by Susan Cory
“Iris,” he said.
“Hi,” she said softly. He would probably think she was a desperate cougar if she jumped him now. She winced, turned away, but was then drawn into an airy, inviting living room beyond. It had high ceilings, enormous windows and deep crown moldings. The furniture, however, was sleek and modern. Iris had always liked that juxtaposition of modern furnishings in a classic setting. But more impressive was the room’s balance between order and relaxation. She wandered over to an ornate wooden fireplace mantle flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. On the shelves personal things—photographs and mementos, were interspersed with over a hundred books. Magazines and newspapers were piled on a coffee table alongside a pottery plate that read Capri. Luc watched her curiously.
“This place looks so European. I love it,” she said.
“That’s why I bought it—the architecture reminds me of my place in Rome. You can’t believe how many boring, generic condos there are out there. Let me help you with these bags. What have you brought?”
“It’s some lunch things to thank you for being my good Samaritan last night.”
“Di niente.” He bowed slightly. “All part of my job as bodyguard.”
She followed him into a large corner room where sunlight bathed the cream-colored walls. A formidable Aga range held court against a back wall of restaurant-grade appliances.
“This is the main reason I bought the place—the serious kitchen. But I never get a chance to use it with all the time I spend at the café.” He rested the bags on the marble counter. “Are these from Formaggio? I love that place!”
Iris relaxed at an ancient pine table, smiling as she watched Luc lift items out of the bags like a boy at Christmas. “Aah, real pecorino!” He held it up to his nose, inhaled deeply, and sighed. Then holding up the wine bottle to read the label he exclaimed, “ I didn’t know they exported this! You are transporting me back to Italia, cara.”
“And you don’t even have to cook.” She liked that he had called her ‘cara’.
“You have to taste this wine—a 2005 Tenuta Migliardonico ‘Chateau de Novi’ Gavi!” The ‘r’ rolled off his tongue convincingly. He opened the bottle and filled two glasses. “Did you know that the Castello Gavi was once used as Napoleon’s headquarters?”
“Being French, I’ll bet he located his fortresses on the basis of the quality of the nearby vineyards.” She took a sip.”Mmmm. Dry and flinty is my favorite combination in a white.” She nodded toward the living room, “Have you read all the books out there?”
“Most of them. I love reading. That was actually the hardest part about moving to another country. I had to leave most of my books here.”
“Are you glad to be back?”
“That’s a complicated question. But first, you owe me the story of your life.”
He arranged the food on plates. They sat in his cheerful kitchen pulling off hunks of focaccia and cheese and sipping the pale, golden wine.
“Where did you grow up? Any family other than this brother I’ve been hearing about?”
“I’m a genuine Yankee— grew up in Norwich, Vermont. Just my one straight-laced, disapproving brother. I was the kid with bright pink hair and thrift-shop clothes in high school who hung out with the artsy crowd. My father was an art history professor at Dartmouth, and my mother taught at the local elementary school. Then he got offered a position at Harvard around the time I started college, so they moved down here.”
Luc made a frame with his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to picture you with pink hair.”
“I looked great. I may dye it that color again. It sure would liven up Zoning board meetings.”
Luc grinned as he broke off some tiny champagne grapes and added them to her plate. “Go on, Pinky.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I stayed up at Dartmouth to major in Visual Studies. They had a good architecture program in theVis Stud department, and architecture had all the elements I liked about studio art, but it could actually affect people’s lives. I was so idealistic then. I was going to design beautiful low-income housing.” Iris smiled at the memory of her innocent idealism.
“I remember my first day at Harvard GSD. The other students seemed so sure of themselves and so worldly. Have you ever been inside the GSD building? It’s almost all open inside, so you have several levels of drafting tables overlooking each other. The new students were fighting over desks. Somehow, I ended up with a desk next to Ellie’s. We shared that look of ‘What the hell have I gotten myself into?’ and bonded right then.”
“The December before I graduated, my parents’ car crashed into a tree while driving back to Norwich to see friends.” Her voice clouded. “They hit some black ice and were killed instantly.”
Luc touched her hand.
She stopped speaking for a few minutes, then began again. “My brother, Stirling, had been living with them in the house on Washington Avenue, so he stayed on there.”
“GSD was like boot camp, but I was glad to have something to throw myself into. World War III could have broken out and it wouldn’t have registered inside the studio. After graduation, I was revved up to tackle the architect’s Mecca—New York City. I loved being there. My job was high-powered. I had an exciting social life. But after a few years I wanted a place to put down roots. I wanted to live in a city—just not that large and impersonal a city. So I came back to Cambridge and reconnected with Ellie. Still, I felt withdrawal symptoms for a long time. Then a few years later, I met a guy and got married. It didn’t last long. So… that’s my life.”
Luc considered her over his wine glass. “You sure slid over that last part quickly. I think I got whiplash.”
She glanced down at her watch. “Oh, god, it’s two! I have to meet my new client in Newton at two-thirty. I’ll catch you later.” Iris ran out of the kitchen, turned around, ran back, and kissed Luc a second time, this time quickly. Then she was gone.
***
Iris didn’t know how to explain the embarrassment that had been her marriage. She’d been old enough—30—to have known better than to marry Christopher after knowing him for only six months. She had been mesmerized by his perfect facade, his compatible background. It had seemed spontaneous, even romantic, to marry while the first blush was still on the romance. In retrospect, it was just naïve. Iris hated to have to think of herself as naïve.
Dashing Christopher had turned out to be a vacuous, coke-snorting narcissist. He had gotten fired from his investment banking job four months into the wedding. His new routine became collecting unemployment, reading the paper all morning at Starbucks, then drinking and pontificating with his buddies at the Forest Café until late in the evening. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home until the next morning, Iris fuming at the breakfast table.
“You’re not good enough in bed to be a gigolo!” she had shouted at him during one of their last fights. She had filed for divorce before their first anniversary.
Chapter 28
Ellie recognized Rachel in the lobby of the Inn at Harvard. They had met in the Registrar’s office when she had helped Ellie get her transcript for her Ph.D. application. She looked more or less the same, her brown hair still waist-length with heavy bangs, but she now wore an expression of fatigue and worry. They crossed Mass Ave to the Café Pamplona for lunch.
“I can’t believe this place is still here,” Rachel said.
“Our local Brigadoon where Bow Street crosses Arrow Street,” Ellie confirmed.
They approached the red clapboard house, dwarfed by neighboring apartment buildings. All the other funky restaurants from their graduate school days: Elsie’s, the old Casablanca, the Blue Parrot, the Orson Welles and the Wursthaus, had been driven out by the high rents in Harvard Square.
“Let’s eat inside. These outdoor tables aren’t very inviting with diesel fumes from the passing buses,” Actually, Ellie didn’t want anyone to see her talking with Rachel after Iris’s warning the day before.
Descending a few steps, they entered a semi-underground cave with bright yellow walls. The ceiling height couldn’t have been an inch over seven feet.
“This headroom is definitely not to code,” Ellie muttered as they sat down. A pony-tailed waitress drifted over to hand them menus, vacantly pointing out the specials on the board.
Rachel slumped in her chair. “I met with that tall, skinny cop this morning and he still doesn’t know who killed Will. I just don’t understand this, Ellie. Who would want to murder my husband? He was an architect, not a politician. He didn’t have enemies. Are you sure Iris didn’t do it?”
“I’m sure.” Ellie said, smiling sympathetically. “But from what you said about a phone call, the killer must have been someone else going to the Friday dinner. And now Norman’s been murdered as well. That couldn’t be coincidence.”
“The cop told me about that. I can’t believe it. Are you sure it’s not Iris? I heard she was out at his house when it happened.”
“No, Iris just found him after it happened and she’s the one who called the police.” Ellie had to get Rachel off that track. “Did Will keep in touch with any of his old classmates?”
“Not really. Will didn’t want anything to do with most of them, other than C.C. Those two were great buds. Will would stay with her whenever he was in New York on business. She can be hysterical, you know.”
“Could C.C. and Will have had business dealings together—maybe going in together on one of Will’s developments?”
“Will didn’t have personal projects. He only did stuff through work and there’s a guy in his office who does all the money arrangements. Besides, C.C. got a loft in New York and I think all her money went to that.”
“How about Adam and Alyssa? Did he keep up with them? After all, Will and Adam were roommates for most of graduate school.”
The waitress-waif materialized from nowhere. To her expectant look and poised pen Ellie said “I’ll have the grape leaves and a grenadine soda. The sodas are made with real syrup here, Rachel.”
“I’m not very hungry. Just a lemon soda for me.” The waitress dematerialized.
Rachel’s expression turned pensive. “Sure, we invited them to our wedding because they invited us to theirs, but the friendship seemed to fizzle out after graduation.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
“I was just getting to know Will around then, but I think it had something to do with that guy who died at your graduation party. Will told me he saw Adam come back to the apartment later that night with the dead guy’s backpack. I remember the story because it was a Star Trek backpack and I used to be a major Trekkie.”
“Maybe Adam picked it up from the graduation party and didn’t know what to do with it.”
“No, it was later on that night. Will was packing up his stuff to move out. He saw Adam creep into his room with it, then shut the door. Will looked in again to make sure while Adam was in the shower.”
“Why would Adam want Carey’s backpack? It’s not like any of us had money. I don’t get it. Wait a minute. Does this have anything to do with that drugged brownie at the graduation party?”
“Oh yeah, that. Adam wanted to get Carey to eat a hash brownie. It was a joke to get back at Carey for getting all the good crits. They thought he would make a fool of himself because his system was really wired. But Adam got too stoned to do it, so he made Will do it. Then I guess the guy flipped out and there was that awful accident. But Will figured that Adam’s taking the dead guy’s back-pack was too much. It was like stealing from the dead, know what I mean? At least I think that’s why things petered out with them. We got together a few times that summer, but after we moved out to the West Coast, we never saw them again. Which was fine by me—not to have to hang out with little-Miss-Chanel-sunglasses anymore.”
“Rachel, did you tell Detective Malone about the backpack business? It might have something to do with Will’s murder.”
She thought for several minutes. “How could it? If Will never said anything to the cops in 20 years about Adam taking it, why would Adam worry about it now? And actually kill Will? I can’t see it. It would be Will’s word against Adam’s. Anyway, the skinny cop said that Adam and Alyssa had an alibi for Friday afternoon. They used a credit card at some gas station when they were driving up on Friday afternoon. So it wasn’t them.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Did they ever find Will’s cell phone?”
“No. It seems like whoever killed Will knew what he was doing—like some professional assassin. It’s hard to think of one of my husband’s Harvard classmates that way,” Rachel said.
Ellie made a wry face. “Not if you knew them.”
Chapter 29
“He’s definitely worth shaving my legs for,” Iris concluded.
“Now don’t forget my role in this. I had to use a cattle prod to get you to make a move.”
Ellie’s front door banged shut. Mack deposited his briefcase on the counter, kissed his wife, and held Iris at arm’s length to examine her. “How’s the patient? Got some fan mail I hear.”
“Yuck, yuck. I’m fine. Luc smothered the flames before they could do much damage.”
“And, Mack,” Ellie called out. “Luc’s passed Iris’ taste test.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She saw his place today and it’s a testament to chic understatement,” Ellie said as she moved Mack’s briefcase to the floor. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, dear, but some men actually have the taste gene and know how to pick up after themselves.” She turned to rummage around in the freezer.
“I’m starting to wonder about this guy. He’s gotta have some flaws.” He looked at Iris expectantly, but she gave an exaggerated shrug.
“Sorry Mack, no discernible faults— at least so far. And, I have a gem of a new client. Life is good, other than the recent attempt on my life.”
“Iris just stopped by to tell me about her romantic lunch with Luc. Then I was telling her about my lunch with Rachel. I learned from her that Adam stole Carey’s backpack after he died—he must have broken into Carey’s apartment and taken it. Will saw it on Adam’s bed, not that Will ever bothered to tell this to the police back then. It was Adam’s idea to drug Carey so he was probably the one who pushed him over the balcony.”
“Whoa, slow down. Did you call Detective Malone? Did Rachel tell him about this? And do we think that means Adam also killed Will and Norman? He certainly sounds villainous enough. Maybe Will was finally going to tell someone about this.”
“Like me, when he set up that meeting for Friday?” Iris said.
“Could be. Maybe Adam found out that he was about to be exposed at long last,” Mack said.
“There are a couple of hitches with that theory.” Iris said. “For one thing, it’s not much of a threat. Will couldn’t prove that the backpack had been Carey’s. And even if he could have, it wouldn’t necessarily follow that Adam had pushed Carey. Also, Adam’s alibi for Friday afternoon was confirmed—some gas receipt from their car ride up at the critical time. So he couldn’t have killed Will. At least, that’s what Detective Malone told Rachel.”
“I hate that… just when things are starting to make sense, the likely perp comes up with an alibi. This is a real stumper.” Mack went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. “But this envelope bomb business changes everything. Please promise me that you’ll both leave any sleuthing outside of these four walls to the police?”
Ellie and Iris both nodded. He placed three glasses on the counter and poured. Offering Ellie her glass, he asked, “So, how is Rachel holding up?”
“She’s a mess and upset with the police that they haven’t found Will’s killer yet. She’s taking his body to Rhode Island on Wednesday, as soon as the ME releases it.”
“Oh, and speaking of the ME,” Mack said, sitting at the table and sliding Iris her glass, “she let me know that the pre-lim on Norman suggests that he was killed with the s
ame weapon as Will—a syringe of succinylcholine. Only, with Norman, it looks like there was also a struggle. There were bruises on his neck and arms. Will might have been taken by surprise.”
“I’ve never heard of that drug. Where do you find it, Mack?” Ellie asked.
“Anesthesiologists use it, mainly for relaxing a patient’s muscles when a tube needs to be inserted down a throat. It’s not a common thing to use to kill someone. To have it used twice in one weekend—well, it’s clearly the same guy.”
“Do you know if they found the syringes?” Iris asked.
“They found the second needle. It had rolled under a table in Norman’s kitchen and still had some of the drug left in it. That’s how they figured out what had killed him. ‘Sux’ is hard to detect after it breaks down in a body, so they might not have figured it out otherwise.”
“You’re kidding. Norman was killed in his kitchen? I might have missed walking in on the killer by minutes,” Iris moaned. “Did this all really just happen yesterday?”
“Thank god you didn’t get there any sooner,” her friend added.
“This reunion has turned into a bloodbath.” Iris gnawed at her thumbnail. “Two murders, an envelope bomb and who knows how many verbal assaults.”
Chapter 30
Tuesday morning, Iris received a phone call from Norman’s assistant, Claire, while she was midway through the morning Globe.
“Hi Iris. How awful for you that you found Norman’s body. How are you doing?”
“I’m trying to put it out of my mind, but thanks for asking. How are things over there? Has someone stepped in temporarily to run things?”
“Yes, the Vice-President, Mr. Dunn, will be in charge until the Board can find a new CEO. But Norman’s attorney called and said that his estate will be selling Norman’s new house out in Lincoln.”
