A Shot to Die For (6 page)

Irene snapped open her purse and dropped the paper inside. Kim helped her mother get up, adjusted the cane, and together they slowly headed out. Irene paused at the front door and laid her hand on my arm. “People always let you down, you know. But you’ve been very kind.”

I nodded politely, unsure whether she’d handed me an insult or a compliment. They went down the front steps, trailing the scent of lavender behind them.

Chapter Eight

Seeing Lake Geneva for the first time was disappointing. My father claimed he’d taken me there as a child, but I have no memory of it. So when I drove up to scout it for the shoot, I was expecting something grand: a vista of sand and water surrounded by thick foliage perhaps, or an expanse of turquoise dotted with snowy white sails.

Unfortunately, the reality didn’t measure up. Lake Geneva’s beach, at least the public portion, was meager, the parkland behind it sparse, the view uninspiring. To be fair, a good chunk of the public land had been grudgingly coughed up by landowners over the years. The land that’s still private, I was told, gives onto pristine woodlands. In fact, a portion of lakefront called Black Point is supposed to be beautiful. But as I drove through downtown, an unimpressive collection of shops trying too hard to be charming, I felt vaguely ripped off.

Another disappointment was the location of the Lodge. Unlike the Geneva Inn, the hotel on the water’s edge, the Lodge was several miles inland off Route 50, a nondescript two-lane highway that could have been anywhere in the country. Most of the other hotels, inns, and cottages were inland, too, or at the other end of the lake in Fontana or Williams Bay. I had the impression that this once overwhelmingly residential community had never quite adjusted to its commercial status.

I cut over to Route 50 and turned onto a long, winding drive that took me up to the Lodge. An eighteen-hole golf course lay on one side of the road, and a party of golfers strode toward the tee. In bright red, yellow, and blue shirts, they looked like the flag of a small country, A quarter mile farther up was a large building with stone facings, meticulous landscaping, and a wide circular driveway. I parked in a back lot beside Mac’s van. He and his crew had been here since dawn, getting one of Mac’s sun-rising-over-the-prairie shots.

I headed past the bronze statue of the man with a child on his shoulders and pushed through the revolving door. The interior had a rustic, woodsy feel, with pebbled walls, nubby upholstery, muted lighting, and carpeting in shades of green and brown. I almost expected to see woodland creatures scurrying down the halls. They’d even carried the natural splendor theme into the ladies’ room, where water cascaded down a wall.

I went up the stairs to the second floor, where I heard Mac’s voice coming from the ballroom. After navigating around lights and equipment piled on a tarp in the hall, I leaned against the door frame. In the Playboy days, the “Penthouse,” as it was called, had been the resort’s main nightclub, but in the seventies they’d renamed it the “Showroom” so as not to be confused with the magazine’s arch competitor. Reincarnated yet again as the “Evergreen Ballroom,” it boasted flocked wallpaper, earth-toned carpeting, and chandeliers with tiny shaded lamps.

I walked in, imagining how the room might have looked thirty-five years ago. Well-dressed couples seated around dozens of small tables. Subdued lighting. The air charged with a subtle electricity. A hushed crowd. A blue-white spotlight slicing through a haze of smoke, picking up a tuxedo-clad Sinatra or Tony Bennett. A platoon of young girls in those absurd Bunny costumes, happily catering to the fantasies of men, blissfully unaware that Gloria Steinem, herself a Bunny, would soon change the way the world thought of them.

I wished there was some way to include that part of the resort’s history—the evolution from glittery adult playground to a place where fathers carried kids around on their shoulders. It wouldn’t be hard. Snippets of Count Basie on the track, maybe a gauzy filter over the lens. If we kept to a long shot, any actor in a tuxedo would do for a “performer.” It wasn’t totally out of the question—a few years ago I’d convinced the Water District to let me stage a historical reenactment on video. The only problem was that compared to the bland, humorless owners of the Lodge, the officials at the Water District were wildly progressive.

I watched Mac rehearse a dolly shot down the length of the ballroom. He’d brought a crew of three, but two of the resort’s maintenance men were helping out as gofers. They didn’t speak much English, but they were getting into the spirit of things, moving furniture and equipment around with cheery smiles and hand gestures. This was probably as close as they’d ever get to show biz.

Once the shot and cutaways were in the can, Mac started to wrap. “Not much here to shoot, Ellie.”

“There will be soon enough. The gala we’re going to be taping is in here.”

“I’ll need extra crew.”

“And a tux.”

“Me?” In all the years I’ve known Mac I’ve never even seen him wear a tie, although he insists he wore one to his wedding. “I’m just the hired help.”

“You ever notice what the waiters wear in a joint like this?”

He took the camera off sticks. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I gotta wear a tux in this one?”

“It’s in the budget.”

He muttered as he packed up the camera. Something along the lines of “can’t believe it…in this day and age.”

“Here’s looking at you, kid.” I sailed out of the room.

***

Before going home, Mac and I stopped at the bar in the lobby, a large space with a view of the pool and lots of comfortable chairs, sofas, and love seats. Years ago the area had been part of the pool, one of those glamorous indoor-outdoor combinations with a bar at the shallow end and ornamental bathing beauties on the side. The post-Hefner owners, though, had reclaimed the space for more conservative—but probably more lucrative—activities.

I sipped a Chardonnay. “You check out the bunny hill yet?” This was a manmade ski hill at the back of the property, not to be confused with other Bunny appurtenances.

“This morning.” Mac picked up his beer. “You know what would be really cool?”

“What?”

“To rig up one of their gondolas for a traveling shot up the hill. You think you could arrange it?”

Arranging things is what a producer does. I pictured a slow tracking shot up the hill from the camera’s POV. “It’s a great idea. Except for the obvious.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s June. There’s no snow. Unless Hank can do something in post.”

“Change the shot from summer to winter?” Mac shook his head. “He might be able to put a few patches of snow in the foreground. But the whole scene? You’ve still got leaves, grass, flowers.…” He took a swig of beer. “Tricky.”

“Well, let’s think about it. Speaking of tricks, I’ve been playing around with an idea.” I leaned forward. “We have what—over a dozen locations in the show? I mean, between the airstrip, the spa, the bunny hill, the condos, this place is a world unto itself.”

“Right.”

“So that’s what we do. Create a world. Make the video a 3D map.” I cupped my hands. “We start off with an abstract shape. A continent…a country. Who knows? But it’s really the Lodge.”

“The Land of Lodge?” Mac put in.

I ignored him. “Then, each time we zero in on a location, we do an effect that takes us into the scene. And then another to get us out.”

“How about a yellow brick road?”

I didn’t respond.

“It could work,” Mac admitted. “As long as it doesn’t look cluttered.”

“We’ll be restrained.” I motioned with my hands. “Elegant but rustic.”

“Get kind of a yin yang thing going?”

“Either that or bring in the Munchkins.”

Mac shot me a look.

I peered out at the swimming pool, admiring the planters of annuals and how nicely the colors contrasted with the blue water, when I felt someone’s gaze on my back. I turned around. Two cocktail waitresses in faux tuxedos were working the room. One was blond, the other brunette. The blonde had been serving us, but it was the brunette, waiting for her order at the side of the bar, who was watching me. When the blonde came back to the bar, they talked. A brief nod passed between them.

It was still early, and the only other customers in the bar were a group of Japanese tourists swilling pop and a well-dressed woman with a disappointed expression, as though she’d ended up in the wrong resort. The brunette picked up her tray, skirted the Asians, and headed toward us.

She was petite and pretty, with waifish looks that might not age so gracefully. Her youth—she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five—helped mitigate the fact that her eyeliner was too thick, her rouge too red, and her red nails too long. “Another round?” she asked cheerfully.

Mac and I exchanged looks. “Sure,” he answered.

“Draft and a Chardonnay, right?” She had a heavy Southern twang.

Mac nodded.

“I’ll be right back. I’m Pari, by the way.”

I looked up. “Pari?”

“That’s right. Pari Noskin Taichert?” she said, her inflection turning it into a question, but she went off before we could come up with the answer. “It’s unusual. I know,” she allowed when she returned with our drinks.

“What?” Mac asked.

“My name.” She smiled at him, but not before stealing a glance at me.

“Is that so?” Mac returned the smile.

“Right as rain. The Taicherts come from New Jersey and New York. But the Noskins, now, they pretty much run everything in Pine Hollow.”

“Pine Hollow?” Mac asked.

“Kentucky,” she said proudly. “The mountains. My family settled the hollow a long time ago.”

Deciding that Mac’s flirtations were none of my business, I peered outside again. The brightly clad golfers I’d seen earlier were standing around a table, the afternoon breeze fanning their shirttails. Something about one of them reminded me of David, and I felt a pang. Maybe I should invite him to come out. It had been a long time.

“Miss—can I—”

I swiveled around. “I’m sorry. What?”

Pari slipped her tray under one arm. “You the ones doin’ all that filming around here, ain’t you?”

“Guilty.”

“Well, now, if that’s not as exciting as a bug in a tater patch, I don’t know what is!”

Another one who wanted to touch the glamour. I sighed inwardly. “It’s not a Hollywood movie. Just a video about the resort. Like a very long commercial.”

She shrugged. “It don’t matter. I never seen no TV or movies being made.” She gave me a look that was almost sly. “You need someone to do something—what do they call those folks you see in crowds and on the streets?”

“Extras.”

“Extras. Yeah. Well, you need one, you just let me know.” She patted her hair.

“Thanks, but I think we’re all set.”

I hoped the finality in my voice signaled the end of it, but she stayed where she was.

“Thanks,” I repeated. Now please get lost.

She moved the tray in front of her like a shield. I was about to say something more direct when she tilted her head. “You know, I seen
you
on TV.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, I did. You were on the news, weren’t you? At the rest stop with Daria Flynn.”

My stomach clenched. I could deny it. I didn’t want to talk—or think—about that day. “You have sharp eyes,” I mumbled.

She smiled, as if I’d handed her a compliment. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. I wasn’t sure, you know. I did think to myself—”

“You know, Pari, if it’s all the same to you, I don’t want—”

“Well, now, here’s the thing.…”

Mac got to his feet and started walking away.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I think I see someone I know. I’ll be right back.”

“Coward.”

He didn’t answer. His departure didn’t seem to faze Pari. Once he was gone, she moved closer.

“Now, miss, what I was wondering was whether you
knowed
her or not. I mean before she got killed.” She lowered her voice. “They didn’t say on TV, you know.”

“Miss—I mean, Pari.” I waved a hand, trying one last time to dismiss her. “Let’s not go there. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

She ignored me. “’Cause, ya see,” she said slowly, “if you did know Daria, then maybe you knew she come in here a few times recently.”

My hand stopped in midair. “Daria Flynn—came here?”

Pari nodded.

“I thought she worked at the Geneva Inn.”

“She come in here afterward. More ’n once.”

I thought about the mysterious boyfriend who had abandoned her on the highway. “Alone?”

“Well, I guess that’s what’s so interesting, isn’t it?” Pari’s eyes narrowed fractionally, but I saw a gleam of triumph in them. “I’ve only been here a few months, you know? But my mama, well, she always told me to use your head for something besides a hat rack. So I pay attention, you know?”

“Is that so?” She had my attention now, and she knew it.

“Mind you, the first time I saw them together, I didn’t know.”

“Who?”

“It was about a month ago.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe a little less. She come in kinda late. Around eleven. I was on break. She come into the ladies’ room first. Set herself down in front of the mirror. Put on a fresh lipstick, combed her hair just so. The way you do when you’re gonna meet someone you like, you know?”

I knew. What I didn’t know was why Pari was telling me about it.

“Then she set down at the bar, right next to him.”

“Who? Who did she sit down next to?”

She took a breath, then blew out the name, as if it was just too much for her to hold on to anymore. “Luke.”

“Luke?”

“Luke Sutton.”

“Who is Luke Sutton?”

Pari eyed me as if I was the most ignorant woman she’d ever met. “Only one of the richest men around here. Family’s got one of those big places on the lake, you know?”

“No. I don’t.”

Pari looked around. “He comes in here sometimes. Him and his brother. He’s okay. The brother, that is. A good tipper. But maybe I shouldn’t be saying nothin’, you know?” She looked away.

I rubbed my forehead with my hand. Pari Noskin Taichert and her mountain manners were starting to grate. “Why not?”

“I need this job.”

“You’re not saying you could get fired for telling me who Daria Flynn was drinking with?”

She hesitated. “Let me put it this way. What would you think if you saw someone cozying up to someone else in the bar, sittin’ real close, smilin’ from here to yesterday and back, and then you don’t hear nothin’ more about it after she turns up dead?”