Conundrum

by Susan Cory

  Iris groaned.

  “I know. After all that work, it’s a real shame. The Attorney said it’s important that all the work done is verified and the workers paid so that no one can put a lien on the property. There are a ton of receipts here on Norman’s desk and I was wondering if you could help me sort through them.”

  “Sure. How soon do you want to tackle it?”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  An hour later Iris and Claire were in Norman’s office dividing his papers into neat piles on the floor and desk.

  “I should go through these invoices to make sure we don’t double pay anyone,” Iris said. “And I don’t want any invoices to get lost in the shuffle. What’s this manila envelope?”

  “Oh, I think those are receipts from the tile installer. If you could just confirm them first, I’ll pay him. By the way,” continued a newly chatty Claire, “the funeral is going to be

  held on Saturday at 10 at Mount Auburn Cemetery. All of us from Norman Meeker Enterprises are getting paid overtime to go.”

  “Boy, that was pulled together fast. Will they be done with the autopsy by then? Who did the organizing anyway?”

  “The Medical Examiner’s office promised that we could have the body by Saturday. Norman had organized all the details for the funeral with his lawyer—right down to the type of casket, flowers, and songs he wanted. Do you believe it? By the way, don’t bother sending any flowers. He only wants white Calla lilies.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Norman knew he was going to die?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t expect to die so soon, but preparation was his motto. You must have noticed that when you worked with him. He viewed life as one big chess game, and he was always strategizing three moves ahead. He left complete instructions for his funeral, including who he wanted there.”

  “That’s bizarre. He can’t make people show up… can he?”

  “No, but overtime will draw an enthusiastic response from the employees here. I don’t know why the rest of the people on the list would come.”

  “Oh, Claire—I almost forgot. Do you have a phone number for Norman’s ex, Barb?”

  “Sure. Can you wait a sec?” Claire went to her desk in the outer office.

  Iris finished shoving receipts into her tote bag and followed after her. She idly picked up a postcard propped against a picture frame on Claire’s desk. “This is the De Young Museum by Herzog and de Meuron in San Francisco. Have you seen it in the flesh?”

  Claire looked over at the image.”Oh, that’s a postcard Norman had thrown out. I kept it because I thought the building looked cool. Someday I want to get out there to see it.”

  Iris flipped over the card. “Looking forward to our talk on Friday—Renno.”

  It was from Will. He had been excited about coming to the reunion and chatting with Norman at the dinner. Sadness settled over her.

  “I’m not sure that this number is still current, but this is what’s in the file for Barb.”

  As Iris left, Claire called out to her, “See you at the funeral. You’re on the list.”

  Not if I can help it, Iris thought.

  Chapter 31

  Iris spent early Tuesday afternoon out at her new Chestnut Hill job taking measurements for the “as built” drawings of a penthouse. Her client, Lillian Butterworth, was a widow ready to make big changes in her life. She had sold the family Victorian, replacing it with a modern penthouse whose wrap-around windows gave her a view of the Boston skyline. She wanted Iris to tear out walls and reconfigure the space to be more of a loft. Iris loved adventurous clients. This would be a fun job.

  Back at her Cambridge office, Iris ripped off a piece of yellow tracing paper and taped it to her drafting board. Then, adding up the overall measurements of the penthouse, she marked them on the paper, using a quarter-inch, triangular scale. As she started to sketch in the outer walls of the space, the phone rang.

  “Hi, Iris. This is Barb. I got your message. It’s been awhile.”

  “Oh, hi, Barb. I’m sorry about Norman.” Iris had forgotten Barb’s nasal upstate New York accent. “How have you been? I didn’t see you at the reunion. I wondered if we could talk.”

  “I didn’t feel like rehashing graduate school, so I avoided the reunion, but I could meet with you. When and where is good? The kids are away at boarding school, so my schedule’s pretty open.”

  “Do you know where the Paradise Café is in Cambridge, near Porter Square?”

  “I’ve heard of it. I’m sure I can GPS it. It’s on Mass Ave, right?”

  “Right. Does 4 o’clock work for you? We could get coffee. Sorry again about Norman.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. See you at 4.”

  ***

  By the time Iris arrived at the café Barb was already seated with a coffee cup at her mouth. The years had not been kind to her. In a tunic with loose pants, she looked dowdier than her years.

  “It sure is impossible to park around here, Iris.”

  “Sorry about that. I usually walk here. So, how are you?” A hug did not look expected or welcome. She racked her brain for some bridge-twenty-years small talk and came up with “I hadn’t realized that you and Norman had kids. How old are they?”

  “Thirteen and fifteen—both boys. It’s a horrendous age, early teens.” She proceeded to detail their latest obnoxious scenes. As it became clear that Barb was just warming up to her topic, Iris held up a time-out finger and ran to the counter to get a decaf.

  “Have you got any booze to slip in there?” she asked Louise.

  Louise glanced over at Barb and raised a brow. “Nothing that would mix with coffee. Want me to interupt you with an emergency or something?”

  “No, but thanks for the thought.”

  As Iris returned to the table, Barb started right in again with “Norman never mentions his sons. They make him feel old. I guess I should use the past tense for him now.”

  “I’m sure his death has been hard for them.”

  “Not really. I haven’t told them yet. Their shrinks can help them cope when they get back from school. He was never what you would call an involved parent.”

  Time to pry Barb off of this subject.

  “So, have you been working in architecture since school? You’ve probably had your hands full with two kids.”

  “I had my hands full with Norman. He was such a control freak. Everything had to be done his particular way. In the beginning it was kind of exciting, being with someone so smart and ambitious. But once he got fixated on these inventions of his, he became obsessed. They were all about saving energy. He was ahead of his time—I’ll give him that.”

  “Where did Norman pick up this interest? I don’t remember him having an engineering or science background.”

  “No, but he recognized a business need when he saw it. You probably remember, when we entered architecture school in ‘85, the energy crisis was still a big deal. While we were in school, that crisis may have died down, but the handwriting was on the wall. Norman saw the need for products that depended less on oil, or used oil more efficiently. OPEC could just raise prices, or embargo oil at any time, and we’d be screwed again.”

  “But how did he have the technical knowledge to invent all those products?”

  “He did what all businessmen do—he bought the know-how. His first partner was a guy named Jim Bennett. He was the one with the engineering smarts. Norman’s ego broke up the partnership, of course, but only after he had gotten what he needed from Jim.”

  “Can you think of anyone, this Jim Bennett or anyone else, who might have hated him enough to want to kill him?”

  “Well, Norman was ruthless in business, but that isn’t usually enough to get you killed or Wall Street would be littered with bodies. There were times when I could have killed him, but I didn’t—probably a lack of imagination on my part. We’ve been divorced for a year now, so I’ve had time to chill out. How come you’re so interested in finding out who killed
him? I’m sure the police are working on it. They called to ask me a bunch of questions.”

  “I’m just curious. I was working on his house for almost a year. I was just wondering about Meeker Enterprises and who would take over now.”

  “Well, he always surrounded himself with yes-men. He couldn’t delegate to save his life. He was afraid of a power play. I seriously doubt he left a strong candidate to succeed him.”

  Iris tried to think of a useful question. Something Barb had said had sounded relevant. Oh, yes. “Do you by any chance know Jim Bennett’s phone number?”

  “I can probably find it in an old address book at home. I’ll e-mail it to you.” They exchanged a few architecture school memories before Barb rose.

  “I’ve gotta run now, Iris. Take care.”

  “You too.” Iris wandered back to the counter where Louise sat reading a book while she waited for customers.

  “Hey, Louise, is Luc in the kitchen now?”

  “Um, he should be back soon, Iris. I think he’s picking up Allegra from her exercise class.”

  Chapter 32

  Iris and Ellie sat side by side in the pedicure chairs at the Beauty Connection on Mass Ave. Ellie, eyes closed, had her chair on the massage setting and kept arching her back as the rollers undulated.

  “See, Ellie. I told you that this would happen. He’s already running around with some hussy/chef named Allegra. She’s probably 25. Who names their child ‘Allegra’ anyway? Is that the new Tiffany? You know, that looks a bit obscene—what you’re doing.”

  Ellie rolled up the People Magazine on her lap and gave Iris a swat.

  “No move, miss!” and “Stay still!” rang out from their glaring pedicurists.

  “Sorry,” “Sorry,” they responded.

  “Where have you been, Iris? Tiffany went out with shoulder pads and white pantyhose.”

  “White pantyhose are out?”

  Ellie managed to give her a look with one eye closed.

  “Now we can never hang out in the Paradise again,” Iris said. “You’ve ruined our morning ritual! And they have the best cappuccinos in Cambridge!”

  “Oh, chill out. Allegra is probably middle-aged, overweight and doesn’t own a car. Luc, being the gentleman that he is, is probably giving her a ride. You’re acting more like a drama queen than Raven. Speaking of whom, have you made her Lady Baltimore cake? She says she’s not coming home unless we can have it at dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Fine, fine. That’s all I’m good for anyway—my baking skills.”

  Ellie said “That’s right. Go home after this and make that cake!”

  ***

  Iris could hear the phone ringing as she opened the kitchen door. She got to it before the answering machine kicked in.

  “Hi, Cara, it’s Luc. Louise said I missed you.”

  Blessed words: he missed her. “Hi. I was at the café with Norman’s ex-wife. She was filling me in on her life with him. He sure sounds like a pain to live with.”

  “I thought you were going to lie low after Sunday’s ambush.”

  “I wanted to tie up this loose end. I figure I’m okay if I stay away from the prime suspects. What have you been up to today? What’s that noise in the background?”

  “That’s the pasta machine. I’m prepping for Allegra tonight but don’t need to stay late. Why don’t you stop by at nine? We could stroll down to Chez Henri for a late bite. Their chef Paul and I are friendly competitors.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ll be busy tonight making a Lady Baltimore cake for Raven’s homecoming tomorrow. It can take forever to get the damned boiled white icing done right, depending on how many times I miss the precise ‘soft-ball’ moment and have to start over.”

  “Yeah, that drives me nuts too.”

  “Very funny. Maybe you’ll get to try some if you’re good. Are you cooking tomorrow night? Want to come to this dinner at Ellie’s?”

  “I’d love to but I’m on duty through Friday night. We’re working on new menu ideas. How about dinner Saturday night?”

  “You’re on. And if you’re lucky, I might just save you a piece of cake.”

  “Great. And I’m going to pay particular attention to the icing. No pressure though.”

  Chapter 33

  Raven’s black hair and huge brown eyes echoed her mother’s coloring. But she was tall where her mother was short. As a baby, her long thin neck, tiny round mouth and thatch of fluffy hair made her resemble a baby bird peeking out of its nest.

  Now, as Iris entered Ellie’s kitchen and saw mother and daughter preparing dinner, Raven looked more like a rare, exotic bird. Dressed in brightly colored layers of thrift-shop finds—henley, gypsy blouse, long, flowered dress, shrug, and black motorcycle boots—she had the natural chic of a runway model decked out in couture.

  “You made the cake!” Raven enthused as Iris set it quickly on the counter so it wouldn’t get crushed in their hug.

  “Of course I did. It’s our version of the fatted calf for the prodigal daughter. So, how’s the college kid? Any new tats or piercings?”

  “Nope. I’m being rebellious. I even took out my nose ring. It’s too cliché.”

  “Just don’t rebel too much and become a skinhead.”

  “Like that would happen. I wouldn’t be allowed back to the People’s Republik of Cambridge.”

  “Damn straight. When did you get home?”

  “This afternoon. Mom picked me up with my stuff. We had to tie some of the bigger canvases to the roof of the car.”

  “I can’t wait to see what you’re painting these days.”

  “Mom says you’re dating some hunky young stud and getting letter bombs. That’s so cool!”

  “A hunky young stud? Who’s talking about me?” Mack sailed in cradling a big paper bag. He went over to hug Raven. “Ah, bliss. I have all my women together again,” he said, stretching his arms wide to include Iris. Then he kissed Ellie and said “University Wines had a nice, not-too-sweet Riesling on special, so I got a few bottles to try. Will that do with your trout, my sweet?”

  Okay, so maybe not all relationships sucked, Iris thought.

  Over dinner, they dissected the murders.

  Raven posed some questions: “What if Adam flew up to Boston early on Friday and Alyssa drove the car up? Did the police actually say that it was his signature on the gas receipt? Or maybe she forged his signature? And have they found Norman’s cell phone? Had the murderer set up a meeting with Norman, or did the murderer follow him to the house?”

  They were all caught up in private eye mode. Raven continued, “We need to ask these suspects more questions. We should be able to figure this out. As Sherlock Holmes always said, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’.”

  Mack held up his hands, palms out. “It’s fine for us to speculate around the dining table about this thing. But Iris’s letter bomb yesterday was no joke. She could have been badly burned. There’s some maniac out there, and he or she has killed two, possibly three, people already. So, all of you, please promise me that you are not going to do any more snooping. The police are going to find this person. There must be fingerprints or DNA somewhere around Norman’s house, even if Will’s site was clean. It takes at least 48 hours to get DNA results back from the lab, so they should be closing in on the killer soon.”

  Ellie, Raven and Iris eyed each other around the table. Three minds mulled over how they could find clues while staying off a murderer’s radar.

  “We’ll keep our heads down, Pop. And don’t worry, my next karate test is for my brown belt.”

  “Oh, you kept up with that?” Iris had taken Raven along during her high-school years to the dojo where she herself had practiced.

  “I found a good sensei in Providence this spring and started up again. We should practice sparring, Aunt Iris.”

  “I haven’t sparred since you went off to college. I wonder how much I remember.” Iris had immersed hersel
f in Karate after her divorce as a psychological exercise to make herself feel stronger. After hitting 40 and earning her brown belt, she tapered off her training rather than staying on track for her black belt.

  “Time for the cake,” Mack announced as he got up to clear plates.

  “I’ve had cravings for this all through exam week.”

  A Lady Baltimore cake is more than the sum of its parts. The alchemy of home-made white cake with boiled white icing into which pecans, dried figs and raisins have been mixed is anything but bland. The icing hardens, balancing the chewiness of the raisins and figs with the nuts. Conversation went on hold for the next five minutes. And three of the four minds thought about murder.

  Chapter 34

  The next morning, Wednesday, Iris floated between consciousness and sleep as she heard the familiar drone: “Street cleaning! No parking on the even side of the street. Your car will be tagged and towed.” The message looped continuously from the speaker of the Public Works truck as it navigated through the neighborhood, warning residents April through November of this Cambridge monthly ritual. Iris dragged herself to the window. Her Jeep was nestled in its spot in the driveway, as she knew it would be, but the warning always compelled her to check.

  This city is such a quirky place, she thought as she stumbled downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. Did other cities have street cleaning announcements?

  Coming back here from New York had not been an easy decision. Choosing to live in her parent’s house had been an even tougher one. Their absence from the grand Victorian had felt like a dull ache. But, bit by bit, she had made the house her own. Starting in the garden with its unforgiving clay soil, she had coaxed hardy rose bushes and shade-tolerant hostas to bloom. The Goodwill truck had carted away the fussy living room furniture, leaving emptiness behind as Iris saved up for two black leather Corbusier chairs and a simple, sleek sofa to take their place. She started taking on small architecture projects—master bath and kitchen renovations, working from the sunniest room on the first floor in the turret. Puttering around on her own house continued until, one day, she realized that her parents no longer inhabited the shadows.