by Susan Cory
“You mean because we were so nice to him?”
“We were nice enough. He was a pompous ass back then. So, do you think I should hit him up? I think I’ve got some leverage to make him take me seriously.”
“Is this project going to be ‘green’? Never mind, it won’t be ready in time.”
“So should I talk to Norman about it?”
“I guess it can’t hurt to ask.”
***
“Now this is what I call a marketable talent,” C.C. squeezed her eyes shut.
“Yeah. My Craig’s List ad could read—Missy Shiatsu—your feet in my lap,” Sarah smirked. In fact, C.C.’s feet were resting in her lap at that moment as they shared the L-shaped leather sectional. The shiatsu course Sarah had taken the previous winter at the New School had turned out to be a good investment.
“God, are you tense!” Sarah’s brow puckered as she kneaded the areas below C.C.’s baby toes. “Is it the news about Met Home?”
“I swear I’m getting an ulcer. I keep waiting for Paul to haul me in to his office. All the other ‘shelter porn’ magazines seem to be going down like dominos.” She gazed out the huge windows as the violet dusk deepened into the black of the Hudson River. She loved this loft. She had found it before the Meatpacking District had taken off, and had bought it for a song. Then, during the renovation, she had met Sarah who was working as a finish carpenter on her contractor’s crew. That was when her life had made a U-turn toward a contentment she had never expected. Now, if she lost her job, would Sarah stay with her without the prestige of her work, or the perks that came with it? How would she be able to afford her Manhattan lifestyle?
“That’s not going to happen to cuttingedgedecor, baby. Your publishers have deeper pockets. They’ll probably scoop up some of those orphan Met Home advertisers. It’ll be okay.”
“Well, I’m trying to pull together that September issue on green architecture. It’s Paul’s pet project. Which reminds me—I’ve got to go to that damned reunion so I can see this wonder house that Iris designed for Norman. I hear from G.B. that it’s got all the latest eco-bells and whistles. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? Will’s going to be there. He called me today at the office.”
“Why is he going to a reunion after all these years? No, I’d better not go. After what you’ve told me about how nasty some of these people were to you back then, I’m afraid I might punch out somebody’s lights.”
“I may need you to help me behave. I forget why Will said he was going. I’ll ask him next month. What is that area you’re massaging now?”
“Here? Right by the ball of the foot?”
“Yeah, it kind of hurts.”
“That’s because it corresponds to your liver, where all those martinis are wreaking havoc.”
With that reminder, C.C. downed the rest of her drink.
Chapter 8
Five weeks later Norman sat in his office on the top floor of Norman Meeker Enterprises, behind his Danish, blond-wood desk, clumsy fingers setting his ‘executive toy’ stainless steel balls in motion, back and forth, back and forth.
“Claire! Has she called?”
His assistant stuck her head in the door. “She’s only 15 minutes late, Norman. It’s a monsoon out there. She’ll need an ark to get here.”
At that moment the outer door clicked open, and Iris Reid greeted Claire as she edged in past her. Realizing that her umbrella was dripping on the Berber carpet, Iris retreated to park it in the umbrella stand and returned.
“Sorry I’m late. Storrow Drive is closed near the B-School.” She dropped down into the guest chair, pulled a clipboard out of her over-sized tote, and passed him a revised chart of the schedule.
“Assuming that this rain lets up—which it’s supposed to do tomorrow—we should be in pretty good shape, Norman. The painters are scheduled to start on Monday. The floor finishers will come afterward. We should be able to complete everything in three more weeks. There might be some punch list items to deal with after the party, but nothing noticeable will be missing.”
“I hope not, Iris. Remember, I want to knock C.C.’s socks off at this dinner.” For what it cost to build I deserve to get some premium PR out of this house. He had chosen Iris as his architect despite suspecting she didn’t like him. He never would have considered using a stranger. And the others from the class were designing skyscrapers or museums, while she had lasered in on residential design—the latest materials, eco-conscious approaches, practical nitty-gritty, and most important to him now, how to design a magazine-cover-worthy house.
“Here are the latest requisitions from Farraday. I’ve checked them all and they’re ready to be paid. I’ve included my latest invoice in there too.”
Norman put on his wire-rimmed glasses and pretended to study the top page. This was phase two of his plan. His ex-wife, Barb, had been part of phase one. He had picked her out of that snooty class to stand by him while he built up an empire. She had shared those years of slogging through business school while trying to develop environmental products on the side. But Barb couldn’t see the big picture. Not to mention that she’d turned into a bitch. It wasn’t only about money or security. Most of the jerks in his GSD class had acquired a kind of polish merely by coming through the friggin’ birth canal. Take Iris Reid—typical WASP from some academic family. Sure, she tried to dress edgy with her black leather jacket and boots. But anyone could see, from her porcelain skin and boarding-school accent that she was a good girl from the right side of the tracks. Shit—architecture was ‘a gentleman’s profession.’ You were supposed to go into it for the love of it, not the money. What a bunch of chumps. What had he been thinking spending three years there? Business school had made a lot more sense.
“Do you see a problem, Norman? You’re frowning.”
“No, no.” Norman leaned back in his ergonomic chair. “I’ll have Claire cut the checks.”
***
The meeting finally over, Iris battled her way through the slashing rain to her Jeep. As soon as she’d buckled her seat belt, her cell phone rang. “Undisclosed caller” appeared on the screen.
“Hi, Iris, it’s Will. How are you?” She froze at the sound of his voice and, covering the mouthpiece, forced herself to take several deep breaths.
“I’m fine. I noticed on the GSD website that you’re coming to the reunion.” God, now she sounded perky.
“Yeah. I have to be in New York on business the week after, so I figured I’d stop off in Cambridge for the weekend. Maybe we could get together for coffee before this thing starts?
It’s been a long time since we’ve talked and things kind of blew up at the end of school. I’ve always felt bad about that.”
She tried to figure out what she wanted to happen. “I’m going to be pretty busy on Friday afternoon. Norman’s got me running around organizing everything for the dinner. I’ll probably be out in Lincoln at the house.” She wouldn’t make it too easy for him.
“I heard that you designed a house for Norman. I can’t wait to see it.”
“Well, I guess if you can get yourself out there in the afternoon, we could meet then. I’ll be there until five or so. Then I’ll need to go home to change.”
“Okay. I’ll take an early flight and find you in Lincoln. Norman sent directions in the reunion package. Maybe you can give me a tour.”
“Sure. See you.” Damn. So much for playing hard to get…
Chapter 9
It was D-Day and counting. The floor finishers and touch-up painters performed a careful ballet during the week leading up to the party. The day before, gardeners had planted vegetation on the roof and Iris’ crew had set the furniture in place following her floor plans. Several full-grown maples had been planted to frame the view of the open field from the living room windows.
Now, as the cleaning crew packed up their equipment, Iris lugged in a large bucket of white peonies and chartreuse lady’s mantle chosen that morning from a Harvard Square florist.
She set to work arranging them in two Aalto vases on the dining table, making sure that they were low enough not to block the guests’ views of each other.
She had written out ten place-cards and was slotting each one down into silver Elsa Peretti holders when she heard a car drive up. Shoving back her sweater sleeve, she consulted her watch—4:15. Will?
But, a few moments later, it was Luc’s shaggy head that popped inside the door.
“Hi, you,” he said, his arms loaded with bags.
“Can I help? The kitchen’s that-a-way,” she pointed with her head.
“Thanks. There are two more bags in the car.”
She brought in the remaining supplies and joined him at the kitchen island where he was unpacking containers of different shapes and sizes. He moved around the kitchen like a dancer, clad in black jeans and a navy T-shirt, looking relaxed and in control. She settled onto a stool to watch.
“Are you here to be my sous-chef?” he asked, wrapping the strings of a white apron around his narrow hips.
“I’m just getting the table ready. I’ll need to head home soon to change. The red wine’s on that counter and the white and champagne are in the fridge. Where are your helpers?”
“I don’t need helpers to cook for a ten-person party, but Louise is coming to help serve and clean up. Why don’t you open some wine for us and keep me company while I prep?” He started slicing lemons.
“I can stay awhile. I chose an Albino Armani pinot grigio to go with the bronzino. Should I open that?”
“Sounds like you run a soup-to-nuts operation if you even choose the wine for your clients. By the way, I love this house. I walked around outside before I came in. It’s sort of a Fallingwater meets Neutra.”
“Well, aren’t you the Renaissance guy? Where did you learn about architecture?”
“Oh, we chef/restauranteurs try to keep up.” There went his left dimple.
Iris swirled the wine in her glass and inhaled. “A pretty nose…”
He looked up at her and cocked his head.
She took a sip. “Mmmm. Subtle and fruity, but what’s that teaser? A bit of pear on the mid-palate? Sorry. I love good wine.”
“Impressive! If you cook too I’m going to be totally intimidated.”
Butter started crackling in a big stainless steel pan on the professional range. Luc began shaking Arborio rice into it. As he trickled in some broth from one of his containers, Iris watched him from behind, sipping her wine. Such strong arms. Did hefting crates of produce do that?
“I’m more of a baker,” she told him. “Ellie’s daughter, Raven, is my best fan. She’ll be home from college soon so I’ll need to whip up her favorite cake—a Lady Baltimore.”
“An architect, a wine aficionada, and a baker. Now I am impressed.”
Over the last month Iris found that they had developed an easy rapport even if it had stopped short of romance.
“Should I fill you in on the cast tonight? You’re doubling as my bodyguard, remember?”
“Of course. Now, this guy Norman. He’s going to live in this house by himself?”
“Yup. He’s newly divorced, so this will be his swinging bachelor pad. He’s in a furnished apartment at the Devonshire now and plans to move here next week now that construction is done.”
“Oh, and Ellie mentioned that your old boyfriend is coming.” There was a loud sizzling as he poured in more broth, continuing to stir with a wooden spoon.
“Yeah—Will. He’d said he was going to stop by here this afternoon, but hasn’t shown up. That’s typical of him, actually. If he comes by in the next hour, you should feel free, as my bodyguard, to rip out his still-beating heart.”
“Ended badly, did it?”
“You could say that.” Iris frowned, then hurried on. “Continuing on with the cast of characters, Ellie’s bringing her husband, Mack—a great guy. I don’t think you’ve met him, have you? He’s a doctor, very laid back.”
“I don’t usually think of doctors as laid back. Could you hand me that mitt, please?”
“He’s a pediatrician. You’ll like him. However, on the unlikable side, we have Alyssa and Adam, the class couple. She’s a prima donna. She and Adam married after graduation. But the male Alpha role goes to our professor, Gilles Broussard, known as G.B. He’s kind of a self-appointed guru.”
“That’s a little weird—only one professor coming?”
“He was the professor for this group’s third-year studio and the Friday night dinners are divided up by studios. He’s also been helping Norman organize the reunion.”
“So,” Luc raised his hands. He lowered fingers one by one as he counted “that’s you, Ellie, her husband, Norman, the old boyfriend, the prom king and queen, and the Professor. Who are the last two?”
“I’ve saved the scariest two for last. You can’t miss C.C. Okuyama. She’s built like a Sherman tank with the face and voice of Babe Ruth. She’s an editor from cuttingedgedecor who’s interested in publishing a piece on this house. Norman will be pestering her all weekend to do just that, but C.C. asked me not to tell him that she’s already interested. I think she likes torturing him.”
“How charming. But the publishing part—that would be great for you, wouldn’t it?” Luc looked up from the simmering broth.
“Sure. My career could always use the boost. I’m terrible at marketing. But Norman wouldn’t be doing this for me. He’s trying to repackage himself as a cool dude, living in a hip house from a magazine. It’s part of a whole fantasy he’s trying to create.”
“I can’t wait to finally meet this guy, Norman. He sounds like a trip. But hang on—who’s the tenth person?”
“I almost forgot our phantom—Jerry Jensen. Everything about him is beige—hair, skin, even his eyes—well, they’re light brown. He even wore a lot of khaki at school. Only his sarcastic smirk stands out. He reminds me of the Cheshire Cat in ‘Alice in Wonderland’, all grin and nothing to get a handle on.”
“He sounds almost innocent compared to the rest.”
“Oh no, no one would ever accuse Jerry of innocence.” Iris stared into her glass and swirled the golden liquid gently. “There was someone else in our class who was unusual.” She told Luc about Carey and about her vow with Ellie to try to figure out who had killed him.
At the start of the story, Luc turned the burner to its lowest setting and sat down on a stool to listen. After she finished he stood up and came closer. She stood up and he wrapped her in his arms.
After a minute he looked down at her and said “God, with classmates like these, one even capable of murder, how did you survive?”
“Not all of us did.”
Chapter 10
Someone—Alyssa no doubt—had decided that black tie would be “fun.” Instead of following directions, Iris squirmed into a slinky, bronze, above-the-knee dress. She sucked on a Tic-Tac as she wound her hair up and plunged a dragonfly comb through it like a saber. After smudging her eyeliner and retouching her lipstick, she slid on leopard-patterned heels. You babe, she thought as she inspected herself in the full-length mirror. Twenty years ago she had fit the term ‘coltish.’ Now what was she—’mare-ish’? A little rounder, more filled out—but still capable of a full gallop.
Driving back out to Lincoln, she fretted about the prospect of making small talk that night. She hated social occasions—and this one was going to be a minefield. This was no soft, fuzzy crowd. They would be scrutinizing her and analyzing Norman’s house for perceived “mistakes.” She marveled at Ellie’s ability to ride the top of a conversational wave—to view tonight’s party as dinner theater. Why couldn’t Iris care less? These were people she couldn’t stand—and one of them was almost certainly her friend’s killer. Last night, she had made Ellie promise not to be late for the cocktail hour so she wouldn’t be stranded with them for long.
She backed her car into a spot that would allow for a quick exit. The evening felt chilly for early June. While hobbling up the pea gravel driveway, she regre
tted choosing three-inch heels.
Through the door’s sidelights she could see Norman’s silhouette hurrying toward her. The expression on his face as he approached displayed obvious relief. He jerked forward to deliver an awkward peck nearly on her cheek. “Where have you been? They’ll be arriving any minute!”
“Don’t you look nice, Norman.” A well-cut tux could hide a multitude of sins.
She moved around the hall and living room, adjusting the lighting to produce a soft glow, then stacked eight Brazilian jazz CDs, brought from her collection, into the embarrassingly expensive sound system. Satisfied, she scanned the room. The stage was set.
“Did Will turn up?” she asked Norman who was looking in the front hall mirror, fiddling with his bow tie.
“No, I haven’t seen him. Isn’t he coming with the others?”
“We’d made a plan to meet here before five while I was getting the house ready. Maybe his plane got delayed.”
“I’ve been here since 5:30 and didn’t get a call from him here or on my cell. I’m sure he’ll show up.”
“He probably just blew off the meeting with me and will show up for the dinner,” she said lightly, inwardly fuming.
The doorbell startled them.
G.B. and Jerry arrived together. Norman morphed into host mode, pumping their hands and making welcoming noises. Jerry gave Iris a wave and smirk. G. B., more gallant, air-kissed her on either check. Iris was not a kisser, air or otherwise. She flashed her teeth instead and tried to look sincere.
“Oh, my dears. Look at this house. It is magnificent! Iris, I always said you had a gift.” He had never said anything of the sort, Iris reflected, watching him glide over to the windows to admire the view. He slid out his cigarette case and tap, tap, tapped on it.
Who still smoked? Iris couldn’t think of anyone but him.
Over the preceding years, Jerry had progressed from boyish to middle-aged, with little change in affect. His pale, lashless eyes watched her impassively, while his lips remained in a tight sneer.
