Pushover (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 5) Page 7

  Marge turned the slender gold watch where it had slid around her tiny wrist to face her. “I’ve got to run. Your house is in great shape. No news to report. Ta-ta!” Her feet wobbled slightly on her high heels as she walked to the front door.

  After Marge left, Iris started coffee brewing and dug through her refrigerator. She found bagels, jam, and yogurt. She sliced a poppy seed bagel in half, slipped it into the toaster, and poured the first dribbles of coffee that had brewed into a stoneware mug. It was too strong and very hot, but tasted great to her.

  She hoisted the portfolio of Todd’s photography onto the dining room table, unzipped it and then sat down and started going through the contents. On top was the silver-framed photo of her and Todd in Paris. She stood it on the table and looked at it, resting her head on her laced fingers. His eyes were shining, happy. She looked more closely, searching for the hint, the clue, the subconscious knowledge that his life would be short. She looked for the tragic end that had to have been imprinted on his cells, waiting, waiting for its time.

  What did she see in her own eyes? Was there a hint of the betrayal that would unhinge Todd’s life? Was her decision to run home already germinating in a corner of her mind? Was the bright spot that appeared to be a reflection from the flashbulb really the flash of deception? The harder she looked, the simpler the image seemed. All she saw were two people in love, blissfully unaware of the future.

  She leisurely ate breakfast and dressed, having no need to hurry since she wasn’t even supposed to be in the office this week. She was too edgy to relax around the house and thought she’d save her vacation days for a better time. It was only Wednesday, and she’d been out of the office just two days, but things could have easily gone haywire in her absence.

  At the mouth of the mighty Interstate 10, Iris floored her give-me-a-ticket red 1972 Triumph TR6 for all it was worth. She orange-lined it with pleasure, flying past the Christopher Columbus Transcontinental Highway sign, the convertible top down and her hair whipping her face. This was L.A. The air was hot, the sky was brown, drivers occasionally shot at each other, and the profundity of the culture was open to discussion, but dammit, at least people drove between the lines.

  Iris threw her head back on her shoulders and crowed. It felt so good, she did it again. She glanced around at the other drivers. Everyone was still looking straight ahead, not paying her any attention at all. She loved this city.

  She descended into the parking garage of her office tower, going around and around until she found the spot marked: RESERVED FOR I. THORNE. She parked the Triumph between the massive Mercedes and Lexus on either side, smiling with satisfaction. Here she was somebody. Here she had some pull. Screw Moscow. Screw Davidovsky and Markov. To hell with all of them.

  Humming her tuneless, happy song, she ascended in the polished chrome-lined elevator with people on their way to work. They wore the defeated expressions of those beginning another routine day. Iris stopped humming, appreciating their angst, having been there. If they only knew how good they had it. This is the United States of America, people! she exclaimed to herself.

  She barreled out of the elevator, her pump heels smartly retorting against the polished granite floor. She saw that Julie’s, the bistro in the lobby, was open and decided to get a cappuccino to take to her office.

  She walked up to the bar and said hello to the bartender whom she knew. He said he’d be right with her and grabbed a bottle of Seagram’s Seven Whiskey from a shelf. It was just after ten in the morning. Early to start drinking, Iris thought.

  She looked around and saw Sam Eastman on the other side of the oval bar, drinking from his travel mug of coffee. Sam was the divisional manager over all the McKinney Alitzer offices in the western states. Iris had been promoted to branch manager two years ago against Sam’s wishes, and Sam had tried to sabotage her to have her removed. At last, she and Sam had arrived at détente—as long as the L.A. branch was exceeding quota and there were no problems, Sam would stay out of Iris’s way. So what was Sam doing in her arena while she was supposed to be out of town? It confirmed to her that she couldn’t let her guard down for a minute. She decided she’d better go say hello to him.

  Just as she’d taken a step in his direction, the bartender set the shot of whiskey in front of him. Eyes wide, Iris slipped back out of sight behind the bar. She leaned just far enough around to see Sam unscrew the top of his travel mug and start to pour in the whiskey.

  Iris quickly tiptoed from the bistro, hoping Sam hadn’t seen her.

  She exited the elevator on the twelfth floor and pulled open the glass doors marked in brass letters: MCKINNEY ALITZER FINANCIAL SERVICES. Her pump heels made small depressions in the mauve carpeting. The office was in full swing, having started the day at 6:00 a.m., shortly before the New York Stock Exchange opened.

  She turned left and entered the sales department, passing the partitioned area for the junior investment counselors and sales assistants called “the bull pen.” All of them had their headsets on and were giving it all they had.

  “Buy!”

  “Diversify!”

  “Wealth!”

  “Growth!”

  “Now!”

  One of her new guys promptly removed his feet from his desk when she cast a glance at him as she walked by. She realized she was probably still scowling after the incident in the bistro. She hadn’t meant to alarm the guy, but was glad to see that she hadn’t lost her power to intimidate.

  People smiled at her as she passed and then exchanged glances and words behind her back. Iris knew what was going on. She’d worked for the man long enough to know the game. Now she was the man. She wasn’t supposed to be in the office until the following Monday and it was only Wednesday. They had counted on a few more days without the boss around. Poor fragile flowers. Life’s tough, ain’t it?

  Along the suite’s outside walls were the offices of the senior investment counselors. Amber Ambrose and Kyle Tucker had offices there and Iris had recently moved Sean Bliss into the golden corridor. She flitted her fingers in their direction after which Amber rose from her desk and stuck her head into Kyle’s office.

  “I know,” Iris muttered to herself. “I’m baaack.”

  One of the two large corner offices belonged to Iris’s top producer, Liz Martini, who was known around town as the broker to the stars. She was married to Ozzie Levinson, a top Hollywood talent agent. Liz broadly waved at Iris from behind her desk, rattling several diamond tennis bracelets on her skinny, tanned wrist. At least Liz was genuinely glad to see her. Liz and Iris had been friends since Iris’s first days in the industry. Liz had taught Iris the ropes. Her stable of well-to-do clients including a slew of Hollywood first wives—Liz’s specialty—was part of the reason the L.A. branch was one of the firm’s highest-producing offices.

  Iris occupied the other large corner office directly across from Liz’s. In an alcove outside Iris’s door sat her assistant Louise. Louise’s chair was vacant but the items on her desk—a pad, pencil, stack of reports, and the ceramic cup with the fitted top that Louise used for tea—indicated she’d just stepped away.

  Iris turned through the doorway of her office and was startled to see a woman sitting at her desk.

  “Who are you?”

  The woman smirked at Iris as she further relaxed into Iris’s chair. The chair was upholstered in cream-colored leather that had a texture like butter. It was Iris’s favorite piece of office furniture, and she’d had a huge battle with Sam Eastman over buying it. The young woman, who wore a short knit top that revealed a pierced belly button above her low-rise jeans, seemed a little too comfortable. Holding a pencil between her index fingers, she regarded Iris insolently and said, “I should be asking you that question.”

  Iris reared her head back and blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Dawn, I’ve warned you for the last time.”

  Iris was relieved to hear Louise’s voice behind her. Louise had been the assistant to the branch manager for twen
ty years. Iris hadn’t seen a problem yet that Louise couldn’t handle.

  “I’m waiting for Kyle,” Dawn protested.

  “Out!” Louise pointed toward the door. “Before I call building security.”

  Dawn stood, gave Iris an up-and-down look, then sauntered out of the office, her hips marking a sultry rhythm.

  Louise pushed an errant strand of gray-streaked blonde hair into her French twist. “She’s a hairdresser in the lobby salon. She’s dating Kyle Tucker and has an unhealthy obsession with him. This is the second time she’s snuck into the office. I’d better make sure she leaves. Glad you’re back, Iris.” She left to follow Dawn.

  Iris sat at her desk and felt disoriented. It was as if she’d entered a parallel universe that looked and felt like her old world, but was subtly different, like she’d stepped through the looking glass.

  “Hi, Sunshine.” Liz Martini walked in without asking. She dropped onto one of the chairs facing Iris’s desk and crossed her legs, her tight skirt traveling up her tanned thighs. Her thick, dark hair was scooped onto the back of her head where it was held by a rhinestone clip. Corkscrew curls dangled around her pixyish face. “Thought you were in Moscow.”

  “I was.”

  “Why are you back so soon?”

  Iris blew out air, not knowing where to begin. Liz was the only person in the office other than Louise she trusted enough to tell what had happened in Moscow, but she didn’t want to get into it right now. “It’s unbelievable. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Liz, I’ll tell you later, but I have something else to tell you right now.” Iris leaned forward and crooked her fingers for Liz to do the same. She lowered her voice. “Guess who I saw in the bistro downstairs just now pouring a shot of Seagram’s Seven into his travel coffee mug? Sam-I-Am.”

  Liz gaped. “Seriously?”

  Louise entered Iris’s office and set a steaming mug of coffee on her desk.

  Iris leaned back in her chair. “Louise, was Sam Eastman in the office earlier this morning?”

  “Yes, he came to drop off information about the company sales contest.”

  “Did he seem okay?” Iris asked.

  Louise pressed her lips together. “Honestly, I don’t think he’s been the same since he was beaten up and in the hospital awhile ago. Seems like he’s lost his will. Like he’s going through the motions.”

  “Thanks, Louise.” Iris looked at her mug, which was printed with the slogan: BUDGETS ARE FOR WIMPS. “What happened to my mug?”

  “I scrubbed it,” Louise responded.

  Iris took a sip of coffee and made a sour face. “It doesn’t taste the same,” she teased.

  Louise took a pen from where it was stuck inside her French twist and pointed it at the mug. “I had to scrub it twice with cleanser to get off the caked-on coffee and lipstick.”

  “I’m gone two days and all hell breaks loose,” Iris joked.

  “Just goes to show, you’d better not leave.” Louise returned to her desk.

  After Louise had left, Liz leaned forward again and spoke quietly. “All this explains what I heard. The home office is going to ask Sam-I-Am to retire.”

  “Retire?” Iris swiveled her chair. “Wow. I was never a fan, but retiring would kill him. This job is his life. He’s only fifty-nine.” She looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows that met in the corner of her office.

  “That’s not all,” Liz continued. “I heard they’re going to offer the regional manager job to you.”

  Iris whipped her head around to look at Liz, who was twirling a tendril of hair with her finger. “Who told you this?”

  “Dave Ross. He was in a meeting with Jim Hailey. You can’t breathe a word.”

  Iris was stunned.

  “Wouldn’t that be great, Iris? You’d be the firm’s only female regional manager in the country. After a few years, it’ll be on to New York and the big money. You’re on the fast track, baby. You and Garland would finally be on the same coast.” Liz released the lock of hair and it sprang into a curl. “You don’t seem excited.”

  “I am, I…I just got off a plane from Moscow twelve hours ago. Everything’s hitting me all at once.”

  Liz stood. “Company car, big expense account, big bonus, no office to show up at day after day, no BS problems to handle. All you’d have to do is kick the behinds of ten branch managers.”

  “Well, I’ve never met a promotion I didn’t like.”

  “Can hardly wait to find out.” Liz left.

  Iris looked out the window behind her desk, which faced west. It was too smoggy to see downtown L.A. much less all the way to Catalina Island, a treat permitted only on rare crystal-clear days. She turned back to her desk and began sorting through a stack of square pink telephone message slips. She’d told Louise that it was fine for people to leave messages on her telephone voice mail, but her assistant continued to take handwritten messages. People tended to ramble on the voice mail, Louise said, and it was a waste of Iris’s time.

  Iris saw that she had just missed a call from Garland. She’d missed him at his office this morning when she’d called before she left for downtown. Louise’s neat schoolbook writing said: “Made reservations for a Palm Springs weekend. Pick you up Friday night.”

  Iris closed her eyes and visualized lying in the sun, a waiter bringing a margarita, Garland walking from the pool after a swim, water trailing down his toned body. The image sustained her through the rest of the morning.

  The day passed quickly. Iris looked up from her work when Liz Martini rapped on her door frame. She was surprised to see Liz with her briefcase in her hand and her purse slung over her shoulder. By the Waterford crystal clock on her desk, Iris saw that it was 3:00. The office was almost empty.

  Liz stood with one hand planted on her narrow hip, accentuating her large, surgically enhanced breasts underneath her clingy jersey sheath. She was thin and rich and firmly believed neither could be overdone. “Hey, Miss Workaholic, some of us are going to have a drink downstairs. Why don’t you join us?”

  “That sounds good.”

  “You haven’t even told me what happened on the trip and why you came back so soon.”

  Iris rolled her eyes. “It’s a story.” She downed the last of her coffee and set her mug on the corner of the desk. She stood and tossed a file into her briefcase, which was open on the credenza against the window behind her.

  Louise appeared in the doorway behind Liz. “I’m leaving for the day, Iris, but there’s a woman in the lobby who would like to see you.”

  Iris took the business card that Louise handed her. The engraved type on rich paper stock said:

  Rita Winslow

  Dealer in Fine Art and Antiquities

  33 New High Street

  London

  “She looks like she has money,” Louise added, anticipating Iris’s question.

  “I’ll see you downstairs after you’re finished, Iris,” Liz said before leaving.

  Iris flicked the business card, testing the stiffness of the paper, and told Louise, “Please show Ms. Winslow in.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rita Winslow did look as if she had money, in the understated, tailored manner of people who were raised with it and saw no need to flaunt it. She was a tall, big-boned woman in her fifties with a long face, strong jaw, and plain features. She wore little makeup and was dressed in a crisp oatmeal-colored linen suit. The small amount of jewelry she wore was not expensive, but her shoes and handbag were. Her light brown hair was cut short with bangs that brushed her forehead. She had a pleasant smile, revealing two slightly overlapping front teeth. She looked as if she’d be comfortable around sailboats, guns, and horses.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Winslow,” Iris said as she shook the woman’s large hand.

  “I prefer Mrs. Winslow,” she said in a soft, English voice.

  Iris nodded deferentially and gestured toward one of the chairs facing her desk. The woman’s formal mannerisms
were rubbing off on her. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you, but could we speak privately?” Winslow shot an edgy glance at the open door.

  “Of course.” Iris moved to close it, even though the office was now deserted. She relaxed into her leather chair and folded her hands in her lap. “How can I help you?”

  Winslow leaned forward, clutching her handbag between both hands, pressing her thin lips together as if undecided about how to begin. “May I express my sincere condolences on the death of your friend Todd Fillinger?”

  The comment took Iris by surprise. “Well…Thank you. That’s very kind.” She raised her eyebrows. “Did you know Todd?”

  “I knew Todd when he lived in London.” Winslow gazed out the window, shaking her head sadly. “Terrible tragedy. Very unfortunate.” Returning her attention to Iris, she squared her broad shoulders and brusquely said, “Let me get to the purpose of my visit.” She crossed her ankles and tucked her feet underneath the chair. “I’m trying to recover a small statuette which has been stolen from me. I understand you have it. I’m willing to pay you twenty-five thousand dollars for its return, no questions asked.” She fixed her pale gray eyes on Iris, who was baffled.

  “A statuette?”

  Winslow’s posture stiffened. “The fox, Miss Thorne.”

  “Fox?” Iris repeated, to the obvious irritation of Winslow, who impatiently shifted in her chair.

  “Yes, Miss Thorne. The fox.”

  Now angry at the intrusion and the woman’s sudden change in attitude, Iris pushed back her chair and stood behind her desk. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”