Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4)

by Dianne Emley

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Iris arrived home, she was surprised to see her mother’s car parked in front of her house, but then remembered that she had asked Rose if she would wait for the cable guy. She also remembered that she’d intended to bring home takeout for the two of them, which she’d completely forgotten.

  She unlocked her front door and was greeted with the aroma of hot food. She closed her eyes to better take in the experience, realizing how hungry she was. Cooking was going on in her house. It seemed somehow appropriate. There should be cooking going on in this house. She thought of the previous Sunday when Garland had barbecued for her and how much fun it had been doing nothing special, just being together.

  She walked into the living room, which had been cleared of boxes, making her sparse furniture look all the more paltry. Her mother had apparently been busy. The large TV was against one wall, on top was the cable box, next to it the clicker, and in front of that, her easy chair. It beckoned.

  Voices, laughter, and music were coming from the kitchen. It was her mother and who? Her neighbor Marge? Excellent. Maybe it was the slender beginnings of her mother getting a life. Iris cocked her head at the music. It was rap. Curious selection. She walked into the kitchen.

  “Hello, I’m home!” she cheerily announced, happy that there was someone waiting for her.

  “Hi, honey.” Rose, holding a wooden spoon with which she had been stirring something red, pranced from the stove over to her and ebulliently hugged her. Iris smelled booze on her breath.

  Marge was also in the kitchen. She was nattily dressed in light blue slacks and a white blouse embroidered with bird houses sitting atop vine-twisted posts with little red birds flying about. The blouse was tucked into her slacks, which were belted, displaying her slender figure.

  Rose was wearing a magenta jumpsuit that Iris hadn’t seen before. Made of a shiny, crinkled fabric, it pulled slightly across her large bottom in the back and across her rounded belly in the front. The top few buttons were unbuttoned, revealing serious cleavage. Iris tried not to stare. She had never seen her mother dressed like that.

  “I’m making spaghetti and meatballs, honey. It was your favorite dish when you were little. Remember that, Iris, when I used to make that for you? You used to say it, spisghettis. It was so cute.”

  “Hi, Iris.” Marge waved, then pressed the whip button on the blender, which was full of a yellowish-green concoction and thick with ice. “How was your day?” she shouted over the loud appliance. “We heard on the news that the market was down.” She pointed a manicured fingernail in the direction the market had taken and tsk-tsked. “Now, my first husband, Ely, he was the one who liked the stock market. My second husband, Herb, wasn’t much for it.”

  She posed with one finger on the whip button. With her other hand, she carefully traced the wave in her coiffure, ensuring that every hair was in place. From what Iris had seen of Marge, she never had a hair out of place. “His thing was real estate. He said he liked to put his money where he could see it. That was Herb for you. Now my third husband, Dub…well, poor Dub didn’t last too long after we got married, and I never found out much about him and money except that he didn’t have much of it.” She pulled her hand away from her hair and drew a prolonged arc in the air in Rose’s direction with her fingertips. They both laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  Iris decided they were toasted. The evidence was on the kitchen counter—two wide-mouthed margarita goblets, the rims marked with traces of coarse ground salt and lipstick. Lime wedges swam in the remaining froth at the bottom of the glasses.

  “My garlic bread!” Rose dashed to the stove, grabbed a potholder, yanked open the broiler door, and pulled out a cookie sheet covered with blackened slices of French bread. “It’s ruined.”

  “That’s okay, love. We have plenty of makings left.” Marge washed the two dirty glasses, produced a third, and drew a lime wedge around the rims. She upended the glasses into a small plate of coarse salt, gently turned them, coating the rims, then poured the margaritas from the blender into the glasses. She decorated each rim with a lime wedge and distributed the cocktails with a flourish.

  Marge raised her glass in a toast. “To Iris’s new house.”

  Iris and her mother repeated the toast and took a sip.

  “This is wonderful.” Iris took another sip. It was creamy and limey but not too tart. She could not detect the tequila and triple sec, although she could already feel the effect of the potent cocktail. “Simply wonderful.”

  “It’s El Cholo’s recipe.” Marge wiped the counter clean with a damp dishrag. “My first husband and I were very good friends with the owner, and he gave me the recipe many years ago. Long before you were born.”

  “Isn’t she just great?” Rose enthused. “She saw me waiting for the cable installer and came over. We got to talking, went to have lunch, went shopping… Do you like it?” She pirouetted in the jumpsuit.

  “Very striking. I’m glad you two hit it off. If you’ll forgive me, I’m going to get out of these clothes and make a couple of phone calls. Thanks for making dinner. This is a wonderful surprise.” Iris looked at a small television on the kitchen counter. It was broadcasting a video of what looked like gang members cruising in low-riders and rapping to a relentless beat. “What in the world are you watching?”

  “MTV,” Marge said matter-of-factly.

  “You have to keep up with trends or else life will just pass you by,” Rose added.

  “Uh-huh.” Iris picked up her briefcase and margarita and turned to leave the room. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “You go, girl,” Marge said after her.

  Iris mused about the scene in the kitchen as she walked down the corridor to the room she used as an office. “Well, you told her to get a life,” she reminded herself aloud.

  She opened a window, letting in the fresh ocean breeze. The small room had two windows that met at the corner. One faced the small strip of yard that separated her house from Marge’s; the other faced the backyard and her ocean view. The sun had dipped in the sky but hadn’t yet set. She promised herself that she would watch it set, tonight and every night that she could. She took in the view as she licked salt from the margarita glass and followed it with a long sip. The drink was strong, especially on her empty stomach, and she already had a buzz going.

  “Hot hors d’oeuvres!” No sooner had Iris become aware of a hunger pang then Marge knocked on the open door carrying a small plate of cheese quesadilla wedges garnished with dollops of guacamole and salsa.

  “Marge, you’re a phenomenon. I may ask you to marry me.”

  Marge emitted a tinkling laugh. “Oh, I’m through with that. But now your mother… There’s someone we need to work on.” She winked at Iris and slipped from the room.

  Iris picked up a wedge of grilled tortilla and melted cheese and contemplated the possibility of her mother getting married. She crammed the quesadilla into her mouth and licked her greasy fingers. All of a sudden it seemed as if her work clothes had turned into a hair shirt. She’d had them on since early this morning, barely giving them a second thought other than when she’d made adjustments in the ladies’ room mirror. Now everything seemed to bind and grab and had to come off.

  She hoisted her briefcase onto the desk and was about to go into her bedroom to change when curiosity got the best of her. She clicked open the brass clasps and took out the assortment of Pandora games Toni had given her and the manila folder of letters. She rifled through the fifty-odd pieces of paper. Some letters were from parents who blamed Pandora for the amount of time their kids wasted playing the firm’s games. Most were from teacher organizations, child advocacy groups, and others concerned about the violent and sexual content of Pandora’s games. The organizations had names like Mothers Against Violence in Media, Citizens for Safe Airwaves, and Think About It.

  “And I thought letter-writing was a dying art,” Iris commented to herself. She shoved another q
uesadilla wedge into her mouth and accidentally smeared guacamole on a missive from Children in Crisis. She dabbed at it with a napkin. She kicked off her pumps, halfway unzipped her skirt, and sat in her desk chair.

  Most of the letters had been written during the previous three years when the issue of excessive sex and violence in movies and television and their effects on children had come to the forefront of public concern. Many made reference to the V-chip technology that parents can use to block out television shows and suggested the implementation of a similar system in computer games.

  All the letters had responses from Bridget stapled to them, expressing appreciation for the writer’s comments. She described how Pandora was examining ways to label their software to warn parents of potentially objectionable materials and testing methods of blocking access to specific content. She always thanked the sender for their interest in improving Pandora’s games.

  A year later, she sent follow-up letters, announcing the steps Pandora had taken to address their concerns. They described how she and other software game producers had voluntarily begun to post labels on game packaging describing the quantity of violence, bad language, and explicitness of sexual content. She told how parents could now take advantage of a new feature that could block objectionable language, violence, and access to certain game levels. She explained that, as a mother herself, she shared many of their concerns and had been at the forefront of action to protect children.

  Good for you, Bridget, Iris thought. Police yourself before the government does it for you. Iris knew that TV executives had been under fire for doing nothing to stem profanity, violence, and sexual references in programming, and had faced the possibility of a government-imposed rating system. They avoided this by implementing their own, industry-developed system.

  Iris downed the last of the margarita and continued reading. She picked up a letter addressed to Bridget Cross, president and CEO of Pandora Corporation, typed on crisp, white bond stationery. The letterhead, in somber raised navy blue letters, said, “The Trust Makers.” The return address was in Washington, D.C. To the right of the heading was something that resembled a small red, white, and blue American flag, but with one key difference. In the flag’s upper left-hand corner, where the stars should have been, was a familiar symbol in white on a blue ground: 1x1.

  Iris switched on her high-intensity desk lamp to get a closer look. It was indeed the same symbol as on Baines’s lapel pin. She’d heard the name Trust Makers before but couldn’t place it.

  She read the letter.

  Dear Mrs. Cross:

  It was with great interest that we reviewed your latest software game, Slade Slayer 3-D. While we are impressed with the complex and engrossing computer graphics and the bright spots of humor that the game most certainly provides, we feel the language, violence, and sexual content are unsuitable for children, who comprise the core of your audience.

  We are aware of the game’s password access feature designed to block the more objectionable content from young eyes. However, the computer-literate fourteen-year-old son of one of our members was able to bypass the password in less than fifteen minutes.

  Mrs. Cross, as a mother, I’m certain you are as concerned as we are over the spread of violence, pornography, and profanity throughout all the various forms of today’s media. Many studies have shown that repeated exposure to harmful images does, over time, desensitize children, rendering them more likely to imitate the behaviors they see. If the United States is to continue to prosper, we must stop the proliferation of this culture of depravity, which is leading to the systematic destruction of our children.

  The ultimate solution to this problem, in our opinion, is for the producers of these objectionable and dangerous materials to cease creating them. This does not imply that we would like to close down your business, Mrs. Cross, but that we would simply like you to take a responsible approach as concerns the content of your games.

  A year ago, we notified you that Pandora was placed on the Trust Makers’ list of boycotted companies. Unfortunately, the boycott has apparently had no effect. We hope that this letter will be sufficient impetus for you to change Pandora’s direction. The Trust Makers is a strong organization, our membership roster grows daily, and we do not intend to back down. The American way of life depends upon it.

  I would be happy to discuss this with you in person. Until then, God bless you and God bless the United States of America.

  Darvis Brown

  Grand Eagle

  “Grand Eagle?” Iris said aloud. “Are they like the Ku Klux Klan or something?”

  Bridget’s response, stapled to the letter, was short and to the point. It stated that she appreciated the Trust Makers’ concern, but they’d have to agree to disagree on this issue.

  Iris quickly thumbed the remaining letters in the folder until she found the earlier one from the Trust Makers notifying Bridget that Pandora was being boycotted. Bridget’s stock response about how Pandora and other software manufacturers were working on their own blocking technology was attached.

  Iris turned on her laptop, fished from her purse the business card Toni had given her, and shot her an E-mail.

  “Were you aware of Bridget having any problems with an organization called the Trust Makers? Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  Iris turned at the sound of a knock on her door.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Marge announced, holding a fresh margarita in her hand. “And I just made up a new batch.”

  Iris was amazed at diminutive Marge’s alcohol capacity. The one margarita Iris had downed had made her looped.

  “Thought you were going to change out of your work clothes.” Marge draped herself against the doorframe with one toe of her high-heeled shoe pointed toward the floor, one hand raised above her head. Posing seemed to come naturally to Marge.

  “I got sidetracked.” Iris clicked off the desk lamp and stood. “Have you heard of an organization called the Trust Makers?”

  “Trust Makers… Oh, sure. They’re that men’s organization. You know, trying to restore men to their proper place in the home and society. They have these meetings that fill stadiums—60 Minutes did an exposé.”

  “Oh yeah. And no women are included.” Iris rubbed her index finger against her forehead. “That’s right. Their spiel is that men have betrayed the role that God has entrusted them to perform in their families, their marriages, and in society in general.”

  “Be careful.” Marge raised a warning finger. “They claim they’re not antiwomen. They’re pro-men.”

  “Interesting. I guess if it stops some guy from beating up his wife or being an absentee dad, it’s a good thing.” Iris glanced at the letter. “But it seems as if they’ve expanded their original mission.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kip Cross sat at a table in the family room on the ground floor of his mansion, tapping furiously on a laptop. The French doors lining the outside wall were open, and a breeze, surprisingly cool after the heat of the Santa Anas, rustled the pages of magazines that were strewn on the floor. He was barefoot, bare-chested, and wore knee-length shorts in a yellow and turquoise plaid fabric. Deep furrows lined his high forehead as he worked with total concentration.

  Summer Fontaine was reclining on a lounge chair, reading the National Enquirer. She was completely nude even though the sun was setting and the air was becoming chilled. She looked at the sky and frowned at the few small clouds that dared to cross it. “Don’t tell me it’s going to rain,” she said in her high, sweet voice.

  She set the magazine down, slipped on high-heeled sandals that she fished from underneath the chair, and walked inside the house to where Kip was working. She began to massage his shoulders. Her breasts brushed against his back and caressed his neck. “How’s it going, baby? You’ve been working really hard. It’s like I hardly exist.”

  He continued typing. Without looking up, he said, “You shouldn’t walk around like that. You know this place is being stalked by photographers
. I saw a guy sitting up on the hill.”

  “So what? People have seen me in the nude before. After all, I posed in Playboy last year.” She shrugged. “I still can’t believe they made that tramp Playmate of the Year instead of me.” She slid her arms around him and drew her fingernails across his bare chest. “You used to like it when I walked around like this.”

  “Keep in mind that the police are watching me, looking for evidence that I killed my wife.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Whether I did or didn’t doesn’t matter to them. They’re out to get me.” He sat back in the chair.

  She continued massaging his neck and shoulders.

  He seemed to relax under the pressure of her fingers. “Some woman called. Said you’d hired her to babysit for Brianna.”

  “I told you about that. When Brianna comes home from her grandparents, someone has to watch her.”

  “But you’re supposed to be her nanny.”

  “I’m going to be busy with TV appearances over the next few weeks.” Summer wrinkled her delicate forehead. “I’d hoped I’d become more to you than just the nanny.” She waited for a response. Kip resumed working.

  “Anyway, it’ll only be for a few weeks. My schedule clears up after that. Casting directors are telling me I’m overexposed. No one tells Pamela Anderson she’s overexposed.” Summer pouted.

  “You’re not Pamela Anderson.”

  “I could be. All I need is a little more plastic surgery and a TV series.” She grew thoughtful. “It’s okay that my TV work is slacking off. I need time to work on my book.”

  “Book? You never told me about a book.”

  “I meant to. I guess I forgot.”