A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  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 in
to 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.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The cameraman drove the van back to Chicago, but Mac and I decided to wait out the storm. Mac got into my Volvo, and we drove into Lake Geneva to dry off and grab a late lunch.

  “You sure you’re okay, Ellie?” Mac asked.

  “I lost an earring my boyfriend gave me, I made an enemy at the airstrip, and we didn’t get any footage. Other than that, I’m great. How about you?”

  “Hungry,” Mac said.

  I circled the three or four blocks of downtown Lake Geneva. “So what do you feel like? There’s supposed to be a Greek restaurant somewhere around here.”

  “In Lake Geneva?”

  I nodded. “Unless it’s just a restaurant that happens to be owned by Greeks.”

  “Which would be every restaurant in Chicago.”

  “But we’re not in Chicago. Look for a place like Greek Islands.”

  We turned onto Main Street, and I cruised slowly down the block.

  “I don’t believe it.” Mac straightened up.

  “What?”

  “We just passed something called Mount Olympus.”

  “Bingo.”

  ***

  Mount Olympus had none of the affectations of Greek Town restaurants: no stucco, faux Doric columns, blue décor. And no trellised grapevines, fake or otherwise. The restaurant was sandwiched into a narrow space between a jewelry store and an art gallery. It had a plain black door. The only indication it was a restaurant was the lettering on a plate glass window through which you could see a large hunk of lamb revolving on a spit.

  Inside, we were hit by a tangy mix of garlic, lemon, and roasted meat. The smell was so tantalizing I overlooked the shabby room, chipped counter, and neon Budweiser sign on the wall.

  A man seated at the first of about twelve tables was nursing a clear liquid in a shot glass. He didn’t look up when we passed, though a bell tinkled when we entered. We sat at a table behind him. Only three other tables were occupied. A swinging door was cut into the wall behind the counter, and I heard a clatter of dishes on the other side. A moment later, Kim Flynn pushed through the door, balancing a tray of food.

  She wore a long apron tied around her waist. The top of a pink T-shirt peeked out underneath. Her legs were bare; she must have been wearing shorts. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and covered with a hairnet. She threaded her way past our table.

  “Hello, Kim.”

  Her eyes widened when she saw me. She set the plates down two tables away and then worked her way back. “Foreman, right? Ellie Foreman?”

  I nodded and motioned to Mac. “This is Mac Kendall. We work together.”

  As soon as Kim mentioned my name, a frown spread across Mac’s face. He must have realized I had an ulterior motive for coming here. He doesn’t like it when I do that.

  “Mac, this is Kim Flynn.… Her sister was Daria Flynn, the woman who died at the rest stop.”

  Mac’s frown deepened. Then he remembered his manners. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  Kim dipped her head in acknowledgment, then looked at me. “Well, this is a surprise.” She glanced out the window. “Especially with the weather.”

  “We were shooting at the Lodge but got rained out. I remembered your mother mentioning the restaurant. Are you still serving lunch?”

  She hesitated, as if she wasn’t convinced that’s why I was there, but then her business sense kicked in. “Of course. Let me bring you some menus.”

  As we waited, Mac nudged me under the table with his foot. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you were putting it behind you.”

  “I was. But then….” I told him about Kim’s visit to my house with her mother. I stressed how needy they’d seemed. How desperate. And that I’d said I’d let them know if I discovered anything.

  Mac folded his arms. He wasn’t buying it.

  Kim brought the menus. “Sorry to be so slow. We’re a little shorthanded. One of my guys—well, he just up and left. How did you know this was our place?”

  “We guessed. Your mother did say it was a Greek restaurant.”

  “You were lucky. There’s two of them in town, you know.”

  “There are two Greek restaurants here?”

  She nodded. “The other one is Saclarides.’”

  “Saclarides? As in Jimmy Saclarides? The chief of police?”

  An odd expression crept across her face. “How did you know?”

  Mac, who’d been growing increasingly agitated, stood up. “Can you point me to the facilities?”

  Kim gestured to the back.

  “Order me a gyros, okay, Ellie? And a Coke.”

  “Sure.” Mac disappeared. “And I’ll have a Greek salad.” I looked up at Kim. “And a Diet Coke.”

  She scribbled our orders on a pad.

  “Luke Sutton.”

  She started. “Excuse me?”

  “That’s how I met Jimmy Saclarides.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  She disappeared through the swinging door. When she came back with the pop, she was more composed, but I knew she was waiting for an explanation. I took a quick sip of my drink. “Luke Sutton nearly ran me down in his plane today. Jimmy Saclarides was with him.”

  She looked startled. “You’re kidding. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But that isn’t the reason I’m here. Meeting him reminded me of something I heard at the Lodge, and I wanted to ask if you knew about it.”

  She stuffed the pad into her apron pocket.

  “We were having a drink there a few days ago, and there was this waitress, Pari something….”

  “I know Pari.”

  I forgot. Subtract the tourists, and this was a small town. “She said your sister and Luke met there for drinks. More than once.”

  “Luke Sutton and Daria?”

  When I nodded, she looked at the ceiling, then the floor. Then she looked back at me. “Yo
u’re sure?”

  Again I nodded. “I was thinking, well, I wondered if the police knew. And if they did, what they were doing about it. It’s not like the Suttons aren’t well known. You know what I mean?”

  She nodded, a distracted, absentminded gesture. What was she thinking?

  “And then, when it turned out Jimmy Saclarides was riding shotgun in the plane with Sutton….” I looked out the window. The rain was starting to let up. “Well, I guess I’m beginning to see your point.”

  “My point? About what?”

  “About the police up here. Selective justice.”

  She ran her tongue around her lips. Her expression changed again, confusion giving way to an almost steely look. She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, just—just forget what I said before. I was pissed off. Everyone knows Luke and Jimmy are friends. They have been for a long time.”

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  “Yeah, but Jimmy Saclarides…well, his family and ours are close. Our mothers are best friends. He and I grew up together. We even went out in high school.”

  “You and Jimmy Saclarides?”

  “We used to call him Super Chief. And not for the train.”

  “Well, this close family friend has a buddy who just might be the man who abandoned your sister at the rest stop.”

  A door in back squeaked. Mac was on his way back.

  “That’s just—I can’t believe that. When were they supposed to have—have been together?”

  “According to Pari, it was late. Ten, eleven at night.”

  “But when? A month ago? Six months? A year?”

  “Not long before she died.”

  Mac came back and pulled out his chair. The scrape of the legs against the tile floor grated. Kim blinked, as if the sound had refocused her attention. A tiny vertical line creased her forehead. “Well. I guess I’ll have to ask Jimmy about it.” She looked over, as if seeing me for the first time. “Hey, thanks for coming in to tell me. I appreciate it.” She forced a smile, then started back to the kitchen. “Your food’s probably ready.”

  I watched her go. That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. Suspicion, alarm, even rage. But not blasé detachment. I glanced at the old man at the next table. He hadn’t given any indication he knew we were there. But he was a fixture. He belonged. Not like me, an outsider who seemed to be discovering what everyone already knew and didn’t much care about.