Free Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) by Arlene Kay Page A

chatter. “Those were happy times for us.”
    Deming hugged his aunt and gently placed her on the ground as a pall descended upon us. We walked silently, single file, to the salon looking more like mourners than merrymakers.
    MY PARENTS’ HOME didn’t have a salon. To us, salons were the spot for a shampoo and set. A living room suited our communal needs although the one in our modest Cape could have been tucked quite comfortably into a corner of Pert’s palatial residence. Despite my Trotskyite upbringing, I had to admit that unbridled wealth was less of a hardship than I’d imagined. Apparently our dinner companions agreed. They seemed perfectly at home in the lap of luxury, sipping cocktails and nibbling canapés furnished by the ever-vigilant Krister.
    After greeting everyone, I glossed over Paloma, Mordechai Dale, and Laird Foster and focused on the newcomers. They stood apart from the others, engrossed in heated conversation. The female had to be Meeka Kyle; I had no idea who her companion was.
    Meeka was a stunner, that’s for sure. She was tall for a woman, closer to Deming’s height than my own, with braided black hair and beautiful café au lait skin. As Meeka turned to greet us, her full lips curved into a smile. “Quite an eclectic group you’ve assembled, Persus. Should be a lively evening.”
    “Oh, Meeka, I’m so glad you were free. I did so want you to meet my nephew and his lovely fiancée.” Pert waved her arm toward us. “Deming Swann and Eja Kane. Deming is Anika’s son, and Eja is a famous mystery writer.”
    Meeka arched her brow slightly at the word famous, but who could blame her. Eja Kane was not exactly a household name. Not yet, anyway. Her eyelids flickered as she did a subtle appraisal of Deming. Like most women, she seemed pleased by what she saw.
    “Ms. Kyle.” Deming nodded politely. “I’m surprised we’ve never met before. Aunt Persus says you virtually run this town.”
    A becoming flush stained his aunt’s cheeks, giving her the look of an ingénue. “Oh, Demmy, you’re such a tease. Meeka worked closely with Dario, you know. He respected her judgment. We all do.”
    I stole a glance at Paloma. She’d abandoned any pretense of wearing widow’s weeds, opting instead for the look of a downscale cabaret artist. Her eyes, alight with malice as she beamed a death ray toward Meeka, suggested that the Widow Peters had a very sharp axe to grind. It was also evident that when measured against the urbane Ms. Kyle, Paloma came up short on everything except her skirt.
    “I heard tales about you from Dario,” Meeka said, giving Deming an eye roll. “I was at Wellesley while you two were raising Cain in Bayview. Glad I missed it.” She winked and pivoted my way. “Tell me about your writing, Eja. I’m a voracious reader.”
    We spent a few minutes chatting idly about the sad state of the publishing industry and the demise of independent bookstores. Although she was courteous, it was plain that Meeka’s attention was elsewhere. She angled her shapely body sideways, never losing sight of Paloma. At the first opportunity, Meeka excused herself and stalked out of the room like a woman on a mission.
    I found myself alone, abandoned by Deming and ignored by the locals. It was fine, nothing that another cocktail couldn’t fix. That’s when my plan failed. As I reached for a glass, an explosion of fur upended the tray. A martini plopped in my lap as Ibsen wagged his doggy way into the room, grinning sheepishly.
    “Here. Let me help.” Meeka’s companion, the man I’d dubbed the “swarthy stranger,” leapt to my aid, armed with an oversized linen napkin. He corralled Ibsen and gently guided the big dog toward the door while I soaked the cloth with Perrier and mopped my dress.
    Hmm. Useful as well as decorative . My savior was Deming’s age and height with the broad shoulders of a linebacker and the taut muscles of an Olympic athlete. He rejoined me and extended his