Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4) Page 9

  “Okay, okay.” He rubbed his forehead with both hands. “Last night… Damn, it was just last night. Things were tense, but they were okay. She was swimming. I told her I loved her.” His eyes grew glassy. “Then we had a fight. Not a big one, but a fight.”

  “About what?” Iris asked even though she thought she knew.

  “I’d done what she wanted. Summer was gone.”

  “And Toni?”

  “Didn’t get around to Toni. Hell, Bridget wanted to fire everybody. Run everything. The big boss,” he said loudly as his anger rose. “Just like her asshole plan for Pandora.”

  Iris was surprised he’d talk about his murdered wife that way. Her expression must have shown it.

  He defiantly stared at her. “I didn’t murder my wife, Iris.”

  “Go on.”

  “We fought about Pandora, again. Then I went jogging. All I had on were jogging shorts and running shoes.” He looked squarely at her to emphasize the point. “I guess she didn’t lock the gate after I left. I was too mad to lock it.” He covered his face with his hand. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and continued. “Anyway, I ran down the stairs to Capri Road. Crossed the street, then ran down the stairs to Casa Marina Drive. Crossed that street, then took the last set of stairs that lead to the bridge. Didn’t see anyone.”

  Iris remarked, “Preston said the police interviewed your neighbors. One of them, an elderly woman, Marge Nayton, lives in the house on the corner of the stairway and Casa Marina Drive. The house I bought is next to hers. She was watching television, an old Dick Van Dyke Show that had just started at ten o’clock when she heard someone run past.”

  “Good,” Kip brightened. “The time element is everything. I crossed the bridge and ran down the stairway to the beach. There were some kids up on the bluff, getting high. I said hello to the guy with the metal detector I see sometimes when I’m jogging.”

  “That was ten-seventeen,” Iris said. “He was certain of the time because he’d just dug a watch out of the sand. It was still running and he’d compared its time to his own watch.”

  “And he saw me wearing running shoes, not flip-flops, not carrying anything, not covered in blood, and not looking particularly distraught, right?”

  “Right.” Iris added, “Some of your neighbors reported hearing popping noises or car backfires shortly after ten.”

  “By the time I saw the guy on the beach at ten-seventeen, my wife was dead and Brianna had already called nine one one. Those jerk cops made me listen to the tape. Idiots with guns and tin stars. Thought that listening to my five-year-old’s call for help would jar me into a confession or something.” Kip closed his eyes with the painful memory.

  Iris had heard the recording too. The media had somehow got ahold of it that morning and had been playing it relentlessly. “My mommy’s sick. Please come now.”

  Iris slid to the edge of the hard metal chair. “Preston told me Brianna either didn’t see the murderer or doesn’t remember.”

  “She doesn’t remember anything after she went to bed. Not even calling nine one one. When the police arrived, they couldn’t find her. That bitch, Detective Stubbs, finally found her, crouched in a corner of her bedroom closet.” His chin trembled.

  Iris wanted to scream, to rage, to tear to pieces whoever had done this. “She might remember in time,” she said to be encouraging.

  “She doesn’t remember anything,” Kip said sharply. “I don’t want her dragged into this. The police are already talking about child psychologists and all that bullshit. They’re not getting their hands on my daughter!”

  Iris didn’t know how to respond. She stuck to the facts. “Brianna made the nine one one call at ten-twelve.”

  Kip was still angry. “Tell me how I could have murdered my wife, left bloody footprints in flip-flops all over the patio and halfway down the stairs, and be seen wearing tennis shoes and jogging shorts a half mile from home five minutes later at ten-seventeen?”

  “The police acknowledge the time frame is tight. Plus they found black cotton fibers on the bushes at the side of the steps. The murderer may have been wearing black sweats or something.”

  “And I have to spend time changing clothes? Iris, someone murdered my wife and set me up. When I came back from my run and saw the lights and the cops everywhere, I knew immediately what had happened.”

  “T. Duke?”

  “T. Duke. Or someone.”

  Bridget had scoffed at Iris’s concerns regarding T. Duke, but business associates of his had died under mysterious circumstances before. With Bridget’s murder, it seemed unlikely that all the deaths were coincidental. “Did you suggest that to the police or Tommy Preston?”

  “Of course. Cops said they’d look into it,” he said scornfully, “but they won’t. They think they’ve got their man. It’s always the husband, isn’t it? And I played right into this person’s hand. Acting like a jerk, fighting with Bridget, slapping her…”

  You mean slugging her, Iris mentally corrected him.

  “He seized the opportunity.”

  “I guess that’s how he made his fortune, timing the marketplace.”

  Kip laughed bleakly. “And then Alexa Platt on top of it.”

  “Did the police ask you about that?”

  “Oh yeah. Before the cops are done, they’re going to be hanging Hoffa’s disappearance on me. If I was going to murder Bridget, don’t you think that I, of all people, could come up with a better plan? I certainly wouldn’t wear the shoes that are my trademark and tramp through her blood in them. Too bad Stetson can’t talk. He probably saw the whole thing.”

  “It seems as if the murderer deliberately left bloody footprints in size-eleven dime-store flip-flops to incriminate you,” Iris said wearily. “Bridget was shot from a distance—he didn’t have to step in her blood. The footprints go out the gate, down the steps, and disappear into the brush at the side where the police found the black cotton fibers on the bushes.” She pulled a folded envelope from her purse and started writing on it. “I need to lay all this out. Okay, Marge Nayton heard you at ten…” She looked at Kip. He had folded his arms across his chest, was stroking his eyebrow and slowly rocking back and forth.

  “It’s my fault, Iris.”

  She looked at him with surprise.

  “Before I cheated on Bridget, the worst thing I’d done is drive too fast or go through a yellow light too late. But after I crossed that first boundary, a process was set into motion. It has to run its course.”

  Iris spoke under her breath, trying to move her lips as little as possible so that the guard couldn’t make out what she was saying. “Are you saying you murdered Bridget?”

  “No.” He bitterly shook his head. “It’s cause and effect. I crossed the first line.”

  “Are you talking about divine retribution?”

  “Not religion!” He slammed his hand on the table. “Physics! Action and reaction.”

  Iris tried to take in what he was saying. She wasn’t getting it.

  “I’ve thought a lot about this since last night. I’m convinced I’m right. I have an adversary.”

  “T. Duke Sawyer.”

  “I’m not completely certain about his human form. It’s the boss monster. I made my move, now he’s made his. The cops kept asking me about a slingshot.”

  “They asked me if I knew whether you had one. What’s the significance? Tommy Preston couldn’t get any information from the cops on that.”

  “It’s his trademark. I’ll bet there was one left at the crime scene. He’s made his move. He’s trying to beat me at my own game.” Kip looked at her meaningfully.

  Iris not only had no clue regarding what he was talking about, but she was getting irritated. This was no time to play games. “Kip, in my heart I know you’re innocent, but there are a couple of things about Bridget’s murder I can’t square in my mind.”

  Kip impatiently nodded.

  “Bridget was shot with a forty-five caliber revolver. You have a forty-f
ive registered in your name. The police can’t find it.”

  “Bridget fired a housekeeper for stealing. I haven’t seen that gun in ages. It could have been gone for months. Next.”

  “You had gunshot residue on your right palm.”

  “It’s a secondary transfer. I probably got it on my hand when I touched the gate in the same place the murderer did.”

  “The police claim that’s impossible.”

  He glowered at her. “It’s not impossible.”

  She stared back at him. “Kip, you and Bridget have been two of my closest friends for years. Old friend to old friend, tell me the truth about what happened last night.”

  He abruptly stood. “Guard, I’m finished here.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bridget Cross, née Tyler, was raised with her three brothers in a modest neighborhood in the Orange County city of Anaheim, in the shadow of Disneyland. The Tyler house was unremarkable, indistinguishable from any of the other forty-year-old, stucco, tract homes that wore twenty-year-old paint in outmoded colors of pastel pink, sea-foam green, or Popsicle orange. Trees that homeowners had planted nearly half a century ago—pretty pines, clusters of palms, and matching poplars, lined up like soldiers during inspection across the front of the yard—now dwarfed the homes behind them. Many of the original owners still lived in the neighborhood where scads of children once played in the streets. Young families were once more moving in as the older people moved on.

  Iris had spent many weekends at Bridget’s house when they were in college. The Tylers never seemed to mind having Iris around. She enjoyed fleeing the turmoil of her own house for the Tylers’ unremarkable middle-America-anywhere life of weekend barbecues, televised ball games, driveway basketball, and Chinese takeout. She also found the idea of having brothers fascinating.

  Iris walked past the overgrown poplars and down a cement path crossing the Tylers’ front lawn and rang the bell. Chimes dingdonged inside the house. The fifteen years that had passed since she had last rung that bell seemed to pancake. Regret washed over her. If she’d only advised Bridget to run for her life.

  “Iris, I’m so glad you came.” Natalie Tyler’s face and eyes were puffy from extended crying. She was still slender, but now her round belly protruded from underneath her yellow and brown floral-print shirt and beige polyester pants. Her hair was Bridget’s dark brown but heavily salted with gray. She wore it short and tightly curled—the work of her hairdresser whom she visited once a week for a wash, set, and comb-out. Natalie’s face bore a striking similarity to her daughter’s; Bridget used to observe that all she had to do to know how she would appear in twenty-five years was to look at her mother.

  “Mrs. Tyler…” Iris dropped the bag she was carrying onto the porch and embraced Bridget’s mother. For the first time since the police had told her of Bridget’s murder earlier that day, she was overwhelmed with grief. She wanted less to comfort Natalie than be comforted herself. She clutched the woman tightly as tears rolled down her face. She recovered and felt embarrassed for laying her needs on this poor woman.

  Iris reached into the bag on the ground and retrieved a paper napkin with which she wiped her face and eyes. Much of her workday makeup came off onto it. She handed Natalie the bag from the trendy grocery store that she had driven out of her way to visit and where she had shamefully overpaid for their deli department’s prepared food. “Here’s some lasagna. It’s a little different, in a béchamel sauce, but I think Joe will still like it. And there’s a Caesar salad, Italian bread, and a bottle of Barbera.”

  “Thank you, Iris. That’s so sweet of you.”

  “And a lemon cheesecake.” Iris felt silly. The food seemed a pitifully inadequate gesture.

  “Come in.” Natalie stepped away from the door and Iris walked inside. She followed Natalie through the modest, clean house that was decorated with sturdy furnishings and many framed photographs. They reached the rear of the house where the family room was located. It was crowded with people, some of whom Iris recognized as Bridget’s brothers. Through a picture window, she saw a throng of children playing in the backyard.

  “Joe, look who’s here.”

  Joe Tyler slowly rose from a La-Z-Boy recliner. He had always been a burly man but had filled out since his retirement from the tire factory where he had worked his entire adult life. His full head of wavy hair had gone silver. He clasped Iris in a bear hug that took her breath away. It was as if he could somehow touch his daughter by clutching her friend. Grabbing both of her arms, he held her away from him and looked piercingly into her face. He didn’t say a word and neither did she. His eyes were shiny with tears. It took everything Iris had to stand upright and not to collapse into his arms, irrationally feeling that surely this man with his bear hug would be able to ease her pain.

  He had once, a long time ago. It was something to do with a guy. Iris couldn’t even remember the details now. Joe Tyler had seen her crying and given her a hug and offered to talk to the young man. She was touched beyond words that someone had not only recognized her distress but had offered to help. She was so accustomed to toughing out life’s difficulties on her own. But he couldn’t help her today. He released her and trudged back to his chair.

  Iris endured the introductions and reintroductions and accepted a glass of wine and half a sandwich from the dining room table which was piled high with food brought by friends who had the same notion as Iris—grief could be fed or drowned into oblivion.

  “It’s Monday, eleven o’clock at Pleasant Hills.” Natalie was telling her the funeral plans. “The Chapel of the Good Shepherd.” They were standing in the dining room. Iris nibbled on the sandwich and sipped the wine, which felt pleasantly warm in her throat.

  “We’d wanted the funeral sooner, of course, but the police wouldn’t release her body before then. They said they’ll let Kip come to the funeral.” Natalie was dry-eyed as she related these details. “I guess the D.A. has to decide by Tuesday whether there’s enough evidence to press charges.”

  Over Natalie’s shoulder, Iris watched the children playing a game of tag with complicated rules that seemed to grow more convoluted with each round. The Tylers’ two small, mixed-breed dogs had joined in and were barking and nipping at the kids’ heels as they ran. Brianna was sitting in a child-sized, white resin chair away from the crowd, reading a book to her Pocahontas doll who was sitting next to her. Stetson was curled on the grass beside Brianna’s chair, his head resting against his paws, oblivious to the other children and dogs.

  Iris’s heart sank. “I should have brought her something.”

  “Honey, there’s at least two dozen brand-new, beautiful dolls in there that people have brought her. Some of them were sent by total strangers who heard about it on the news. She won’t touch them.” Natalie sighed. “She won’t play with the other kids, she won’t talk to anyone. I don’t know what to do. I’d like to have her talk to a professional. But, you know Kip. They’re all quacks and charlatans to him.”

  “Kip says she doesn’t remember anything.”

  “All she remembers is going to bed at home and waking up here. She’s blocked it out. It’s too painful. I’m no psychologist, but I know that much.” Natalie gave Iris a bold look. “I think Kip doesn’t want Brianna to remember.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”

  Natalie blinked several times as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “You can’t believe that Kip’s innocent.”

  “I’m just not sure. He’s the most likely suspect, but the way the murder took place doesn’t seem like him. Everyone knows he has a temper. I’ve seen him throw things, put his fist through walls—”

  “He hit my daughter.”

  “But that’s the problem. Kip is not that complicated a guy. His temper is explosive. I can see him impulsively grabbing a gun or knife and killing out of rage, then feeling such remorse that he’d shoot himself or call the police on the spot. But Bridget’s murder was premeditated. And even if Kip did plan it, he
’s a master of details. Why would he have left incriminating footprints? On the other hand, I’ve known Kip long enough to be aware that common sense is not among his strengths. His fatal flaw is thinking he’s smarter than everyone else.”

  “As much as I hate to say it, I’m convinced Kip murdered my daughter.” Natalie defiantly arched her eyebrows. “And I think he murdered Alexa Platt.”

  “Kip had no reason to murder Alexa.”

  “What if they were sleeping together and she threatened to tell Bridget? Maybe she did tell Bridget when they were in the park and Kip found out about it and killed her.”

  Iris thought that Bridget would have told her about an affair between Alexa and Kip. Perhaps it was too painful for Bridget to reveal that her good friend had betrayed her. Iris frowned and shook her head slightly, as if debating with herself. “I don’t think so. Bridget told me what she and Alexa talked about in the park. She said Alexa encouraged her to divorce Kip.” She silently tortured herself with her own advice to Bridget—stay and work it out.

  “Alexa wanted Kip for herself, that’s all.” Natalie grew agitated as she spoke.

  Iris touched her arm. “This speculation is pointless.”

  Natalie didn’t calm down or stop. “One thing I know for sure, there’s a side to Kip that none of us knew about. Or maybe it was there all the time and we just denied it.”

  The same thought had occurred to Iris, but she refused to give it credibility. She didn’t like what it meant for Brianna. She again looked through the window at the little girl sitting with her doll. “Can I say hello to Brianna?”

  Outside, Iris pulled a tiny chair next to the one that Brianna was sitting in and barely crammed half of her behind into it. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  Brianna’s dark brown eyes were guarded. She now approached the world with fear and mistrust. It tore at Iris’s heart.