by Dianne Emley
Liz pulled a martini olive from its decorated toothpick with her teeth. “And open to meeting someone like Todd. How did you meet him, anyway?”
“I’d planned a long trip to Europe before I started McKinney Alitzer’s training class. Didn’t have a firm itinerary in mind. My first stop was Paris. I’d rented a room in a charming little hotel. On the corner was Le Café des Quatre Vents. Café of the four winds. That’s where I first saw Todd. He came there a lot, with friends or alone. He knew a ton of people. He always had at least one camera with him and was usually carrying a tripod and a shoulder bag with equipment. He was very friendly with the couple who owned the place.” Iris rubbed her forehead. “What was their name?” She shook her head, giving up.
A waiter brought their entrées. Liz had ordered liver and onions and Iris had lamb chops.
Iris attacked the spinach soufflé side dish with her fork. “At first, I thought Todd was French. I’d only heard him speak French and he was fluent in it. I later found out he had a gift for foreign languages. Anyway, we’d exchanged a few glances and one evening he walked over to me.”
“And you ended up in bed.”
“Excuse me! That was the next night.”
Liz smiled.
“My three-month European tour didn’t take me much farther than the Parisian countryside and to Cap d’Antibes on the Riviera to stay with friends of Todd’s. I was so swept away by him, by Paris, by the whole thing, I never wanted to leave. Soon, the time came for me to make a decision. I had a fantasy of staying in Paris with Todd. He’d take pictures and I’d cook à la Americain and write a novel and draw in pastels and live a Bohemian life. But I suspected I couldn’t live that far from home forever. Todd had a solution—we’d get married. I’d go home, start my new job. He’d close up his affairs in Paris and come over later.”
“Sounds wonderful. What happened?”
“I ran. While he was waiting in a small chapel with two friends, I was in a taxi heading for the airport.”
“Really?” Liz twirled her fork in a mound of caramelized onions. “You didn’t even say good-bye?”
“I left a note on the bed. ‘Adieu, Todd.’” Iris chuckled sadly. “Quelle drama, huh? I just had to go. I felt like I would die if I didn’t. I guess I had a panic attack. I didn’t want to tell Todd my plans because I was afraid he’d talk me out it. He could have, easily. Maybe I just had cold feet.”
“The whole thing seems so unlike you. It’s like you’re talking about someone else.”
“Doesn’t it? When I think about my time in Paris, it seems unreal, like it was a movie I saw rather than something that actually happened. All I can say is that I was different then. My life was different. I’m not trying to excuse what I did. It was rotten. Probably the worst thing I’ve ever done to anyone.” Iris pushed the bare bones remaining from her lamb chops around the plate with her fork. “At least I was able to apologize to Todd before…” She slowly set down the fork and folded her hands in her lap.
“How much does Garland know about you and Todd?”
“Everything, except for the squishy parts. He knows Todd and I were engaged and that I left him at the altar. Garland had the class not to pry. He’s never asked about the men in my past, happily for me. My past has been, to put it mildly, a bit more checkered than his. I assured him he had no reason to feel jealous or threatened by my going to see Todd and I don’t think he was jealous. He mostly questioned Todd’s motives for inviting me to Moscow.”
“Justifiably.”
“Garland is a rock. Todd was cotton candy.”
Liz ate about a third of her entrée then asked the waiter for a take-out container. “You may never find out what really happened in Moscow.”
“I have to try. Todd didn’t deserve to die the way he did. And I didn’t deserve being used as a pawn.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Rita Winslow knows what happened. I’m going to pay her a visit.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The rooftop pool on the Peninsula Hotel’s tenth floor sparkled bright turquoise blue in the hot late afternoon sun. Cabañas of striped forest green and white canvas with scalloped edges, the roofs pulled into circus-tent peaks, lined the pool. Hollywood power players dressed in swimwear and suntan lotion conducted business from lounge chairs with associates in business suits. The young and the beautiful wore as little as possible and tried to be noticed. Waiters in crisp khaki slacks and white polo shirts kept things lubricated.
The front desk clerk told Iris that Mrs. Winslow could be found in her cabaña. It was 90 degrees, but Iris left on her jacket as she walked across the patio. It gave her a more commanding air. The heat didn’t bother her.
She found Rita Winslow sitting in a pool chair, straddling a small table inside a cabaña. She was wearing a one-piece bathing suit with a gauzy wrap over it. Large sunglasses were perched on her head. In a tall glass at her elbow, a lime wedge floated in melted ice. Photographs of art and art books and magazines were scattered about. The cabaña was outfitted with a fax machine, scanner, document shredder, and several telephone lines. One of the hotel’s plush terry cloth robes and a mesh bag crammed with magazines and toiletries hung from a bamboo coat rack in the corner.
Winslow was furiously typing on a laptop computer and did not look up when Iris stood outside the tied-back canvas door. “Miss Thorne. How nice to see you again.” She finally turned her attention from the computer screen. Her upper lip was damp with perspiration. “Please come in.” She moved papers and books from a mesh-covered chair. “I’m glad you’ve changed your mind about the fox.”
Iris sat down. “Why did you search my house if you were planning on offering me twenty-five thousand dollars for the fox?”
Winslow plucked her sheer bathing suit cover, demurely pulling it closed. “You can’t blame me for trying to save money. The fox is rightfully mine. I’ve already paid a million dollars for it. I shouldn’t have to pay you anything to recover it.” Her smile was forced, as if they were having a polite conversation about politics at a tea party and found they’d disagreed.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
Winslow’s smile faded.
Iris crossed her legs, pleased that she had piqued Winslow. “Before we discuss the fox, I want some information from you.”
Winslow slitted her eyes. “I’m pressed for time today, Miss Thorne.”
“Who told you about me?”
“A reliable source.”
“Who?”
“Now, Miss Thorne, you don’t really expect me to divulge the names of my sources. One spends too much time cultivating them to simply turn them over to anyone who asks.” She smiled smugly as she tapped a cigarette from a pack and lit it with her cloisonné lighter. Her attention was drawn to something outside the cabaña.
Iris followed her gaze and saw Fernando, Winslow’s handsome companion. Even with the glut of beautiful people poolside, he attracted stares as he strolled across the patio. He stopped a waiter, ordered a drink, and made his way to the cabaña. Winslow’s eyes widened appreciatively as she watched him, then narrowed when he turned to observe a lithe young thing walk past.
He had to duck to enter the tent.
Winslow reached to grab his hand, beaming at him. “Did you have a good nap, darling?”
“Yes, I feel very refreshed.” He spoke with an accent, lisping some of his words in the manner of the Catalonia region of Spain.
Winslow pulled his face close to her, clutching his lush, wavy hair between her fingers, and kissed him on the mouth.
Fernando briefly returned the kiss. When he tried to straighten up, Winslow pulled him down again. He forcefully removed her hand from his head, wiping at the lipstick he correctly assumed was on his face. “Rita, we have a guest.”
She leered at him, appearing to enjoy this rough play.
“Hello,” he said to Iris. We have not been formally introduced. I’m Fernando Peru.”
Iris ha
d been feigning attention in the goings-on by the pool while he and Winslow kissed. She looked around when Fernando introduced himself.
He added, “Rita’s business associate.” He seemed to feel an obligation to explain that he was more than her boy toy. “I apologize for coming into your office carrying a gun.”
Winslow lecherously eyed him. “Yes, he usually only enters a room with his gun out for me.” She ran her hand underneath the hem of his shorts on the inside of his thigh.
He grabbed her wrist before she reached his crotch. “Now, Rita…” He roughly retracted her hand then sat in a chair several feet away.
She rubbed her wrist. “Don’t look so concerned, Fernando. I’ll stop embarrassing you in front of your little friend.”
Iris would have preferred being almost anywhere else.
“Fernando, our Miss Thorne has as much told me that the fox is hers now by virtue of possession.”
“You do have the fox?” Fernando asked.
“I have a connection to it.”
The waiter brought Fernando’s drink and Winslow became irritated at the interruption. “Would you like something?” she brusquely asked Iris, who declined.
After the waiter left, Winslow asked, “Are you working for Enrico Lazare?”
“Maybe.”
Winslow’s gray eyes bored into Iris, her masculine features imperiously stern. There was a long silence. At last, she sniffed and took a puff off her forgotten cigarette. “Todd Fillinger and this…Corsican thought they could set themselves up as art dealers just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “They thought it was so easy. If Rita Winslow can do it, anyone can do it.” She pressed the cigarette out in a glass ashtray.
Fernando absently stroked his chest, his hand inside his silky Hawaiian-print shirt. His eyes met Iris’s. He quickly looked away when Winslow glanced at him, but not before she caught him.
She gave him a reproving look and went on. “After everything I did for Todd. To have him muscle in on my business like that. Loyalty doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Come on, Rita,” Fernando said. “Todd found the fox. If he wanted to bring someone else in on the deal, that was his call. The set-up was tricky. He felt he needed help.” He picked up his drink and took a sip from it, dabbing his fingers, which were damp from the condensation on the glass against the cocktail napkin. “You can’t control everything.”
She glared at him. “As you keep reminding me with little trophies named Chelsea and Kimberly and Cookie or whoever the hell. Little reminders to let me know that I can’t control you.”
Fernando sat motionlessly. Finally he said, “Rita, you’re suspicious of me and you have no need to be.”
“Oh, don’t I?”
“Rita, Iris came here to talk about the fox,” he said gently.
“Yes, of course. The fox. Well, Miss Thorne, where is Lazare? I take it he has my fox.”
Iris took her jacket off, the heat finally getting to her. “Mrs. Winslow, I have information and sources which I prefer not to reveal, just like you.”
“Todd and Lazare planned to rob me all along,” Winslow muttered almost to herself. “Then Lazare double-crossed Todd. That’s what he gets for playing with fire.” She pointed a mannish index finger, the long nail polished deep red, at Peru. “And you played right into their hands.”
“I was in the subway with Todd, remember? He didn’t expect that any more than I did.”
“What subway?” Iris asked.
“You don’t know?” Peru asked. “That’s where Todd told me to—”
“Ah, ah!” Winslow warned. “She should know about that.”
Iris tucked a damp lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I was only told what I needed to know. That’s all the information Todd gave me and all I wanted.”
Peru continued in spite of Winslow’s admonition. “Todd told me to meet him in the Park Kultury metro station. I brought the rest of Rita’s money and he was bringing the fox. Right after I got there, some guy robbed us at gunpoint. He took our guns and was handcuffing me to a bench when Todd ran away. The guy shot at him but missed.”
Iris asked, “What happened in Nikolai Kosyakov’s office?”
Winslow raised her hand and Peru closed his mouth. “I find it hard to believe that no one told you about that.”
“Like I said before, Mrs. Winslow, they didn’t fill me in on the details.”
“Then you don’t need to know the details.”
Iris crossed her legs and saw Peru sneak a glance at them. “Todd was my friend. I’d like to know what happened to him.”
“Rita, what difference could it make now?” Peru asked.
“You couldn’t have been that close.” Winslow eyed Iris suspiciously. “I don’t remember Todd ever mentioning you.”
“I met Todd in Paris several years ago,” Iris said. “If you knew Todd, then you know that he was a very private person. He rarely spoke of people or events in his life.”
Peru raised his eyebrows with recognition. “Todd talked to me about you. Iris from Paris. Sure. You lived with him, right?”
“Yes.”
“I see now,” Winslow said. “You were in love with Todd.”
Iris didn’t respond.
Winslow continued anyway. “You weren’t the only one, my dear. Our Todd left a long swath of broken hearts across two continents.”
Iris felt her cheeks coloring. She quickly changed the subject. “Fernando, how long did you know Todd?”
“A long time.” Peru nodded at the memory. “We met in Barcelona, where I’m from, in nineteen eighty-eight. We reconnected when Todd moved to London after he left Paris.”
Winslow watched them with her head in her hand, her index finger pressed deeply against her cheek. “This is all very interesting, but I don’t have time to rehash both of your social histories. Let’s get to the point. Who brought you the fox in Moscow and where is it now?”
Iris boldly stared back. “Not until I get some information.”
Winslow threw her hand down and looked at Peru and back to Iris as if mystified. “That’s all we’ve been doing, Miss Thorne. Giving you information. Now it’s time for you to participate. Where is the fox?”
Iris stood and folded her jacket over her arm. “I thought we could have a polite conversation, Mrs. Winslow. Apparently not.”
Winslow openly looked Iris over. “I’m not dealing with you any longer. I find you tedious. Tell Lazare I want to speak with him directly.”
“He doesn’t want to speak with you. I’m your best chance at recovering the fox, so you’d better be nice to me.”
Although his face was immobile, Peru seemed amused by their interchange. He continued to stroke his chest, his eyes moving back and forth between the two women.
“This is a dangerous game, Miss Thorne,” Winslow cautioned.
“If you paid a million dollars for the fox, it must be worth more than twenty-five thousand to you to get it back.”
Winslow arrogantly leaned her head back and regarded Iris down the length of her nose. “Be careful, Miss Thorne. You’re entering into what I sense is unknown territory for you. You may get in over your head.”
Iris took her sunglasses from her purse, put them on, and without a word turned to leave.
Winslow said to her back, “I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars.”
Iris looked at her over her shoulder. “That’ll cover my fee.”
“Two million for the fox, including your fee, and not a penny more.”
Iris shrugged. “It’s a question of supply and demand.”
Winslow’s mouth grew pinched.
Iris stepped into the sunshine of the seemingly endless late summer day and left.
The valet drove Iris’s Triumph TR6 onto the gently sloped driveway in front of the hotel, put it in neutral, and pulled the parking brake. The loud ratcheting sound of the brake being engaged roused Iris from her thoughts. She raced toward the valet, madly waving her arms.
“Stop
! The parking brake…”
The valet noticed the red car starting to roll slowly toward the street. He leaped for the door, threw a leg inside, and mashed the brake pedal.
“.. . doesn’t work.” Iris pressed her hand over her pounding heart.
The valet cut the engine and left the car in gear. Iris put some money into his hand, got into the car, and restarted it.
She’d gone several blocks in the impatient Beverly Hills traffic, turning right onto Wilshire and right again onto Robertson before she noticed that the navy blue Thunderbird with the tinted windows that had been parked across the street from her house the previous night was following her. She took a few unnecessary turns just to make certain. The car stayed closed behind her.
With one hand on the wheel, she fished her cellular phone from her purse and punched in 911. She got a rapid busy signal.
“Son of a bitch.”
She tried again. Again she heard the rapid busy signal. “Dammit! Stupid cellular service.”
She sped through a yellow light that was about to turn red. The Thunderbird ran the red light to keep up with her. She turned right onto Olympic, darting through a small opening in a group of pedestrians. The Thunderbird was slightly delayed but soon caught up with her. She drove into a gas station, cutting through the bays, almost hitting a man who was shoving a hot dog into his mouth as he came out of the minimart.
She screeched to a stop in front of the garage where two mechanics wearing grease-covered overalls looked up from their work at her.
Iris bolted from her car, leaving its door open and the engine running. “Help!”
With horror, she saw the Thunderbird pull up behind the Triumph. From it exited a solidly built man wearing a gun in a shoulder holster. He walked briskly toward her as if he saw no need to run because he knew he’d catch her.
“Call the police! That man is chasing me.”
One of the mechanics started to run toward Iris but stopped when the man from the T-bird firmly grabbed her around her upper arm. Iris thrashed in his grasp.
