Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  “How soon can you get to the office?”

  “I’m going to stop by my apartment first. I have to…I need to pick something up. I have an appointment with Bridget Cross. She should be there in”—Iris looked at her watch—“ten minutes. She’s a friend of mine. She and her husband, Kip, own a computer-games company and I’m helping them get things together to take it public. There’s a manila folder on my desk labeled Pandora. When she gets there, please give it to her and say I’ll be with her as soon as I can.”

  “Iris, I suggest you get to the office now. Sam Eastman’s waiting for you and he’s mad as can be.”

  “What?”

  “He said you had a nine o’clock employee compensation meeting with him.”

  “What?”

  “I looked on your schedule and didn’t see anything for nine o’clock and told him so. He insists he set this up with you last week.”

  “What?” Iris couldn’t squeeze out anything else. She sped through the yellow light at the end of the off-ramp and found her voice. “I don’t have a meeting with him. I told him my escrow was closing today and I was going to Casa Marina before I came in to sign papers.”

  “He says New York needs your planned compensation figures for next year by three o’clock their time today. He says he told you about this weeks ago.”

  “He did not.”

  “I called New York to verify and they said the figures do have to be in today. It’s the regional manager’s job to coordinate with their branches. I covered for you and told him you had everything worked out. I took the spreadsheet from last year, added and deleted employees as needed, and added six percent to everyone’s salary. Tell him it’s just a guideline.”

  “Louise, you’re a lifesaver.”

  “Just get here as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” The low-slung Triumph hit the asphalt with a clank when Iris didn’t slow down going over a low spot in the road. “But I need a favor. Can you meet me in the eleventh-floor women’s rest room with the makeup bag I keep in my lower right-hand drawer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Another favor—could you go to the little shop in the lobby and pick up a pair of panty hose for me, size B, Barely Beige?”

  Louise’s response was a little slower this time. “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” Iris knew Louise wouldn’t comment. Louise had been the assistant to the branch manager for over twenty years and had seen and heard just about everything. “I didn’t go home last night.” Iris knew Louise would figure it out anyway as soon as she saw her.

  “You wore that green suit yesterday. It’s rather memorable.” Leave it to Louise to immediately size up the problem.

  “Lime green polyester is back and it costs fifty times what I paid for it as a teenager. Who knew? Is this my punishment for being a fashion victim?”

  “If anyone notices you’ve got on the same suit, just tell them you’ve packed everything.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  Iris hung up and made a hard right into the parking garage of the black granite office tower. She screeched to a stop at the gate, jammed her parking card in the slot, and floored it when the gate opened. The Triumph’s squat tires squealed against the smooth cement as she drove forward, circled down to the next level, accelerated again, then circled down again, passing parked cars at a dangerous speed. Woe to the hapless pedestrian who crossed her path.

  Just then, a man carrying a long-handled dustpan and broom stepped from behind a pillar, almost in front of her speeding car.

  “Get out of the way!” Iris yelled.

  He stood frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, clutching his tools and gaping at Iris.

  She arced around him in the narrow garage, shouting back, “You have a death wish or something?”

  She pulled into her reserved spot and cut the engine. The Triumph was almost buried between a large Mercedes and a Lexus driven by executives from other firms who had the spots on either side of her. She looked to make sure no one was around before she stepped from the Triumph, an ungraceful action under the best of circumstances, but downright embarrassing today. She grabbed her briefcase from the shelf behind the two passenger seats, looked at the Triumph, and reluctantly decided to leave it as it was, not wanting to invest the time in putting up its ragtop and pulling on its canvas cover. She’d return to it once she got rid of Sam.

  She quickly walked to the elevator, unzipped her purse, pulled out her brush, and tried to drag it through her hopelessly tangled hair. She punched the call button as she swatted her hair with the brush. Her cellular phone rang again. She fished it from her cluttered handbag.

  “Hello?”

  “Iris, it’s Kip.”

  “Hi, Kip. What’s up?”

  “Isn’t Bridget supposed to meet with you this morning?”

  “She might already be waiting for me in my office. You want me to have her call you?”

  Kip sighed.

  Iris didn’t have the time to drag information out of Kip Cross. She had known Kip and Bridget since they were in college together and had long grown accustomed to Kip’s laconic personality, which was in stark contrast with his wife Bridget’s high-energy warmth. They were a case study in how opposites not only attract but sometimes complement each other’s shortcomings, creating a whole that’s stronger than the sum of its parts.

  Recently, Bridget, who was usually private about her personal life, had hinted that her and Kip’s twelve-year marriage was unraveling. Iris had already inserted herself in the middle of the hornets’ nest that was the Crosses’ business affairs. She sensed it wasn’t going to end there.

  “Something wrong, Kip?” The elevator doors opened but Iris let them close without getting on. She again punched the call button.

  “I screwed up, Iris. I really screwed up. Last night, Bridget caught me with Summer.”

  Kip didn’t have to elaborate on what he and the nanny were doing, but Iris asked anyway. “Caught you?”

  “It was completely stupid. One thing led to another and…”

  Iris quietly stewed.

  “Bridget wants a divorce.”

  Iris was stunned. She knew Bridget considered divorce to be a last resort. She felt a wave of foreboding. Kip was already angry at Bridget for taking their computer-games company, Pandora Software, public against his wishes. Now she was going to break up the family too.

  Kip expressed what Iris was thinking. “She wants to destroy everything, Iris. Everything that means anything to me.”

  The elevator doors opened again. Iris got in this time, hoping the line would break up. She was not prepared to have this conversation. The elevator doors closed and the line crackled. “I’m in an elevator. I’m losing you.”

  “I mean it, Iris. I won’t let her—”

  There was a rush of static and the line went dead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Within ten minutes, Iris had met Louise, fixed her hair and makeup, struggled into the panty hose Louise had bought and was exiting the elevator on the twelfth floor. Holding her briefcase securely in her left hand, she opened the heavy glass doors that were labeled in raised brass letters: MCKINNEY ALITZER FINANCIAL SERVICES. After the clatter her pumps had made on the garage’s concrete and the lobby’s granite, her footsteps on the suite’s rich carpeting sounded unnervingly quiet. It also made the clatter of her thoughts that much louder. Bridget wanted a divorce and Sam Eastman was impatiently tapping his foot in her office. After such a delightful start, it was shaping up to be one hell of a bad day.

  Iris turned left into the sales department and put on her game face—smiling and sporting a confident attitude. It was easy for her now. She’d been doing this a long time. A long-strided, hip-swinging gait was part of the package, but today she took small steps that made her feel like a geisha. Apart from her other concerns, she had a more immediate problem. The panty hose Louise had bought were too small. They had inched down around her hips and,
Iris feared, were heading for her knees.

  She walked past the bull pen—the cluster of open cubicles where the younger and lower-producing brokers and the sales assistants worked—waving and making eye contact with everyone. She passed the offices along the northern wall, home to the top brokers. She waved at Kyle Tucker and Amber Ambrose, who were at their desks there. She had walked past just about everyone and was almost home, delighted that no one was paying much attention to her, her tired lime green suit, or windblown hair. They seemed too busy. Every single one of them was on the phone, talking animatedly into their headsets. Her delight turned to concern when she sensed that no one appeared to be having a good time. Brokers were happy when they were making money. No one seemed happy.

  Iris reached Louise’s desk in a windowed alcove at the end of the suite. Next to it was Iris’s corner office. Louise peered at her over the top of her half-glasses and underneath her well-sculpted eyebrows. “Good morning, Iris. You’re looking well.” She grabbed a pencil from where it had been jammed into a mound of her grayish blonde hair that she always styled into a French roll. She used the pencil as a pointer as she checked a list of numbers.

  “And a wonderful good morning to you, Louise.” Iris spun into her office.

  Sam Eastman was sitting in one of the two damask-covered, Queen Anne-style chairs that faced Iris’s cherrywood desk. Iris had redecorated her office shortly after her promotion was announced. Out went the previous occupant’s masculine forest greens, plaids, heavy mahogany, and dark leather. In went colors of peach, mint green, and cream, fabrics of damask and tapestry, cherrywood furniture, and lamps in crystal and brass. Her prize purchase was her desk chair of soft, cream-colored leather studded with brass grommets.

  Sam was frowning and didn’t greet her before he started speaking. “I’m curious why you chose a six percent across-the-board increase.”

  Sam was only in his mid fifties, but he hadn’t aged well. He was a lank-haired, thin-skinned, WASPy kind of guy who had probably been good-looking in his early years. Now, his straight hair barely covered his pinkish scalp, his lusterless gray eyes were always rimmed with dark circles, and his belly and hips had gone soft. He smiled easily, like any good salesman, but it was never reflected in his eyes. He told jokes with the best of them and talked the talk and walked the walk, but to Iris, he seemed to chafe inside his own skin. There was an edge of discontent to him that none of the smiles or jokes could hide, at least from her.

  Something about Sam’s edginess compelled Iris to act impossibly cheerful around him. It was both her antidote to his subtly dour countenance and her revenge, as if to tell him, “Look at me, you SOB. You tried to stomp me down but I’m happy, happy, happy!” She was not above an occasional petty mind game.

  “Good morning, Sam!” she sang. “Nice to see you.” She quickly dumped her briefcase and purse on her desk and grabbed her BUDGETS ARE FOR WIMPS mug from the top, just where she had left it the previous night.

  Sam indicated the mug’s slogan. “I thought that was just a joke, but now I think it actually reflects your philosophy.”

  She threw her head back and laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d heard all week. “Be back in a flash. Just need a fresh cuppa Joe.” She winked at him and strode out of her office.

  Outside her door, Louise looked up at her. Iris barred both rows of her teeth in a violent grimace. She quickly put her professional face back on before anyone else saw her and took mincing steps to Liz Martini’s office, which was directly opposite hers in the suite’s northwest corner.

  Liz was talking into her telephone headset. “Look, sweetheart, you know I wouldn’t steer you wrong. This is Liz talking! Okay, kisses to the kids.” She made kissing noises into the phone. “And love to Susan. I mean, Debbie. Denise! Bye, bye.” After hanging up, she said to Iris or perhaps to herself, “If he didn’t keep trading in his wives for newer models, I’d be able to keep track of them.”

  Without a word, Iris came inside, closed the door, and ducked behind it, out of view of the miniblind-covered window that overlooked the suite. She set her empty mug on the corner of Liz’s desk.

  Liz crossed herself and said, “Oy, what a day!” Her father was Italian Catholic and her mother was Russian Jewish and Liz found it expedient to claim both religions. She looked curiously at Iris, who had hiked up her skirt and was struggling to pull up her panty hose.

  Iris precluded any comments. “Don’t ask.”

  Liz opened an aerosol container and, with a sweeping gesture, sprayed the contents on her face. Several gold and diamond bracelets sparkled on her tiny wrist. She was in her middle forties but looked younger. She was five foot eight and slender—downright skinny if the truth be known. Liz adhered to the Duchess of Windsor’s philosophy that one could never be too rich or too thin. She’d denied ever having plastic surgery, though the office scuttlebutt had it that she’d at least had breast implants. It was hard to reconcile her C-cup-sized breasts with her size 2 hips.

  Her hair was long and dark brown. Today, she wore it mounded on top of her head with tendrils dangling here and there. She had big brown eyes and full lips on an impish face. She always dressed in the latest fashions and as flashily as her clientele. Liz was married to Hollywood superagent, Ozzie Levinson. Ozzie managed his A-list clients’ careers while Liz managed their money. They got them coming and going.

  Iris, struggling with the tight nylon, slithered too close to Liz who sprayed her face. Iris blinked wildly. “Wha…?”

  “Sweetheart, it’s just mineral spray. You’ve got to rehydrate your skin or those Santa Ana winds will turn you into a prune in no time. It’s got amino acids or collagen or something. Whatever it is, it’s fabulous.” She spoke in a low, confidential tone, darting a bright red, manicured fingernail at Iris and frowning with concern as if she really cared about Iris becoming wrinkled. Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t. Liz treated everyone and every issue as if it were of the utmost importance. It was a style that helped her produce many millions a year in sales and earn millions in commissions. She was Iris’s prize pony. And the best part was, Liz and Iris had been friends for years before Iris recruited her from a competing firm.

  “Plus one of my clients sells this spray.” Liz shrugged. Her phone rang. She gave the device a fatigued look and didn’t answer it.

  “What’s going on?” Iris asked.

  “Market’s down five hundred and ten points.”

  Iris’s jaw dropped.

  “It was down eight hundred. It’s rebounded a bit. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. I’ve spent all morning telling my clients to not worry, to hold tight, let’s not panic sell, it’s just the correction the analysts predicted…”

  “Let’s hope so,” Iris said. “You want to have lunch today?”

  “Sure!” Liz exclaimed enthusiastically as if she’d never heard a better idea.

  “I have to get back to my office.” Iris started to leave, then remembered the excuse she’d used to get away from Sam. She retrieved the coffee mug and opened the door.

  “Isn’t that your friend and her little girl?” Liz got up from her desk and stood in the doorway. “Isn’t she precious? Hi, sweetheart.” She opened and closed her hand at Brianna. “What a cutie.”

  Brianna ran across the suite, dangling her rumpled Pocahontas doll upside down, and flung herself onto Iris’s legs. “Hi, Aunt Iris!”

  “Hi, sweetie. I’m so glad I got to see you today.”

  “I’m going to Grandma’s house.” Brianna was dressed in a pink cotton dress covered with white, stenciled stars.

  “How nice!” Iris exclaimed.

  “Honey, leave Aunt Iris alone. She’s working.” Bridget Cross had been chatting with Sam Eastman in Iris’s office and now stood in the doorway. She was wearing a light gray wool, gabardine pantsuit and a silk satin blouse. It was about the most formal attire she owned, and she hated getting even that dressed up, preferring to conduct business on the tennis court or golf course.
She was busy, with little time for frills. And she was practical.

  Iris noticed that the years of sun were starting to take their toll on Bridget’s skin. Under the fluorescent lights, it looked prematurely wrinkled.

  “You’ve met Sam,” Iris said as she greeted Bridget with a hug. Bridget was the only person Iris knew who had more energy than she did. Today however, she looked tired and worn. Iris assumed it was because of her problems with Kip. Her concern must have shown in her face because Bridget offered an explanation, though not the one she expected.

  “Alexa Platt’s missing. I’ve been beside myself with worry.”

  “What happened?”

  Bridget twisted her hands one inside the other as she relayed the events of the previous afternoon. She and Brianna were the last people who had seen Alexa before her disappearance. “I should have waited until she got safely under way. I would have, except Brianna and I were late.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “You’re talking about that movie director’s wife, Alexa Platt?” Sam interjected, hating to be left out. “I heard about it on the news coming over here. You’re friends with her?”

  “Alexa did some graphic artwork for Pandora early on,” Bridget responded. “Then Jim Platt hired her as art director on one of his movies. They married shortly thereafter.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Iris offered. “You know Alexa. She probably dashed off to Two Bunch Palms on the spur of the moment for an aromatherapy massage, completely oblivious to the chaos she’s created.”

  “Iris, you know the Platts as well?” Sam eagerly asked.

  Bridget, consumed by her own concern, inadvertently ignored him. “And not tell Jim?”

  “I know Alexa casually,” Iris vaguely explained to Sam, reluctant to reveal anything, however innocuous, about her private life to her boss. Any tidbit of information was a potential weapon. Returning her attention to Bridget, she said, “Alexa probably did tell Jim. He’s going in a zillion directions these days. He probably forgot.”