by Susan Cory
CONUNDRUM
by
Susan Cory
Published by Susan Cory
Copyright © Susan Cory, 2012
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Acknowledgements
The characters in Conundrum bear no resemblance to my classmates and professors at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design. Would you really want to read a story about a bunch of nice architects?
I am grateful to many people for their help in wrestling this story down onto the page /screen. For virtual hand-holding as I crossed over from the visual world into the verbal one I’d like to thank my fellow writers at Sisters-in-Crime, especially the Guppies.
Heartfelt thanks and admiration go to Anne Wagner, Pam Simpson, and Kat Lancaster for their editing expertise. For helping me to plug plot holes I’m indebted to Eve Spangler and Martha Craumer.
A special thanks goes to Narween Otto, my critique partner, for her sensitive ear to dialogue, and to S.J. Rozan for her talent as a teacher equal to hers as a crime fiction writer.
For technical help, I’m grateful to Katie Hallett for her psychological insights, Alex Harpp for her legal take on Norman’s tape, and Detective Danny Marshall of Cambridge Major Crimes for his explanation of the jurisdictional chain of command as well as a tour of the new Cambridge Police HQ.
My husband, Dan Tenney, deserves a medal for patiently reading through every latest installment dished out at dinnertime and for giving me his feedback diplomatically.
Finally, this book would never have been started without the encouragement of my friends and fellow architects Gail Lindsey and Olga Vysatova McCord. I so wish you both were here to see it in print. I dedicate Conundrum to you.
“Nothing stands out so conspicuously, or remains so firmly fixed in the memory, as something which you have blundered.”
—Marcus Tullius Cicero
Chapter 1
Iris Reid loved Monday mornings when she had a house in construction. She couldn’t wait to get back to the building site to check on its progress. Her old jeep bumped up the rutted dirt driveway in the upscale Boston suburb of Lincoln. Dirty patches of snow pock-marked the ground and Iris could see her breath condensing on the windshield. After maneuvering around a sharp turn her eyes lit up—the three-level skeleton of the house faced her. It stepped gracefully up and into the hillside, with bright blue tarps over its flat roofs snapping in the wind. Several balconies, cantilevered in a cubist configuration, now sprouted from the volumes of the main house. She cut the engine and studied her Modernist creation, savoring the changes since last week’s visit.
Then she spotted Frank’s Dodge pickup. Damn. That was the only drawback to construction—having to deal with contractors. This one rated about a 7 on the 1-to-10 misogyny scale. It seemed to bug Frank more that she had gone to Harvard than that she was female or an architect. He’d learned this fact from her website and now made a point of calling her “Hey, Harvard.” Still, the house was coming together.
For this design, Iris had used an arsenal of ‘green’ features. From the insulating sod roof to the wood floors reclaimed from a Vermont barn, this house had impeccable environmental ‘cred’ and she was hoping to get it certified as LEED platinum. But its piece de resistance—the Meeker geo-thermal energy system—had been contributed by her client.
Years earlier, her former classmate, Norman Meeker (or more likely one of his underlings) had designed a system of running water pipes 150 feet underground, harnessing the earth’s core temperature of 52 degrees to modulate heating and cooling. It was simple, brilliant and had made Norman’s fortune. His first fortune, that is. By now he had three or four major patents on clever energy-saving building products. He’d used his architecture school training in a far more lucrative way than the rest of them. Even in school, Norman had affected the avuncular manner of one whose success would out-pace his peers’. This manner had always irritated Iris, so when he’d called her a year earlier to discuss her designing a house for him, she’d been ambivalent. But she’d always said a plum project and steep fee could give her the patience of a saint. Now she was getting a chance to test this.
Iris climbed the building frame to the top level, the main living section of the open floor plan. The roof tarp cast an eerie blue glow over the space. Frank, talking on his cell phone, scowled at her, then flipped the phone shut. He sauntered over, jaw at the lead, his tool-belt swinging low on his hips like an outlaw’s holster. “Hey, Harvard, the windows for the living room aren’t gonna fit.”
She groaned inwardly. Iris had created a composition with the windows and doors that allowed little margin for error. Casements, stationaries, transoms, French doors—all fit together like a Chinese puzzle. Contractors hated not having room to fudge, so Frank had been predicting disaster from the moment he had first read the drawings and specs. Now he looked smug.
“Okaaaay, let’s go over this,” she said. “Where’s the problem?”
“Marvin dropped off the windows late Friday. We uncrated them and laid them out like you drew, and the whole thing is 1/2” too wide. It won’t fit.” Frank made a dismissive sweep toward the windows. Iris registered the abrupt silencing of power tools as several carpenters stopped to watch the show. “When they ganged the two doors and stationary window, they made it wider than you put on the drawings. I told you it was too tight to work. Now my schedule’s gonna be shot to hell.”
Iris headed stiffly over to where the windows and doors had been laid out on the plywood sub-floor amidst the muddy imprints of lug soles. She pulled out a tape to take her own measurements as Frank glowered above her, hands on hips.
She brushed past him to consult her drawings set out on a makeshift table. There had to be some solution other than ordering a narrower window. She squinted at the critical string of dimensions, blurred by coffee rings. Then she leaned back. Thank god I’ve picked up some tricks over the years. She called out to Frank, “Keep your shirt on. I made the door frames triple-studded to allow for something like this. We can swap out one of those studs on the latch side with a one-by, and that’ll give you your extra half-inch plus.”
She noted his disappointed look. The other carpenters turned back to their work smirking. She shook her head. She hated the head-butting that often went with her job. They should teach child psychology in architecture school. It would be more useful than some of the esoteric theory courses she had dozed through.
“Measure all the rest of the windows to see if we need any more adjustments,” she shouted over the roar as the compressor came back on.
“I may have to put in a change order,” he yelled.
“Yeah, yeah… you do that. Oh, and Frank… don’t forget that the June 4th deadline is drop-dead. You’ve got three months. Norman’s planning to have an important dinner party here that night, so delays aren’t an option.”
“Tell that to the Poggenpohl kitchen people,” he called after her as she headed for the temp stairs before he could come up with any more complaints. Most contractors, by this point in the job, realized that the house was looking good and started respecting her judgment. Or at least they’d let up on baiting her. For whatever reasons, Frank didn’t get it.
She climbed down two levels to her destination—the wine cellar. A rough-walled cave with a barrel-vaulted ceiling had been carved
out of a stone section of the hill. This would become a hidden room, accessed by pressing the right spot on the outer room’s paneling.
She took out a clipboard and jotted down dimensions for ordering the shelving, wine refrigerator, and table that Norman had requested. He knew very little about wine but wanted a state-of-the-art wine cellar. Ever since his wife had left him, he had been positioning himself as a “player” in the Boston middle-aged dating circuit. For a guy with a Calligula hairdo with one inch bangs, who walked toes-out like a duck, this was an uphill battle. Every possible electronic device had to be put on a remote control, 007 style. With his status as a “green” activist in business, his Toyota Prius was a given, but he had also purchased a sleek, black 1995 Porsche 928—his one toy that had Iris salivating. She had offered to take the Porsche as her architectural fee.
“We belong in that car, Sheba, not Norman,” she’d lamented to her dog.
When it came to the wine cellar, Iris was on home turf. Her father had given her tutorials on vintages, varietals, and their proper care. By now she was a true connoisseur, able to create the perfect wine cave. The idea of a dork like Norman using it as a backdrop for a seduction attempt struck her as a crime.
Chapter 2
Later that morning Iris worked on a freehand sketch in the turreted home office of her Victorian house. She was hunched over the section of a table she’d designed that tipped up to form a drafting board. The loud “thunk” that announced something heavy coming through the mail slot nearby barely registered. But when Sheba, her six-year-old basset hound, waddled to the front vestibule, the clicking of her toenails on the wood floor roused Iris. She collected the mail, placing some bills in Sheba’s mouth for transport to the kitchen floor. The dog loved this “job”. Iris muttered about the latest misspellings of her four-letter, Anglo-Saxon surname, R-E-I-D— those fourth grade teachers with their ‘i before e except after c’ drill had a lot to answer for. Tossing aside the inevitable flyers and catalogs, she came to a book wrapped in plastic: Twentieth Reunion of Harvard’s Graduate School of Design—Class of 1988 and stood transfixed, staring at the cover.
It wasn’t a surprise. After all, Norman was the reunion’s chairman. He had been nattering on about it for weeks. It was due to the small, highly selective opening-night dinner in three month’s time that they were racing to finish the house. Norman was determined to show it off to one of their former classmates, C.C. Okuyama, who was now editing a big-time architectural magazine.
Iris was braced for it. Still, her insides felt knotted.
She headed mechanically to her kitchen window seat, and opened the directory with one finger as if it were radioactive, searching for five particular names. Then she speed-dialed her best friend Ellie.
“Have you seen it yet?”
“What?”
“The reunion book. It’s in today’s mail.”
“Call you back.” Ellie lived around the corner in Iris’ Cambridge neighborhood.
Fifteen minutes later Ellie tapped on the kitchen window. She hung her parka on a hook in the mudroom alcove, then followed Iris back to the kitchen window seat, where Sheba jumped up to nestle between them. “It looks like all 5 of them plan to come,” Ellie began. “You know what that means.”
“They didn’t come to the tenth or fifteenth. Why now? Why all of them?” Iris rested a fingernail between two teeth, then quickly removed it. “Are we really going to do this?”
“We could head out of town for the weekend to avoid running into them—just let it blow over.”
YES! Iris thought. Let’s go up to that spa in Vermont and take long walks with Sheba, and get massages, and when we come back they’ll be gone. “Well, if you don’t want to go…”
“Then again, C.C.’s going to be there. Norman’s house would be perfect for her magazine and the publicity would be great for you. Something good could come out of this. Besides, we always said that if we could just get all five of them in one room again…”
“I know, but it’s completely hopeless. How can we possibly find out who followed Carey onto that balcony twenty years ago?”
“If we can steer the conversation that way, we might be able to piece together people’s whereabouts at the party. We’ve talked about this.”
Iris felt the invasion of cold seeping through the window glass. Outside, the wind was rustling the dead leaves in her garden.
“Besides, the attempt alone might stop your nightmares. Have you been sleeping at all? I’m worried about you.”
Iris knew that the gray shadows under her eyes had returned. “It’s this reunion business that’s started them up again. This happens every five years, remember? They’ll recede on their own after it’s over.”
“Darlin’, it’s been twenty years. You’ve got to let go. It wasn’t your job to protect Carey.”
“Tell that to him. Tell him to stop haunting me.”
“You sound like you’re in a horror movie. Aren’t we being a wee bit over-dramatic?”
“He’s not going to leave me alone until I find his murderer.”
“Oh, come on. You told the police what you suspected and they wouldn’t believe you. What more are you supposed to do? Maybe we should stage an exorcism. Have you been biting your nails?”
“No.” She tucked her hands under the table.
“Norman’s welcome letter says G.B.’s going to be there too. You know, I’ve been wondering if we should add him to the suspect list. The graduation party was at his apartment.”
“Why would he kill Carey? G.B. wasn’t one of the jealous classmates.”
“He might have had an affair with him. Maybe Carey was going to expose him for sleeping with students. G.B. wouldn’t have wanted to lose his Harvard teaching gig.”
“Maybe. That would bring it to six suspects.” She stared at her ragged cuticles, blinking. “All I know is that Carey didn’t fall off that balcony. And it was one of these six, I’d stake my life on it, who drugged him, shoved him to his death—and got away with murder.”
Chapter 3
Right after Ellie left, the phone in Iris’ office rang. She ran from the kitchen to the next room to answer “Reid Associates” in her faux-receptionist voice.
“Iris, it’s C.C.— C.C. Okuyama from GSD. Long time, yadda, yadda… I’m calling because I understand from G.B. that you’ve designed a house for Norman that I might want to put in cuttingedgedecor. I’m not making any promises, but we’re doing a “green” issue and my managing editor says that I need to dig up some examples outside the New York area for a change. But it’s always murder to find anything decent in the provinces.”
Iris could picture C.C. rolling her eyes and running her stubby fingers through her black page-boy. Sheba appeared at Iris’ knee, favorite hide-a-squirrel toy in her mouth, making low, growly noises. For some reason the phone ringing triggered a “play” button in her head. Iris glared down at her and mouthed “no!”
“Great, C.C. I’d be happy to show you the house. We’ve used several of Norman’s inventions and we’re going through accreditation for LEED platinum. When do you want to see it?
“G.B. roped me into that Friday night reunion shindig Norman’s hosting, so why don’t you show me around then?”
Sheba pulled one of the baby squirrels out of its tree trunk and pranced around with it, trying to get her mistress’ attention. Iris swivelled away from her.
“Actually, I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to the reunion. But I can give you a private tour that week-end.”
“No, no, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying up there. It’s more convenient for me if you show me the house while I’m also doing the dinner thing. Two birds, one stone. By the way, Iris, I looked at your website. You only have a few published write-ups listed. How about showing a little Harvard hustle? You should jump at opportunities like this. So, shall I assume that I’ll see you in three months at the Friday night dinner?
Iris massaged her temples. Sheba dropped to the fl
oor with a dramatic sigh, her paw stuck in the tree trunk.
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Oh, and Iris, don’t mention this possible feature to Norman, okay?” Click.
Iris turned to look down at her dog. “You squeeze oranges, Sheba, you get orange juice. These people never change.” Sheba gave her an “I’m ignoring you too” look.
She’d call Ellie to let her know that, apparently, she was going to at least the Friday night portion of the reunion. Maybe she would get lucky and someone would talk about that long-ago graduation party. As C.C. had put it: “two birds, one stone.”
Chapter 4
In early June, 1988, Iris Reid was making a long, careful slice with an x-acto knife. The earlier manic energy in the large open fishbowl of GSD’s architecture studio had settled into a workmanlike hum. Snatches of Bob Marley leaked from behind a walled-in desk to her right, warring with Jimi Hendrix coming from the left. Harder to tune out was the pungent stench of pepperoni pizza, cigarette butts and unwashed students.
The sheet of white foam-core under her knife started to go blurry. Two in the morning was an inadvisable time for model-building—especially at the tail end of a triple all-nighter. She needed another infusion of vending machine coffee. She hesitated, running her tongue over her teeth. They already felt fuzzy.
A crown of auburn curls moved across the top of her wall, followed by the rest of Ellie leaning into the opening of her enclosure. “Let the slaves rise up and slay their oppressor. Let my people go.”
“You can leave anytime, you know, Moses.” Iris said. “There’s a soft pillow waiting for you two blocks away.”
“Ha! You just want me to show up tomorrow with an unfinished model like yours. And you already have a job offer, so this crit doesn’t even matter for you.” Ellie crouched down to study Iris’ building. “I predict three more hours to finish it, darlin’. That means two hours of sleep max and another presentation with filthy hair.”
