done so in the past, and self-interest provided a compelling motive.

After some discussion, Anika and I were set. I would play the aggressor while she dispensed womanly charm and sympathy. The promise of a Swann Foundation grant would dangle before his eyes.

If Paskert avoided the issues, we`d need to improvise. He held the final puzzle piece in my portrait of Sonia, and I meant to get it one way or another.

Today’s meeting was held in the faculty lounge, a far cry from the opulence of our last encounter. No pink tablecloths, chandeliers, or Limoges in this place. Just utilitarian seating designed for the masses. Paskert waved us over to a booth in the most secluded part of the room and offered us tea.

“Lovely,” Anika said. “The perfect pick-me-up.”

I pursed my lips in a move that barely registered on the smile scale. For some reason Paskert’s brand of false bravado pushed every one of my buttons. His toothy grin was a practiced prelude to deception.

“I was surprised to get your message,” he said, turning to me. “Of course, I`ll gladly help any way I can.”

“Fantastic. We`re here to discuss Sonia. As her supervisor, you knew her better than anyone. Her work, that is.”

Paskert stifled a cough. Clearly he was surprised and playing for time. “I don`t know what to say. It might be construed as an invasion of privacy.”