Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4)

by Dianne Emley

  FOOLPROOF

  AN IRIS THORNE MYSTERY

  Book Four in the Series

  By

  Dianne Emley

  BOOKS BY DIANNE EMLEY

  Iris Thorne Mysteries

  Cold Call

  Slow Squeeze

  Fast Friends

  Foolproof

  Pushover (Coming in 2012)

  Detective Nan Vining Thrillers

  The First Cut

  Cut to the Quick

  The Deepest Cut

  Love Kills

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 1998 by Dianne G. Pugh and 2011 by Dianne Emley.

  Text revised by the author in 2011.

  Foolproof is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN-10: 0-9847846-3-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9847846-3-9

  Originally published as Foolproof by Dianne Pugh in 1998 by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover design by Kimberly King.

  Published by Arroyo Bridge Books, a division of Emley and Co., LLC.

  First Arroyo Bridge Books e-book edition March 2012.

  For my mother,

  Theda A. Pugh

  CHAPTER ONE

  “What makes you so sure he wouldn’t try to kill you?”

  “Alexa,” Bridget Cross chided her friend. “Kip’s not like that.”

  “Desperate people sometimes do desperate things.”

  “I’ve been married to Kip a long time. There are no surprises left.”

  “You’ve never seen him like this, with his back against the wall.”

  Shaking her head with amusement, Bridget gazed at her five-year-old daughter, who was leading the family German shepherd by a leash far enough ahead on the packed-dirt path to be out of earshot.

  “Stetson, fetch!” Brianna threw a stick and the dog ran after it, his leash dragging on the ground. He picked up the stick but playfully dodged away whenever the child tried to take it from him.

  Alexa added, “You never thought he’d cheat on you.”

  Bridget stopped smiling.

  “The nerve of him, screwing around right under your nose with that Toni person at the office. Of course, you’re the last to find out.” Apparently oblivious to her friend’s uneasiness, Alexa went on. “You think she was the only one? Did you ask him?”

  “I would prefer not talking about it.”

  Coldwater Canyon Park was almost deserted in the middle of a weekday afternoon. It was January in Los Angeles and hot, sunny, and windy thanks to a Santa Ana that had kicked up the day before, blowing dry desert air westward to the ocean. The women and child were bare-armed, the dog was panting, and the sky was as blue and brittle as glacier ice.

  A gust of wind ruffled the dog’s fur and blew Brianna Cross’s long, dark hair, the crown gathered at the back of her head with a bright ribbon, over her shoulder and into her face. She decorously scraped it from her cheeks and patted it back into place while her mother watched, touched by the young child’s newly grown-up demeanor.

  “When are you going to tell him?” Alexa Platt asked.

  Bridget sighed, almost with despair. “I don’t know. I keep thinking we can work it out.”

  “You could, if he were willing. Seems he’s made it clear he’s not.”

  “The last thing I wanted was Brianna to be the product of a broken home, but I’m at my wit’s end.” Bridget grew pensive as she watched her daughter instruct the dog to sit and shake hands. “Maybe it’d be easier if Brianna and I moved out.”

  “No way! He’s the one who should move out.” Alexa flicked back her long, blonde hair and planted her hands on her slender hips. “Why are you acting like such a wuss?” she complained. “You are afraid of him, aren’t you?”

  Bridget suddenly put out a warning hand for her friend to stop talking. She turned and frowned at the empty lane behind them.

  The child, oblivious, continued playing and chatting to herself and the dog several yards away. Stetson, however, was looking in the same direction as Bridget, his ears pricked.

  “What’s wrong?” Alexa peered down the path but didn’t see anyone.

  The dog cocked his head and began to whimper at the sound of heavy footsteps on the sandy dirt.

  A man with stringy, shoulder-length hair and dressed in a khaki uniform rounded the curve.

  “It’s that groundskeeper guy,” Alexa remarked under her breath.

  Bridget exhaled with relief. “Afternoon.”

  He mumbled a greeting as he passed, not meeting their eyes. They watched as he disappeared around a bend in the path ahead of them.

  “Ugh,” Alexa commented. “He was staring at me when I was waiting for you in the parking lot. Gives me the creeps.”

  Bridget shook her head and resumed walking.

  “What?” Alexa stroked her friend’s arm. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Bridget paused, as if debating whether to respond. “Lately, I’ve felt like someone’s been following me. Watching me.”

  Alexa frowned. “When?”

  “Last week, in the parking lot at the office. Then, a few days later, at home outside the French doors.”

  “On the patio? Did you see anyone?”

  “No. Just movement, a shape silhouetted by the pool light. The dog started barking, so I know I wasn’t imagining it.”

  “Was Kip home?”

  “He was at Pandora, working late on the new release…he claimed.”

  “You think it could have been him?”

  “Why would Kip spy on me?”

  “Maybe it was one of Kip’s scorned lovers,” Alexa said excitedly. “Maybe Toni.”

  Bridget raked her hand through her close-cropped hair. “The noise in the parking lot was probably my imagination. On the patio, it was probably a coyote, maybe the same one who jumped the fence and got our cat. Anyway, let’s not talk about Kip’s…” She looked askance.

  “Keep the alarm on.”

  “I do now.”

  “You and Kip still have that gun?”

  “I don’t know how to use it.”

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking.”

  “Alexa,” Bridget scolded.

  A strong gust of warm wind blew, sending dry leaves and loose dirt scuttling down the path, pushing the women and the child to take a few quick steps. The dog, more surefooted and lower to the ground, was not affected.

  “You have to admit that Kip has changed a lot over the past few years.” Alexa blinked at a speck of dirt that had flown into her eye. “One minute, he’s a…” She searched for the appropriate word.

  “Geek?”

  Alexa laughed. “I was going to say, loner. But, okay, a geek. The next minute, he has groupies. I went through that, ‘you may kiss my ring thing’ with Jim. But Kip’s forgotten one thing—you made him what he is.”

  Bridget dismissed the comment with a shrug.

  “C’mon, B, everyone knows it.”

  “We built the company together.”

  “You said you didn’t want to talk about it, but,” Alexa persisted, “I think Kip slept with Toni to punish you for taking the company in a direction he doesn’t want it to go.”

  “That’s occurred to me. But I can’t worry about Kip’s need for control.” Bridget’s tone was determined. “I have my daughter’s welfare to consider. I’m not going to throw away her
financial security just because her father doesn’t want to answer to stockholders.”

  “Bottom line, it doesn’t matter what Kip wants,” Alexa added. “He gave you control of Pandora Software. He couldn’t be bothered with all that icky, business stuff. He wants to spend his time being Mr. Creative Genius.”

  “I never thought it would matter unless push came to shove.”

  “It has. No wonder you’re looking over your shoulder.”

  After admiring Alexa’s new Jaguar convertible, the women said good-bye in the gravel parking lot near the park entrance. Bridget and Brianna pulled out first, rushing to avoid being late for the little girl’s ballet class. Alexa, holding her car keys, waved until Bridget’s Volvo had turned down the hill and slipped out of sight.

  When Alexa had not returned home by 1:00 A.M., her husband called the police.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When the shiny black BMW sped up and cut in front of Iris Thorne, she knew why. It was one of those tit-for-tat freeway things. All she had done was change lanes, angling her 1972 give-me-a-ticket-red Triumph TR6 into position to make the connection from the eastbound 10 to the northbound 110. That was all. Nothing personal, but the situation looked as if it was going to take a dive down that slippery slope. Before she jumped, she had to ask herself one thing: Did she feel lucky?

  “Well, do you, lady?” she asked aloud.

  Her actions answered without hesitation. She floored the Triumph, its tractor engine squealing with delight, and sped within inches of the Beemer’s bumper. The male driver—darkly tanned with a bald spot—was casually smoking a cigarette, dangling his arm out the window as if he were without a care in the world. Iris knew better. She bore down on him, getting so close she made herself gasp. Then she swung left into lane one, the fast lane, and flew past the Beemer, taking full advantage of the spotty traffic. The Triumph’s top was down and Iris’s blonde hair whipped in the wind. She knew she cut quite a picture. When she was many car lengths ahead, she eased back in front of him and copped his casual attitude, sans cigarette and with more hair. When he attempted a counteroffensive, she sped up, not letting him pass.

  There they were. Total strangers duking it out with tons of high-priced metal, jeopardizing themselves, their vehicles, their comprehensive and collision insurance coverage—and for what? It was just another sunny day in L.A. A slow car in Iris’s path gave the Beemer an opportunity to regain his position in front of the Triumph. The Beemer’s driver did so for no other reason than to exert this final power play, since he had reached his exit. He made a beeline for the off-ramp, flipping Iris off in farewell. She blew him a kiss. Who loves ya, baby?

  A large truck was next to her in the now slowing traffic. She quickly tugged at the hem of her short skirt that had crept dangerously high as it tended to do when she was driving the TR. But today the usually PG-rated show in the TR’s driver seat was an inch from an X rating. She was bottomless underneath the miniskirt. No panties. No panty hose. Nothing but skin.

  Maybe it was her atypical dishabille that was making her feel reckless. Maybe it was the Santa Ana winds that had been blowing hot and dry, casting a spell over the Southland, turning the second week of January into summer on steroids. Maybe it was the excitement of having picked up from the escrow office the keys to the new house she could barely afford. Or maybe she was in love.

  She adjusted her sunglasses, picked up her cellular phone from the passenger seat, and punched in a number. “Garland Hughes’s room, please.” She hummed tunelessly while she was being connected, taking her left hand off the steering wheel and driving with her knees as she raised her hips and gave the stubborn skirt a hard tug. “Hello there,” she cooed.

  “Well, hello yourself.”

  “I was hoping you hadn’t left for the airport yet.”

  “I was lingering, having another cup of coffee and thinking about this morning and how nice it was and about you and how nice you are and how especially nice you were this morning.”

  “You were pretty nice yourself.”

  “I was?”

  “You were…delicious.”

  They both giggled. They were in that silly, giddy first stage of romance. Touches burned, kisses were dizzying, love songs on the radio were magical, and Iris had moments of silliness that surprised her.

  She pictured Garland as she had left him that morning: wearing the hotel’s plush terry cloth bathrobe and a smile, morning stubble on his rugged chin, short auburn hair rumpled, well-toned chest and legs peeking from underneath the bathrobe, sitting by the window reading the Wall Street Journal. She found the combination of male energy and high finance aphrodisiacal. She had just stepped out of the shower and had to have one more full-body hug before he flew home to Manhattan and away from her arms. Just one more hug, one more kiss, then, well, there was another hug. Before long, one thing led to another and she was forty-five minutes behind schedule. She didn’t care.

  Garland made it to the West Coast at least once a month on business, sometimes more. She wondered if the fleeting nature of their encounters was what made them so exciting, but she hoped it was more than that. She hoped it was the real thing.

  “Did you find my panty hose?”

  “No, I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “It’s made my commute somewhat erotic.”

  “Oooh. The thought is giving me a…reaction.”

  “I won’t see you for two weeks,” she moaned.

  “These partings are getting more and more difficult.”

  “The next time you come out, I’ll be in my new house. I’m so excited! A whole house and it’s all mine.”

  “You got the keys? Congratulations, honey.”

  “Thanks. I know it’s over my budget, but it was love. As long as my sales team keeps production up, I should be okay.”

  “The bull market still has some steam left in it.”

  “I was promoted to branch manager just over five months ago. I should have waited longer to make sure my promotion is going to stick before I jumped into a new house.”

  “You’re doing great. I had lunch last week with some of the guys I used to work with at McKinney Alitzer, and they were talking about the terrific things you’ve already accomplished in the L.A. branch.”

  “They didn’t ask whether you promoted me because we slept together?”

  “That’s nothing but a nasty rumor that no one would even give credibility to by repeating. We’re having a relationship now, but six months ago, before I left the firm, there was nothing going on between us beyond some innocent flirting. Bottom line, it doesn’t matter what people think. The honchos in New York don’t care what you do as long as the L.A. branch is producing and you don’t murder somebody or run afoul of the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

  “The fact that the rumor’s not true hasn’t stopped Sam-I-Am from repeating it.” Iris made room for a woman to merge in front of her. The woman waved. L.A. drivers were either waving or trying to run each other off the road. “It bugs me, knowing my regional manager is actively sabotaging my career.”

  Iris heard a rustling noise and she imagined Garland standing, as he tended to do while talking on the telephone.

  “Sam has to get over the fact that I went over his head to promote you. Sam’s not on the fast track. He’s too small-minded to see that your success only reflects on him. Iris, please stop fretting about what Sam thinks of you. You know by now that if you’re going to be successful in this industry, you’re bound to step on people’s toes.”

  “I already have, with three-inch stiletto heels.”

  “Mmm.” He seemed to savor the image. “Now that’s a thought—you in black, patent-leather high heels…”

  “And what else?”

  “A string of pearls.”

  They both giggled again.

  He sighed. “You’re really getting me into a state, here. I have to get on an airplane soon.”

  “When did you say the limo was picking you up to go to the airp
ort?”

  “There is a later flight…”

  “I can’t.” She winced. “Don’t tempt me. Don’t say another single thing to tempt me. I have to stop by my crummy apartment to change before I go to the office. I can’t show up bare-legged and wearing the same suit I had on yesterday. I’m late as it is.”

  “You’re right. I’d shoot a hole in my schedule if I postponed my flight.”

  “We’ll see each other in two weeks.”

  “It’ll be here before you know it.” He paused. “Do you have pearls?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you definitely have black heels.”

  “Taking inventory?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call you tonight.”

  She almost told him she loved him. She felt it. She thought he felt it too. But she was heading north on the Harbor Freeway and he was about to leave for LAX, and to be truthful, she didn’t want to be the first to say it. They’d been dating for five months, starting right after he’d left McKinney Alitzer to start a venture capital firm with some partners. The geographical distance between them had forced her to be thoughtful and to take things slowly. She was glad. She’d charged headfirst into new relationships too many times in the past. What if he didn’t feel the way she did? Best to sit back, relax, and play it cool. Then if things led nowhere, she’d quietly limp away, but at least her pride would be intact.

  “Bye,” he said.

  “Bye.” She suddenly felt melancholy.

  As she approached her exit, the phone rang again. Her heart soared. “Hi, stud muffin.”

  “Sorry, dear. It’s not stud muffin.” It was Louise, Iris’s assistant.

  Iris blushed. She was glad Louise couldn’t see her. “Hi, Louise.” To disguise her embarrassment, she tried not to miss a beat. “What’s up?”