by Dianne Emley
“We dated for a while.”
“I figured it was something like that.”
Iris changed the subject. “This is the house Todd was raised in, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Richard and I moved in after my father became ill. Would you like to see Todd’s old room? His nephew has it now, but he keeps his uncle’s football trophies on display. He wants to play football someday too.”
“I’d like that.”
Iris followed Tracy through the small house. A large bedroom was at one end, the style and size incongruous with the rest of the house. Iris figured they’d had it added on. The two children were sitting on the bed in there, watching a television installed in a wall unit with shelves crowded with framed photographs. The kids turned their attention briefly away from the tube to glance at the adults.
Tracy introduced them. “That’s Emily Rose and that’s Richard Todd. Say hello to Iris, she’s a friend of your Uncle Todd’s.”
They gave a lackluster greeting.
Tracy led the way to a small bedroom at the end of the hall that was boldly decorated in navy blue and red. Posters of heavy-metal bands were thumbtacked on the wall next to posters of bikini-clad supermodels of the moment. Brass-and-chrome football trophies were displayed on a bookshelf. Tracy picked one up and handed it to Iris.
“I didn’t know that Todd played football,” Iris confessed.
“Todd was the best player East Bakersfield High’s ever seen,” Richard enthused. “I was assistant coach when he was on the team. After graduation, he got a football scholarship to USC. He was disappointed when they put him on second string. I told him everybody’s got to start somewhere. Then he got hurt in his third game and that really got him down. I told him to rebuild his muscles, go back the next season, and give it his all, but…” He shrugged. “Lost his spirit, I guess. It’s hard to go from being a star at your hometown high school to playing with guys as good as or better than you are.”
Iris set the trophy on the shelf. “Todd went to USC? I thought he went to Cal State Fresno.”
Tracy swatted dust from a trophy. “That’s where he transferred after he left USC. We tried to get him to go back for his second year. Even his coach talked to him, but I guess he was too afraid of not making it. Todd was a big, tough guy on the outside, but he was pretty fragile deep down. Cal State Fresno was where his buddy Mike was going.”
Iris scanned the other trophies. “It’s odd that he never talked about football, seeing that it was such a big part of his life. He never talked much about his past at all. I guess his mother’s death when he was so young really affected him.” She felt silly for making such an obvious statement. “Well, of course it did. It had to.”
Tracy and Richard became very still and Iris sensed she’d said the wrong thing. Tracy said, “Todd told you about what happened to our mother?”
“She died in a car accident when Todd was ten. Didn’t she?”
Tracy raised a corner of her mouth. “She died when Todd was ten but it was no accident. It’s always been sort of a family secret, but since everyone’s dead, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” She took a deep breath. “My mother was murdered. Shot to death by her lover. They were boozing one night in a hotel and…something happened and he shot her. They arrested him and he went to prison. Got out after a few years and disappeared. My dad knew about my mom’s chasing around, but he really went downhill after she died. He drank before. Drank a lot more after. Managed to keep his job at the post office and put food on the table, but that was about it. Retired with a pension. I was left to raise Todd. I was sixteen. We kind of made a home of sorts. My dad was here, but he was a shadow.”
Iris touched Tracy’s arm. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Now you tell me Todd’s been shot to death.” She bitterly shook her head. “Some family, huh? It’s not that way for my kids. My kids have a normal life.”
“Of course they do, hon,” Richard said soothingly.
Tracy raised her chin. “Now you know everything about the Fillingers.”
Iris smiled sympathetically. She felt she knew less than before.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Iris peeked through a crack in her living room drapes as she spoke on the telephone. “It was there last night when I got home around ten o’clock and was still there this morning. It was gone when I went outside to bring in the paper about an hour ago. Now it’s back.” The late model navy blue Thunderbird with darkly tinted windows was parked across the street near the rise in Casa Marina Drive. “No, I haven’t seen anyone. I think the driver’s still in it. Could you please check it out? Thank you.”
Iris looked at her watch. It was 6:00 a.m. She was a half an hour late hitting the road for the office. She couldn’t seem to get back in gear. She drank the last of her coffee and glanced over the materials from Todd’s portfolio that she’d spread over her dining room table. Before leaving Bakersfield the night before, she’d asked Tracy Beale if she could take Todd’s work with her, promising to return it soon. She wanted to sort through it, hoping she might learn something about Todd or find a clue about the statuette, although she didn’t know what. It was the only thing she had.
She clomped into the kitchen in her pumps and set the coffee mug in the sink, folded the newspaper into her briefcase, snapped it closed, grabbed it and her purse, and was about to head outside when, through her dining room windows, she saw a black-and-white pull up next to the Thunderbird. A police officer got out and walked around to the other car’s driver’s side. Iris saw the officer talking to someone inside. Soon after, the Thunderbird pulled away from the curb and descended Casa Marina Drive.
Before Iris went upstairs to her office, she went into a little shop in the lobby that sold newspapers and sundries and bought a New York Times. She stood outside the shop, set her briefcase by her feet, and scanned the newspaper, looking for articles about an American murdered in Moscow. She found a small column about Todd’s death and became absorbed reading it. It didn’t give much information—nothing that she didn’t know—and didn’t mention her.
“Boo!”
Iris jolted into the air, flinging the newspaper from her hands. She wheeled around, her hand over her heart.
Liz Martini’s bemused smile displayed the small dimples in her left cheek, enhancing the impish look created by her diamond-shaped face and big brown eyes. “Whoa, girl.” She held her hands out to each side as if trying to steady a large beast. “Calm down. Thatsa girl.”
Iris reached to snatch the newspaper from the floor. “That’s a heck of a way to come up on somebody.”
“A little jumpy, are we?”
“Yes.”
Liz’s good humor turned to concern. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”
Iris opened her mouth to speak, then exhaled. “I don’t know where to begin. I don’t want to talk about it here and I need to get upstairs.”
“Hey, let’s have lunch today.” Liz made most ideas sound like the best thing she’d ever heard.
“Love to.”
Liz clamped a well-manicured hand on Iris’s wrist. “Let’s splurge and go to Hugo’s. I’ll call and make sure they reserve Ozzie’s table for us. You’ll feel better after some good food and a nice long chat. Okay?”
“Terrific.”
“Great!” A natural-born salesperson, Liz put a sales spin on even the most minor transaction, describing the features, benefits, and asking for the close.
As they walked to the elevator, Liz said, “Wonder when Jim Hailey’s going to talk to you about the regional manager job.”
“Maybe there’s no truth to the rumor you heard.”
“That was no rumor.”
In the elevator, Iris said, “That would be a big change. I’ve spent my entire career with McKinney Alitzer in this office.”
“You’d be great.”
Iris arched an eyebrow. “More money. More power. Sure, I could get used to it.”
They exited the elevator on the twelfth floor
and Iris pulled open the glass door of the suite for Liz to pass. They walked through the sales department, heading for opposite corners of the suite.
Iris greeted her assistant and then went into her office where Louise had already unlocked the door, opened the drapes, and turned on the lights. The clock on Iris’s desk said 7:15, and she was afraid that it was already too late to call Moscow. She wanted to inquire about selling Todd’s possessions for his sister. She also wanted to put Dean Palmer on notice that he wasn’t going to get away with what he’d done—even though she didn’t quite understand exactly what it was.
Louise brought Iris a cup of black coffee in her BUDGETS ARE FOR WIMPS mug. Iris took a sip and said, “I swear the coffee tastes different since you washed this mug.”
“It can’t possibly.”
“It does. Thanks for thinking of me while I was gone.”
“You? I did it for me. I was sick of looking at the filthy thing.”
Iris grinned. “Could you please close the door after you, Louise?”
Louise looked slightly surprised. Iris felt a sting of betrayal. She had no secrets from Louise, who was the soul of discretion. Since Iris didn’t know what she was into or how deep she was into it, she thought it best to keep things quiet.
She dialed the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. “Dean Palmer, please.”
The young-sounding woman who answered the phone put Iris on hold. Soon, a man came on the line. “Dean Palmer is not here at the moment. Can I help you?”
“It’s very important that I speak with him. Do you know where he can be reached?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Can you have him call me when he comes in?”
“What does this concern? Maybe I can be of assistance.”
His voice was overly solicitous, making Iris suspicious. “This is Iris Thorne. I’m a friend of Todd Fillinger, the American who was gunned down Monday night. I was with Todd just before he was shot and was questioned by the Moscow police. Dean Palmer came to the police station that night and helped me. I’m back in Los Angeles again and have to talk to him about that incident. It’s very important.”
“Hold on.”
Iris slumped in her chair and stared blankly out the window at the smoggy September day.
A different man came on the line. His voice sounded older and deeper than the other man’s. “Miss Thorne, this is Bob Davies, Chief Consular Officer. How are you?”
Iris tensely replied, “Just fine, thank you.”
“The fact of the matter is, we’re also interested in locating Dean Palmer.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yes, he’s disappeared. Yesterday, after he didn’t show up for work or call or answer his phone, I sent someone over to his apartment in the Embassy compound. When Dean didn’t come to the door, we went in. He’d cleaned it out.”
Iris sat in stunned silence.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’d like to sell Todd Fillinger’s possessions and send the money to his sole heir, his sister Tracy in California. Dean took me to Todd’s apartment on Tuesday. It was full of expensive furnishings. Dean told me he’d been in contact with Tracy and that she didn’t want anything to do with Todd’s belongings, but he’d never called her. He didn’t even call her to tell her about Todd’s murder.”
“Another one of Dean’s lies, Miss Thorne. I’ll send someone over to Mr. Fillinger’s apartment, but I doubt whether we’ll recover anything.” Davies slowly drew in a breath. “Dean Palmer is a heroin addict. We’d suspected that he was selling visas and passports to finance his habit. We were setting up a sting to trap him when he slipped away.”
Iris thought about the two women Palmer had let in to Todd’s apartment and how they were admiring the furnishings. She now knew why Todd’s photography equipment was missing. “What about the urn?”
“What urn?”
“It’s not important.” She already knew the answer and didn’t want him to know that she had played a role in Palmer’s scheme. “I trusted him. I feel like a fool.”
“If it makes you feel any better, so do I.”
Liz Martini pulled her Rolls Royce Silver Shadow into the circular driveway in front of the pink stucco façade of Hugo’s. Liz’s toy poodles, Thelma and Louise, one black and one apricot, both wearing small pink bows on their ears, leaped between the front and back seats and the shelf in the rear window, yipping wildly. Iris tried to subdue them without success.
“Iris, I apologize. The girls are always jetted after they’ve had their hair and manicures done.” From the glove compartment, Liz took out Chanel leashes of leather braided with gold chain. Iris spotted Liz’s .38, which she knew was loaded. Liz carried a matching gun in the trunk and maintained a virtual arsenal in her home in the Malibu colony. She was an expert shot, practicing weekly at the Beverly Hills Shooting Club.
A flurry of parking valets opened the big car’s doors. Liz managed to grab one of the dogs, a valet nabbed the other, and they snapped on the leashes. From the back seat, Liz took a cut crystal bowl which she filled with bottled spring water. She squatted next to the dogs who jumped on her Vera Wang sheath dress and licked her face with abandon.
“Mommy’s gonna order you a nice filet mignon. Just be patient, sweethearts.” She slipped the valet twenty dollars. “Thanks, Miguel.”
Iris nonchalantly watched the goings-on. She’d become accustomed to Liz’s extraordinary habits a long time ago.
Miguel and another valet simultaneously opened the restaurant’s tall, white double doors by the huge, round doorknobs.
Hugo’s had been a Los Angeles institution since it opened in the 1950s. It hit hard times in the seventies and was shuttered for about ten years in the eighties. Frail old Hugo refused to cave in to developers who pursued him to sell his large corner lot on the stretch of Wilshire Boulevard known as the Miracle Mile. He also refused to sell a single fixture, martini shaker, or autographed celebrity photo.
In 1991, his grandson obtained financing to reopen the place and restored it to its 1952 kitchy glamour, reupholstering the deep booths in petal pink, tuck-and-roll vinyl, refinishing the French provincial furniture in the original white with gold trim, and giving a facelift to the chubby cherubs and oversized mirrors decorating the walls. The white marble fountain with the statue of Venus in the grand lobby again sprayed water in five different rotating patterns, each change accompanied by a different colored light that shone from the base. Martinis, aged beef, cigars, and the Rat Pack were in vogue again, and Hugo’s was hotter than ever.
A deferential maître d’ showed Liz and Iris to Liz’s husband Ozzie’s A-list table in a corner of the main room where they could see who came and went. Shortly after they were seated, someone from a neighboring table came to greet Liz. A waiter with a stiffly starched long, white apron tied around his waist took their drink order. Liz ordered an Absolut Limon martini and a filet, medium, cut into small pieces for her dogs. Iris ordered a glass of chardonnay.
“To you, darling.” Liz raised her brimming glass.
“To me,” Iris agreed.
Liz let out a small noise of pleasure as she took a sip. “Now what’s gotten you all shook up?”
“Todd Fillinger was machine-gunned to death in Moscow, almost in front of me.” Iris turned her wine glass by the stem against the table as she waited for Liz’s expected horrified response. Then she told her everything, relieved to unburden herself at last. She told her about Detective Davidovsky, the police station, and the elegant, yet unnerving man who turned out to be Konstantin Markov, head of security for the rich and powerful Nikolai Kosyakov. She told her how she went to the Club Ukrainiya to seek out Kosyakov and instead found bullet holes and a blood-soaked carpet. Then there was Dean Palmer, the urn, and Todd’s mysterious partner, Enrico Lazare.
She described her speedy exit from Moscow and meeting the woman who claimed to be Tracy Fillinger in the airport and how she saw Todd’s real sister in Bakersfield.
And then there was the visit from the stately but dangerous British woman, Rita Winslow, and her sultry partner, Fernando. Winslow had searched her house and offered $25,000 to return some fox statuette, no questions asked. Finally, she’d found out that Dean Palmer wasn’t who he said he was.
Before Iris finished, Liz had ordered a second round of drinks and had called Louise on her cellular phone and told her that she and Iris wouldn’t be back that afternoon.
“Liz, I’m afraid to call the police. Winslow told me that if I did transport stolen art into the States, the police won’t care whether I was aware of what I was doing or not.” Iris nibbled the clams casino she’d ordered as an appetizer.
“She’s right. The police send drug mules to jail all the time. I saw a story on Sixty Minutes about a woman who thought she was transporting a friend’s paintings from Columbia. They turned out to be filled with cocaine between the canvas and the backing. The police didn’t care that she didn’t know anything about it.” Liz stabbed her oysters Rockefeller. “Maybe it’s not the statuette itself that’s valuable. Maybe it was stuffed with jewels or drugs.”
Iris set her fork down and leaned back against the pink vinyl. “I don’t know what this fox statuette is. It had to have been small enough to fit into the base of the urn.” With her hands, she framed an area about eight inches in diameter.
“You were really in love with Todd Fillinger, weren’t you?”
Iris angled her mouth. “I like telling myself it was more lust than love, but then I realize I’m trivializing it. It was more than that.”
She dabbed a corner of soda bread into an empty clam shell to soak up the last of the garlic and butter. “I am so unlike Todd. We happened to meet at a point in my life when I was as loose and carefree as he was. I’d finally finished my MBA after years of going to school at night and working fulltime. I’d quit my teaching job and moved out of my apartment which was five miles from where I’d grown up. My things were in storage. I hadn’t even looked for a new apartment and had no idea where I wanted to live. I was starting a new job in a completely different line of work in four months. For the first time in my life, I was completely untethered.”