Mac was estranged from most of his family. Not only were they appalled that he had abandoned his affluent lifestyle for something as tedious as a real job, but they’d never forgiven him for marrying a girl from Chicago’s West Side, and raising two children as—dare it be said—Catholics.
“Hey. I was just kidding.”
“I’m not. Maybe I should give him a call.”
I shrugged. “It’s not worth deepening the family feud. We can always grab guests at that black-tie gala. They’ll all be wearing tuxedos and smoking cigars—they’ll look the part.”
Mac drummed the pencil on his desk. “Let’s see. Rich Chicago industrialists in tuxedos extolling a luxury resort in their backyard. Are we going for a little visual irony here, Ellie? A touch of Studs Terkel class-consciousness, perhaps?”
“I can get away with it.” I grinned. “After all, I am a superhero.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I stopped off at Sunset Foods on the way home to buy shrimp from Stan the Fish Man. Sunset is one of the last upscale but locally owned supermarkets on the North Shore. It’s a place where service and quality still matter, and Stan is one of the most knowledgeable people I know when it comes to seafood. He’s one of the sexiest, too, and I drove home full of fantasies about grilled shrimp in a lemony-garlic marinade. The problem was I couldn’t remember if I had any skewers. I vaguely recalled an adventure in the culinary arts last year involving shish kebob on skinny wooden sticks, but I couldn’t remember where I’d stashed them. I was absorbed in a mental search when I turned the corner and spotted an unfamiliar car parked in my driveway.
I pulled up behind a gray Saturn with Wisconsin plates. A pine air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and the car looked unusually clean, but the beige upholstery was faded in patches, as if it had been parked in the sun too long. I turned off the engine and got out.
Two women climbed out of the Saturn. The woman who’d been in the passenger seat was delicately built, almost frail, with gray hair pulled back in a tight roll. Her face was pinched, and her head was curiously flat on the sides, as if it had been squeezed in a vise, but there was a stately bearing about her. The other woman, the driver, was younger, about my age, and tall. As she lifted a pair of shades, my stomach pitched. She wasn’t as slender, and her dark glossy hair was threaded with gray, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
“You’re Daria Flynn’s sister.”
She nodded. “Kim Flynn. And this is my mother, Irene.” She walked around to the passenger side, pulled out a cane, and held out her arm, which her mother took. “Could we—talk to you for a few minutes?” Kim asked after she’d helped her mother position the cane. “If it isn’t inconvenient.”
Kim had the same thick hair and green eyes as her sister but somehow just missed being pretty. Her features were harsher, her forehead broader, her eyes smaller. As if to make up for it, she wore long earrings with her jeans and shirt, and a collection of silver bracelets flashed at her wrist. Irene was dressed in a fussy white blouse and dark trousers.
“Not at all.” I opened the door to the Volvo and retrieved my bag of groceries. “Please. Come in.”
Irene walked haltingly, and Kim kept a firm grasp on her arm. I unlocked my front door. The silence told me Rachel wasn’t home. For some reason, I was relieved. I led them into the living room, which I rarely use. As Irene shuffled to the sofa, the scent of lavender trailed after her. I tried not to react. My former mother-in-law used to douse herself in lavender. I never liked it.
Kim helped Irene sit down on one end of the couch and then took a seat on the other. I put the groceries in the kitchen, and sat in the black leather Eames chair Barry insisted we buy when we moved in even though we couldn’t afford it.
“I’m curious,” I began awkwardly. “How did you get my name?”
“The police asked us if we knew you,” Kim said. “And then I found you on the Internet.” She frowned. “I hope that isn’t a problem.”
Milanovich probably asked them if they knew me the same way he asked if I knew Daria. And my name and number are listed. “No problem. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Irene regarded me with an almost regal chilliness, as if my condolences were her due.
Kim nodded. “Well, Mother needed—we both need—well, it was all so sudden, you see—”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you don’t, my dear,” Irene cut in. “Understand, that is.” The skin on her face looked brittle, almost shellacked. She moved stiffly. “But we—I—you are a mother, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Did Daria say anything at the end? Anything at all that would explain it? We just have so many questions—we don’t understand—and we need to, you see.…” She broke off.
I swallowed. I knew she wanted some closure, some affirmation of Daria’s life. The problem was I couldn’t find any meaning in the random, violent murder of a beautiful young woman. Nevertheless, underneath the intensity and sorrow, Irene’s expression was hopeful, even expectant.
I chose my words carefully. “She was upset when she was fighting with her boyfriend, but she calmed down when they made up. She went inside and bought a drink, and when she came back out, we started chatting. You know, about the heat, the crummy day she’d had. She seemed…well…happy he was coming to pick her up.”
Irene sat ramrod straight, not saying anything. Kim fidgeted as if the couch was the wrong size for her.
“By the way, how is he bearing up?” I asked.
They exchanged glances. Then Irene said, “This—this boyfriend. Did Daria tell you his name?”
“Excuse me?”
“Her boyfriend. His name.”
I felt uneasy. Had Daria kept her love life a secret from her mother? I looked at Kim. Her expression was unreadable. “She—she didn’t mention it.”
Irene nodded as if she’d expected me to say that. “She never told us she had a boyfriend, you see. The first we’d heard of it was on the news reports.”
Was she was having an affair with a married man? Is that why she never said anything? Did she know that her choice would be unacceptable to Irene?
Irene went on. “Kim says we can’t know for certain. She says Daria might have been seeing someone but just never got around to telling us.”
“Or didn’t want to,” Kim added.
Irene shook her head. “That just doesn’t sound like Daria. She told us everything. We were a close family. And Daria was always so busy with her job. Where would she find the time for a boyfriend?”
I tried to change the subject. “She was a chef, I understand?”
“A sous-chef. Second in charge. But she had the lion’s share of responsibility.” The echo of a smile crossed her lips. “She took up cooking as a youngster. She came by it naturally—my family opened the first Greek restaurant in Lake Geneva. Best place in town for a good meal. Flynn is my husband’s name,” she added. “But Herbert—he’s gone now.”
First her husband, now her daughter. “I’m so sorry.”
“Kim’s pretty much running the place.” She looked at Kim. “Since my—my illness.”
“Mother had a stroke six months ago,” Kim explained. “She’s doing much better, but she can’t work like she used to.”
That explained her fragility. And the shuffling gait. I opened my mouth to offer another apology, but Irene cut me off.
“But Daria…she—she worked so hard. Up at the crack of dawn to hunt for fresh produce. She’d drive to the fish markets in Chicago and Milwaukee almost every day. Once she even drove all the way to Iowa for some beef. Then, after the restaurant closed, she’d be planning menus for the next day. She worked until midnight most nights.” She leaned forward. “That’s why we were so—”
“Puzzled.” Kim offered. “Puzzled about the boyfriend.”
“Not that she couldn’t have,” Irene added. “She was beautiful. She could have had any man she wanted. She took after me.”
I looked at
Kim. Her expression was blank.
“But no one like that came to the funeral. You’d think if she had a boyfriend, he’d have had the decency to show up.” Irene’s mouth tightened. “Kim thinks she might have been hiding the fact she had a boyfriend because she knew we wouldn’t—I wouldn’t—approve. But I can’t imagine why.” She sighed. “The police have tried to be helpful, but they keep telling us the Illinois Police were the ones who handled the—the crime scene. I think that’s what they call it.”
I nodded.
“But whenever we ask to speak with them, they—”
“Frankly…,” Kim broke in, “We think we’re getting a runaround.”
“Why?”
“No one returns our phone calls. Or when they do, well, they start talking about the sniper. Whether we know someone who wanted to harm Daria. Which we’ve answered a zillion times.”
“One of the State Police detectives has called me a few times. He’s—”
“I don’t mean the Illinois cops.” Kim’s expression hardened. I wondered who she meant and was about to ask when she went on. “But that doesn’t matter. It’s not what we came for.”
“Are you sure she didn’t say anything else…at the end?” A note of pleading crept into Irene’s voice. “Anything at all?”
“Nothing I haven’t told you.” I stood up. “Could I offer you some tea?” When in doubt, play hostess. They didn’t object, so I started toward the kitchen, glad for the opportunity to break the rhythm. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I filled the kettle and turned on the flame, wondering how much of Irene’s story to believe. The Flynns were three adult women. No matter how close they were, there had to be some friction. And what Irene said about not approving of a boyfriend was odd. Had there been boyfriends in the past of whom she had disapproved? It did raise the question whether Daria might have been hiding her boyfriend, at least from her mother. I got out tea bags and mugs, then started back to the living room, nearly colliding with Kim.
“Oh—sorry,” I said. “Um, would you like iced tea or hot? I can make either.”
“Mother usually drinks hot,” Kim answered.
“What about you?”
“What I’d really like is a—oh, never mind.”
“I have some scotch,” I offered.
“No, I’m driving. But let me help you with the tea.” She ran a hand through her hair. “If you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll just be a minute, Mother,” she called over her shoulder.
Irene nodded and turned her gaze to a framed poster on the wall. Her back was erect, but her eyes were unfocused. I didn’t think she was admiring my artwork.
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked Kim.
She followed me back into the kitchen. “Oh, don’t let her fool you. She’s strong. Ironsides, Daria and I used to call her.”
“A stroke can be pretty devastating.” I thought about Marv, one of my father’s closest friends, who had suffered a stroke last October and passed away after Thanksgiving. Add to that the unbearable grief of losing a child. It wasn’t an enviable situation.
“I’m not going to tell you it hasn’t been tough. We’ve had a shitty year. Health problems. Money problems. Now this. But we’ll make it.” Kim gazed around the room.
How do you recover from the death of a daughter? Or a sister? A knot of tension tightened my stomach. Where was Rachel? As I took out spoons, I spotted the note propped up in its usual spot.
Babysitting at Julia’s. Back by dinner. R.
The knot in my stomach loosened. I turned around. Kim was watching me. I realized she must have been saying something. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“I said, what do you really think?”
“About the sniper?”
“No. About Daria’s boyfriend.”
I frowned. I’d told them what I knew. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just—just that Daria never said anything to me about a man.”
I pulled out a tray.
“Then again, she doesn’t—didn’t always tell me everything. It’s possible she was seeing someone. Maybe he worked at the hotel. Or was a customer—excuse me—a patron.” She made a sound in the back of her throat. “Isn’t that what upscale restaurants call them?”
I got out milk, sugar, and lemon and put them on the tray. Where was she going with this?
“Look.” She perched on the counter opposite the stove and rubbed her hands up and down her thighs. “I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position with Mother in the room. But—well—since it’s just us two, did she say anything? Give you a name? A profession?”
The kettle started to whistle. I poured hot water into the mugs. “You mean, did she confess she was having an affair with a married man and was flying off to the Caribbean?”
She flipped up her hands as if to say, “Whatever.…”
“It was nothing like that,” I said firmly. “She didn’t say anything at all.”
Kim nodded, almost imperceptibly. “What about the guy who lent her his cell? Did he hear anything about this boyfriend?”
“I wouldn’t know. He left before it happened.”
“You don’t know where he was from?”
I put the kettle back on the stove. “No. He was going on vacation. Fishing, I think.”
“You don’t know where?”
“I don’t even know what kind of car he had.”
“You told the police all that, right?”
“Of course.” I put the mugs on the tray. “In fact, the police are asking anyone who might know him to call in. You probably saw it on TV.”
“Right.”
I turned around. “You don’t have much confidence in the cops, do you?”
She hesitated, then fingered a lock of hair and tucked it behind her ears. “You know the pledge of allegiance? Where they say liberty and justice for all? Well, when it comes to the police up in my neck of the woods, those things go to the highest bidder.”
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t, and I didn’t push it. I’ve had my own run-ins with cops over the years, and while I might even agree with her, I couldn’t see how a discussion about the limitations of law enforcement would help. The police were doing everything they could to find the shooter.
I took the tray into the living room.
“She was a good girl,” Irene said, picking up the thread of conversation as if we’d never left. “And she did seem happy recently. I suppose it could have been because of a man.”
I handed her a mug.
She stared into it. “But why did he abandon her? How can he not come forward? How can he let us suffer?” She pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand. Something violent seemed to be fighting for dominance, and for an instant, anger won. “Whoever he is, I hope he rots in hell.” Then she set the mug down, her anger ebbing as quickly as it had come. She covered her eyes. Kim put an awkward arm around her.
I waited, then said quietly, “Irene, whether you and Kim trust them or not, the police have more information than I do. You need to be asking them these questions. Why don’t I give you Detective Milanovich’s number?”
I dug out his card from my bag, wrote down the name and number on another piece of paper, and handed it to her. She gazed at it silently for a moment, then raised her eyes to mine. “Well, if you remember something—anything at all, you’ll let us know?”
I nodded.
“You might remember, you know, especially when you’re going to sleep. Happens to me. I’ll be just dozing off when I think of something. Have to get up and write it down. Otherwise, I lose it.”
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 complimen
t. 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.
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