by Susan Cory
The display brought back a flood of memories. The first presentation was of a Michael Graves knock-off of a housing project—a beautifully painted watercolor of a building that looked like a cartoon. While the structure itself was a half-baked pastiche of post-Modernist clichés, every tree and window mullion had been lovingly rendered. It was Adam’s. Iris remembered how excruciating his final review had been, with one critic suggesting he stick to painting watercolors and forget about trying to become an architect. As little respect as she had for the guy, she had felt sorry for him.
Next to this hung a board that was a total contrast—a complicated slightly messy drawing surrounded by hand-written notes. Carey’s project. What a juxtaposition; No wonder Adam had been in such a sour mood out on the lawn. He had probably just looked at the show.
The assignment had been to design public housing, but Carey had designed an entire self-sustaining village. He had argued that low-income housing shouldn’t be ghettoized, but rather integrated into the entire town. She peered at one of the notes, remembering his loopy printing.
The hand-drafting and freehand-sketching must look quaint to students now, Iris mused. All drawings, even renderings were done on the computer these days. As she swiveled around to look for one of her own projects, she almost bumped into C.C. standing close enough to breathe on her.
“So, the cops let you go. Or did you tunnel out?”
“I’m out on good behavior.”
They eyed each other. Even dressed in baggy shorts and a ‘Design will Save the World!’ T-shirt, C.C. wore a mantle of authority like a fascist dictator or a gym teacher. All that was missing was a riding crop or whistle. How had she ascended the food chain with so little charm? For the first time, Iris wondered about her background.
“Carey was brilliant, wasn’t he?” Iris turned back to Carey’s board. “I’ll bet he would have accomplished great things if he’d lived.”
“He was quite the superstar,” C.C. agreed.
Someone jostled Iris on their way to the auditorium, so she stepped out of the circulation path, moving closer to the wall. She tried to picture the hefty C.C. sneaking up behind Carey on a balcony. If the drugs had kicked in by then surprise wouldn’t have been required in order to topple him over the edge. Then again, most people braced themselves reflexively when C.C. was around. “So, the house in Lincoln. Are you seriously interested in running it?”
“I am. It’s perfect for our September issue. Norman bent my ear about all the green features. Of course he implied that he did most of the design.”
“Ri-i-i-ght,” Iris said. “I just drafted his ideas. You know, he’s dying for this publicity. He thinks it will enhance his swinging bachelor image.”
“And you don’t want it? I toured two alternative projects in Connecticut yesterday afternoon before I flew up here, but I like the Lincoln house best. This could be your lucky break, kid.”
Iris noted that C.C. had just alibied herself for the time of Will’s killing. “When are you intending to put Norman out of his misery?”
“Oh, I’ll tell him before I leave. I just love watching that jerk squirm.”
“Can I ask you something? Did you stay in touch with Will or G.B.? You were close with Will at school. Did you talk with him before this reunion?”
“Listen, Nancy Drew, I did not kill Will. I loved his amorality—although I do sympathize with your having had to put up with it. I went to his wedding. Yeah, we stayed friends. He called me last week to say that he’d be here, but we hadn’t set up any specific time to meet. I do want to know who knocked him off. As for G.B., I was never one of his favorites. I seem to be lacking in some department. So, is that everything you want to know?”
“Almost. Do you know why Will drugged Carey back at the graduation party?”
“What could that possibly matter at this point, Iris? They’re both dead.” C.C. stared back at her.
“I just want to know. Why did he do it—the drugging?”
“It was some stupid joke that Will and Adam thought up to get back at Carey for upstaging everyone for all of graduate school.”
“Did Alyssa know about it?”
“Who do you think made the brownies? Look it was a joke. That’s not what killed him.
“Are you so sure about that?”
For once Iris saw C.C. look uneasy.
Chapter 14
Iris trudged back to the jeep. Some joke. They should all be put away for life.
She brightened a bit when she saw that she’d, once again, escaped getting a parking ticket. She called Ellie on her cell phone and filled her in on what she had learned.
Cambridge is notorious for its labyrinth of one-way streets, so from her spot by the Broadway Market—now called something fancier with ‘Gourmet’ in it—she had to thread her way down Quincy Street, past the Fogg Museum, back into the chaos of Harvard Square.
She punched a radio button for WUMB, the folk music station, and listened to Richard Shindell while she waited for the light to change on Mass Ave. He was singing one of her favorites, his cover of “Cold Missouri Waters.” She started singing along as she stared out the window, eyeing the line snaking out of Bartley’s Burgers. She could picture the performer at one of his concerts at Passim’s, eyes closed, strumming a relentless guitar beat. This song always choked her up.
A loud honk announced that the light had changed. As she edged up to the next light, a short block further, she looked over at the card tables laden with used books on the sidewalk in front of the Harvard Bookstore. A street person seemed to have set up shop. She wondered what the bookstore thought about their competition. From the corner of her eye she spotted a familiar duck-like gait. Norman! Where was he going and why wasn’t he at the panel discussion? Next to him skulked a beige trench-coated figure. Why were Norman and Jerry walking along Mass Ave? She tried to pull into the nearest spot so that she could follow them on foot.
“Miss. You need to move now. That’s a handicapped spot!” It was the nasal voice of the same meter maid she’d encountered an hour ago. Damnation.
She pulled back into traffic right as Norman and Jerry disappeared down Holyoke, a one-way street going the wrong direction. She made a left on Dunster, then circled back to Holyoke. They had disappeared. She scanned the block and saw a Thai and a French restaurant. They must have gone into one of those for lunch. A car behind her honked.
All right already! She tried to think fast. What could she do—try to find them and eavesdrop? They were sure to see her. How would she ever explain her presence?
Oh, hell. She jerked the car into drive and headed home, trying to parse out their possible connection.
Chapter 15
There were two messages flashing on the phone by the time that Iris got home at one thirty. In the first, Ellie said she had gotten Rachel’s cell phone number off their home answering machine. She had tracked her down to her Cambridge hotel and, as one of Will’s classmates, offered condolences, asking how she could help. “We set up ‘Beep’”—she was cut off.
Next, Luc’s message said to call him at the Paradise. She called him.
“Iris, are you okay? Why did the cops haul you off?”
“Because I was supposed to meet with Will yesterday. His wife told the police about it. Luc, I’m worried that someone’s trying to set me up for his murder. Ellie and Mack are meeting with me tonight to try to figure out who it could be. Any chance you could join us?”
“Sure, of course. But the cops can’t really think that you did it. I can vouch for you being out in Lincoln. Listen, I just got a cancellation for a table tonight, so why don’t we meet here at the Paradise at seven? I wanted to thank you and Ellie for the catering gig anyway.”
“That would be great—your help and dinner. Thanks. I can’t wait to hear your take on these people.”
Iris called Ellie next and left a message for them to meet at the Paradise.
By now, it was time for Sheba’s walk. She dreaded the thought of s
eeing where Will’s body had been found, but hoped for the chance to still learn something from the raked-over crime scene.
Fresh Pond, four miles west of Iris’ house, was an anomaly in Cambridge—300 acres of reservoir and park that Frederick Law Olmsted, the noted landscape architect, had cleverly designed to look undesigned. Iris and Sheba walked the whole 2 ¼ mile dirt-alternating-with-paved path every day.
Someone had come up with the novel idea of driving the nearby nursing home residents around Fresh Pond in bright yellow bicycle-rickshaws. The first time Iris had seen one of these, she’d been sure she was hallucinating. But the Cambridge Chronicle that week had shown a clear photo of it with a caption calling it a pedi-cab. They were essentially jogging strollers for those at the other end of the age spectrum. It had been a pedi-cab driver, luckily not one of the frail and excitable ‘seniors,’ who had spotted the blue of Will’s jacket near a path through the woods.
After passing the hazards of the parking lot, Iris unhooked Sheba’s leash and the bassett hound trotted into the woods as fast as her short legs would take her. Iris kept up a brisk pace knowing the dog would circle around to keep tabs on her mistress. She relished these daily walks and the snippets of conversation from walkers, joggers, and cyclists that washed over her like sounds from the Tower of Babel.
Two women approached, one with a silk scarf draped over her raincoated shoulders, the other in an olive quilted vest being led by an arrogant-looking black poodle. The dog cast a disdainful look at Sheba who was sniffing an aromatic clump of weed. The second woman rattled away in French “mais les poissons sont si chers chez Le Fishmonger. Moi, je prefere Whole Foods.”
This early June day was a rarity for New England weather—neither hot nor cold. As if they had slipped into a chasm between seasons. The scrim of trees ringing the reservoir looked flat against a leaden sky.
Iris heard the approach of the chattering Water Department brigade, power-walking three abreast, cell phones clipped self-importantly to the belts of their pleated chinos. What kind of water-related emergency required a constant tether to the Water Department mothership nestled so close by next to the parking lot? These soldiers weren’t the ones doing battle in flooded basements. Ah, yes, terrorists. They must represent Cambridge’s first line of defense against anthrax being dribbled into the reservoir. But what were they supposed to do about it—beat the terrorists with their cell phones?
Iris distracted herself with these daydreams about her fellow walkers as she made her way past the dog beach. Sheba sidetracked to take a quick dip and check on which canine friends might be there, then raced to catch up with her.
Up ahead Iris made out the loping gait of the Vietnam vet who always wore a multi-colored fez. She tried to veer out of his line-of-sight but was hemmed in to the right by the reservoir’s chain-link fence and to the left by the dog pond. This guy would rant at passers-by on days when he hadn’t taken his meds. As she hurried past today, he shouted at her back, “You can’t HANDLE the truth!”
Rattled, Iris increased her pace to a jog, but swerved to steer Sheba out of the way of a cyclist hurtling towards them. The rider had a phone mic dangling from under his helmet and was shouting, “everything I’m saying is confidential.”
Three quarters of the way around the pond, they came to the path leading up toward the nursing home. She steered a reluctant Sheba onto the unfamiliar trail, which edged alongside ‘Butterfly Meadow,’ an open marshland that served as a bird sanctuary. Midway up, in a secluded area, broken branches and trampled underbrush ghosted where Will’s body must have lain. A remnant of yellow crime scene tape fluttered from a low Sycamore branch. The police had worked quickly. Iris looked down and felt an unalloyed sadness. For the first time Will’s death felt real. His life had just vaporized. Had he done anything to make this happen, or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? She slumped down onto the matted leaves and Sheba came over to rest her muzzle in her lap.
Iris needed to think. Somehow Will had gotten here from the airport yesterday, then wound up dead in these woods. Had he arranged to meet someone? Had someone known what flight he was on and surprised him at the airport? No, the airport had cameras everywhere—too risky. Will must have arranged a meeting. But with whom? And why? Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the sound of crunching on the path but Sheba started a low growl.
“What are you doing here?” An officious looking man in an olive shirt and pants glared down at her. “You’re trespassing on Neville Nursing Home grounds.”
“Oh, uh… I knew the man who died here yesterday. I wanted to pay my respects.”
“We don’t allow trespassers. We have to think of our residents’ safety.”
“You weren’t the one who found him yesterday, were you?”
“Who are you—a reporter?”
“No, I told you, I was a friend of the guy they found here yesterday.”
“One of the pedi-cyclists found him.”
“Any chance I could talk with him?”
“No, Dave’s not here now. You gotta go, lady.”
Iris rose wearily to her feet. So much for finding an overlooked clue—a piece of cloth on a branch, a scrap of paper with a phone number… that only happened on TV. She and Sheba trudged back down the hill.
Chapter 16
After changing into a sun dress that suggested more than it revealed, Iris threw a sweater over her shoulders and walked the three blocks downhill to the Paradise Café. She surveyed the room for Ellie but didn’t see her. Louise, doubling as maitre d’ and waitress, seated her at the café’s choicest table—now white-draped for the Saturday dinner crowd. It was a few minutes before seven, but the restaurant was already half-filled. Luc had opened this restaurant the previous winter on a corner where restaurants had never managed to succeed before. The combination of his inventive menu, the cheerful interior design, and the sexy owner/chef had hit just the right note. When the restaurant critics started raving about Luc’s cooking, it had became impossible for the neighborhood people to get one of the ten coveted tables. The initial buzz had died down a bit, and Iris had settled into the place as her local breakfast canteen. But this was her first time here for dinner.
Evening light from the west-facing windows suffused the taupe walls while the Southern pine floorboards added a caramel glow. This month’s display by a local artist consisted of eight oil paintings in fiery tones hung around the two inside walls.
Iris caught the motion of the kitchen door swinging open and Luc strolled out in jeans and a sports jacket, gripping a bottle with the recognizable orange label of Iris’ favorite champagne. He spotted her and headed over, his eyes locked on hers. Hair loose, he looked like a Viking Prince. He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. The room had become dead quiet.
“How are you holding up?”
Was this what it felt like to swoon? “Um… good. I’m good.”
He filled the flutes and toasted, “to your continued liberty.” They clinked glasses. “So, catch me up on the latest on this guy Will. Was he actually murdered?” So much for the romantic mood.
“’Fraid so. The police found his body at Fresh Pond where as it happens I’d just been walking my dog.”
“Jeez. How did I miss all the blood on your blouse yesterday? In fact, you seemed pretty calm.”
“I kill ex-boyfriends all the time. It’s gotten routine by now.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Actually, most murders are committed by family members. The wife probably did it.”
Iris looked at him through her lashes. “What do you mean, most murders—51 percent, 89 percent? How do you know that, anyway?”
“My father used to be a cop—here in Cambridge. I told you I grew up here.”
“I knew that, but didn’t know about your father. Is he retired now?”
The pulse in Luc’s temple fluttered. “He died eight years ago. He was shot by a teenage crack-head.”
Iris reached for his hand. “God, I am so sor
ry. That must have been awful.”
Luc’s voice turned low. “I had just graduated from culinary school—Johnson & Wales, down in Providence. When that happened, I couldn’t deal with it. I took off for Italy and stayed there for seven years. I ended up working in some of the great kitchens of Rome before I got my own place. That was the good part. I finally came back last fall to help take care of my mother. So I went full circle.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw Ellie and Mack enter the restaurant. She silently willed her friends away but they hurried over, gushing with apologies for being late.
First business was ordering Ellie her favorite aperitif, a Lillet. The other three stuck with champagne. Then Luc explained that he was trying out a new chef that night and wanted to taste things without hovering in the kitchen. Louise approached. She was the only post-pubescent female Iris knew who could manage to wear pigtails without looking ridiculous. She recited from memory the short, well-edited menu—three appetizer choices, three entrees, and three desserts. Luc explained that the nine choices varied from day to day depending on the market and his whims. With insider information from him, they ordered their meals. Iris realized that she was starving.
Mack was first to report on what he had learned. “The Medical Examiner on the case turns out to be a woman I knew at med school. She said that they should have the full scoop on Monday, but it looks like the killer tasered Will first, then jabbed him with a needle full of a strong drug, a lethal dose of some kind of muscle relaxer. He died within minutes. The cops haven’t found the needle yet.”
The table was silent. Iris imagined those agonizing minutes.
“I was able to learn something important this afternoon,” Iris wanted to break the spell. “I followed G.B.’s teaching assistant to the auditorium where he complained to G.B. about getting a last-minute call to sub for his Semiotics class on Friday. And get this—the class meets in the early afternoon, just when Will was murdered.”
