A Shot to Die For (7 page)

“The police followed up on it, didn’t they?”

“There ain’t been no one comin’ around asking questions.” She hesitated. “On my shift, at least.”

“Not even after you told them?”

She looked at the floor.

“You did tell them, didn’t you?”

She shifted her tray to her hip. “It waren’t no secret, you know. Plenty other people saw them together. It waren’t just one time, neither.”

“You didn’t tell them.”

An edge came into her voice. “Look, I can’t go to the police. I just thought maybe, if you was friends, you might want to know.”

Why was Pari confiding in me instead of the police? What did she expect me to do?

“He flies a plane,” she said quietly. “Uses the airstrip in back here to land and take off. But I haven’t seen him around since—since….” She shrugged.

“Pari, were you and Daria friends?”

She shook her head. “She put on airs, you know?” She picked up my wineglass, empty now, and Mac’s drink. “She had no use for me.”

I recalled my first impression of Daria on the cell, demanding to know why she’d been abandoned. I suppose someone might have labeled her arrogant, although I’d thought she was just upset. Still, that didn’t change the fact that this barmaid had an important piece of information about her. “Pari, you have to go to the police.”

But Pari was already on her way back to the bar and out of earshot. I didn’t stop her. It was possible the police already knew about Daria’s meeting with Luke Sutton. Pari did say other people besides her had seen them, and while I’m no cop, following up on something like this seemed pretty basic. Perhaps the police had already talked to this Sutton man.

If that were the case, though, why hadn’t Kim or Irene Flynn said anything about it? When they came to my house, they’d been pumping
me
for information about the mysterious boyfriend. They claimed to have no idea about any man in Daria’s life.

I thought about it. It wasn’t my responsibility to tell the police. I barely knew Daria Flynn, and I didn’t know Luke Sutton at all. And I didn’t have any reason—or desire—to get involved in the investigation. I had quite enough on my plate. I stood up, dropped two tens on the table, and started for the exit.

Mac joined me at the door.

“That was a nice vanishing act.”

“I told you—I saw someone I knew.”

“Your long-lost uncle?” Mac has perfected the ability to slip through walls at the first sign of trouble. I wouldn’t put it past him to disappear just so he wouldn’t have to plead knowledge about my activities.

“Better.” He yanked a thumb behind him.

I looked over my shoulder. The lounge area was filling up now, but I didn’t recognize anyone.

“Remember Mister Mustard? Owns the museum in Mount Horeb?”

“How could I forget? How many hundred mustard jars did we shoot?”

“About a truckload.”

“He’s here?”

Mac nodded.

I looked over my shoulder again. This time I spotted him: a pleasant-looking man in glasses next to an attractive woman with long red hair. He lifted a hand and waved.

“What were we shooting when we met him? Vienna hot dogs?”

Mac snorted. “You’ve been doing this way too long. It was the Food Marketing Institute.”

“I remember now.” I waved back.

Mac put his hand on my back and guided me out. “What did the barmaid have to say?”

“Something about a rich guy fooling around with the girl who was killed at the rest stop.”

“What rich guy?”

“Sutton. Luke Sutton.”

Mac shrugged.

“Family lives in one of those mansions on the lake,” I said. “Flies his own plane. You know the type. Probably never worked a day in his life.”

Mac squeezed his lips together, the way he does when he’s annoyed. I winced. When would I learn to keep my mouth shut? For all his down-to-earth, middle-class ways, Mac had once been a charter member of the same club.

Chapter Nine

There’s something about the quality of summer light that pulls me back to my childhood. Driving back from Lake Geneva, the setting sun shimmering like molten gold, I dimly remembered evening skies full of light, warm breezes drifting through the window. Lying in bed under nothing more than a smooth cotton sheet, those being the days before air conditioning, I would watch the slanting rays of the sun inch across the wall. I’d hear my parents talking softly, relaxing now that I was safely in bed. Sometimes their voices mingled with a muted Big Band tune; sometimes with the chirr of crickets. I’d fall into a sound, secure slumber, unaware of the fragility of life.

Maybe that’s why I tensed when I passed the rest stop where Daria Flynn had been shot. Two weeks after the tragedy, scrubbed clean of all traces, the oasis was just another outpost on the highway. But the memory of what happened there would be fixed in my mind forever. I flipped on the radio, hoping for Springsteen or Jagger to distract me. I must have pushed the wrong button, though, because instead of classic rock, a chorus of powerful female voices, accompanied by a full orchestra, belted out, “He had it comin’…he had it comin’….”

Rachel and I had seen
Chicago
three times, rented the DVD twice, and bought the CD. We especially liked the number I heard now, “Cell Block Tango,” in which female prisoners tell how and why they murdered their men. As I listened to their stories, I thought about Daria Flynn. The female killers on the CD were impulsive; they’d struck out of passion, betrayal, revenge.

Now there were rumors of late-night trysts between Daria and one of the richest men in Lake Geneva. Rumors that Daria’s family apparently didn’t know about. Daria had been arguing with her boyfriend just before she was killed. Was there a relationship? Had Daria been the victim of the same hot-blooded rage the women sang about? Or was her murder the act of a cold-blooded sniper?

I accelerated past the rest stop. I had a name to go with the boyfriend. The police probably had more. So why hadn’t they mentioned him to Daria’s mother and sister? I frowned. We’ve all heard of townsfolk who protect, even embrace, their “favorite sons,” despite the fact everyone knows they’re troublemakers. They might be scoundrels, the thinking goes, but they’re “our” scoundrels, and we’ll deal with them. Sometimes you can feel the affection—even pride—for their bad boys.

In cases like that, the task of meting out justice while still keeping the peace falls to the police. But even the best cops aren’t immune to pressure, and all the wealth concentrated in Lake Geneva had to be tantamount to a steamroller. Lieutenant Milanovich seemed decent enough, but he was from Illinois. Lake Geneva was in Wisconsin. Different cops, different jurisdictions. It would be easy for reports to be lost, interviews glossed over. Certain facts might never cross Milanovich’s desk.

I veered onto the Edens. I should stop speculating. What I’d heard wasn’t evidence. It was gossip from a barmaid about whom I knew very little. What was her stake in this? Did she harbor a grudge against Daria? Or was it Luke Sutton? Maybe she’d come on to him, and he hadn’t responded. Or maybe they’d had a fling, and she was jealous when he’d moved on. The women in “Cell Block Tango” had killed for less. Or maybe it was his wealth she resented. She’d mentioned it several times. Maybe she just wanted to make life tough for a rich guy. Or maybe she was trying to do the right thing. She had information; she wanted it to get out.

I snapped off the music. Whatever her motivation, it wasn’t my problem. My only responsibility in Lake Geneva was to produce a video for the Lodge. The police were working the case. Besides, everything pointed to some psycho serial killer with a thing for young women.

Still, as I barreled down the highway, an image of Daria’s mother kept drifting into my mind. Her spine impossibly straight, her voice soft but insistent. “What did my daughter say at the end?” she was asking. “If you remember anything else…. Please. We have to know.”

***

I stopped off at Costco for steaks before going home. I’d throw them on the grill and make a salad for dinner. Rachel was into a low-carb diet, though at five-four and a hundred fifteen pounds, she didn’t need to be. Given that the teenage body is wholly consumed by either food or hormones, however, I was grateful she wasn’t a fanatic. I might convince her to go to Dairy Queen for dessert.

But there was no sign of Rachel when I walked in. The newspaper was spread out over the kitchen table, and a half-eaten tuna sandwich lay on a plate. I glanced at the paper: classifieds for used cars. I dropped the meat on the counter and went back outside. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was cool enough to water the flowers. I uncoiled the hose, turned it on, and pointed the sprinkler on the flower bed. The grass was starting to look overgrown and toothy; I hoped Fouad would be back soon. I collected the mail and trudged up the driveway, scanning the bills and junk mail. Didn’t anyone write real letters anymore? I was almost at the end of the driveway when a shrill, ear-splitting blast sounded just inches behind me.

Reflex kicked in. I leaped to the side and dropped to the ground. The mail fell from my hands, scattering on the grass. I looked up just in time to see a burst of black metal sweep past not six inches from my foot. It lurched to a stop at the end of the driveway, exactly where I’d stood.

I slowly stood up. It was my ex-husband’s car. My heart hammered in my chest, and my skin felt cold. I felt almost giddy, veering between relief and rage. As I ran up to the car, I saw two figures in the front seat. Neither made any attempt to look at me.

I realized why when I came abreast of the car. Rachel was in the driver’s seat, shoulders hunched, her hands gripping the wheel. Barry was in the passenger seat, his hand covering his eyes. Rachel stared straight ahead, pointedly ignoring me, even when I pounded on the window.

Barry dropped his hand and lowered the window. “Hi,” he said casually.

I wondered if he’d be as casual if he’d been the one to brush up against a ton of moving steel. “What—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Rachel wouldn’t meet my eyes, but Barry leaned back against the leather-covered seat. “What does it look like?” He smiled lazily.

“Are you crazy? Barry, you can’t do this! She doesn’t have her learner’s permit!”

My ex-husband is a dead ringer for Kevin Costner, and despite years of acrimony, I still react when I see him. I planted my hands on my hips, annoyed at myself for noticing his blue eyes that had just the right arrangement of laugh lines, his mostly brown hair that refused to recede though he was well past fifty, the body that still looked buff in cutoffs and T-shirt. His grin widened. He had me, and he knew it. “She’s got great hand-eye coordination.”

“Especially when she’s running over her mother.”

Rachel slouched, then twisted around. “This is the first time something ever happened, Mom. I’ve been doing really well. Ask Dad. I need to get my learner’s. Please?”

I knew they were ganging up on me—whenever Rachel wants something and figures I won’t cave in, she automatically recruits her father, who’s usually all too happy to oblige, particularly if it means overruling me. But getting a driver’s license is one of those rites of passage that’s more traumatic for the parent—usually the mother—than the child. I couldn’t block images of Rachel speeding down the highway at seventy miles an hour, the brakes suddenly failing, the crash and splinter of metal on metal, her young body tossed to the side of the road. I shuddered.

“Mutthher….”

Both Rachel and Barry were watching me, Rachel impatiently, Barry with a hint of amusement, as if he knew what was going through my mind and was enjoying my predicament.

I was reminded of the time when Rachel was a baby and Barry was babysitting. I’d been on a shoot all day, and when I got home, Rachel was in front of the TV in her little swing, her eyes glued to the screen. I followed her gaze, expecting to see Mr. Rogers making some dignified pronouncement or Oscar grousing about life in the trash. Instead the TV was tuned to a kung fu movie, the actors violently jabbing, chopping, and aiming well-timed kicks into each other’s groins. Barry was on the edge of his seat, cheering whenever one of them got in a particularly vicious move.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. Rachel promptly started to cry. “We agreed. No violence.” I scooped her up from the swing and turned off the tube, which prompted a fresh stream of tears.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ellie.” Barry got up and snapped the TV back on. “Check out those moves. How choreographed they are. How smooth. This shit’s better than ballet!” He pointed to Rachel. “And look! She loves it!”

The punch line was that she did. As soon as I swung her back toward the television, she quieted.

Now, I sighed and opened the car door. “We had a deal, young lady.”

“We did?”

“You were going to go on the Internet and find out what you need to give the DMV to get your learner’s.”

She made a brushing aside gesture with her hand. “I already know. I need—”

“But I don’t. And I need to see a list.”

She got out of the car, shooting me one of those disdainful scowls teenage girls use primarily on their mothers. She favored her father with a dazzling smile. “Bye, Dad. Thanks.”

Barry waved and slid into the driver’s seat. As he backed out of the driveway, still grinning, I tried not to think about the fact she’d inherited half her genetic code from him. Otherwise, I might have to shoot myself. Or her.

Back in the kitchen, Rachel opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a can of pop. “Oh, by the way,” she said as she flipped open the tab, “I got a job.”

I got out salt and pepper. “No kidding! That’s great! Where?”

“It’s a babysitting job.”

“Who for?” I unwrapped the meat and tossed the plastic wrap in the trash.

“Julia Hauldren.”

I froze.

“You know. The Julia who’s going out with Dad.”

I forced myself not to react. After a moment, I said slowly, “She wants to hire you?”

“Yeah. Kind of like a girl Friday. You know, take care of her kids while she’s at the store or doing errands. Go to the playground. The beach. That kind of thing.”

“How much time does she want from you?”

“She said two or three hours a day.” Rachel flashed me a grin. “Pretty cool, huh?”

I sprinkled salt on the steaks. “Fifteen hours a week is a huge commitment, Rachel. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Of course I am. So can I do it? I told her I could start tomorrow.”

Something about the setup made me uneasy. Including the feeling
I’d
been set up. “Let me think about it.”

Rachel erupted into anger. “What’s to think about? You’ve been pressuring me to get a job. Now I got one, and you have to ‘think about it’? Mom, that’s not fair.” She turned on her heel and, in her most self-righteous tone, added, “Daddy warned me that’s how you’d react.”

I kept my mouth shut, determined to stay in control.

“Why not?” she challenged me. “Why can’t I do it? There’s nothing around here to do. You’re not here. No one is. Not even David. Anymore.”

“Enough.” I slammed the salt back on the counter. “You can’t talk to me that way. Go to your room.”

She stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I fired up the grill by myself.