A Shot to Die For (8 page)

Chapter Ten

I dropped two dollars on the counter at the White Hen a few mornings later. “An iced tea and a glazed doughnut.”

It was only nine, but the air was already thick and heavy. I needed the cold drink. I needed the doughnut, too, and I watched greedily as the woman behind the counter speared it with tongs, wrapped it in waxed paper, and handed it over. I wolfed down half of it in the store. A smooth, comforting sweetness coated the inside of my mouth. The woman behind the counter smiled as if we’d just shared a secret pleasure.

A rack of newspapers stood outside, and I scanned the headlines as I walked out. Medicare reductions, a Congressional logjam, Mideast problems. Nothing about the sniper. Or Daria Flynn’s death. In fact, the State Police were being remarkably tight-lipped, refusing to talk about the weapon used or what they’d recovered from the scene.

At first their silence triggered a flurry of media analysis, second-guessing, and editorials bemoaning the tragic and unpredictable nature of violence. But a week had now passed with no new incidents, and a week is a century in media parlance. It was summer, the beaches were open, and the press had moved on. If a few people—the victims’ families, for example, or the lead cop on the case—were still mired in the tragedies, if their moods were tempered by unsettled feelings in the pit of their stomach; well, that was unfortunate. The rest of us were free to delete the incident from our memories and enjoy the revelries of the season.

I threw away the rest of the doughnut and got back in the car. Merging onto the expressway, I watched waves of heat rise from the asphalt. The Volvo didn’t kick out much cool air, and the backs of my thighs stuck to the seat. I gulped my iced tea.

When I pulled into the Lodge’s parking lot an hour later, Mac’s van was already there. I made sure I had sunscreen and water, got out of the car, and left the windows open.

In addition to the hotel, the Lodge had its own condominium complex. About fifty semidetached townhouses occupied the west side of the road. Mac and the crew were setting up to shoot B-roll of the exteriors when I arrived.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

Mac nodded. “Good. But it’s supposed to storm later. Don’t know how much we’ll actually get in the can.”

I looked up, shading my eyes. The glare from the sun was unrelenting, but a band of dark clouds had gathered in the west. “Let’s push to shoot the airstrip and the bunny hill—otherwise, we’ll be behind schedule.”

Mac gazed at the crew, two burly young men who were setting up the camera on a wheeled dolly. “We’ll do our best.”

I watched them rehearse a tracking shot of the condos. The facades of the buildings were white with black shutters and doors, producing a monochromatic sameness that you often see in housing developments. Still, according to the realty manager, who came outside to watch the shoot, sales were brisk. And most of the owners lived less than 500 miles from the Lodge.

“Why do people vacation so close to their homes?” I asked.

“Lots of reasons,” she explained. “No crowded planes to Florida. Or problems on the highways. And when you think about it, we have pretty much everything any other resort has. In spite of the weather.” She described the indoor pools, spa, tennis courts, and running track, then went on to quote statistics that claimed Americans rarely ventured farther than 700 miles for a vacation. “But even if that weren’t the case,” she chirped, “wintering is very much a tradition in these parts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know that Lake Delavan used to be the winter circus capital of the country.”

Delavan is a Wisconsin resort area with its own lake about ten miles from Lake Geneva. It’s similar in size and trappings, but not quite as upscale.

“Circus? As in Barnum and Bailey?”

She smiled. “The same. That’s where they got their start. At one time, in fact, over twenty-six traveling circuses used to camp there over the winter. Of course, this was a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Winter in Wisconsin? With all the snow? Why not Florida or someplace warm?”

She smiled. “They claimed a four-season climate was necessary for the well-being of the horses. Delavan was famous for its lush pastures and pure water. It was a good place to stable the animals.”

“I had no idea. The only thing I know about Delavan is Lake Lawn Lodge.” The resort is a less elegant version of the Lodge but still one of the better-known places.

“Most Chicagoans don’t. But time was you’d see hundreds of clowns and circus performers and animal trainers. Some of them even came into Geneva. Course, it all came to an end by 1900.”

“Why?”

“The railroad came through, and most of the circuses folded. The others eventually did move to warmer climates.” She shrugged. “But there’s a circus cemetery in Delavan. And they’ve got a statue of a giraffe in the middle of the town square.”

Compared to Chicago, the clusters of small towns outside Chicago don’t cast a huge shadow, but they do have their place in history. How did the people of Delavan feel about being overrun by clowns, I wondered. Did they resent the intrusion into their well-ordered Wisconsin lives? Or did the presence of the circus foster a tolerance for eccentricity—a sort of reverse civic pride?

As Mac and the crew recorded a second take, I decided it might be interesting to compare the descendants of Delavan families who’d lived with the circuses to the Lake Geneva locals who’d tolerated the Playboy Club. It could make an interesting sidebar. Or maybe not. Many of Lake Geneva’s residents were hard-nosed businessmen. If revenues from the Playboy Club and other resorts helped fill the town’s coffers and kept taxes down, why complain? Still, it was worth considering.

By the time we’d finished filming the condos, an angry gray cloud cover had overspread the sky. The air was unusually still.

“Think we have time for the airstrip?” I asked.

“If we hustle,” Mac answered. I went with him to get the van so we could stow the equipment if it rained. We drove to the back of the resort.

The airstrip was originally built by the Playboy Club to fly Hollywood entertainers in and out for shows. It consisted of one narrow runway, but its concrete base had long ago buckled and tall weeds pushed through the cracks. A sign on a white frame building beside it said
AIRPORT
, and a small hangar stood a few yards away. Trees flanked the buildings, and a stand of evergreens loomed on one side of the landing strip.

Directly across from the airstrip was a makeshift assortment of pink and white flowers that looked like they’d been transplanted from a nursery. An assortment of equipment lay nearby, including three huge riding lawnmowers that were almost the size of tractors. It was probably some kind of staging area for landscapers.

“So what do you want to do here?” Mac asked.

Nothing, I thought. In fact, at the moment, I would have preferred to be drinking at the bar in the Lodge. I don’t like flying. It’s not just a case of butterflies during takeoffs and landings. It’s more like a herd of water buffalos trampling through my stomach. It doesn’t help to tell me about the science and physics of flight. I don’t have the slightest interest in thrust and propulsion and lift. I know the truth: it’s duct tape and rubber bands that keep planes aloft. And don’t tell me I have unresolved issues about control. I know that, too. The problem is that the year I spent in therapy was undone by the two-hour film
Castaway
. I will fly if I have to, but I usually prime myself with wine or tranquilizers. Or both.

“So what do you want to do?” Mac repeated.

“I don’t know.”

Mac started across the tarmac, aiming his exposure meter up. “Well, we need to figure it out. We’re losing light.”

I looked up. The clouds had gathered together and lowered. “What about a traveling shot down the runway? We could put the camera in the car and—”

Mac shook his head. “We don’t have a car mount. The shot would be too jumpy.”

I took a look at the patchy grass, the buckled pavement, the loose chunks of concrete on the runway. He was right. “Maybe we should wrap for today and rent one tomorrow.”

“It’s your budget.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

He scrutinized the runway, then looked back at the hangar. “Maybe.” He started to trot back to the van.

“What? Tell me.”

“Hold on.”

Mac knows more about depth of field, lighting, and camera movement than anyone I know, and he usually comes up with a creative approach to even the most mundane shot. I ran a hand through my hair, relieved he had an idea. As my hand brushed my ear, I felt something fall off. “Damn.”

Mac stopped halfway across the tarmac. “What’s wrong?”

“My earring. I think it fell off.”

Mac gave me a blank look, as if anything to do with jewelry was beyond his comprehension. I fingered my ear. I don’t wear pierced earrings—I’d tried them as a teenager, but developed nasty lumps of scar tissue and let the holes close up. Today I’d been wearing a pair of gold clips set with delicate blue amethysts. They were a birthday present from David. “You go ahead. I have to find it.”

He nodded and went toward the hangar. I studied the ground. A patch of weeds poked through the concrete under my feet. The earring was probably hidden somewhere in them. As I bent over for a closer look, a low whine from one of the lawnmowers started up behind me.

I got down on my hands and knees and searched through the weeds. No earring. I started to make circles with my hands. Still nothing. The whining sound grew louder, but I didn’t pay attention. I couldn’t lose the earring. Not only would David think I was careless, but he might see it as a symbol of our deteriorating relationship. I kept hunting.

Suddenly two things happened at once. The whine became a deafening roar, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mac gesturing wildly. He was pointing up to the sky.

I twisted around and looked up. A plane had dipped down through the overcast and was descending fast over the runway. And I was directly in its path.

Chapter Eleven

The next minute was probably the longest of my life, but even now, I only remember fragments. The roar of the engine vibrating through my skin. A powerful surge of air slamming into my ears and throat. A flash of white hurtling toward me. The sickening realization that I was about to be ripped apart on impact.

My breath tore from my throat. I was gripped by a fierce panic. I heard Mac screaming at me to run, but my limbs wouldn’t move. Then, everything went into slow motion. The plane, barely a hundred feet off the ground, swooped down like a bird of prey. My hands grew slick. Strange, haphazard thoughts ricocheted through my head. I admired the plane’s graceful descent. I wondered what Rachel was doing. I knew I’d never find my earring. I decided that my fear of airplanes wasn’t so irrational.

The shriek of the engine finally pulled me out of my stupor. The plane was almost directly above me, its roar so loud I thought it might split the ground. The vibrations sent tremors through me, rattling bones I never knew I had. My muscles locked, but I
had
to move. I dropped to a crouch in the weed patch, threw my arms back, and hurled myself off the runway.

I fell backward but caught myself with my hands. The plane touched down not more than thirty feet from where I’d been. I gulped down air. Mac and the crew ran toward me, firing anxious questions. “Are you okay?” “Do you need some help?” “Should we call an ambulance?”

I shook my head. “I’m all right.” I took some breaths to steady myself.

The plane taxied down the runway. Now that it had landed, I could see it was a two-seater with a blue stripe running down a white body. Two figures hunched in the cockpit. As it slowed, individual blades of metal slowly resolved out of the grayish blur of the propeller. When the blades stopped, the pilot jumped out and ran toward us. He was wearing black athletic shoes, faded jeans, and a white golf shirt. A thick silver belt buckle flashed at his waist. His arms were freckled, and he was fair-skinned—probably the kind who turned lobster red in the sun.

Mac and the crew stepped aside to let him through.

“Who are you and what the hell were you doing?” The pilot had been wearing shades, but as he approached me, he took them off and slipped them on top of his head. He wasn’t tall, and looked perhaps in his late forties, with a lean face, curly salt and pepper hair, and an equally curly beard. His eyes were so blue a summer sky might be jealous. I might have described him as nice-looking if those eyes hadn’t been spitting fire.

I got to my feet slowly, checking to make sure nothing was broken or sprained or bleeding. “My name is Ellie Foreman,” I said. “I’m producing a video for the Lodge.”

He hesitated a moment, looking puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. “You have a permit for that?”

“A—a what? Are you crazy? You nearly kill me and you want to know if I have a permit? Who the hell are you?”

He held out his hand. “Airport regulations say any commercial activity on airport property requires a permit. Let’s see it.”

I glared at him, quavering with suppressed fury. Meanwhile, the other man in the cockpit approached but stood a foot or so behind us. He looked about the same age as the pilot. He didn’t seem eager to participate in the conversation. It was clear he was deferring to his buddy.

I ignored the pilot’s hand, still extended in the air. “I thought this airstrip was deserted.”

“You thought wrong,” he barked. “This is the only working airstrip in Lake Geneva, and it’s used on a regular basis.”

“I—I didn’t know.”

He nodded. “That’s obvious. What did you say your name was?”

“Ellie Foreman.”

His eyes flickered over me. “Well, Ellie Foreman, next time you might want to figure out the lay of the land before you commandeer an airstrip.”

“And you might want to respect the rules of video production,” I shot back. “Like not interfering when the camera’s rolling.”

His expression didn’t change. I felt my cheeks get hot. It was a lame comeback, and I was sure he knew it. Mac hadn’t begun to set up the camera. “Video, huh?” He threw me a hard look. “You’re one of those TV newspeople who hang around dredging up smut.”

The muscles at the back of my neck tightened. Who was this man? “I have nothing to do with television news. I shoot corporate films. The Lodge is my client, and no one ever indicated this airstrip was in use. By the way, if I hadn’t just been almost mowed down by your runaway plane, I might be a little more cooperative,” I said icily. “So if you’ll excuse me….”

I started back toward Mac’s van. I hadn’t reclaimed the upper hand, but a grand exit does wonders for one’s wounded pride. At least I hadn’t let him relegate me to the same level as “those TV newspeople.” Although that’s exactly what I used to be.

“New owners.” The pilot snorted to his companion. “No one has a clue what’s going on.”

I stopped and turned around. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was still clearly annoyed, but some of the rancor had faded.

The other man put his hand on the pilot’s arm. “Something obviously fell through the cracks. I’ll take care of it, Luke. Just thank God everyone’s okay. How ’bout we all call it a day? Unless you want to file a report,” he called over to me.

But I didn’t answer. I was staring hard at the pilot. “Luke?” I tensed. “You’re Luke?”

He gave me a curt nod.

“Luke Sutton?”

He didn’t answer. Nobody moved. The air pressed down on me. I detected the faint smell of sulfur.

“That’s right.” He scowled.

A drop of rain splattered on the tarmac. Then another. And then, right on cue, a fork of lightning cracked the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. All at once a sheet of rain, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, lashed the ground. As if by some unspoken accord, everyone sprang into action. Mac and the crew raced toward the van. Luke Sutton stomped over to a Toyota Camry behind the hangar.

Needles of rain stung my face. Luke Sutton was the man Pari had seen with Daria Flynn at the Lodge. Part of me wanted to follow him and ask if Pari Taichert had it right. Had he been going out with Daria Flynn? Did he know anything about her murder? But I couldn’t. Instead, I watched silently as he got into the passenger seat of the Toyota.

I ran over to Mac’s van, feeling wet and disheveled and unsettled. I hoped Mac had a towel in the back. But Sutton’s flying buddy remained on the tarmac, standing in the rain. What was he waiting for? Reluctantly, I retraced my steps, trying to ignore my clothes, which were now glued to me like a second skin.

“Is there another problem?” I asked.

The man crossed his arms. “You never said whether you wanted to file a complaint.”

“A complaint?”

“You have the right.”

I considered it. If the airstrip was indeed used on a regular basis, we shouldn’t have been anywhere near it. On the other hand, no one at the Lodge had said it was in use, and we had no reason to think there would be any traffic. At the very least, there had been a colossal miscommunication. But no one was hurt. I would survive. And if we wanted to spend the money, we could always come back with a car mount. I didn’t need to waste time on paperwork. Still, I wasn’t inclined to let anyone off the hook. Especially anyone named Luke Sutton. Once I had the chance to collect my thoughts, I might figure out how to leverage the situation.

“Let me think about it.”

Sutton’s companion nodded. He was slim, with straight dark hair receding from his forehead, and widely spaced dark eyes. Like Sutton, he was dressed casually. I wondered if he was the other Sutton brother. The good tipper. The nice one. “Are you Luke Sutton’s brother?”

To my surprise, he shook his head. Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he held out his hand. “Sorry to meet you under such awkward circumstances. I’m Jimmy Saclarides, Lake Geneva chief of police.”