Read Online Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) by Arlene Kay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arlene Kay
Ads: Link
the world begun.” I’d done my senior thesis on “Love and Agony in Shakespeare.” This was obviously adapted from Romeo and Juliet. Adapted by a loving, literate person who ached for Dario Peters. I had more difficulty with the second one. It stayed at the recesses of my mind, lingering there, tantalizing me beyond endurance.
“Eja, for Christ’s sake, snap out of it! Are you in a trance or what?” Deming, the sensible lawyer, had little patience for poetry or inspired prose. He gathered the cigarette butts and put them into a small plastic baggy.
My eyes snapped open, and with it came the answer. Of course. Both passages were from Anthony and Cleopatra , an underrated triumph of the Bard. “He wears the rose of youth upon him.” How appropriate to describe Dario, that eternal juvenile.
The words that followed had a more militant ring, almost a promise of retribution. “None but Dario should conquer Dario.” The parallels between Dario and the valiant Mark Antony were a bit strained, but the message was clear. Someone who loved Dario believed he had been murdered and intended to do something about it.
“These quotes are different from the others,” I said. “Shakespeare versus bubble gum patter.”
Deming shrugged and examined the crimson stained remnant. “One other thing, Sherlock. This cigarette is different from the others too. Filtered.” He held it to his nose and inhaled. “Menthol, too, if my olfactory senses are still intact.”
“Most women smoke menthols,” I added. “This person came here after Dario’s death and left these tributes.”
Neither one of us mentioned the obvious: someone might have been stalking Dario, waiting for him to take his nightly ride on the path. Someone who smoked pricey French smokes. Someone who wanted him dead.
I BARELY RECALLED our trip back to Brokind. My mind was muddled, filled to overflowing with dark thoughts of Dario peddling to his death on a lonely Cape Cod trail, while an evildoer sucked cancer sticks. It was weird. None of my close friends smoked anymore. Even on television, cigarettes were the preserve of the villainous and the damned. Surely that alone would make the killer stand out in an upscale enclave like Bayview.
“Hey, we’re back.” Deming reached over and patted my shoulder. “Come on, sleepyhead, tonight’s the dinner party. Just think—a menu filled with potential suspects. That should perk you up!”
I’d been dozing, woolgathering as my mother used to say. For all we knew, Dario’s death might still have been an accident. After all, even a methodical, determined killer couldn’t count on Dario hitting that mantrap. Another cyclist might easily have been injured instead. Maybe some crazed killer was on the loose, and Dario was a random victim. I envisioned the headlines: Bayview basher strikes again!
Pert had been vague about the police report as she always was when she was trying to obfuscate. I made a mental note to check with the Barnstable authorities the next day, while Deming filed Dario’s will for probate. We hadn’t discussed it, but I supposed that Dario had a sizable estate. According to Deming, Lars Cantor had trussed up his own holdings tighter than a hangman’s noose. Still, Pert’s inheritance plus bequests to Dario must have been staggering.
Like many wealthy people, the Swanns were tightlipped about finances. Anika described her aunt’s situation as comfortable . Deming just shrugged. Unless I was mistaken, Paloma the widow would never have to serve another cocktail. Cheech Saenz was right on the money: she stood to inherit a bundle!
Chapter Six
“I HAVE A SURPRISE for you,” Deming said. “Come on, guess what it is.”
He was hiding something behind his back, giving me a Huck Finn grin that really didn’t suit him. Innocence is quite foreign to my sizzling sweetie although he aced Duplicity 101 in law school. He rarely tries it and seldom succeeds. I didn’t have the heart to tease him, so
“Eja, for Christ’s sake, snap out of it! Are you in a trance or what?” Deming, the sensible lawyer, had little patience for poetry or inspired prose. He gathered the cigarette butts and put them into a small plastic baggy.
My eyes snapped open, and with it came the answer. Of course. Both passages were from Anthony and Cleopatra , an underrated triumph of the Bard. “He wears the rose of youth upon him.” How appropriate to describe Dario, that eternal juvenile.
The words that followed had a more militant ring, almost a promise of retribution. “None but Dario should conquer Dario.” The parallels between Dario and the valiant Mark Antony were a bit strained, but the message was clear. Someone who loved Dario believed he had been murdered and intended to do something about it.
“These quotes are different from the others,” I said. “Shakespeare versus bubble gum patter.”
Deming shrugged and examined the crimson stained remnant. “One other thing, Sherlock. This cigarette is different from the others too. Filtered.” He held it to his nose and inhaled. “Menthol, too, if my olfactory senses are still intact.”
“Most women smoke menthols,” I added. “This person came here after Dario’s death and left these tributes.”
Neither one of us mentioned the obvious: someone might have been stalking Dario, waiting for him to take his nightly ride on the path. Someone who smoked pricey French smokes. Someone who wanted him dead.
I BARELY RECALLED our trip back to Brokind. My mind was muddled, filled to overflowing with dark thoughts of Dario peddling to his death on a lonely Cape Cod trail, while an evildoer sucked cancer sticks. It was weird. None of my close friends smoked anymore. Even on television, cigarettes were the preserve of the villainous and the damned. Surely that alone would make the killer stand out in an upscale enclave like Bayview.
“Hey, we’re back.” Deming reached over and patted my shoulder. “Come on, sleepyhead, tonight’s the dinner party. Just think—a menu filled with potential suspects. That should perk you up!”
I’d been dozing, woolgathering as my mother used to say. For all we knew, Dario’s death might still have been an accident. After all, even a methodical, determined killer couldn’t count on Dario hitting that mantrap. Another cyclist might easily have been injured instead. Maybe some crazed killer was on the loose, and Dario was a random victim. I envisioned the headlines: Bayview basher strikes again!
Pert had been vague about the police report as she always was when she was trying to obfuscate. I made a mental note to check with the Barnstable authorities the next day, while Deming filed Dario’s will for probate. We hadn’t discussed it, but I supposed that Dario had a sizable estate. According to Deming, Lars Cantor had trussed up his own holdings tighter than a hangman’s noose. Still, Pert’s inheritance plus bequests to Dario must have been staggering.
Like many wealthy people, the Swanns were tightlipped about finances. Anika described her aunt’s situation as comfortable . Deming just shrugged. Unless I was mistaken, Paloma the widow would never have to serve another cocktail. Cheech Saenz was right on the money: she stood to inherit a bundle!
Chapter Six
“I HAVE A SURPRISE for you,” Deming said. “Come on, guess what it is.”
He was hiding something behind his back, giving me a Huck Finn grin that really didn’t suit him. Innocence is quite foreign to my sizzling sweetie although he aced Duplicity 101 in law school. He rarely tries it and seldom succeeds. I didn’t have the heart to tease him, so
Similar Books
