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 kit
chen, 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.
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.”
A Shot to Die For Page 7
