Slow Squeeze (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 2

  The radio station broke for news. “Jury selection began today in the trial of the four white Los Angeles Police Department officers accused of using excessive force in the arrest of black motorist Rodney King. The incident was videotaped by an eyewitness. Today’s weather…”

  Iris turned off Pacific Coast Highway and drove down the steep driveway by the restaurant, past the outer river rock wall covered with fuchsia and salmon bougainvillea vines, now mere twigs as they slept during the California winter. The entrance to Wave’s driveway was marked with just a tiny sign, the smallness of the type implying that if you don’t already know the restaurant’s here, you need not stop by.

  Wave was a Malibu cliff-hanging confection financed by a group of L.A. investors—a movie star, two television stars, a movie producer, an entertainment attorney, and a hairdresser—all exploring their creative and business potentials. There were designer linens on the tables and original art on the walls, some of it the creations of the investor group’s famous friends. The chef of the moment was busy in the glass-walled kitchen.

  Iris reluctantly turned the Triumph over to the valet, grimacing and not looking back when he ground the gears. She walked across a bottle green, fired Mexican tile patio, her pump heels shallowly resounding against the brittle clay. She was wearing her Chanel knockoff, a pink mohair suit with a jewel collar and big gold buttons connected by chains. She had splurged on the real thing for her handbag.

  She flipped one side of her chin-length, blunt-cut blond hair behind an ear. People watched her as she walked through the restaurant. Not because she cut a striking figure—she was tall and slender and attractive in a WASPy, white-bread way—but because people were fascinated by women in suits, especially the way Iris wore a suit. Like a man wore a suit, as if she’d been born with it on, which was how she felt on her worst days.

  The restaurant grounds were landscaped in politically correct, drought-resistant, indigenous plants. Busy waiters travelled to and fro, men and women dressed in white tops and black bottoms, a straightforward enough dress code perverted here by an L.A. interpretation—too tight, too baggy, or too short.

  Stout beams suspended the patio a hundred feet above surf-smoothed boulders and crashing waves. It was a demonstration of the power of architectural design over earth in constant motion from earthquakes and erosion. This unstable land influenced the attitudes of the denizens who lived upon it; they were never at rest and never left well enough alone.

  Iris sat at the bar. Barbie Stringfellow was even later than Iris was. The bar was off the patio, surrounded by sliding glass doors now pulled open to let in the ocean breeze. The bar top was a large half circle of lacquered blond wood. Matching blond stools stood underneath. Silver “mind bender” puzzles were placed along the bar top, games where one attempted to form odd-shaped pieces into a T or remove a ring that was wrapped inside a silver pretzel or some other task. Iris ignored them.

  She ordered a glass of chardonnay from the bartender, who was a square-jawed, blond and buffed California design. His name tag identified him as William. He’d probably been just plain Bill once upon a time in Michigan or Nebraska or Kansas before he started California dreamin’.

  Barbie had said she’d be wearing purple. Iris imagined a proper Southern lady in a tailored suit with outdated hair, big diamonds, and careful makeup. She nursed her wine and observed the women entering the restaurant alone. There was a blond with 8 percent body fat wearing a white cat suit, white cowboy boots, and wild string-permed hair. She pranced around, vogueing while looking for her party.

  Okay, everyone’s seen you, Miss Melrose, Iris said to herself. You’ll grow old too—if you’re lucky.

  “Is she acting like a cat because she’s wearing a cat suit or is she wearing a cat suit because she acts like a cat?” William, the bartender, mused. He busied himself refreshing plastic jugs with fresh juices brought from the kitchen.

  Iris laughed. “The former, I think.”

  William gave Iris a searching look.

  She knew what was coming.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  She looked at William coyly. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “No, really. You look familiar. You an actor?”

  “Not officially.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “I’m an investment counselor. Got any money stashed in a mattress you’d like me to put to work for you?” She batted her eyes.

  William set a plate of toast circles, radish flowers, and herbed olive oil in front of her. “I’m not coming on to you or anything. It’s just that I never forget a face.”

  Iris turned the wineglass by its stem against the cocktail napkin. “Too bad. I could use a good come-on.”

  He smiled at her, a guy who knows he’s attractive.

  “You an actor?” she asked.

  He leaned against the bar with his arms crossed, which pushed his biceps out. “Yep.” He rubbed his square jaw with his hand. “Actually, I’m a bartender. I’m trying to break into acting.”

  She raised her wineglass toward him. “Good luck.”

  A painfully thin, frosted-blond, middle-aged woman with collagen-smooth skin and mannequin-perfect makeup entered the restaurant, trailing fragrance and carrying a big designer handbag over her shoulder, the same designer’s date book in one hand and the matching briefcase in her other hand.

  “Beverly Hills?” Iris guessed.

  William nodded. “Definitely.”

  Then Iris saw a bird not native to these parts.

  She was pretty, with a diamond-shaped face, wide-set brown eyes, full cheeks, and a puckish mouth, all of it just past ripeness. She was short and a bit round and walked with quick, mincing steps on purple Frederick’s of Hollywood shoes with ankle straps and three-inch heels. Her white suit had a bolero jacket with bright faux jewels scattered across the lapels. Her skirt was short and tight with a high back slit. Her blouse was purple silk with a low V-neck revealing serious cleavage. She wore big gold jewelry, a large, white, hobo-style purse, false eyelashes, many shades of eye shadow, and hot pink lipstick. She had very big, very black hair teased into a style suggesting a bird’s nest.

  “Now there’s someone who marches to her own drummer,” William said.

  “I have a sinking feeling she’s my client.”

  The host had wandered away from the podium, and the woman danced on those heels looking for him, twisting an oversized watch on her wrist with long, hot pink porcelain nails. She skipped to the front of the podium, picked up the reservation list, held it to her forehead to shade her eyes, and peered into the bar. Iris tentatively raised three fingers in greeting. The woman fluttered the reservation list at her and started walking quickly, her pace constrained by her tight skirt, waving the reservation list in time with her hips, holding her other arm out to the side as if to balance her top-heavy proportions. Iris slid from the bar stool and started her own noisy walk across the tiles.

  “Ma’am?” the host said, hopping behind the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  She stopped, turned, grabbed his arm with one hand, and waved the list with the other. “Oh my goodness! Barbeh girl, you’re losin’ your marbles. Here ya go, buddy.” She gave the host his list and continued walking toward Iris, her now free right hand extended in front of her, a smile stretched from ear to ear.

  “I-ris! I-ris Thorne. I’m so sorry I’m late.” She shook Iris’s hand firmly. “I just can’t get used to these Los Angle-lees freeways, Lord Almighty.” She continued to hold Iris’s hand. It wasn’t Iris’s style to release first, so they stood there, hand in hand, as nearby diners casually watched. “It is you. My gosh. You’re much prettier in person than you were on TV. Not that you didn’t look pretty on TV, of course. What am I sayin’! Where’s the bar? This town’s gonna drive me to drink and I’ve been here but a week.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Iris.

  Barbie climbed onto a bar stool with difficulty, the short skirt now
hiked well up on her fleshy thighs, restraining her. She grabbed Iris’s wrist. “Iris is such a lovely name. You don’t hear it no more. I bet you were named after your grandmother or somethin’. You know you’re even thinner in person than you were on TV? I’d just die to be tall and thin like you. I’d just die.”

  William placed a cocktail napkin in front of her.

  “Whatchy’all drinkin’?” Barbie finally let go of Iris’s wrist. She sat with her back straight, folded her hands in her lap, and exuded anticipation.

  “Chardonnay.”

  “You Californians and your wine.” She stretched the i in wine. “I’m a bourbon drinker myself.” Barbie leaned slightly forward toward William and pressed her hand on his. He glanced down her blouse. Anyone would have, just from curiosity. “Hey, bud. I’ll have a bourbon and ginger ale in a tall glass with a lotta ice. Thank yew. So, was it your grandmother, Iris?”

  “Grand…? No, my great aunt is named Iris.”

  “I bet she’s a kick in the pants.”

  “She’s eighty-nine and buys a new Cadillac every year.” Up close, Iris could see that although Barbie’s jewelry was big and garish, it looked like the real thing.

  “Well, bless her heart. Let’s toast to dear Aunt Iris.”

  They clinked glasses.

  The bartender set a glass filled with slender breadsticks next to his previous hors d’oeuvre offering.

  “Well, aren’t you just the attentive one, Billy.” Barbie placed manicured, jeweled fingers on top of William’s hand. She made eye contact that surpassed friendly. “I just love California men. Ain’t nothin’ like ‘em where I come from.”

  William freed his hand from underneath Barbie’s. He blushed and started washing glasses. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll bet William’s not from California,” Iris said.

  Barbie opened her eyes wide. “Really? That true, buddy?”

  “I’m from Wisconsin.”

  Iris raised her eyebrows a little and smiled, being careful not to be indelicate in her victory.

  Barbie put her hand on Iris’s knee and leaned close to her ear. Her lips brushed Iris’s hair. “Lady, you’re a good judge of character.”

  “Thanks, but that was easy. I think the more typically Californian someone looks, the less likely they’re from here.”

  “I’m going to have to think about that one,” William said.

  Barbie’s expression was suddenly serious. She grabbed Iris’s hand. “Honey, don’t sell yourself short like that. You are a good judge of character.” She maintained eye contact with Iris and squeezed her hand while she nodded, expecting assent.

  Iris just smiled.

  William continued washing glasses. “If I can interrupt, you said you saw Iris on TV?”

  “Of course you can interrupt, Billy.” Barbie dunked a toast circle in olive oil and crunched it noisily. “Mmm, that’s different. Iris was on the Susie Santé show.”

  “That’s right.” William brightened, having solved his puzzle. “Before Christmas. ‘Women in Finance.’ And you were in the paper, too. That money-laundering thing at…what’s the company?” He snapped his fingers. “Kinney…”

  “McKinney Alitzer,” Iris answered. “So. I’ve been unmasked.” She sipped her wine.

  “Someone at your office was murdered, right?” William continued enthusiastically. “And they never accounted for all that money.”

  Iris tossed back the last of her wine.

  “Let’s stop talking about this,” Barbie said. “Lord knows this poor woman’s been through enough.”

  William left to wait on a man and a woman at the other end of the bar.

  “So, you got a boyfriend, Iris? You’re not married, are you?”

  “I’ve got a boyfriend.”

  “He in business?”

  “No, he’s a cop.”

  “That’s right. I remember that from the show. Well, that’s a job if there ever was one. Betcha he’s a big, strong kinda man.”

  Iris nodded and smiled, her eyelids dropping a little with the thought of John Somers.

  “Well, of course he is. What else could he be?”

  William returned, wiping his hands on a towel. “So you went on the show to talk about the murders?”

  “Billy!” Barbie exclaimed, hopping up a little on the bar stool. “We’re droppin’ the subject.”

  “It’s all right,” Iris said. “I’m used to it. A friend from my MBA program is the producer. She told me it’d be fun and I might get some new business.”

  Barbie gestured toward herself with both hands. “And here I am. When I moved out to California, I said to myself, ‘Barbeh, you gotta get that Iris Thorne to manage your affairs.’ See, honey, it wasn’t a total loss.” She patted Iris’s thigh.

  “My friend promised we’d just talk about the old-boys’ network, the famous clients I’ve had and stuff like that. But Susie Santé brought up the scandal in my first two minutes on camera.”

  “Oh, it was awful,” Barbie said. “I felt so sorry for you. Even Susie Santé with her heart of stone shed a tear.”

  “It was good television,” Iris shrugged.

  William ran glasses through a hot bath, then a cold one. “It’s an amazing story.”

  “I just want to put it behind me.”

  “How did the people at your office react to you being on TV?” William asked.

  “They weren’t thrilled. The firm’s trying to put the scandal behind them, too. But I’m still their top salesperson in L.A., so…”

  “So fuck ‘em,” William said.

  Barbie blinked her eyes as if someone had hit her in the face.

  “Sorry. I get too familiar with the patrons.”

  “That’s okay, Billy. It’s just that I could never get used to vulgarity.” Barbie tugged at her tight skirt, which had inched even farther up her hips. “Enough of this sad talk.” She waggled an accusing finger playfully at the bartender. “It’s all your fault. Treat Iris to some more wine.”

  “Oh, no thank you. I’d prefer some mineral water.”

  Barbie widened her eyes. “She’s always on top of her game, isn’t she? Well, I guess that’s how you gotta be in this world. You either hunt with the foxes or run with the rabbits, isn’t that right?”

  “True words,” Iris agreed.

  William filled a glass with mineral water from a green bottle.

  “But I like your style. Bein’ timid never got a woman nowhere except to the kitchen sink.”

  “The female please disease.” Iris squeezed lime into her glass.

  “That’s it! That’s it.” Barbie shook her finger. “Tryin’ to keep everyone happy. But you and I, we’re independent. But the world takes its price for that, don’t you know?”

  “Yep,” Iris said emphatically.

  “Are you two going to break out in a chorus of ‘I Am Woman’?” William asked.

  “No, a chorus of ‘I Sacrificed Marriage and Family for a Career’,” Iris said.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Just ask my mother.” She winked at him.

  “I admire ya, Iris, for being out and amongst them. You’re making it easier for all the girls who come after. A toast to you, darlin’.”

  Iris touched her glass against Barbie’s. The full glasses clinked dully.

  “Gee, I thought I was just paying the mortgage.”

  Barbie rubbed her ample belly. “I’m starved. I started a diet today but guess I’ll get back on it tomorrow. Should we get a table? Can you eat something, Iris?”

  “I can always eat.”

  “A woman after my own heart.”

  William picked up the check that was sitting on the bar in front of them. “Drinks are on the house. I really got a kick out of you two ladies, and I’m sorry for bringing up bad memories.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Iris said. “Thanks.”

  “Well, that’s real nice, Billy. Thank you.”

  Barbie stretched one leg down until her spiked h
eel touched the floor, then heavily slid her hip off the bar stool. She hoisted her large hobo bag onto the counter, dug her hand around inside, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She extended her hand with the twenty and crooked her fingers at William. He stepped up to his side of the bar. Barbie shoved the twenty inside his shirt pocket, then patted his pocket with her hand, caressing his pectoral, her long porcelain fingernails against his shirt.

  “Just a little something to show my personal appreciation for the good service. Maybe we’ll see you later, huh?” Barbie turned and started walking toward the restaurant, swinging her hips.

  Both Iris and William watched her.

  Barbie turned back. “Iris, y’all comin’?”

  Iris looked at William and raised her eyebrows. He shook his fingers as if they were hot.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The gas flame candle in the middle of the table flickered in the wind. Floodlights beneath the patio illuminated the rocks, the narrow beach below, and the phosphorescent sea foam. The setting sun painted the ocean and sky in Jell-O shades of red and orange. Sea gulls were starting to disappear as the sun went down. Tall heat lamps on poles kept the restaurant’s diners warm.

  Barbie lifted her bourbon and ginger ale to her lips. “I love this, the ocean rollin’ and crashin’ underneath our feet. I just took a li’l place down at the Marina. Do I love it! I’ve always wanted to live by the water.”

  “You’ve just arrived in L.A.?”

  “Just a week ago. Fresh from Atlanta.”

  “Making a fresh start after your husband’s death?”

  Barbie exhaled slowly and looked across the ocean. She sipped her drink.

  Iris stumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your husband’s death was recent.”