An Eye for Murder (11 page)

I waited in the glassed-in lobby for an escort to my client’s office. Karen Bishop is a working mother like me. Well, not exactly like me; she’s still married, and she’s worked out a deal where she’s off every Friday. I always assumed she spent it catching up on errands until I asked her about it one day, and a sly look came into her eyes.

“Are you kidding?” she purred. “The kids are in school, and Sam works freelance. I spend Fridays in bed with my husband.” Now that’s a woman with her priorities in order.

But today wasn’t Friday, and Karen looked hassled. Cradling the phone on her shoulder, she was trying to persuade her client, the managing director of the Cat Teams, that our video was worth the cost. After repeated promises to shave as much off the budget as possible, she slammed down the phone.

“The jerk!” she fumed. “He claims he didn’t know how much it was going to cost.”

I sat down.

“Ellie, I told him from the get-go he was looking at close to thirty grand. I even have the E-mail to prove it.”

I made sympathetic noises. “Are we still on?”

“Of course we are. He needs the video for his managers’ meeting. He just wanted to yank my chain.” She shook her head. “You know, if I were a man, this conversation would never have taken place.” She riffled a stack of papers on her desk, as if that would clear the air. “Did you bring the shooting schedule?”

“I E-mailed it last night again. Along with the script.”

“I’m sorry. Jared’s baseball team is in the playoffs. I got in late.”

“No problem.” I rooted around in my bag and fished out a hard copy.

I had budgeted an out-of-town trip to shoot a catastrophe or the aftermath of one, but after we discussed it, Karen didn’t think it was necessary. “We’ve got plenty of B-roll on file. Hurricanes, forest fires, the Mississippi River floods.”

“But is it utter devastation and tragedy?” I asked. “Sure.”

“You have shots of people clinging to each other, grateful to be alive, even though they’ve lost everything?”

“You bet.”

“You have sound bites of people saying they’ll rebuild, no matter what it takes, thanks to Midwest Mutual?”

“We can probably dig some up.”

“What about the close-up of the kid’s teddy bear swirling down the river?”

“Oh, come on. You can shoot that yourself.”

“Deal.”

We moved on to the script. I’d dropped the concept of
The Tempest
; I couldn’t justify the love story of Ferdinand and Miranda. But I consoled myself with dramatic tension in the sound track: lots of sirens, crashing thunder, and gale force winds. Karen said she liked it. Then, in her understated way, she made massive revisions.

We decided to shoot the interviews at headquarters over the next two weeks. We would edit the rough cut in-house, and finish the online at Mac’s place.

This would work out well. The project would be finished within a month, it wasn’t a tough job, and I could prebill for the first half.

Susan and Doug picked me up that evening, and we barreled up 41 while Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young sang about moving forward. As we wound through the shady, well-bred streets of Lake Forest, a breeze rustled the thick canopy of trees. Already it was ten degrees cooler, as if the village elders had decreed that the quality of life here must be better than anywhere else. East of the railroad tracks, the houses grew larger and the driveways grander. By the time we were on Lake Road, we had passed an Art Deco mansion, a Moorish-style home, and several versions of Tara.

We arrived at a huge stone estate that sprawled over ten acres. The landscaping alone—hostas and impatiens, which, thanks to Fouad, I now knew were shade plants—probably cost more than my mortgage. Ivy obediently hugged a brick wall, and a break revealed a fountain with porcelain water nymphs poised for a dip. Three gravel driveways led to separate wings of the house. Valets in red vests were busy parking and reparking BMWs, Mercedes, and the occasional Cadillac.

“I’m glad I wore my Donna Karan,” I said, as we made our way to the front entrance. Susan didn’t answer. Even she seemed intimidated.

A heavy, paneled door was open, and a butler greeted us in the foyer. After placing our business cards on a silver tray, he ushered us through a dark hall lined with tapestries and oil portraits. I heard the distant tinkle of laughter and glasses. “Da steel been bery, bery good to me,” Doug whispered.

“I’m Marian Iverson, and I’m running for Congress,” I shot back.

“It’s the Senate,” Susan said dryly.

We passed through a large drawing room with a set of French doors to a flagstone terrace. People milled about, drinks in hand. Beyond the terrace was a manicured lawn that sloped down to a narrow beach. In the distance a sloop bobbed on the lake. Two gulls played tag with the sails.

My eyes swept back to the terrace, where guests clustered in small groups. The women were dressed in casual springtime chic, the men sporty but moneyed. There was more moussed hair than at the Academy Awards.

“We can still make a getaway,” I grumbled, increasingly aware that my pants suit was four years old.

Susan took some hors d’oeuvres from a passing waiter. The waiter turned to me, but I passed. I’ve never taken the course where they teach you to balance a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other.

“It’s black caviar,” Susan said, nibbling on a toast point, her plate perfectly balanced. “Beluga, I think. Or Osetra.”

“Must be nice,” I sighed. “What?”

“To throw yourself a party like this.”

“I guess.”

“The problem is you keep on spending money like water, people will think you don’t need to raise any.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Susan said, her eyes on Doug, who was chatting up a portly man in a golf shirt and madras pants. “I guess it depends on the type of funds you want to raise.” A guffaw went up from madras man, and Doug came back to round up Susan. I scanned the crowd. I recognized some Chicago VIPs and their sycophants, a few North Shore politicians, even a couple of reporters. But judging from their appearance, most of the guests epitomized what I call “loose money.” Not old. Not new. Loose. As in freely thrown around.

I eased my way toward the bar and nearly collided with the back of a blond, Scandinavian-type woman. She turned around. It was Dana Novak, my former client from the City’s Special Events Bureau.

“Ellie, what a surprise.” She wrapped one arm around my neck and gave me an airhug, the Midwest version of the airkiss. “What brings you here?” she asked. “I thought your politics ran to the other side.”

I shrugged. “What about you? Does the mayor know you’re here?”

“He sent me,” she laughed. At my puzzled look, she added, “I’m coordinating a Labor Day rally she’ll be appearing at. I’m here as a courtesy.”

“Labor?” I frowned. “But she’s a Republican.”

“A new Republican. They’re compassionate now.”

“But the mayor isn’t. Republican, that is.”

“It’s a family thing. Turns out the mayor’s father worked for her father once upon a time.”

“You’re kidding.”

Dana nodded. “The mayor’s father was a shop steward at Iverson Steel. There’s been this mutual respect between them for years. It’s all very cozy. But what about you? Why are you here?”

I told her about Roger Wolinsky’s call. She punched me lightly on the shoulder. “You go girl. You did it.”

“Did what?”

“Cracked the old boy’s network.”

“Uh, Dana, last time I looked, Marian Iverson was a woman.”

“A powerful woman. There’s a difference.” She gestured to a group of people behind us. Several men were laughing with a well-preserved woman. Honey blond streaks disguised whatever gray ran through her hair, and she wore a crisp Armani suit, accessorized with pearl earrings and matching bracelet. Her makeup was as flawless as her hair. She could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Before I could protest, she simultaneously waved to a man in the group and plucked a crudité off a passing tray. Dana had clearly passed the platebalancing course. She would go far in politics. “Roger Wolinsky, meet Ellie Foreman, the genius behind
Celebrate Chicago
. I hear you want to steal her away.”

A man with thick, dark hair that covered his arms as well as his head detached himself from the group. Not particularly tall, his foot kept up a fast tap on the flagstones. He took my hand briefly, then rubbed his thumb and index finger together in tiny circles. Humphrey Bogart in
The Caine Mutiny
. Without the steel balls.

“Nice to meet you.” I felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. “She’s not ready for you,” he said and promptly returned to the inner circle. I wheeled around, looking for Dana, but she had disappeared. Roger stationed himself a discreet distance away from the candidate, but I had the feeling he was mentally recording every person who shook her hand, evaluating their worth as potential donors. I lifted a glass of wine from a waiter. Naturally, that’s when Roger made his move.

“Marian, I want you to meet someone.”

Suddenly I was in front of a bright smile, a firm handshake, and probing gray eyes. I fumbled with my glass. Roger whispered in her ear. Her face softened. “You’re the woman who did the show for the mayor. An excellent piece of work.”

“Thank you.”

“It must have taken a lot of effort.”

“It was a labor of love.”

“It showed.” She smiled warmly. “I learned a lot from your film.”
Film
. Not
movie
. I smiled back. “Roger tells me you do political work as well?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t, Ms. Iverson.”

“No?” Her eyes flicked to Roger. “Why not?”

Because I don’t want to run a safe house. “I don’t want to get a reputation for being too close to the process.” I switched my wineglass to my other hand. “And politicians have this habit of forgetting to pay their bills.”

Her smile broadened. “Good point. I wouldn’t get involved, either.”

“Really?” I countered. “Well, that seems to beg an obvious question.” I waved a hand.

“You mean why I left this privileged life for the world of politics?” Her eyes twinkled. “Well, first of all, this is my mother’s house, not mine. She insisted we have the fundraiser here.”

“But you grew up here. These are your roots.”

“Everyone comes from someplace, don’t they? In my case, the operative word is
from
.”

Roger sputtered and rubbed his fingers together.

“I’m sorry.” She laughed. “Forgive me for straying offmessage. That is what you call it, isn’t it, Roger?” She laid a hand on her deputy’s arm. “In all seriousness, though, I do realize how fortunate I am to have been given so much. I suppose this is my way of giving back.”

I gestured at the opulence around us. “To whom?”

Roger winced.

Marian seemed unperturbed. “Don’t be naïve. You know that money attracts money.”

“I don’t mean to be naïve. Or disrespectful, but what can a tea-party Republican offer the people on the South Side? Or the people downstate who still live in tin shacks?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Another good point,” she said smoothly. “And that is the challenge, isn’t it? I do want to represent all the people. Not just—what did you call us— tea-party Republicans? I like that, by the way. I might steal it.” Roger laid a hand on her arm. “I hope we’ll meet again, Ellie.”

Roger succeeded in pulling her away, but it was only because she allowed him to. “And I hope you’ll give us teaparty folks a chance.” She fingered a strand of pearls around her neck, then turned away, on to the next conquest.

I watched her drift away, surprised that I liked her. I was threading my way back to Susan and Doug when the French doors opened, and a woman in a wheelchair emerged. A study in gray, her skin was withered and ashy, and her thin, wispy hair was the color of storm clouds. As a nurse pushed her forward, the crowd on the terrace separated as if she was Charlton Heston dividing the Red Sea. This woman knew how to make an entrance.

“Who is that?” Someone in front of me asked.

“That’s Frances Iverson, Marian’s mother,” someone else answered. I edged closer. Her eyes were the same iron gray as her daughter’s, but not as warm. I felt a chill.

Chapter Sixteen

Fouad came back on Saturday with dahlias, begonias, and ageratum, and showed me how to space them so they would bloom in clumps. He pruned the yews, which were so overgrown they obscured my front door. Then he planted some impatiens on the ground underneath them, and the contrast between the peppermint pastels and the dark green needles was dazzling.

After he left, I watered everything as he’d directed, then wondered what to do. Soccer was over. Rachel was with Barry. I was alone. Back when my marriage was collapsing, and despair cut through the air like a knife, I remember wishing Barry and Rachel would just leave me alone in peace. Now, every other weekend, they do, and I mourn the silence. A human being, even an irresponsible, self-indulgent one, is better than no one at all. At least someone is there to acknowledge your presence, to register the fact that you exist.

I cued up the Scorsese bootleg and watched for a few minutes. Despite bits of sharp comedy, it was a dark film, full of the urban chaos he likes to explore. I turned it off. I made my way into the kitchen and started to toast a frozen bagel. Halfway through the cycle, I had an idea. I flicked up the switch on the toaster, grabbed my bag, and headed out to the car.

Thirty minutes later, I showed up at Dad’s with a dozen fresh bagels and a pound of lox. My father, convinced that only a baker’s son knows how to buy bread, carefully inspected them while Ella Fitzgerald warbled on about satin dolls.

I told Dad about Marian Iverson’s fund-raiser and the possibility of doing a video for her. He wiped his hands on a dish towel. “I didn’t know you were a Republican.”

“I’m not.” I carried a plate of onions and tomatoes to the table.

A lifelong Democrat, he brought out the bagels, peering at me over his glasses. “Well, it’s your life.”

We sat down, and I reached for a bagel. “You know, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”