A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  I seemed to remember she was a nurse. She hesitated for a moment, glanced over at the caviar, then at me. I held my breath. She knew. She must. I waited for the accusation. Instead, she gave her cart a little push. “Well, nice running into you. See you in class.”

  I nodded. At least I think I did. She wheeled her cart to the end of the aisle and disappeared. I put the caviar back on the shelf and, before I could think about it, shoved my cart forward. When I reached the front of the store, I raced to the express lane, threw the coffee on the belt, and thanked God for putting Cindy in my path.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I was still shaky when I got home. I’d have to talk to David. Soon. For now, though, I was grateful I hadn’t done anything foolish. I got out of the car, grabbed the coffee, and started inside.

  The squeak of a noisy suspension made me turn around. A red pickup with rust stains on its body rounded the corner and rolled up the driveway. As Fouad slid out of the car, I glanced at my shaggy lawn. “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “Hello, Ellie.” He went to the back of the pickup and unloaded the lawnmower, hedge clippers, and pruning shears.

  “Where have you been?”

  He carried the tools over to the flower bed without answering. I watched him pinch dead petunias.

  “Fouad? What’s wrong?”

  It was early, the heat of the day still ahead, but beads of sweat had already popped out on his forehead. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he shook his head, his expression so mournful that for the first time since I’d known him, I thought he might break down. “It is Ahmed.”

  Despite the heat, a chill spread over me. “He—he—did he go to Iraq?”

  Fouad dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief. “I do not know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About a week ago we woke up, and he was gone. We do not know where he is.”

  That didn’t sound like the responsible student I’d heard so much about. “What happened?”

  Fouad didn’t answer. Then he sighed. “There was an argument. He and Hayat—no, that’s not fair. All of us argued.”

  “About Iraq?”

  “His girlfriend. Iraq. His future. It ended badly. When we woke up the next morning, he was gone. Clothes. Passport. Everything.” Fouad covered his eyes with his hand. I could tell he was struggling to hold himself together.

  “What about Natalie? Does she know anything?” Ahmed’s sister was two years younger. Fouad used to tell me how close they were.

  “He did not confide in her. Or so she claims.”

  “Oh, Fouad. I’m so sorry.”

  He shook his head again and patted his eyes with the handkerchief. Then he balled it up and jammed it into his pocket. “When I came to this country, I didn’t think about the consequences of raising children. I worried about their safety. Their comfort. Their happiness. But I did not think that I was raising half-breeds—”

  “That’s a harsh label,” I interrupted. Had that come from Ahmed?

  “It is the truth. They are not fully American, nor are they Syrian—or, in our case, Iraqi. We’ve stripped away their heritage and given them McDonald’s and the mall in its place. Is it any wonder they do not know who they are?”

  “But Ahmed and Natalie have achieved so much. Johns Hopkins. Duke. I know how proud you are of them.”

  “They speak English with no accent. They wear the right clothes. They buy the right toys. But you do not see the dark side. At the first sign of trouble, they are labeled. Attacked. Or even worse, ignored. The struggle, it is subtle—and insidious. How can I blame them for floundering?”

  “Don’t you think you might be too hard on yourself? And Ahmed? He’s intelligent. And talented. He’ll find his way, maybe sooner than you think. And no matter how he’s feeling right now, he knows in his heart the enormous sacrifices you’ve made.”

  “No.” He looked at me, his dark eyes sad. “I think I have failed, Ellie.”

  A lump rose in my throat. I pushed it down. I wished I’d had a quote from the Koran. Fouad usually found solace in it. “What can I do?”

  He closed his eyes. “I do not know.”

  “Have you called the police? Filed a missing persons report?”

  His eyes opened, a bitter edge sweeping across them. “They are not convinced he’s missing.”

  “That’s crazy. Why not?”

  “They made a few calls. He was working at the Senior Center clinic, you know….”

  I didn’t, but I nodded.

  “They say he is twenty-one. Has a mind of his own. He will turn up, they say. I should not worry. But….” His eyes narrowed. “If his name was not Ahmed, I am sure they would be trying harder.”

  “What about his girlfriend? Did you call her?”

  Fouad clamped his jaw tight. “We do not know where she lives. She has been—well, as you know, Hayat has not—we called Johns Hopkins to try to find out her parents’ names. Perhaps a phone number. But they would not release any information. Privacy issues, they say.”

  “What did you say when you called?”

  He took a few steps back toward the flower bed, looking confused. “The truth, of course.”

  I frowned, imagining Fouad or Hayat with their thick accents trying to explain to a bureaucrat that their son was missing. “What’s her name? Ahmed’s girlfriend?”

  “Rana. Al Qasim. She calls herself Ronnie, I believe.”

  I folded my arms. Our eyes locked.

  Fouad tipped his head to the side. “What is it, Ellie?” He peered at me across the flower bed.

  It was my turn to shake my head but, apparently, it didn’t mask my expression.

  “I know that look on your face. You have something in mind.”

  ***

  I dropped David and Willie at the airport without talking to David. I didn’t know how to begin. Should I tell him that the notion of life as fundamentally joyful was as elusive to me as a lifeboat in a stormy sea? That I didn’t believe I deserved love? Or intimacy? We were practiced at the art of evasion, anyway. If it was never said, it wouldn’t need to be countered, defended, or retracted. So I said nothing, and smiled a little too brightly when I kissed him good-bye.

  Back home that afternoon, the heat seemed to flatten everything, muting colors and muffling noise. Even the dust motes seemed lethargic. I washed dishes, wishing Rachel was home. We could pack up and go to the pool. Or the beach. If she wasn’t already there with Julia.

  I trudged upstairs to my office and booted up the computer. While I waited, I looked out at the honey locust tree on my front lawn. Usually its fronds shimmer in the sun, glazing the room with sparks of light. But there was no breeze today, and its leaves drooped listlessly. I swiveled around, noting the litter of files on the daybed, the picture of David on a shelf, the delicate ceramic shoe Susan gave me a few years ago.

  Rachel would be gone in a few years. The house would be too big. And even more silent. Maybe I should sell and buy something smaller. Move back into the city. Isn’t that what most empty nesters do? But what if you were alone? Was there a special housing development for people who’d failed at relationships?

  I turned back to the computer and checked the news. A rash of new stories had proliferated overnight, everything from so-called forensics experts speculating how the three sniper attacks were related, to conspiracy buffs sure they were politically motivated, to religious nuts predicting the end of the world. In a carefully worded statement, a State Police spokesperson neither confirmed nor denied any links between the attacks, saying only that they were “examining the evidence and looking for leads.” He went on to caution the public not to change their travel plans or to panic.

  Which, of course, was precisely what the media were trying to get everyone to do. I read quotes from people regretting that family reunions had been canceled, or that weddings were now up in the air. A suburban mayor held a press conference to encourage residents to stay put this summer “safe an
d sound” in their backyards. There was even one of those interactive polls. “Vote yes, if you’re going to change your vacation plans. See results instantly!”

  The operative theme was fear. Sensationalism. And the sense of urgency was palpable. The media played up the similarities between the three attacks, starting with the fact that the victims were young women, they’d all been shot at a highway oasis by someone in a green pickup, and all with some kind of high-powered rifle. Whether they were all the work of one gunman didn’t seem to matter. I got up and paced around the room. The problem was that sensationalism wouldn’t do anything to lighten Irene Flynn’s grief. Or that of the children who’d lost their mothers.

  ***

  A few minutes later I clicked onto the Johns Hopkins website. Five minutes after searching the site, I dialed a number. A female voice answered confidently. “Student Affairs.”

  Was that deliberate? An inside joke?

  “Hello.” I’d tried something similar to this a year or so ago, and it worked. I took a breath and plunged in. “My name is Ellie Foreman, and I have kind of a strange situation here.”

  “Uh—oh—I’m not sure I understand.” She had that distinctive Baltimore—or was it Baldmer—accent, the one with rounded “o’s” and the occasional “hon” tacked on to the end of a sentence, but only if you were a favored personage.

  “I live in Chicago, but I seem to have found a wallet that belongs to one of your students. There’s some money in it, and a couple of credit cards, and a student ID.”

  “Yes?” This woman sounded clueless. Was that a plus or an obstacle?

  “I’d like to return the wallet, but given that it’s summer, I’m sure most of the students are gone. And since I found it in Chicago, I’m thinking the owner might be out here. But there’s no address or phone number in the wallet. Which is why I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “You know, this really isn’t the right department—”

  “The student’s name is Rana Al Qasim. Here…let me spell it for you.”

  “Hold on,” the voice said. “I’m not sure—”

  Keep talking, Ellie. “It seems to me, at least, that she—or he…” I added hastily, “…would want to know it’s been found. It wasn’t a lot of money. About a hundred dollars. But I guess, for a student, it could be. A lot, I mean. I’d hate her—or him—to think it’s been stolen.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Then I heard a sigh. “What did you say your name was?”

  Progress! I repeated my name. “As I said, I’m in Chicago, and if Rana lives here, or she—or he—is visiting here, and lost their wallet, they’re probably very upset.”

  “Look, what I’m going to do is transfer—”

  I barreled on. “You just can’t be too careful these days, with all this identity theft, you know? Rana is probably going crazy. I’d hate for them to have to call the credit bureaus and Social Security. My wallet was stolen last year, and I spent months sorting it out. If there was just some way you could give me a phone number….”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can’t. I understand.” I hesitated a beat. “But what if I give you my number and you called Rana’s family—and then they can get in touch with me. I’m not going anywhere. Of course, that’s a roundabout way to do things, but it’s better than going through a lot of red tape, don’t you think? I mean, we’re just talking about a wallet here.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I waited, then sighed theatrically. “I suppose I could always send it to you in the mail. But if Rana is here in Chicago…you know…visiting or something…well, that just seems like a waste of time. And effort. Are you sure you can’t just call them and have them call me?”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  I drummed my fingers on my desk. The recorded music in the background was infuriatingly cheerful. She was gone so long I started to despair. Finally, she clicked back on.

  “Miss Foreman?”

  “Yes?”

  “Rana Al Qasim lives in Phoenix, Arizona.”

  Phoenix?

  “Her parents’ number is 602-842-9387.”

  “Thank you so much. You’re terrific.”

  I heard her take a breath. “Listen, do me a favor, hon.”

  Hon? “Anything.”

  “You didn’t get her number from this department.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And next time, you might want to work on your story. Parts of it were a little lame.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A thousand points of light. Once the rallying cry of a Republican administration, it was an apt description of the gala at the Lodge. A team of party planners had transformed the ballroom on the second floor into a forest that included trees, grassy paths, and, in one corner, a babbling brook with replicas of frolicking woodland creatures. Sewn through the tree branches were tiny Italian lights that twinkled in the air currents. Dozens of small tables were covered with silk cloths and topped with centerpieces that were garlands of green. Pastel blossoms were woven through them, and lit tapers flickered nearby. A harpist in a cream-colored gown strummed quietly at one end of the room, while a trio of musicians warmed up at the other. Republican or not, the effect was stunning. I expected Rosalind or Puck to bound out of the woods any second.

  A crowd of nearly two hundred well-heeled people filled the room. The women, formally dressed and weighed down by jewelry that had probably been brought out of storage, glittered as gaily as the Italian lights, but the men, in tuxedos that differed only in their choice of cummerbund, all bore a resemblance to Alistair Cooke. There was probably enough wealth concentrated in that room to pay off the national debt. Even the waiters reeked of substance.

  I wandered through the crowd, the scents of designer perfumes breaking over me. I was feeling rather elegant myself; I’d broken down and bought a new pantsuit—a two-piece outfit made from silky, ivory material. Its fitted bodice actually made me look like I had a shape. Rachel had—rather expertly, I thought—pulled my hair up into a sophisticated twist, leaving tendrils curling down my cheeks. She’d done my nails as well. Since we would be shooting late, the Lodge had comped us rooms, and when I put on my makeup earlier, I decided I still cleaned up pretty well.

  Now, I looked around searching for Mac and the crew. The décor, while lush, would wreak havoc with the lighting. Shadows from the artificial trees would be problems, and the Italian lights might wash out completely. We would be using a Frezzi attached to the camera for close-ups, but we’d have to be careful if we shot wide. It was too costly to light the entire ballroom, so we planned to make do by riding the gain and opening the iris. But it was a risky proposition. Too much of either would make the shots fuzzy or overexposed.

  I found Mac with the harpist, shooting a close-up of her fingers plucking the strings. Despite his distaste for formalwear, he looked handsome in his tux; he cleaned up pretty well, too.

  After discussing the lighting, we decided to try an establishing shot anyway. Hank could play with it in post, and if it didn’t work, we would cover the scene with B-roll. Mac would shoot as many close-ups as he could, after which we’d throw up some lights in the hall for interviews.

  As Mac and the crew drifted away, a waiter passed with a tray of drinks. I took a glass of wine, then stepped back to let a generously proportioned woman take hers. As the waiter handed her a cocktail napkin, I studied her outfit: a mint green gown with matching feathered boa. I sipped my wine. I thought feathered boas had been put out of their misery forty years ago.

  The woman took a long pull on her drink, then waved to someone I couldn’t see. She made a quarter turn and waved to someone else. Then, with unmistakable disdain, she muttered under her breath, “Wouldn’t lift a goddamn finger for any one of them if they were drowning in the lake.”

  I tried to swallow a giggle, but something resembling a bleat came out of my mouth. The woman whipped around. Her face was unnaturally red, and her hair
contained an excess of henna, but her features were even and attractive. You could tell she’d been a beauty in her youth. A Kathy Bates type, now in her sixties.

  Her gaze swept over me. I couldn’t tell if she was worried about what she said or couldn’t care less. She hiked her shoulders and draped the boa more snugly around her. “Nice outfit,” she said. “You get it just for this?”

  I felt my eyebrows arch. “How did you know?”

  She smiled knowingly. “I know everyone up here. But I’ve never seen you.”

  An elderly man brushed by her. “How are you, Henry?” She clasped his arm, forcing him to stop.

  He pasted on a smile. “Willetta.”

  “It’s been entirely too long since I’ve seen you,” she gushed. His smile wavered. Her face took on a mournful cast. “How are you bearing up?”

  The man mumbled something I couldn’t hear, then politely disengaged his arm. As he disappeared into the crowd, she shook her head. “Hasn’t been the same since his wife died. It’s a wonder he can get himself dressed in the morning. And to think he built Briarly Manufacturing from the ground up.” She turned back to me.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “You first. That’s how it works.”

  “Ellie Foreman. I’m a video producer from Chicago. I’m shooting a documentary about the Lodge.”

  “Show business?” An eager expression came over her face.

  “Not really. Corporate videos.”

  She seemed not to have heard. She drained her wine, deposited it on the tray of a passing waiter, and reached for another. “As a matter of fact, I used to be in show business.”

  “Is that so,” I said without much enthusiasm. Everyone’s a performer.

  “I don’t talk about it much. Especially around here.” She rolled her eyes. “But you—well….” She might just as well have said, You’re an outsider—you don’t count. “I come from the Carlucci family.”

  I blinked.

  “You’ve heard of them, of course.”

  The Barrymores, the Fondas, the Baldwins. But the Carluccis? “I’m afraid not.”