Read Online Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) by Arlene Kay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Arlene Kay
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a modest, half-hearted response to the tragedy, a sad case of too little, too late. Bayview had done little else to rectify the situation or the hazards it imposed.
“Look! Jewelry.” Deming plucked something gold from the ground.
It was tiny, a lion’s head charm, glittering proudly in the morning sun. I’d seen its cousin only yesterday suspended from a chain around Merlot Brownne’s neck. Not surprising, I reasoned. After all, the poor woman found Dario’s body. Lions had special significance in the occult world, especially the Tarot. They symbolized strength and bravery. Was this a commentary about Dario or a victory lap by Merlot?
“Well? What do you think?” Deming watched me closely, his eyes radiating suspicion. “You’re hiding something, Eja.”
“No big deal. It’s just that Merlot wore a similar charm yesterday.”
He stiffened at the mention of the psychic’s name. “Maybe some of my aunt’s fifty thousand bucks paid for it. I’ll ask this so-called seer if she dares to show her face tonight.” Deming curled his lip in a particularly sexy snarl.
“Tut, tut. Remember your manners. Aunt Pert dotes on Merlot. Besides, she’ll probably avoid both of us if she has any sense at all.” I touched his cheek and felt a tremor sweep through my body. It was still foreign to me, this mindless, visceral response to a man. Some say it’s a sign of weakness. Let them. I happily shed my inhibitions and basked in the heat of the moment.
Right on cue, Cato spoiled everything by launching a bid for freedom. His lead flipped upward as the demonic spaniel scampered toward a copse of pitch pines on the far side of the trail. He ignored my pleas and Deming’s stern commands with a practiced air. I finally corralled the little imp when he circled ’round and burrowed into a spot fifty feet from Dario’s memorial.
“Ugh! Cut it out! It’s disgusting, a nicotine nest. Looks like someone smoked half a pack here.”
Deming bounded up and toed the pile with his shoe. “These are soggy. Peculiar, isn’t it? This place is drier than the proverbial bone. All kinds of fire alerts up. They made a big thing of it on the news.” His jaw tightened. “Matter of fact, I don’t think Bayview’s had any rain since the night of Dario’s accident.” He gingerly picked up one of the butts and examined it. “Hmm. Our smoker has expensive tastes. Deadly, but exclusive.”
“What are you saying?” My muscles clenched as I awaited his answer.
He waited awhile, sifting through that pile of tobacco as if it told a tale. “Easy to see you’re not a smoker.” Deming stroked my hair. “Those are Gitanes, very French, very exclusive. These are the real deal—Brunes.”
“So what?” I hate it when he gets pedantic. If he weren’t so big, I’d shake him senseless.
“Gitanes Brunes are the strongest, darkest, and most potent. No many smokers can tolerate the unfiltered kind, but this guy obviously dotes on it.”
A deep crimson stain on one of the butts caught my attention. Was it lipstick, or a product of my fevered imagination? As I scooped it up, several scraps of paper, secured by shells, fluttered in the breeze. More tributes to Dario but these were penned by a very different hand, and unlike the soggy cigs, they were bone dry. Oddly enough the crimson butt was also dry.
“What’s the matter?” Deming asked, moving my way. “We’re not archeologists, missy, or forensic scientists, for that matter. I’m sure the police force here is very competent.”
My absorption was so complete that his words barely registered. I was focused, obsessed, by the scraps of paper in my hand.
“Look,” I said, handing them to Deming. “These passages are from Shakespeare. Modified, of course, to describe a man.”
I closed my eyes, striving to recall the origin of each, repeating the phrases until they leapt out, vivid and heart wrenching.
“One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun never saw his match since
“Look! Jewelry.” Deming plucked something gold from the ground.
It was tiny, a lion’s head charm, glittering proudly in the morning sun. I’d seen its cousin only yesterday suspended from a chain around Merlot Brownne’s neck. Not surprising, I reasoned. After all, the poor woman found Dario’s body. Lions had special significance in the occult world, especially the Tarot. They symbolized strength and bravery. Was this a commentary about Dario or a victory lap by Merlot?
“Well? What do you think?” Deming watched me closely, his eyes radiating suspicion. “You’re hiding something, Eja.”
“No big deal. It’s just that Merlot wore a similar charm yesterday.”
He stiffened at the mention of the psychic’s name. “Maybe some of my aunt’s fifty thousand bucks paid for it. I’ll ask this so-called seer if she dares to show her face tonight.” Deming curled his lip in a particularly sexy snarl.
“Tut, tut. Remember your manners. Aunt Pert dotes on Merlot. Besides, she’ll probably avoid both of us if she has any sense at all.” I touched his cheek and felt a tremor sweep through my body. It was still foreign to me, this mindless, visceral response to a man. Some say it’s a sign of weakness. Let them. I happily shed my inhibitions and basked in the heat of the moment.
Right on cue, Cato spoiled everything by launching a bid for freedom. His lead flipped upward as the demonic spaniel scampered toward a copse of pitch pines on the far side of the trail. He ignored my pleas and Deming’s stern commands with a practiced air. I finally corralled the little imp when he circled ’round and burrowed into a spot fifty feet from Dario’s memorial.
“Ugh! Cut it out! It’s disgusting, a nicotine nest. Looks like someone smoked half a pack here.”
Deming bounded up and toed the pile with his shoe. “These are soggy. Peculiar, isn’t it? This place is drier than the proverbial bone. All kinds of fire alerts up. They made a big thing of it on the news.” His jaw tightened. “Matter of fact, I don’t think Bayview’s had any rain since the night of Dario’s accident.” He gingerly picked up one of the butts and examined it. “Hmm. Our smoker has expensive tastes. Deadly, but exclusive.”
“What are you saying?” My muscles clenched as I awaited his answer.
He waited awhile, sifting through that pile of tobacco as if it told a tale. “Easy to see you’re not a smoker.” Deming stroked my hair. “Those are Gitanes, very French, very exclusive. These are the real deal—Brunes.”
“So what?” I hate it when he gets pedantic. If he weren’t so big, I’d shake him senseless.
“Gitanes Brunes are the strongest, darkest, and most potent. No many smokers can tolerate the unfiltered kind, but this guy obviously dotes on it.”
A deep crimson stain on one of the butts caught my attention. Was it lipstick, or a product of my fevered imagination? As I scooped it up, several scraps of paper, secured by shells, fluttered in the breeze. More tributes to Dario but these were penned by a very different hand, and unlike the soggy cigs, they were bone dry. Oddly enough the crimson butt was also dry.
“What’s the matter?” Deming asked, moving my way. “We’re not archeologists, missy, or forensic scientists, for that matter. I’m sure the police force here is very competent.”
My absorption was so complete that his words barely registered. I was focused, obsessed, by the scraps of paper in my hand.
“Look,” I said, handing them to Deming. “These passages are from Shakespeare. Modified, of course, to describe a man.”
I closed my eyes, striving to recall the origin of each, repeating the phrases until they leapt out, vivid and heart wrenching.
“One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun never saw his match since
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