by Dianne Emley
SLOW SQUEEZE
AN IRIS THORNE MYSTERY
Book Two 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 © 1994 by Dianne G. Pugh and 2011 by Dianne Emley.
Slow Squeeze 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.
Text revised by the author in 2011.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
ISBN-10: 0-9847846-1-6
ISBN-13: 978-0-9847846-1-5
Originally published as Slow Squeeze by Dianne G. Pugh in 1994 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 November 2011.
For Dana Isaacson,
extraordinary editor and trusted companion on a
wondrous journey of devilish characters
and devious plots.
CHAPTER ONE
It was Easter Sunday. Barbie Stringfellow was lying on her back in bed, propped up against fluffy goose down pillows, wearing a negligee of many yards of fabric, some sheer and some slippery satin, all purple. Barbie was not a slender woman. Her breasts and thighs tested the fabrics. Her pose seemed casual and relaxed, in spite of her dishabille. She had a pleasantly surprised look on her face, the look of someone who had won five dollars in the lottery or who had been tapped on the shoulder by a friend at the supermarket.
The morning light filtered between the wood shutters. A moment before there had been silence, but all at once the birds came alive and started chirping merrily. Outside the bungalow, the air was fresh. A rainstorm had moved down the coast during the night, raising the scent of the pine, eucalyptus, and cypress trees and of the musty soft soil underneath the fallen pine cones, seed pods, leaves, and needles.
Barbie’s red Mercedes convertible was parked beside the cabin. The rag top had been left down during the night. The white leather interior of the car was now wet and covered with leaves and needles. Curious squirrels had gathered their courage and were exploring the car’s interior, periodically lifting their heads and sniffing the air.
The ocean had been stirred up by the storm, and it pounded the cliffs bordering the Central California coast town of Las Pumas. Barbie was in the Central Coast’s best hotel, the Mariah Lodge, and in the lodge’s best bungalow, the one called the Cabin in the Woods, nestled in the forest with a garden fronting a cliff.
At the base of the cliff in a sandy alcove out of reach of the waves, a flock of sea gulls had lighted. Several gulls were fighting over something that lay in the sand. Something fleshy. Another gull flew up to the group, landed, then circled around the others, intimidating them until they scattered. This gull grabbed the prize in its beak and ascended the cliff. One of the gulls that had been chased away rallied. The two gulls struggled in midair. The object was dropped in the fracas and fell against the side of the cliff. They tried to retrieve it, skimming close to the cliff, but it was lost. They flew away, side by side across the ocean, and were soon joined by the others.
Inside the cabin, Barbie’s expensive clothes had been carelessly tossed around the room as if there were plenty more where they had come from. A purple silk blouse lay across the back of a rough-hewn wooden chair, which had snagged it. Designer jeans were in a twisted heap on the floor. Leather cowboy boots were near the fireplace, where the fire was now dead. A full-length red fox coat was spread across the bed, near Barbie’s feet, like a faithful dog.
A platter of untouched fruit and cheese withered on a wheeled table near the door. The table also held a bottle of bourbon and another of soda water. An almost empty bottle of flat champagne rested in a silver bucket full of melted ice next to two cut crystal champagne flutes. The rim of each flute had a lipstick imprint, one hot pink, the other red.
Barbie still lay in her negligee on top of a patchwork quilt that covered the bed. The quilt was handmade, sewn in the broken star pattern with scraps of red, blue, and green fabric. The Mariah Lodge spared no expense in decorating its cabins in rustic Americana.
Dark purple and red bruises circled Barbie’s neck. Her hand was lying palm up next to her on the comforter, her fingers curled inward in repose. Blood had pooled beneath her hand in an irregular circle. There was a stump of red flesh and white bone where the little finger of her left hand had been.
A key jiggled in the lock and the bungalow door was pushed open. Police Chief Charles Greenwood stepped inside, his cowboy boots on the hardwood floor conspicuously announcing his arrival. He rolled a milk chocolate Easter egg around his mouth, lodging it against his cheek, where it made a small protuberance. The rich color of the chocolate matched the color of his skin. He walked heavily to the bed. A maid peeked behind him through the doorway.
Barbie didn’t stir. A dead woman wouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWO
Five months earlier
It was two weeks before Christmas, and it had just stopped snowing in Salt Lake City. The sun sparkled on the fresh cover and reflected off the flakes, creating a trompe l’oeil that made the fluffy white layer seem dense and solid.
Lorraine and Charlotte were snug inside their apartment, sharing a crocheted comforter and watching daytime television. Lorraine had called in sick to work that morning even though it was Monday, the allure of playing hooky stronger than the threat of her boss’s giving her a hard time come Tuesday morning. Charlotte had talked her into it. Charlotte wasn’t employed. There was a recession, after all, and jobs were scarce. Lorraine understood.
She sat on one end of the couch with her feet in Charlotte’s lap. Charlotte massaged them through Lorraine’s thick socks. Spooky, a gray tabby cat, lay curled in Lorraine’s lap. A small Christmas tree stood on a table in a corner of the small apartment, its multicolored lights twinkling. There were a few wrapped gifts underneath. Just a few, but they’d been selected with particular care.
Cheerful, energetic music filled the room as the Susie Santé talk show started. Applause, applause, applause. Susie Santé was middle-aged with sensibly cut, short, blond hair, an open face, and an energetic demeanor. She stood in the audience holding a microphone.
“Today we’re going to meet four women who work in an industry that’s still a bastion of the old-boys’ club—the high-flying world of stocks, bonds, and financial instruments. They’ve made it in a man’s world and haven’t let that world make them over. And, boy, the stories they have to tell you, right after this.”
The show broke for a string of commercials advertising laundry detergent, a personal injury attorney with testimonials from clients for whom he had won big money, a dental assistants’ school, and a weight-loss center where people danced behind the huge garments they used to wear.
Susie Santé brought out her first guest who talked about how she got started in the industry and the dues she paid before attaining her current position. She was now—finally—handsomely compensated for her talent, perseverance, and savvy. In
response to leading questions by Santé, she titillated the predominately female audience with stories about Neanderthal male bosses, cretinous male coworkers, and over-sexed male clients. The next two guests shared even worse horror stories.
A man in the audience dared to venture a comment. “It seems to me the guys you work with prefer women coworkers who aren’t trying to be men.” He was resoundingly booed and hissed by the audience’s distaff members.
“They plant those bozos in the audience, don’t you think?” Charlotte asked.
Lorraine shrugged.
Charlotte reached for a round tin, lined with crumpled wax paper, sitting on the coffee table. “‘Course, takes all kinds. Your mother makes the best fudge.”
“She makes good fudge,” Lorraine agreed.
After another string of commercials advertising sink and tile cleaner, a computer school, and a firm that assists in filing workers’ compensation claims, the show resumed. Susie Santé stood in the audience, her face somber.
“Now, I’m going to introduce a woman who is only too familiar with the price paid for making money a god and greed a catechism.” She strolled toward the stage. “This woman uncovered a money-laundering scheme in her office. A scheme with tragic consequences that cost the life of several of her coworkers and nearly cost her own.” The audience was hushed. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet Iris Thorne.”
Iris Thorne walked across the stage, wearing an elegantly tailored suit, looking poised and chic. She smiled and waved at the audience before taking her chair next to the other three women. The audience warmed to her and heartily applauded her fortitude.
“She’s cute!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“She’s all right,” Lorraine sniffed. The dozing cat purred on her lap.
Charlotte turned and looked at Lorraine, then at the television, then back at Lorraine. “Rainey, she looks like you. She sure does. There’s definitely a resemblance.”
“Think so?”
“I sure do.”
Lorraine watched the polished and composed figure on television with more interest.
Susie Santé led Iris through a litany of the atrocities that had occurred the previous year at McKinney Alitzer, the investment management firm where Iris was still employed. The camera panned the audience, whose members listened with horror. There was a lighter note when Iris revealed that one of the detectives on the case, John Somers, was an old college boyfriend and that they had resumed their relationship after the case was solved. Then the conversation grew somber again when Santé asked Iris about the murders. Iris stepped lightly around the grisly details.
Since delicacy doesn’t earn ratings, Santé pressed her. “It must have horrible when…” “Tell us how you felt when…” “Is there anything worse than…?”
“She’s losing it,” Charlotte said. “All that poise don’t go too deep, does it, Iris?”
Iris’s voice broke, and a tear painted a line down her cheek. She brushed the tear with the back of her finger. The sister securities trader sitting on Iris’s right put a reassuring hand on her arm. The camera panned the audience again. The women wiped their eyes and noses with tissues. The men looked aghast. Everyone felt lucky that these things hadn’t happened to them.
“And quite a bit of the embezzled money is still missing, isn’t it, Iris? How much?”
“About a million dollars.”
The audience gasped.
“Rumor has it that since you were good friends with the murdered mailroom boy who stole the money, you know where it is,” Santé said forebodingly.
Iris’s momentary loss of control passed. She touched the last tear on her cheek. “People keep looking for more scandal, but there isn’t any.”
The show broke for commercials.
“A million bucks,” Lorraine said. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I’m gonna call,” Charlotte said. She pushed Lorraine’s feet off her lap and leaned across the couch to grab the telephone sitting on an end table. She dialed a few times before she was finally put through. The program staff queried her about where she was calling from and her purpose.
“We have a caller from Salt Lake City, Utah,” Susie Santé said. “Are you there, caller?”
“Hi, this is Charlotte. I just wanted to tell Iris that you’re a hell of a woman to have gone through what you did and to just keep on rollin’. My hat’s off to you, sugar.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically.
“Thank you.” Iris smiled.
Charlotte hung up.
“Happy now?” Lorraine asked.
“Rainey! You’re not jealous, are you?” She put her arms around Lorraine. “You got no reason to be.”
There was a knock at the front door.
“Who in Hades…?” Charlotte got up. “I’ll get it.”
She walked across the living room and looked through the peephole in the front door.
“Who is it?” Lorraine asked.
“Some guy. Looks like he’s selling something.”
“Don’t open it.”
“Let me just see what he’s got. It’s Christmas, after all.”
Charlotte pulled open the door, stepped outside, and quickly pulled the door closed behind her. She patted her arms against the cold. “Well, Jack Goins. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“This is nowhere near your neighborhood.”
“The world’s my neighborhood.”
“Hmmm. How did you know I was here?”
“I always know where you are. You keep making that mistake, don’t you? Thinking people are stupid.”
“I paid you this month. Didn’t you get it?”
“I got it. But I’m a little short.”
“That’s your problem.”
“No, my dear. It’s yours.”
“I’m not giving you any more.”
“I think you are.”
Charlotte ran her hands up and down her arms. She was wearing only a thin sweater.
The man ran the back of his fingers against Charlotte’s cheek. “Your face is cold.” He looked at her chest. “And your nipples are perked. Maybe we ought to go inside and get warm.” He moved his fingers down her neck and across her chest. “Like we used to, remember?”
“I’m not alone. How much do you want?”
“A thousand would do it.”
“A thousand?”
He shook his head sadly. “Prices are going up all over. Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Come back tomorrow at two o’clock.” She rubbed her hand against his face, drew her thumb across his lips, and stuck it in his mouth. He sucked on it. “I’ll be alone then.”
Charlotte went back inside the apartment.
“Who was it?” Lorraine asked.
“Someone selling…encyclopedias.”
“Today?”
“Well, I guess everyone’s gotta make a living. Oh, shoot. I missed the end of the show.” Charlotte covered herself with the comforter, picked up Lorraine’s feet, and placed them on her lap. She retrieved the tin of fudge and put another piece into her mouth. “So, what’s on next?”
CHAPTER THREE
The Triumph’s throw-out bearing finally blew on the Ten just east of Crenshaw Boulevard. The bearing had been whizzing loudly whenever the gears were engaged for the past several months. Now it had blown within tantalizing, just-out-of-reach miles of Eric’s British Car Shop. No other mechanic would do. A long history had been built. Eric understood the Triumph, which demanded a great deal of understanding along with everything else that was precious: time, money, patience, fealty. Iris Thorne persisted, refusing to give up this close to Eric’s. She drove the remaining miles stuck in third gear, gunning the engine like crazy when lights turned from red to green. She and the give-me-a-ticket red 1972 Triumph TR6 finally reached the mechanic. Several hundred dollars later, the Triumph had a new clutch.
It was January
3 and the first Monday of the new year. The sky was clear and blue and the sun shone hard. As in any desert, the temperature of the warm day dropped with the setting sun. There was little humidity to hold the heat. It had been a sunny and warm Christmas, with the kind of weather that made transplants to Los Angeles moan that it wasn’t “Christmasy” enough. The natives didn’t know any differently and would be as unprepared for real weather as they were for any crisis.
Iris was following up on a lead, a potential new client, who might turn money over to her on the promise that she would return even more money. More, anyway, than would be received by stashing it in a safe but boring passbook savings account or CD. Mrs. Stringfellow, who requested in a slow Southern drawl that Iris please call her Barbie, had suggested that they meet at a restaurant called Wave.
Iris took down the Triumph’s rag top. She left Eric’s and continued west on the Ten, riding it until it dumped out onto Pacific Coast Highway and ran shoulder to shoulder with the ocean. She turned on the radio, driving north.
The Pacific was an energetic green. Emerald waves splashed against tan, sandy beaches. There were few people. Iris spotted a jogger, a dog owner, and a person strolling with hands behind his back, eyes seaward, footsteps deep in the surf-smoothed sand.
The beach was bordered with tall houses built on precious, tiny oceanfront lots, exclusive members-only beach clubs, skate and bicycle rental shops, parking lots, and snack shacks closed for the season. Farther north, the topography grew more dramatic, more expansive, and more expensive.
In Malibu, the water was crowded with surfers, locals only, young men wearing knee-length sleeveless wet suits shot with bright colors against black. Their long, wet hair lay in strings against the thick neoprene. A few girls huddled together on the beach watching them, wearing bright bathing suit tops and shorts in spite of the chilly air. Even though the sun’s rays were the gentle rays of winter, they were rays all the same. Scouts from modeling agencies cruised these beaches, hoping to spot young blood with that Californian je ne sais quoi rising from the sea foam.
