A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  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?”

  “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.