by Dianne Emley
She put on her sunglasses and turned, meeting the gaze of a khaki-uniformed groundskeeper who was standing a few yards away holding a rake. She knew immediately that he was the man Bridget had described. He gave Iris the creeps too. It was nothing she could put her finger on, which made the feeling all the more compelling. Alexa Platt’s face popped into her head and Iris shivered.
Instead of slinking away, she was assertive. “Hi, how are ya? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
He mumbled something in response and disappeared behind a toolshed.
Iris anxiously looked around, checking her watch a few times. “Darn him.” She grew edgy waiting and quickly walked into the canyon while the groundskeeper was still out of view. Along the way, she picked up a heavy stick and used it as a staff. It was the middle of a Friday afternoon. Birds sang. A light breeze rustled the leaves and tree branches. She relaxed slightly, breathing deeply, as if filling her lungs with fresh air would wash away everything that had happened.
She glanced behind her before rounding another bend. She was still alone. Shortly she reached a large pine tree growing in a deep ravine; its branches extended almost across the path. Behind the tree, she spotted a pair of tennis shoes and jeans-clad legs. She scampered down the steep hillside, using the stick to keep from sliding. As she rounded the tree, she saw Jim Platt sitting with his back against the trunk, holding a pine branch, slowly turning it in front of his eyes.
“I thought I might find you here,” she said to him.
Platt continued turning the branch and spoke without looking at her. “There are still raindrops on the needles. Look how the light reflects off the water.”
Iris crouched next to him, not wanting to sit on the damp ground. She picked up a twig and drew an aimless pattern in the dirt. “I was surprised when you suggested meeting at the park.”
“It was time. I’m glad I came. I thought it would be ugly, but it actually gives me a sense of closure. It’s peaceful. I can see why Alexa loved it.” He set the branch on the ground. “Even though we may never find out what happened to her.”
“Toni might confess in time.”
“Does it matter? The woman’s bound to spend the rest of her life in jail, even if she isn’t sent there for my wife’s murder.”
“I still wonder about that groundskeeper. Did you see him?”
“Yeah.”
Iris drew concentric circles in the dirt and sighed. “It makes me so mad. Someone has to be held accountable.”
Pratt got up and brushed the wet leaves and pine needles from his pants. “Alexa’s still gone. Nothing will bring her back.”
Iris stood as well, painfully, still suffering the effects of her mud fight with Toni.
Platt looked at his watch. “I don’t have time for lunch. I’ve got to catch a plane. Please apologize to your friend for me.”
Iris walked with him down the path toward the park entrance. He extended his hand. She took it. He was much changed from the first time she’d met him.
“Take care.” Pratt got into the Jaguar Alexa had been driving the day she was murdered and drove off.
Iris leaned against the Triumph. The groundskeeper had resumed raking a short distance away and occasionally cast glances at her. She was glad when a nondescript white sedan pulled into the lot. Garland had barely got out of the rental car when she flung herself on him, her knees around his waist. He spun her around. She shrieked with abandon.
When he stopped, he noticed she had tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she smiled. She wiped the tears and they were gone. “I’m just glad to see you.”
He hugged her tightly. “Wasn’t Alexa’s husband meeting us here?”
“He had to leave.”
“You want to take a walk before we have lunch?”
She nodded and put her arm around his waist. “Hopefully, by the time I get home, they will have bulldozed the mud from the street in front of my house.”
“That mudslide stopped just in time.”
“I think I’ve used up a couple of my nine lives.”
“Save at least one for me.”
She squeezed him more tightly as they walked with their arms around each other.
“I can’t get over this weather,” Garland said. “It was snowing in New York. I think I could get used to living in California.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “Once both the kids are in college.”
“Oh,” she said, almost with relief. “That’s at least two years away, isn’t it?”
He seemed bewildered. “I thought you wanted us to be together…don’t you?”
“I do,” she insisted. “It’s exactly what I want.”
“And that’s the problem, right?” He tickled her.
“Well,” she yelped, suspecting he was starting to know her too well. “I’m kind of enjoying things the way they are.”
“I’ll admit this long-distance relationship has been romantic, sexy, passionate…” He nuzzled her neck and she laughed. “But it’s not real life.”
“I know.” She smiled crookedly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
ﾍBONUS: EXCERPT FROM PUSHOVER
The fifth Iris Thorne mystery
CHAPTER ONE
Iris Thorne opened her eyes and squinted at the bright sun, low in the sky. She touched her lips. “Did you kiss me?”
Garland Hughes leaned down, bracing his arms against the back of the Adirondack chair and lightly brushed her lips with his. “Yes.”
She ran her hand through his hair, holding his face close to hers, before letting him go, only then noticing that he was dressed to leave. “What time is it? I must have dozed off.” She yawned and stretched, wriggling her toes in the grass of her backyard.
It was a warm September afternoon. The air was still and the Pacific Ocean, down the cliff and across Pacific Coast Highway, was calm and glassy.
“Time for me to leave. You must have had a nightmare.”
“Why?”
“You were moaning.”
“I was?” The dream, as ethereal as a residue of perfume on a long-closeted garment, had nearly dissipated, but his comment brought it vividly back to her.
She was in Paris. It was night, a light rain was falling, and she was running down the street, wearing only a slip. Her bare feet were unsteady against the slick cobblestones, and the thin slip, damp from the rain, clung to her skin. She either wasn’t aware of her state of undress or didn’t care, feeling neither cold nor shame.
She stopped in front of Le Café des Quatre Vents and peered through its double doors, past the daily menu written on the glass panes in black wax pencil. The café was thick with smoke and crowded with workers having a drink before heading home. She looked this way and that and finally saw him sitting at the back table. She saw Todd Fillinger and was happy.
She pushed down on the tarnished brass door handle, rubbed shiny in spots, and opened the door. A rush of warm air billowed the hem of her garment and her hair. Across the room, Todd stood to meet her. Suddenly, without having walked there, she was next to him. They kissed. No one paid any attention to them. He pressed her against the table, sending a demitasse, spoon, and saucer of sugar cubes clattering to the floor. Still no one noticed them. He raised the slip above her head and pulled it off as she unbuckled his belt, his pants dropping to his ankles. They made love. A ceiling lamp bathed them in a harsh light and images danced behind her closed eyelids.
Iris blushed as she recalled the dream, the heat ascending her neck to her face. She cupped her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes against the bright setting sun that had migrated into her subconscious. The gesture also hid her eyes from Garland. “I did have sort of a funny dream.”
He was too rushed to ask about it. For once, Iris was glad instead of irritated. He jerked his arm forward to uncover his watch beneath the cuff of his shirt. “I have to go. I have to drop off the rental car before my flight.”
She took
the hand he offered and let him pull her up from the deep chair. Cinching the belt of her terry cloth bathrobe more tightly around her, she walked hand-in-hand with him across the small yard, taking the steps to the redwood deck and moving past a French door that led to the bedroom of her 1920s bungalow. “Garland, I wish you’d change your mind and come with me. It’s only for a week.”
“I have a slew of meetings I can’t change. Plus, you don’t want me to go with you.”
She didn’t respond.
His rubber-soled casual shoes squeaked against the polished hardwood floor as they walked down the hallway and into the living room. At the front door of the small house, he turned to face her, running his thumb across the backs of her fingers. “Iris, I trust you, in Moscow or anywhere. I just have a…” He sighed as he carefully chose his words. “I’m uncomfortable with this. Something about it seems strange.”
“I agree with you.” She stood with one bare foot on top of the other. “But if you knew Todd Fillinger, it wouldn’t seem strange. Turning up in Moscow, sending me a letter out of the blue after not being in touch for years, asking if I want to get in on the ground floor of his latest business venture is very Todd.”
“He was very Todd when you left him standing at the altar in Paris five years ago. How do you know he’s not carrying a grudge and this isn’t some sort of a setup?”
She angled her mouth with amusement. “A setup? Pretty elaborate, wouldn’t you say? Especially when he asked me to bring a boyfriend, husband, or whomever with me.” She slipped her arms around his waist. “It’s a chance to see Todd and clear the air. I’m not proud of how I treated him.”
“I have to admit it made me a little nervous when you told me about it.”
“It was a weird time in my life. It was a stupid, impulsive, nutty thing to do. I’ve always wanted to tell Todd I was sorry. I wrote him a letter some years ago, but I guess he never got it. And it has nothing to do with us.”
Garland checked his inside jacket pocket for his airline tickets. He was flying home to New York City. “Maybe he wants to see if he still has a chance with you.”
“Garland, I told him about us.” She frowned. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t go.”
“I’m not going to be the man who tries to stand in your way.” He rested his hands on top of her shoulders. “Look, it’s a good business move for you. The Russian Federation is an emerging market. It couldn’t hurt politically at your firm to have first-hand knowledge of the region.” He gently shook her shoulders. “But please be careful.”
“I’ve lived in Los Angeles my entire life. How much worse could Moscow be?”
“Don’t go anywhere alone—”
“I won’t.”
“And try to blend in. Don’t look like an American.”
She sniggered. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m just a phone call and an airplane flight away.”
They kissed. He opened the door and picked up his suitcase. “I’ve had enough of this bicoastal romance. We need to talk about a more permanent arrangement.”
“I’ll line up some negotiators,” she joked.
They kissed again.
“But I’m not living year-round anyplace where snow falls from the sky.”
“She’s stated her opening position. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He gathered his belongings and she followed him out the door, standing on her front lawn and waving until his car disappeared around the curve at the bottom of Casa Marina Drive. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the empty street that matched the hollowness she felt inside. From her pocket, she took Todd Fillinger’s letter. Tucked inside the envelope was the snapshot he’d sent of her and him in front of Le Café des Quatre Vents. Through the windows, she could glimpse the corner table from her dream.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to: Linda Marrow, Amy Pierpont, Anne Williams, Victoria Routledge, Rowland Barber, Gerald Petievich, and Lee Gruenfeld.
For letting me pick their brains, my gratitude to: Genie Bakale, Karen Bizzini, Ann Escue, Jeff McLellan, and Jennifer Urick.
And three twirls to Laury Bird who appreciates the magic inherent in a staircase.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dianne Emley is a Los Angeles Times bestselling author and has received critical acclaim for her books which include the Detective Nan Vining thrillers: The First Cut, Cut to the Quick, The Deepest Cut, and Love Kills and the Iris Thorne mysteries: Cold Call, Slow Squeeze, Fast Friends, Foolproof, and Pushover. Her books have been translated into six languages. A Los Angeles native, she’s never lived more than ten minutes away except for the year she lived in Southern France. She now lives in a hundred-year-old house near L.A. with her husband.
www.DianneEmley.com