Pushover (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 5)

by Dianne Emley

  “You grew a beard.”

  “It’s cold in Russia.” Todd had smiled at her, brightening his handsome face. “I need all the fur I can get.”

  “I like it. I never imagined you with a beard.”

  “You look great,” he’d told her. “Just like I imagined you.”

  She’d been flattered and touched by his attention, at the knowledge that he’d thought of her.

  She kept running, the wet sand yielding to her footsteps, pleasantly abrading the soles of her feet. She felt a small, sharp pain in her heel, as if she might have stepped on a broken shell or something, but she didn’t stop. She panted heavily, growing tired, but not slowing down. After a while, she realized she was crying and didn’t know when she’d started. The salty tears ran down her face, mixing with her perspiration and the sea air. She didn’t touch them, saving her arms for pumping. One of her tennis shoes flew from her hand and she didn’t stop for it.

  “You’ve lost weight,” she’d said after hugging him through his fine cashmere sweater. He’d always been burly. A football player’s physique. She hadn’t found out he’d been a football player until she’d visited his sister. A small detail casually left out. Not an active lie. Not yet.

  “Been busy,” he’d told her.

  He was nervous, on edge, looking over his shoulder, ducking people who got too close. When she couldn’t help but notice, he explained, “I got cross-wise with the Russian Mafia. It wasn’t too smart, but I just got fed up.”

  Where did reality end and the show in which she was playing a role unknown to her begin?

  The tide had retreated sufficiently to allow her to run around an outcrop of jagged rocks and access Sand Dollar Beach. Its secluded location made it a favorite spot for nude sunbathers. Since it was usually hard to get to, surrounded by rocks and a tall cliff, the police generally left the free spirits alone. The beach was empty so early in the morning.

  The tears and sweat on Iris’s face ran onto her lips and she licked it, tasting salt. She walked into the surf. A wave rolled in, submerging her ankles. She tossed her one tennis shoe safely onto the beach and crouched down and trailed her fingers through the frothy foam.

  “My class ring. You’re still wearing it.”

  “I told you I’d never take it off.”

  She’d been touched by that, too. Impressed, frightened, warmed, curious—she’d done it all on cue. She’d been that predictable.

  “I sent you a letter to your sister’s house in Bakersfield. Did you get it?”

  He’d looked at her clear-eyed and, she now knew, lied, “No.”

  She’d sat in the King’s Head pub in Moscow, filled with smoke and Brits and Americans drinking and playing darts and apologized to him for leaving Paris the way she had. She’d traveled halfway around the world to do the honorable thing, to relieve herself of a five-year burden that, it was clear to her now, had been absolutely unnecessary for her to carry.

  He sat, stony-faced, and listened to her while she twisted her guts inside out. “Iris, what’s past is past. No hard feelings.” He listened to her explanation about why she ran and while he folded a cocktail napkin into tiny accordion pleats. “If I was still that angry with you, I wouldn’t have asked you to go into business with me, would I?”

  The surf swirled about her calves, drenching her jeans. She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out the folded cocktail napkin she’d found in the hotel room. She compressed the precise pleats then held one end and released the other, making a fan, like Todd had done in the pub. This napkin she held had to be nothing more than a crazy coincidence. She had seen Todd Fillinger shot full of holes on a Moscow street. She had seen him dead. Nonetheless someone, probably using field glasses, had recognized her at the Greentree restaurant. Someone knew her well enough to spot her even with the wig. Someone who had a habit of toying with paper napkins.

  She needed more proof. If she told a single person that she thought Todd Fillinger was alive, they’d think she’d flipped her lid once and for all. And if Todd was alive, who had died on that Moscow street wearing Todd’s clothes and jewelry?

  She tore the napkin in half. Baring her teeth and whimpering, she tore it again and again until it was the size of confetti and threw the pieces into the surf. Bits stuck to the damp skin on her hands and she madly swatted at them as if they were poisonous. She submerged her hands in the sea foam, washing them clean. She watched the waves churn the paper, rolling it over and over, until she couldn’t see it anymore. She turned, picked up her tennis shoe, and started home. Along the way, she found her other shoe.

  On the steps of the bridge, she sat down, brushed the sand from her feet, and put on her shoes. Traffic on Pacific Coast Highway had picked up. No one had their lights on. She looked up through the mesh dome and realized it was finally daylight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Iris was at first perplexed when she saw that Garland was still asleep. Then she realized it was only six o’clock. She’d done a lot in her insomnia-fueled state, but that wasn’t unusual for her. Some years ago when she’d shared an apartment, she’d risen in the dead of night full of nervous energy. Her roommate was surprised when she’d awakened to find that Iris had rearranged the living room furniture.

  The sight of the coffee and the note she had left for Garland made her smile. She folded the note twice and slipped it into her jeans pocket, an emblem of love taking the place of that creased napkin.

  In the bathroom mirror, she had to laugh at how bad she looked. Her hair was twisted and matted and her face was streaked with sweat and tears and mottled with makeup left over from the previous day which she hadn’t bothered to remove. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth. She stripped off her clothes, climbed into a hot shower, and scrubbed her skin until it was pink and her scalp until it tingled. She looked in the mirror again. She couldn’t do much about the circles under her eyes, but at least she was clean.

  Wrapped in her terry cloth bathrobe, she carried a mug of coffee into Garland, sweetened and lightened the way he liked it. He had moved into the spot she had left, a subconscious gesture that always touched her.

  He opened his eyes when she sat on the corner of the bed. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “You look nice and fresh.” He propped a pillow against the headboard and pulled himself up to lean against it.

  She gave him a peck on the lips and handed him the coffee.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  “For a while.”

  He frowned with concern. “How long have you been up?”

  “A while.”

  He stroked her cheek. “You’re going to get sick, sweet pea, if you don’t get some rest.”

  “I won’t get sick. Not right away, anyway.”

  “Why don’t you stay home from work today?”

  “Maybe I will.” She pulled back the covers and slid in next to him. It was warm inside the bed. She laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. They felt grainy and stung beneath her eyelids.

  The next thing she knew, Garland was kissing her on the cheek. She opened her eyes to see him dressed in a suit. He smelled of soap and toothpaste.

  “I’ve got to get to the airport. I have that rental car to return.”

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled. Airports and rental cars. It was an ongoing scene in their relationship. When they’d first started dating, she relished the mixture of togetherness and privacy their long-distance romance meant. The simple fact that she had someone warmed her throughout the days and nights, even when he wasn’t around. It was great to belong yet remain autonomous. But lately, she’d wanted him too, not just the idea of him. She felt a pang thinking of waving good-bye at her front door. “What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  She bolted up, wide-eyed.

  “Relax. I called Louise and told her you have the flu.”

  She drowsily slid back beneath the covers. “Did she ask you about Greentree? Have you seen the
news?”

  “It’s the only thing that’s on the local news. Weems has done a good job of damage control. So far, Winslow’s and Peru’s deaths have been explained as a betrayed woman who came gunning for her lover and inadvertently came across an off-duty FBI agent who took her down. I haven’t heard any mention of you, Douglas Melba, or the fox.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” To herself, Iris speculated that Weems had shielded her because he still had plans for her.

  Garland stood over her, looking down. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re shaking your head.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s nothing.” She climbed out of bed.

  “You don’t have to get up.”

  “I want to walk you to the door.” She took a step on the hardwood floor and winced. She leaned on him and looked at the bottom of her foot. Her right heel had a semicircular cut in the middle. The morning run came back to her. It seemed surreal. Without this physical proof, she might have thought it was a dream.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I went for a walk early this morning.”

  “Barefoot?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He decided not to investigate further and walked through the house to the front door next to which was his familiar array of wheeled Pullman, briefcase, and laptop computer case.

  She held open her arms to hug him. He unfastened the belt of her robe and slid his hands against her smooth skin and pulled her close. His clothing, rigid and cool, smooth here and harsh there, felt oddly alluring against her nakedness. She rubbed against him, relishing the sensuality of the different textures. Their quick good-bye kiss soon turned passionate.

  She pulled him toward the loveseat, hopped on the back, and let the open robe fall from her shoulders. He unzipped his pants and let them fall to the ground. She wrapped her legs around his back. Their lovemaking was brief and intense. Afterward, they remained in an embrace, his arms keeping her balanced on the sofa’s narrow back. Inevitably, after both of them had waited a respectable but brief period, they sought out timepieces. He glanced at his watch and she turned to catch the face of the antique mantle clock above her fireplace. Without speaking, he dressed and she pulled the robe closed around her. At the door, he gathered the handles of his various encumbrances and after a quick kiss, he left.

  She walked onto the front porch, squinting at the harsh, hazy sunlight, and watched him load up the car. She raised her hand as he pulled away from the curb then walked to the edge of the lawn in her bare feet, only lowering her hand after he had paused at the bottom of the hill, blew her a kiss in the rearview mirror, rounded the bend, and was out of sight. She tugged on her robe and looked at the empty street.

  Her neighbor Marge came out of her house, dressed in a pale blue sheath, a string of pearls against her collarbone, three-inch heeled, bone-colored pumps, her hair combed into a bouffant with a deep wave on one side. Judging from the many framed photographs in Marge’s house, she had worn variations of the same hairstyle her entire adult life. She’d also maintained the same weight, as slender now as she was as a teenager. The photographs were a testimony to a life structured by high standards and lived consistently well and with style and grace. Iris had never seen Marge in a bad mood or anything other than pleasant and considerate. She’d buried three husbands and had a grown son whom she rarely saw yet was not bitter, because she refused to be.

  It was only in the past few years that Iris realized what an achievement that was. How easy it is to let go, to slip down. Her own life seemed to have been a series of histrionics. It was how she had been raised, with people screaming at each other and throwing things to get their point across, with mixed success. And the career she’d chosen wasn’t known for its subtlety or class. But slender, bird-like, chipper Marge with her perfect hair and careful, ageless clothes showed Iris there was another way. Iris was ready for another way, a different life. Change was imminent, closing in, like a dark sky heavy with rain on the verge of release. She’d lived her life one way but something else was waiting in the wings.

  She waved at Marge. “Morning!”

  Marge walked across her lawn, ignoring the dewy grass on her shoes, and met Iris across a row of rose bushes, still lushly blooming in many colors, that divided their properties. “Good morning to you, Iris. Did I see Garland leave?”

  “Yes, back to New York.”

  “If you get too lonely this evening, come over for a cocktail.”

  “Martinis and canapés at five o’clock sharp.” Iris smiled. “Our Marge.”

  “Rituals give us a safe harbor in a chaotic world, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I do. I don’t have any rituals, other than working, getting ready for work, and coming home from work. Everything else in my life is constant chaos.”

  “Working is certainly honorable and productive. And necessary.”

  “But it’s not enough.”

  Marge drew her finger along the wave in her hair. “We’ll put our heads together and see if we can cook something up for you.”

  “Have you ever been in love with somebody and you later found out that everything that person was, everything they pretended to be was a lie?”

  “Are you talking about the dead boy who you mentioned to me the other day?”

  Iris nodded.

  “As for me personally, no I can’t say that I have. When you get to know someone, they’re sometimes different than the way you first thought they were, but you seem to be talking about something more serious.”

  Iris scrunched her toes against the damp grass. “I suspect this guy was bad from the beginning. I don’t know if I was conned by him or if, on some level, I knew it all the time.”

  “I don’t believe that someone can completely hide an inherently evil nature. But I don’t believe you would ever fall in love with someone who was completely bad.” Marge touched the pearls at the base of her neck, gently straightening them. “Why do you think this about him? Did you discover something he did that was wrong?”

  “Yes, something very wrong.” Iris blinked at the grass. “The worst. It’s completely turned everything I ever thought about him on its head. I feel betrayed…and stupid.”

  “Love is blind,” Marge said brightly. “And your affair with that boy is in the past. You’ve chosen well with Garland. He’s your present and future.” She turned the tiny gold watch on her bony wrist to see the face. “I’ve got to fly. I’ll see you for cocktails?”

  “Can I take a rain check? I’m not certain whether I’ll be here this evening.”

  “If you’re around, just ring my doorbell.” Marge reached across the rose bushes and clamped her hand around Iris’s wrist in a reassuring gesture. “Cheer up, Miss Iris Thorne. Don’t lose the present by dwelling in the past.”

  Iris watched Marge back out of her driveway in her vintage, two-toned Buick Roadmaster, her head barely reaching above the steering wheel, and thought to herself that she’d be only too happy to leave the past behind, to hack it away like seaweed twisted around her ankles, keeping her from swimming freely. But if the impossible was true and Todd Fillinger was alive, could she ever feel safe? He had recognized her from the hotel terrace. He didn’t know whether she had recognized him.

  She felt compelled to find out when Todd’s betrayal had started. Had the whole thing been a lie from the beginning or had he only gone bad later?

  After Marge’s car had rounded the bend at the bottom of the hill, Iris went back inside her house. In the kitchen, she made another pot of coffee and took a full mug with her into her home office. She sat on the floor in front of the closet and began pulling out boxes of photographs, letters, mementos, and tax and financial documents. Some boxes were labeled and some weren’t. Finally she found an old shoe box on which was written “Paris” with a black marker. In it were photographs, postcards, a charcoal drawing a street artist had made of her, and small souvenirs. She ignore
d them all, the wistful, bittersweet haze through which she used to view her time in Paris now completely blackened. She rapidly searched through the box until she found a round cardboard coaster imprinted with the name, address, and telephone number of Le Café des Quatre Vents.

  After opening the blinds over the windows in the corner, letting sunshine into the dark room, she sat at her desk with the coaster in front of her and dialed the operator to obtain the country code for France. She spent a moment composing what she was going to say, refreshing her paltry knowledge of French by looking up a few words in an English-French dictionary from her bookshelf and jotting down a few phrases. She kept the dictionary at her elbow.

  She dialed. Shortly, she was connected to the café, its phone emitting a quick double ring in the European style. A man answered.

  “Allo, café.”

  Iris took a deep breath and asked in French if she could speak to Monsieur or Madame Mouche. After a pause, the man responded that they hadn’t owned the bar for over four years.

  “Ils ont pris leur retraite?” Did they retire? “Je voudrais les contacter.” I’d like to contact them.”

  “Non, malheureusement, Monsieur Mouche a été tué.” The man went on to explain that the owner was shot to death and his wife was wounded.

  “C’est horrible. Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?”

  He said there had been a shoot-out in the café. Two men came gunning for a drug dealer who apparently owed them money. The Mouches had got caught in the crossfire. “Apparament, il a payé les Mouche pour qu’ils le laissent dealer dans leur café.”

  The man described how a drug dealer convinced the Mouches to let him use the café as a front for his drug sales, paying them a percentage of his deals. After her husband’s death, Madame Mouche sold the café and moved to the south to live with her daughter.

  Iris asked what happened to the drug dealer. “Qu’est-ce qui est arrivé au dealer?”