Rachel didn’t talk much, preferring to pop her gum. But a few miles from camp, she said, “I like David.”
“I think the feeling’s mutual.”
She looked over. “Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded, as if she knew not to push it.
Silver Lake Camp was the kind of place I wished I had gone to. Nestled beside a small lake, the camp had a heated pool, a climbing wall, all the requisite land sports, and horses. Rachel had begged me to let her take riding lessons, and I said okay. Never having ridden myself, I missed out on that sexual-awakening thing that makes young girls obsess over horses. Maybe Rachel would tell me about it.
As we hauled her bags into her cabin, another camper and a woman were already inside. The camper, a plump little girl with long black hair, was trying to unpack her duffel.
The woman—I assumed her mother—was blond and rail thin. Wearing a halter top, shorts, and three-inch sandals, she watched her daughter struggle with the duffel bag without lifting a finger to help.
The two girls checked each other out. Rachel introduced herself, and then, digging into her backpack, asked if the other girl wanted to listen to music. The girl, whose name was Emily, nodded. Rachel unpacked her speakers from her duffel, and set them on the lower cot of a bunk bed. Seconds later, Britney Spears blasted through the walls of the cabin. The girls started to sing.
Meanwhile Emily’s blond mother, her roots noticeably darker than the rest of her hair, struck up a conversation. Within five minutes I knew she was divorced from Emily’s father, wintered in West Palm, spent summers abroad with her European boyfriend, and had a son on a camping trip in Alaska.
I watched the girls out of the corner of my eye. Rachel unpacked her toilet articles, took out two Q-Tips, and proceeded to stick them up her nose. That brought peals of laughter from Emily.
“Rachel,” I said, “get the Q-Tips out of your nose.”
A barrage of giggles from Emily. Rachel made a face and took them out. Emily’s mother’s nattered on about a shopping trip in Geneva, where she’d picked up the gold that glittered around her neck and wrist. Rachel and Emily were now smoking pretend cigarettes, holding the Q-Tips between their fingers and blowing imaginary smokerings in the air.
When Emily’s mother saw them, her eyes widened and she immediately launched into a five-minute sermon on the dangers of smoking. The girls dropped the Q-Tips on the floor and lapsed into stony silence. Emily’s mother turned toward me with a look of satisfaction.
“One must never miss an opportunity to parent.” I smiled weakly.
After hugging and kissing Rachel a few times, I hit the road. As I roared down the ribbon of concrete, I cranked up the radio. “Thunder Road” blasted from the speakers, the wind whistled through my hair, and for one timeless moment it was as if the past thirty years hadn’t happened. I was young and free, my life yet uncharted, unlimited opportunities ahead. I could go anywhere, do anything, be whatever I wanted. Then the song ended, and I was back in the present, with the accumulated weight of mistakes, disappointments, and self-recriminations on my shoulders.
It was dark when I got home. Tired and gritty with highway dust, I was looking forward to a glass of wine and a hot bath. As I passed through the kitchen, the red light on the answering machine blinked. I hit replay.
“Ellie, this is Dory Sanchez. I need to talk to you. Please call me.”
I called the number she left, but there was no answer, and no machine picked up. The other message was from my lawyer, Pam Huddleston. “Ellie, call me as soon as possible. It doesn’t matter what time.”
I reached her at home.
“Ellie, I’m glad you called,” Pam said. “Listen, sit down. The Chicago Corp is filing suit against both you and Barry to recover their money. They say they’re going to file an injunction to seize your assets.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve hired a private investigator to find Barry. But if they can’t find him, they’re saying they expect you to pay the whole thing. You’ll get the summons tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-six
I didn’t sleep much that night. It was steamy out the next morning but I huddled in my bathrobe. When the summons arrived, I took it, signed my name, and threw it on the kitchen table.
I watched the sun glaze the locust tree leaf by leaf. Money is power. Power is control. I was going to have a lot less of both very soon. Though I despise conspicuous consumption and feel vastly superior to people like Emily’s mother who practice it, at that moment, I would have gladly traded my life for hers. To sail through life with a brazen disregard for prudence, with the certainty that money was an ever-renewing resource, seemed like a luxury I’d never know.
Not that I hadn’t tried. If you’re not careful, you can start to confuse wants with needs. You can start to think you are entitled to money and the things it can buy. Particularly when the rest of your life is a void and you’re living a half-life of anger, disappointment, and stress.
At first it was never anything that cost a lot: a candy bar, a greeting card, a pen. I wanted them. I deserved them. I was entitled. So I stole them. After about a year of petty shoplifting, I saw a blouse in a department store. A sheer lemony tank, it was the kind of top that would look great with either pants or a skirt. I tried it on in the dressing room; it was a perfect fit. I was about to take it out to the counter and pay when it hit me. I was alone, the saleswoman was nowhere in sight. I could do it. I could get away with it. I dropped the blouse into my bag.
I remember the smell of new clothes, the weave of the store carpeting as I hurried to the revolving doors. I also remember the sharp cry of the saleswoman as she shouted, “Shoplifter!,” the feel of the guard’s hand on my arm, the shocked faces of other shoppers.
I offered to pay double for it, but it didn’t work. The cops took me down to the station, their strained civility failing to mask their scorn. I sat riveted to the chair, afraid that if I got up, I would be thrown in a cell and would never come out. But then Barry arrived, and a half hour later, the charges were mysteriously dropped.
The memory of that shame was a powerful deterrent. I joined a twelve-step program. I made progress. I tried to develop a rational relationship with money. I got divorced.
But now I owed half a million dollars. I’d have to file for bankruptcy. I’d lose the house. And that was just for starters. Barry wouldn’t rescue me this time. In fact, he’d left me holding the bag. This must be just retribution. God’s payback. I got dressed and watered the flowers, wondering how much time I had left in the house.
It only took twenty minutes to get to the Iverson estate that afternoon. I drove past the house and parked by a small bridge. The heat had intensified since morning; the back of my shirt was wet. A motorboat somewhere on the lake whined in the distance, the engine of the Volvo ticked. Otherwise, it was still.
I stretched my arms over the railing. A forested ravine lay beneath me. At the bottom, a skinny stream of water flowed out toward the lake. Partway down the steep hill was a structure, half hidden behind a woodsy tangle of trees. I squinted. It was a brick cistern, about eight feet in diameter, built on top of a stone base. Butterflies hovered around it.
I was wrong about Paul Iverson. I’d assumed Lisle was just a plaything for him, someone to have his way with on sultry afternoons. I’d imagined Lisle, blond hair framing her pretty head, lounging seductively on the bed in her slip, watching Iverson pull on his clothes for the trip back to Lake Forest. He would have dropped a trinket on the bed for her, planted a kiss on her cheek, and headed out, a satisfied smile on his lips. She would have dashed to the window and watched him stroll to his chauffered car, counting the days and hours until he pulled her off the assembly line again.
But if what Rick Feld said was true, Paul Iverson was living with Lisle Gottlieb. What started as a casual affair, something to w
hile away the time, had turned into a consuming passion.
I could see it. First he finds himself spending more and more time with her, unable to muster the will to leave. Then he realizes that he’s fallen in love with her. Finally, he comes to believe that living with her, possessing her, seeding her with his child are the only things that could possibly matter in life. Besotted, he abandons his wife, his house, and his family, believing only Lisle can satiate him, fill the void in his heart he hadn’t known was there.
But then, one day, she unexpectedly rejects him. Leaves him for another man. Snatches away their unborn child. Without warning, the lifeline he has come to depend on, as critical for his survival as air or water or food, has been ripped out of his hands. The powerful steel magnate, defeated by the girl on the line.
A motor revved and wheels screeched behind me. I whipped around just in time to see a car peel out of the Iversons’ driveway. As I stared at the retreating vehicle, a knot of fear twisted my stomach. It was a tan Cutlass, with two figures inside. I frantically searched for a license plate, but the car was moving too fast. I watched it grow small and disappear, a dull roaring in my ears. I was scheduled to interview Marian’s mother. Paul Iverson’s wife. How did they know I was here?
A few hundred yards to my left, the road ended in two stone pillars. A sign between the pillars read Lake Forest Cemetery.
Inside, the heavy wood door seemed to seal off the outside world. I felt as if I’d stepped into another realm, another time. A maid in a black-and-white uniform led me through the dark hall into the drawing room. I hadn’t noticed the cathedral ceiling, elegant moldings, or antique furniture at the fundraiser. They made an impression now.
Frances Iverson reclined on a brocade sofa, a cup of tea in her hand. Her wheelchair was pushed against the wall. Despite the cobalt blue of her dressing gown, her skin was ashen, and the hand holding the teacup looked like veined marble. A silver tea service on a mahogany table held an assortment of scones, tiny sandwiches, and pots of jam.
“Thank you for agreeing to do the interview, Mrs. Iverson.”
A pair of raised eyebrows was her response. “A mother’s duty, I’m told.” Her voice was coarse, as if age had stripped away all vestiges of her gender. She put the teacup down and allowed me to shake her hand. Her skin felt like crepe paper. She gestured for me to sit in an empty chair. The seat was warm.
Despite heavy drapes, the western sun poured through at an angle, hitting me in the face. I raised my hand to block it. Either she didn’t notice my discomfort, or she wanted it that way. Her eyes were pools of indifference. “My daughter says I’m to answer all your questions.”
“That’s why I came a few minutes early. I thought we could go over the questions.” I snuck a look at her. “Mrs. Iverson, before we begin, I need to ask you. Did you just have some visitors?”
Her brows knit together. “Visitors?”
“Two men. Driving a tan Cutlass?”
“I wouldn’t know.” She flicked her wrist. “It’s possible. There’s always someone doing something around here.
Landscapers. Repairmen. So much upkeep. I really ought to find a smaller place.” Rousing herself, she reached for a silver bell on a mahogany table. “Let’s ask Justine.”
“Oh, don’t bother. It’s not important.”
“Are you sure?”
I shook my head.
“As you will. Now, please have some tea.” She smiled and poured me a cup. “And don’t pass up these scones. We make them ourselves.” As I bit into it, her smile widened. “I’m glad you’re not one of those women who pick at their food.” I put the scone back on the saucer. “Marian said you weren’t looking forward to this.”
“I’ve always considered the press intrusive. And sensational.”
“I’m not with the press.” I thought she’d known that. “I’m producing a campaign video about your daughter. A favorable one.”
Raising her chin, she looked down her nose at me. She was a tough sell. Unless she was trying to intimidate me. I forged ahead. “One of the things I’d like to get on tape is your recollections of Marian as a little girl. Particularly any anecdotes you recall.”
“Anecdotes? Let me see.” She studied her tea service, then launched into a story about Marian learning to ride a horse. How she fell off but fearlessly got back on. Perhaps sensing my lack of response, she smiled again, her cheeks disappearing in a sea of wrinkles. “That won’t do?”
“Well—”
“You’re right. It’s much too patrician.” She leaned forward and patted my hand, the same way Marian did. “Give me some time. I’ll come up with something more appropriate.” Sunlight glinted on a group of photographs on a marble mantle. “We’re also going to need some photos of Marian when she was young.” I motioned. “May I look?”
“Of course.”
I wandered over. In one of the silver frames, a young Frances and Paul Iverson were seated next to each other. Paul’s hair was already white, but, in his dark tailored suit and white shirt, he was striking. Frances had been an attractive woman, too, with blond hair, a pronounced chin, and a slim figure. Marian took after her. The children posed in front of them: young Marian, in a lacy white dress, and her brother, in bow tie and knickers.
I picked up another photo of Paul Iverson. It was the same shot that Marian had in her office. Frances watched me look at it. “That was taken right after Paul and I met. On the polo grounds. You should have seen him on a horse.”
I turned.
“Cantering up and down the field like a knight in shining armor. Of course, he was a little rough around the edges.” She paused. “But we were young. We had time.” A wistful smile played around her mouth.
“Could I borrow these? I’ll scan them in and get them back to you.”
“I’ll have Justine bring you a box.” She lifted a silver bell on the tray.
“No need.” I took the two photos over to my bag. “I’ll just put them in here.” I slid them carefully inside. “Marian told me about your son’s death. I’m so sorry.” Her lips drew together in a tight, grim line. “Who ran the mill between the time your husband died and Gordon came in?”
She looked up. “We put together a consortium. A triumvirate, actually. Management selected an executive, the union suggested someone—”
“The union?”
“Well, the union officials.”
“Was the mayor’s father still shop steward?”
“I believe so. He was a help. They kept us going until Gordon was groomed.”
I checked my watch. Mac was late. Okay, Susan, this one’s for you. I sat down. The sun’s rays had shifted away from my face. “Mrs. Iverson, I heard a rumor the other day. I’d like to run it by you.”
“What’s that?”
“The rumor is that your husband didn’t die of a heart attack but took his own life.”
She didn’t move for a moment. Then she unfolded the blanket and draped it over her legs. Something unpleasant glinted in her eyes. “Who told you that?”
“A woman who owns a small mill on the East Side.”
She nodded, more for her benefit, it seemed, than mine. “I’ve heard that story before. It seems to resurface every few years.” She picked up her teacup. “I suppose there will always be rumors about people who are successful, charismatic, or in some other way distinguished. That’s what I mean about the press.”
“Mrs. Iverson, your response won’t go into the video.” She sipped her tea. “Then why do you care?”
I looked at her. “Marian said he died of a heart attack. The articles I read say that too. But I wondered. I wouldn’t want to say something—inappropriate.”
She breathed out a sigh. “Marian was a little girl when Paul died. She barely understood the concept of death. She kept asking when her Daddy was coming back. She thought he was on a business trip.”
The doorbell rang. Mac and the crew had arrived. “So it is true?” I asked in a low voice.
She
set down the teacup. “My husband passed well before his time. It was a tragedy for all of us.”
She lifted a cucumber sandwich from the tray. Patches of satin on the brocade sofa gleamed in the sun.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Heading home after the interview, I sped past a blur of signs, stores, and parking lots on Skokie Boulevard. In corporate doublespeak a nondenial is considered a tacit confirmation of fact. Exactly what Frances Iverson gave me.
I ran a hand through my hair. Iverson and Lisle had an affair, starting late in ’42, give or take a few months. She moved to Douglas Avenue shortly after that, and a year later, ’44 if Rick Feld was right, Iverson moved in. By ’45 she was pregnant. Then Kurt came home from the war. Lisle broke up with Iverson, Kurt was murdered, Iverson killed himself.
Was Paul Iverson involved in Kurt Weiss’s death? Did he kill Kurt in a jealous rage, and then, unable to deal with his crime, kill himself? It had started as a crazy, far-fetched theory, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Turning south on Sunset Ridge Road, I rolled down the window. Hot air shot across the front seat. I rolled it up again. That might explain why the Iverson family circulated the story about a heart attack. The family didn’t want even a breath of scandal, however softly it was whispered, to be associated with the name of Paul Iverson.
It would also explain why Marian clung to the pretense.
The idea that the father of the leading candidate for the Illinois Senate might be involved, however indirectly, in the sordid murder of a GI could be damaging. Irresistible fodder for the press. It might not cause a major scandal, but it would be good copy for a day or two. It might even trigger a dip in the polls. It made sense to prevaricate.
An Eye for Murder Page 20
