Mantrap

By Arlene Kay

Eja and Demming are taking this mystery out for a spin!

Munitions heir Dario Peters has a yen for competitive cycling and cash. When he suffers a fatal crash on a Cape Cod bike path, everyone calls it a tragic accident. But his doting grandma knows better.

Persus Cantor begs amateur sleuths Eja Kane and Deming Swann—her nephew—to come to Bayview and investigate the case. The newly engaged duo finds that Dario was a ne’er-do-well with a host of enemies in the upscale Cape Cod village. A scheming psychic, an enraged environmentalist, and a greedy realtor all wanted him dead, not to mention his tempestuous wife, Paloma.

Through it all, Eja and Deming continue their sizzling romance. Only a brainy bestselling author like Eja can match a man like Deming, whose movie star looks, smarts, and sophistication are enough to dazzle even the bad guys.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781094467061

Arlene Kay

Arlene Kay spent 20 years as a Senior Federal Executive where she was known as a most unconventional public servant. Her time with the Federal Government from Texas to Washington DC, allowed her to observe both human and corporate foibles and rejoice in unintentional humor. These locations and the many people she encountered are celebrated in her mystery novels. She holds graduate degrees in Political Science and Constitutional Law.

Book preview

1

Boston Globe, April 22

New England

in brief

Bayview

LOCAL MAN INJURED IN CYCLING ACCIDENT

A freak accident Tuesday afternoon left a Bayview man in critical condition at Massachusetts General Hospital. Dario Peters, 31, lost control of his machine while cycling on the town bike path. There were no witnesses to the incident.

O H, NO! I slammed my cup of espresso on its saucer, watching helplessly as a dark caffeine river coursed toward the edge. No wonder he missed the party.

I grabbed my iPhone and speed-dialed Deming’s number, praying that he wasn’t on some tedious conference call with a client.

It was Sunday, a cloudless spring day in Boston with bright, blinding sunlight that assaulted my parlor windows with a vengeance. An evil triumvirate of champagne, fine wine, and spirits held me in their painful thrall, punishing me for last night’s excess.

I crept over to my computer—phone in hand—nursing a headache of epic proportions. Maybe I misread that item. Engagement parties will do that to you, especially your own. I’m the abstemious type who seldom drinks and prefers a good book to revelry. Last night was the exception. I danced every dance, sipped champagne, and sang ’til my lungs gave out. Frankly, I hadn’t missed Dario Peters even though he was on our guest list. He was an acquired taste, rather like castor oil. One adjusts to the product but never seeks it out.

Deming answered on the first ring, in a sultry, slightly groggy voice that spoke of dreams disturbed and passions banked.

Miss me, do you? he asked. I like a woman who can’t get enough.

I swallowed hard and sputtered out a sentence. "Have you heard? Check the Globe."

What? You’re not making sense, Eja. His voice veered instantly to red alert. Repeat what you said but don’t shout. My head hurts. Deming had imbibed far too much at last evening’s festivities, and like most men, he has a low tolerance for pain or discomfort.

Dario. Your cousin Dario Peters was in a bicycle accident. A bad one. No wonder he missed the party. He’s at Mass General in critical condition, whatever that means. I always get it mixed up with serious, so I’m not sure which is worse.

Deming made a noise somewhere between a snort and sigh. Hold on. Stop babbling while I check with my dad. Dario and I sort of lost touch when he got married. He rang off with a resounding click, leaving me to contemplate the art deco wonders of my engagement ring. It was lovely, a Swann family heirloom with a delicate swirl of diamonds and platinum surrounding a sparkling emerald. Gazing at it soothed my spirits, muting my concern about everything else, including Dario. Surely nothing bad could darken this moment!

Cato’s shrill bark startled me back to reality. The surly spaniel was a legacy from CeCe Swann, my dearest friend and Deming’s twin. Against all odds, she had loved the little cur, and he returned the favor. After her death—her murder—I gained custody of Cato and all his foibles. He gave me the equivalent of a canine eye-roll and stared pointedly at his empty bowl. The little devil was the least sentimental creature I’d ever known. Despite my constant chiding, his distaste for Deming fueled open warfare and the occasional blood sport each time they met. Combining our households portended an Olympic-sized challenge with Cato in the mix.

I sprinkled chicken on Cato’s kibble as I racked my brain for snippets about Dario Peters. Instantly the memory of a Swann family reunion popped into my head. It was hot, an unseasonably humid July evening. Deming had been locked in a fierce, no-holds-barred tennis game with his cousin Dario, a high-flying type A personality. Competition was hardwired into their DNA, so they’d carried their five set match to a thrilling tiebreak. Dario was the smaller man, but you’d never know it by his intensity. Every point he scored was punctuated with squeals from his trophy wife, Paloma, and the loud clapping of his grandmother Persus. Aunt Pert! I pictured her gentle face, alight with good cheer. Oh God! She must be frantic. She’d raised Dario after the death of his parents and doted on him to the point of absurdity.

I paced the floor of my office, admiring the wide walnut planks and the venerable Sarouk covering them. Luxury was still an adjustment for me, one that had been surprisingly easy to make.

Writing is my profession. I’m a mystery novelist with a string of moderately successful books to my credit and one bestseller. Unfortunately, monetary rewards are seldom commensurate with literary pride. My spacious flat—complete with furnishings—was another legacy from Deming’s twin CeCe. We’d been inseparable, closer than most sisters. The Mandarin term Lao-tong, sisters for a thousand years, seemed woefully inadequate to describe our bond. It endured beyond time, tighter than the graveyard’s grasp. I missed my friend and grieved for her each day of my life. I always would.

THE CONCIERGE phoned an hour later, announcing Deming’s arrival. Although he had his own key, Deming still observed the proprieties. Good breeding demanded that, and the Swann pedigree was second to none. My origins were more modest, but the intimidation factor was mitigated by the genuine love I felt for his parents. Bolin Swann, his mega-rich daddy, evinced a type of old world courtliness that both charmed and awed. His mother, the elegant Anika, combined the grace of a runway model with the steely courage of a warrior princess. No one could ask for better in-laws.

When Deming’s key turned the lock, my heart flip-flopped like a politician’s promise. Simply put, he took my breath away. Seventy-four inches of muscled male beauty will do that to a woman. Clouds of coal-black hair, startling hazel eyes, and a razor-sharp mind compounded the thrill. To my surprise he was formally dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and subdued tie. Hardly the garb for weekend wear.

I’ve tried to tame my misgivings by reading a host of self-help books and giving myself the occasional stern lecture. Intellect has never been an issue. There are objective measurements for that. Deming admits that my IQ is stratospheric and praises my professional attainments. Sometimes that’s not enough.

Self-restraint was my watchword when dealing with Deming. Over the years, he’d grown jaded by the simpering adoration of female fans. Our relationship thrived under a different model. Despite my rapid pulse and stomach flutters, I painted a tranquil smile on my face, folded my hands, and played it cool. It wasn’t easy, but it worked for me.

Cato was a different story. That dog held grudges like Silas Marner hoarded gold. With teeth bared, Cato charged the door as if he were storming the Bastille. Deming hurled a number of vivid scatological terms at him and used his briefcase as a shield. Since neither could claim victory, each retreated to opposite sides of the room.

I checked my emotions and let Deming make the next move. Impetuosity is a failing of mine, especially when the stakes are high. Deming, on the other hand, has a lawyer’s caution about sharing bad tidings. His expression was grave, almost funereal. After planting a quick kiss on his cheek, I locked eyes with him.

What’s the story? Is Dario okay?

I’m surprised you haven’t called Mass General yourself. You love worming information out of people. Deming lessened the sting by wrapping his arms around me in a python grip.

Stop stalling, I squeaked. Tell me before I suffocate.

You’re stronger than you think. He hesitated and loosened his hold. Dario died early this morning. He never regained consciousness.

Oh, no! I’m sorry. You guys were close as kids. I remember that.

Deming and I had known each other since pre-school. Dario had been along for the ride too, skulking around the fringes, joining the crew of bad boys who bedeviled every little girl in sight. I’d loathed the little bastard until we’d both passed puberty and gained some perspective. There were limits of course. Our fragile truce frayed whenever his wife Paloma writhed into view. I dismissed her as a brainless bimbo with artificial breasts and a cash register for a heart. She returned the favor by curling her collagen-laden lip and flirting shamelessly with Deming.

How’s Aunt Pert taking things?

Deming shook his head and hugged me once more. Mom’s with her. You know how much she loves great Aunt Persus.

And Paloma? How come they didn’t call you? Surely your parents knew right away.

After giving me a quien sabe shrug, he did a quick appraisal of my tattered robe. Come on. Get dressed, and we’ll go find out.

I was afraid he’d say that. After last night’s exploits, my hair was massed in tight brown ringlets that bore an unfortunate resemblance to a crazed moppet. Deming never expected elegance from me, but with his penchant for Boston beauties, I had to try.

Grab some espresso while I get ready. I nodded toward the door. Unless you’d like to walk Cato around the Common first.

Deming narrowed his eyes and ignored my suggestion. Be prepared when you see Aunt Pert. She hasn’t been herself for the last month or two. Digestive upsets, something of that nature. At her age I guess it’s expected, but she’s always been healthy as a horse. Now Mom says she’s been spouting all kinds of crazy notions about Dario’s death. I told Mom they should call her doctor. Get her sedated. He folded his arms as if he were the Lord High Executioner pronouncing the final sentence.

Cut her a break. She’s grieving. I touched his shoulder. You know all about that, remember?

He winced as if I had struck him. Deming had never recovered from his twin’s ghastly murder, a shared wound that united and devastated both of us. My thoughtless comment had exacerbated his pain.

Forgive me.

He waved his hand toward my bedroom door. I know. Now vamoose. Unless you need my help getting dressed.

SOME PEOPLE CALL his home a mansion, but Bolin Swann, one of the nation’s wealthiest men, shrugged off that description. When the twins entered college, he and Anika sold their estate in Weston and downsized to a five-story colonial in the heart of Back Bay. It was a modest dwelling only by the standards of an oil-rich pasha, or Internet potentate. Commoners like me called it magical.

I’d never adjusted to the effortless lifestyle enjoyed by the Swanns. I was the product of Russian émigrés content with their lot as college professors and obsessed with honing their only child’s intellectual prowess. In our home, books, not objets d’art, had been the real treasures. From prep school through graduate school, I’d rubbed shoulders with the Swanns and other privileged youths without feeling inadequate. After all, scholarships were earned; family wealth was an accident of birth. My parents shrugged it off, supplying me with the invincible armor of brainpower and knowledge.

Watch your step! Deming grasped my arm to avert an accident. Can’t have any mishaps spoiling that face.

His offhand comment made me flush with pleasure. I don’t feel beautiful—far from it. My eyes are my best feature, although men sometimes glance southward, focusing on other assets. Either way, I’ve always felt out of Deming’s league. His looks, a cross between a male model and a film star, literally turn female heads whenever he enters a room. Even in our combative days, I’d had to admit that. Intellect, not beauty, is my strength. I bow to no one in that area, but as frat boys often joked, dorms are packed with dull, brainy girls who study instead of dating.

I stepped carefully over the threshold, avoiding the perfectly polished floors. As a child, I’d once taken a spectacular header down a winding stairwell, something Deming never lets me forget. I saw no need for a return engagement.

Their houseman Po greeted me with a wintery smile that never reached his eyes. He was that rarity, an ageless family retainer who valued loyalty and discretion over tabloid tell-alls. I’d always found Po’s noiseless moves and solemn face vaguely disquieting. He rarely spoke English, preferring to express himself in rapid fire Mandarin. The rest of the household was also fluent in this language of Bolin’s ancestors. I was clueless anytime they spoke it. I clung to French and Spanish and a smattering of Russian with a ferocity I couldn’t explain or justify. Deming thought it a charming idiosyncrasy, but in truth it was pure stubbornness.

They’re in Dad’s study, he warned. Come on. Get a move on. He put his arm firmly around my waist and gave me a gentle push. Remember. Ignore Paloma. She’s a widow now. Show some respect.

I bit back the retort that teased the tip of my tongue. Respect is another commodity to be earned, not conferred, and Paloma typically focused on spending, not grieving.

I cast aside thoughts of the widow and focused on the beauty and serenity of Bolin’s study. Elaborate crown moldings spoke of old world craftsmanship, while an intricately carved walnut ceiling paid homage to the Greek gods. Bolin, an aficionado of Mount Olympus and its denizens, referred to his wife in private as Leda, an erotic reference that embarrassed his children and confounded guests. Personally, I envied the intense bond between Anika and her smoking hot hubby. It was intoxicating, something to aspire to in my own union.

You’re here! Anika Swann, a lithe, natural blonde of a certain age, glided up to me and kissed my cheek. She embraced her son with equal warmth and gestured toward the loveseat. Many years had passed since she’d graced the catwalk, but Anika still retained a brand of effortless chic that was hard to ignore and impossible to duplicate. Thank goodness her affection for me was genuine. In all the years I’d spent trudging in and out of her homes I’d rarely seen her disheveled or out of sorts. Wild hair and drooping hems were my signature style, not hers.

My eyes focused on a figure whose slight frame was almost swallowed by a velvet wing chair. At seventy-seven, Persus Cantor had a trim body and a curious air of innocence. Today, her exuberance had vanished, and furrows were etched above her brow. She hunkered down in front of the massive stone fireplace staring straight ahead, her unblinking sapphire eyes dulled by pain, drugs, or both.

Anika nudged Deming. Go see Aunt Pert. She’s been asking for you. Both of you.

That was a shocker. I’d expected her to cling to family during this difficult time, not to a virtual stranger like me.

Before we reached Persus, a familiar form interposed herself between Deming and me.

Easy, girl, he whispered. Just ignore her. He put his hand on my shoulder as a cloud of splashy scent announced the arrival of the grieving widow. Paloma Peters was a study in excess with a pedigree as suspect as her prominent body parts. She was blatantly sexy, a vixen who entranced men and alienated women. I took the high road, scolding myself for being unkind and a tad jealous. I’d never been a temptress, even on my best day. No one, including my ex-husband, had ever called me sexy unless it was a calculated prelude to intimacy.

I shook off doubts and allowed my better self to arise. After all, Paloma had just lost her husband, and she was young, barely twenty- two. She needed support, not censure. One glance at her bee-stung lips, plunging neckline, and micro-mini made me choke on charity. Even swathed in the mantle of widowhood, Paloma Peters was a tart. My grandma would have called her a hussy.

Dario had been smitten after only one encounter. He’d swiftly plucked Paloma from a promising career as a cocktail waitress and installed her in his Back Bay flat. Despite his grandmother’s pleas, Bolin’s counsel, and Deming’s taunts, Dario had fallen firmly and unequivocally in love with her. The rest was history.

Deming—oh Deming . . . Paloma flung herself at him, crushing my fiancé against her abundant bosom. Tears stained her cheeks but happily spared her mascara-laden lashes. Waves of long, platinum hair flowed past her shoulders, giving Paloma the air of a second-rate porn star. Her sobs subsided once Deming patted her back and pulled away.

You remember Eja, he said. My fiancée.

Paloma managed a tepid smile before folding into a swoon, a move that earned my grudging admiration. Fainting had gone out with whalebone corsets and hoop skirts. Not many women could pull it off without looking ungainly. I bowed to the presence of an artiste.

Bolin swiftly joined his son in escorting the widow out of the room. Meanwhile, I caught Anika’s eye and approached Aunt Pert.

Mrs. Cantor? Aunt Pert . . .

She didn’t move, and for an awful moment I feared that the angel of death had claimed another victim. Finally, Persus Cantor blinked and extended her hand to me. It was tiny, scarcely more than child-size, easily swallowed by my palm. She squeezed my hand and held it, her frigid fingers showing surprising strength.

I’m so sorry about Dario, I murmured. Such a terrible accident.

Accident? Who told you that? Blue eyes flashed with searing heat.

Too late, I recalled Deming’s warning. Aunt Pert denied the obvious and aimed to prove it. I babbled an inadequate apology.

Forgive me. I didn’t mean anything.

Nonsense, girl. You didn’t kill him. Persus Cantor rose to her full height, animated by emotion and grief. She tightened her hold on my hand, digging well-manicured fingers into my flesh.

Dario was murdered, Eja, and you must help me prove it.

2

M URDERED? I . . . nobody told me. My tongue felt two yards long as I tripped all over it. Fortunately, Anika appeared at my side to comfort her aunt.

It’s true, she said. Aunt Pert just got the message.

What did the police say? How . . . that is, what happened?

Aunt Pert raised her chin sky high, giving me a glimpse of the legendary beauty she’d once been. Not them, dear. The authorities have been very stubborn.

What then? Dario left a note?

Anika enveloped her aunt in a warm hug. It’s okay, Pert. Trust her.

Persus Cantor beamed an ethereal smile at Anika and nodded. Better than that. He told me himself. Dario said he’d been murdered.

The scholar in me reared her head. Pert had used the past tense. Dario couldn’t have told her he’d been murdered unless . . .

Aunt Pert consulted her psychic, Anika said. That’s how she got his message.

Psychic? My voice was as neutral as a confirmed skeptic could manage.

Persus wasn’t fooled at all. In fact, she seemed amused.

I can tell you’re not a believer, dear. That’s perfectly fine. I need an incisive mind to help me sort through things.

Anika ignored my pleading eyes and heaped gasoline on the fire. Nothing gets by Eja. She’s marvelous. What’s more, Dem can help too. He needs a vacation.

A wall of hard muscle enfolded me as Deming touched my back. Did someone call me?

Just listen, son, Anika said. Aunt Pert needs your help.

Persus retrieved a folder from a stylish tote and adjusted her reading glasses. You can’t always believe news accounts. Those people are such cynics. Still, Merlot has a devoted clientele. Missing persons, lost pets—she does it all.

Deming stiffened as he scanned the clippings. That’s her name? Merlot?

Yes. Merlot Brownne. Isn’t it lovely? Just like my favorite wine. Persus dimpled. I teased her about that, you know, but she didn’t mind. We made a connection the first time we met.

Anika moved swiftly to thwart an interrogation by her son. Sit down, everyone. Tea time.

Before you could say clotted cream, Po wheeled in a trolley laden with things I lusted for and avoided. Deming heaped his plate with scones, cream cakes, and enough cucumber sandwiches to feed an army while I settled for strawberries sans cream and smoked salmon.

You boys. I always loved watching you eat! When they were little, Eja, Dario and Deming always sneaked in to snitch cream cakes. Persus gulped as she digested that long ago memory. Her plate stayed empty.

Bolin Swann glided up to her, squeezed her shoulder, and smiled. They’re always with us, aren’t they? Even after they pass.

It’s a comfort, Persus agreed, especially at my age. Helps the loneliness.

A wave of sorrow eclipsed Bolin’s handsome features. I’d seen that pained look—the unacknowledged legacy of violence—many times since CeCe’s murder. My future father-in-law was a complex blend of Asian guile and Western grit. Deming embodied many of his