Swann Dive

  Swann Dive

  Someone made sure CeCe Swann’s to-die-for life came to a drop-dead ending. Now an unlikely pair of sleuths are going to find out who pushed the Swann out of the nest.

  Boston heiress Cecilia Swann had everything—looks, brains, and money galore. Her love of life was legendary, as was her rampant fear of heights. Leaping off a building was the last thing she would ever do. So when she dies that way, Eja Kane, her best friend since childhood, vows to prove it was murder. Eja isn’t gorgeous, blue-blooded, or glamorous; she’s a wisecracking failed novelist who’s battling a few extra pounds and a set of lowered expectations about life in general and men in particular. But when it comes to loyalty and courage she’s as tough as a junkyard dog and twice as likely to bite.

  Can she resist taking a chunk out of her arrogant partner during the search for CeCe’s killer? CeCe’s handsome fraternal twin, Deming Swann, has taunted Eja since childhood. His film star looks and sense of entitlement drive her crazy. Now, however, the rules between them change as they put aside their differences in order to avenge CeCe. Before long, Eja and Deming must battle their own passions as they unravel the trail of a ruthless killer.

  ———

  “Dive in! What starts out as a murder investigation quickly becomes a lush and lavish dance for the hero and heroine of Swann Dive. Arlene Kay is a versatile author and she has another winner.”

  —Lane Stone, Author, the TIARA INVESTIGATIONS MYSTERIES

  “Join mystery writer Eja Kane as she becomes embroiled in a real-life mystery when her best friend is murdered. This book is highly entertaining, filled with wit, charm, and romance. I can’t wait for the next book in the series!”

  —Jaye Roycraft, Author, RAINSCAPE

  “Swann Dive is a sexy and suspenseful ride through Boston that kept me up well past my bedtime! Arlene Kay had me guessing until the end.”

  —Kate George, Author, the BREE MACGOWAN MYSTERY SERIES

  The Boston Uncommons Mysteries

  Swann Dive

  Mantrap

  Gilt Trip

  Swann Dive

  Book 1: The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series

  by

  Arlene Kay

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-454-9

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-419-8

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2014 by Arlene Kay

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

  We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

  ImaJinnBooks.com

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Man (manipulated) © George Mayer | Dreamstime.com

  :Edsz:01:

  One

  I TRY TO AVOID Sunday brunch. For a recovering chowhound like me it’s a straight shot into Dante’s third circle with all the other gluttons. On this particular morning, I was lured to Mistral, one of Boston’s swankiest spots, to celebrate another career triumph by Cecilia Swann, my best friend since pre-school. Resistance was futile, as it had been since kindergarten, when she’d commandeered my crayons. I vowed to make the most of a free meal and try to be a good sport.

  My lackluster literary career had been a conscious choice, not the anonymity of course, just the dream. An MFA from Brown would never enrich me until I wrote the elusive bestseller. That dream was still a work in progress.

  As I walked through the restaurant’s elegant doors, I mouthed my mantra. Patience, Eja Kane. Your turn will come.

  I was ten minutes early—I’m always early. It’s a character flaw that has dogged me all my life. Sometimes, particularly when dealing with my best friend, it comes in handy. I claimed our table and browsed the menu. CeCe was always fashionably late. That girl loved to make an entrance, and, with her looks, she drew the eyes of every man in her path. I lacked the elegance gene that was hardwired into her DNA, but today, garbed in crimson with my exuberant curls tamed by gel, I felt like a contender.

  Everything on the menu looked phenomenal, including the prices. I blanched at twenty-dollar omelets, but CeCe could easily afford them. Besides being a rising legal star, she was a bona fide heiress, the much-beloved daughter of mega-rich Bolin Swann. That simplified things for me. As her faithful retainer and head cheerleader, I accepted occasional treats without a scintilla of guilt.

  While weighing the merits and calorie count of salmon egg-white frittata versus huevos rancheros, I pondered the many edicts of the nanny state. Why compel restaurants to torture diners with information they already knew or suspected? Calorie counts are the very antithesis of lavish Sunday brunches, a conspiracy by sadistic ectomorphs to ruin things for the rest of us.

  By eleven twenty, I got antsy. The waiter was hovering, and CeCe Swann was nowhere to be seen. Mistral is a popular place, with a line of patrons that stretches out the door. I tried to brazen it out but caved after ten minutes. An egg-white dish with a tempting breadbasket calmed my nerves as I plotted revenge against my faithless friend. I’d taken a lot of guff from CeCe over the years, but this really fried the frittata. She’d actually stood me up after dragooning me into coming! My fingers ached from the increasingly terse text messages I sent. She’d better have a good excuse. Scratch that. She’d better have a damn good excuse that didn’t involve some man.

  At noon, I slipped the waiter my one viable credit card and prepared to leave. When my phone rang, I reached for it without much enthusiasm. Caller ID confirmed my suspicions: CeCe Swann on the line. I didn’t answer right away. Who needs a battle royal after ingesting a scandalous number of carbs? I decided to let her stew until I’d exited the restaurant and was standing on Columbus Avenue. Even she acknowledged that you never abandon your friend for a cretinous male unfit to shine your stilettos. Whatever happened to female solidarity?

  I answered on the eighth ring. A woman whose stern, headmistressy voice I didn’t recognize greeted me.

  “Who’s this?” I asked. “Where’s Cecilia Swann?”

  “Lieutenant Euphemia Bates, Boston Police. To whom am I speaking?”

  If my throat hadn’t closed, I would have applauded her good grammar. So few people observe proper syntax these days. A sudden chill unrelated to the weather curled my toes. Something was very wrong.

  “I’m . . . I’m Eja Kane. CeCe’s friend. Where is she? Please tell me.”

  She grunted. “Oh. You’re the one who left all these texts.”

  “You have her phone. Why? Is she okay?”

  Maybe someone robbed her, stole her phone. That would explain everything. Her business and professional life was encapsulated in that smartphone. Some of Boston’s grand poohbahs were available for immediate speed dial at the stab of her manicured finger. CeCe must have freaked out, demanded
special treatment, and pissed off the cops. That was just like her. She’d been raised to expect that.

  “Let me speak with Ms. Swann, Lieutenant. I’m sure we can resolve things.”

  Euphemia Bates cleared her throat. “I can’t do that, Ms. Kane. Do you know where your friend is right now?”

  I was weary of cop games and irritated with CeCe. “She’s somewhere in transit. My text messages should tell you that.”

  Euphemia Bates seemed impervious to snubs and slights. Her voice never wavered as she plowed right through our conversation.

  “Maybe you can help us. We haven’t found any other identification except this phone.”

  I relaxed. Now at least I could breathe. Just as I suspected, CeCe’s phone had been lost or stolen, and somehow the cops got hold of it. Puzzling, but not that unusual when the Swann family was involved. They carried serious weight in the Hub.

  Lieutenant Bates pressed her advantage. “I’ll send a car over for you. You’re at Mistral, right?”

  “But I . . .”

  She spit out a command before my muddled synapses could fire. “Stay there.”

  I SPENT THE NEXT ten minutes fruitlessly dialing every contact I could think of. CeCe’s home number didn’t answer. The law firm of Sevier, Miles and Swann referred all inquiries to their answering service. Calls to her parents and famously arrogant twin brother Deming went straight to voicemail. Since her former fiancé Jem Russell and I were sworn enemies, I didn’t have his number. For the first time ever I wished that I did. Things were desperate enough to warrant a call, even though I loathed the duplicitous creature. I mouthed a silent prayer to Sir Thomas More, patron saint of Boston lawyers. CeCe and I both admired him for his sense of humor and vast intellect. He’d understand if one of his tribe had gone temporarily AWOL over an unworthy man.

  “Ms. Kane? Ms. Eja Kane?” The patrolman stood before me, hands lightly touching his gun-belt. He was a tall, gangly redhead, probably a rookie. His nameplate read Jennings.

  “Lieutenant Bates sent me, ma’am.” He gestured toward the cruiser hugging the curb. “This way, please.”

  My gait was stiff and awkward as I climbed into the back seat. Something, some harbinger of doom, had incapacitated me. Passersby gawked, wondering no doubt, what sordid crime I was guilty of. When Jennings flipped on the siren, heads turned, and several pedestrians craned their neck to peer in at me.

  The final insult. CeCe owed me big-time for this one.

  “What’s this all about, Officer? Where’s my friend?”

  His smooth countenance gave new meaning to the term poker face.

  “I’ll let the lieutenant fill you in. We’re almost there.” With that, he took a sharp left, pulling into a side street in the financial district abutting a thirty-story building that I’d never noticed before. The whole area was a sterile maze of glass and steel trying way too hard to be Manhattan. It was largely a mystery to me.

  Most Sundays these streets would be deserted. Not today. Police cars, news vans, and an ambulance ringed the perimeter of the high-rise. The front entrance was sealed off by yards of yellow police scene tape.

  That eerie feeling swept through me again. To my knowledge, CeCe had no reason to be here, especially on a beautiful autumn Sunday when we’d scheduled brunch. A cold sweat trickled down my neck, and for a moment I felt light-headed. Jennings swung open my door and offered his arm.

  “You okay, ma’am? You’re kind of pale.”

  In times of stress, good manners fly out the window. I forgot that Jennings was a rookie—early twenties by the look of him—trying hard to be tough.

  “I most certainly am not okay, Officer, and until I find my friend, I won’t be.”

  He gaped at me, as though I were an alien. A sprinkling of ginger-colored freckles surfaced on the bridge of his nose, like a grown up Opie from the land of Mayberry. His befuddled look suggested that he’d skipped the chapter on female rage in the police manual.

  Before things deteriorated, the cavalry arrived. A steely-eyed African-American woman edging comfortably into middle age drew close and extended her hand, a police badge swinging from the lanyard around her neck.

  “I’ll take it from here, Jennings. I’m Euphemia Bates, Ms. Kane. Thank you for coming. Please follow me.”

  Two

  EUPHEMIA BATES was a study in contrasts. Despite her brusque manner, she allowed a spark of compassion to strike her large brown eyes. That frightened me. Anger, arrogance, or indifference were preferable because that meant CeCe was okay. A cop’s compassion didn’t augur well for my friend’s welfare.

  She herded me through the lobby toward an elegantly appointed conference room. Euphemia. That name was solid and strong, something my grandma’s peers might have used. I vaguely recalled that St. Euphemia was an early Christian martyr who died horrifically. That didn’t mean much. Death was no picnic for anyone with martyr attached to her name.

  “Let’s sit down in here and talk, shall we?” Lieutenant Bates wedged her chair into a corner and leaned back against the wall. She was tall, somewhere north of six feet and slender enough to be a model. Her sculpted features, now molded into a cop’s mask, reminded me of an Etruscan princess. I was woolgathering, trying to dull my senses by trivial observations. It didn’t work.

  “Any problem if I record our conversation?” She made it into a throwaway line, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

  I was tired, weary of playing the pawn in this elaborate chess game. “I won’t say another word until you tell me about my friend. What’s happened to Cecilia Swann? Where is she?”

  Euphemia pressed her lips into a thin, firm line. “I’m sorry, Ms. Kane. Your friend is dead. We weren’t sure of her identity until quite recently.” She sighed. “You see, her purse is missing. We had only her phone, and it’s in a sad state.”

  Nothing prepares you for death, no matter how they soften the blow. My stomach clenched, but I didn’t faint. Numbness spread through me instead, short-circuiting my pain receptors. I was hollow, the hollow woman. All of a sudden I chuckled. My chuckles turned to laughter, great braying peals of laughter. CeCe loved T.S. Eliot, especially “The Hollow Men.” Had her world ended with a whimper or a bang?

  “Ms. Kane, do you hear me?” Lieutenant Bates nodded to a corpulent man who had slipped into the room. “Get her some coffee. Now.”

  She slithered around the table as gracefully as a garden snake and grasped my shoulder. I fully expected her to slap my face the way they do in the movies.

  “Calm down. I know this is a shock, but I need your help.”

  I raised my head and caught her eye. “What happened? Please tell me.”

  She clenched her jaw and spit out the words. “We think—this is very preliminary, remember—the evidence suggests that Ms. Swann committed suicide.”

  “No. Absolutely not. CeCe was the last person to harm herself. She loved life, believe you me.” I trotted out every cliché in the book. Not very imaginative for a writer. I could see that Euphemia Bates had gone into neutral. She’d probably heard those words a hundred times before from angst-ridden survivors.

  I clutched the edge of the table in a death grip. “She was at the zenith of her career, a federal judgeship. That’s why we were celebrating at Mistral.” I nodded as if that were the deal-breaker. As if any sane woman would kill herself before brunch. I summoned every ounce of courage in my possession and pressed forward. This was truth-telling time, and I had to know.

  “Was it pills? She never took much medication. Considered it a sign of weakness.”

  A deep sigh from Mia. I’d decided to call her that. Euphemia was just too formal and awkward for women discussing death. Mia was a friendlier, more approachable name. She retrieved a printout from her briefcase and started reading.

  “At 8:45 a.m. Ms. Swann
walked into the lobby of this building and boarded the elevator. Security tapes confirm that as well as the testimony of another resident who’d just finished walking her dog.”

  I leaned forward, trying to make sense of it. “Why this building? She didn’t live here. Was she meeting a client or something?”

  Another neutral look from Mia. “We don’t know. We may never know. I understand that Ms. Swann lived approximately a mile away in Back Bay.”

  “Beacon Hill, actually. Right on Beacon Street.”

  I adored CeCe’s place. Three bedrooms, three baths overlooking the Common and the State House. It was the ultimate insider’s pad in a venerable building where vacancies seldom occurred. Her parents presented it to her when CeCe graduated from law school.

  “She lived alone?”

  “Mostly. Unless you count Cato.”

  Mia raised exquisitely shaped brows. “Cato?”

  “Her odious Springer Spaniel. Believe me, CeCe would never abandon him.”

  Cato was a rescue, an ill-tempered cur that no sane person would ever take.

  “Okay. Let’s get through this, Ms. Kane. I know it’s tough.” More fumbling through a sheaf of papers. “Ms. Swann asked how to access the roof garden. It’s on the thirty-second floor.” She put special emphasis on the words roof garden. “Two hours later, a resident on the twelfth floor found your friend’s body in an interior courtyard. It broke her fall.”

  “No. That’s not possible!” I rose slowly, steadying myself again. “CeCe would never jump. She was terrified of heights. Saw a shrink about it even. That’s why she lived on the second floor.”

  “I’m sorry, Eja.” She patted my arm, as if to quell the tremors coursing through my body.

  I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. Fight-or-flight impulse they call it. I chose to run, not fight. This was all nonsense. Some stranger had appropriated CeCe’s cell phone. It had to be. I grabbed my purse and surged toward the door in time to collide with Deming Swann.