A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Back home, I changed into an old T-shirt that doubles as a summer nightgown and tried not to think about Luke Sutton. I turned on the TV news in my bedroom and got into bed. It had been a week since the third sniper attack, and media coverage had fallen off. Tonight, though, the station I was watching proclaimed a major development.

  According to their investigative reporter, the State Police had discovered a shell casing at the O’Hare oasis crime scene. “It was a .223,” the reporter announced, “which, after careful study and comparison, was found to have come from a semiautomatic weapon like this one, a Bushmaster 223.” The story cut to a shot of a high-powered rifle, which looked like any other gun to me until the reporter added, “Often referred to as the civilian version of the military M16, the Bushmaster is a favorite of former military personnel or those who want the feel of a military weapon.” The reporter went on to say the Bushmaster had been the weapon of choice for snipers in other states and could hit a target as far as 500 yards away. It was also remarkably easy to learn how to use.

  The story cut back to the reporter on camera. “But—while police sources say bullet fragments from the April sniper attack are consistent with this type of gun, they aren’t saying that about the Lake Forest incident.”

  I sat up.

  “In fact, our sources tell us that bullet fragments used in the Lake Forest sniper attack probably came from a .308 caliber bullet. Those bullets are typically used in bolt-action rifles like this Remington.” Another weapon flashed onto the screen. It looked different from the first one, but I couldn’t really tell how.

  “The significance of this is that with two different rifles and two different caliber bullets, we may be dealing with two different shooters.”

  I leaned forward.

  The broadcast cut to a back and forth between the anchorman and the reporter.

  “So the shooter at the O’Hare oasis, the one with the beard and bandana, might not have acted alone?” asked the anchorman.

  “Not exactly, Marty. What I’m saying—and what police have to be looking at—is the possibility of a copycat.”

  “At the Lake Forest oasis?” the anchorman asked.

  “Right,” the reporter answered. “And there’s another anomaly as well.”

  Anomaly? Someone else I knew used that word.

  “Only one shot was fired at the Lake Forest oasis, but witnesses at each of the other two rest stops heard several shots. As many as five or six.”

  “This is a big development, Bob. Two snipers instead of one. What are the police saying?”

  “They’re not confirming or denying anything. In fact, they have not returned my—our calls.”

  The anchorman continued, “Now, let’s clear one thing up. Whether we’re dealing with a copycat or not, police still believe that two people were involved in each of the three sniper attacks. A driver and a shooter.”

  “That’s correct, Marty. Which means we may be dealing with four people now, instead of two.”

  “Is there any reason to think the discovery of the shell casing at the O’Hare oasis will answer that question?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “I see.” The anchorman nodded sagely, although if his fuzzy questions were any indication, I doubted that he got it. “Well, thanks for your exclusive report, Bob. I know you’ll keep us posted on all the developments.” The two men traded smiles.

  I zapped the tube with the remote. Despite a thick anchorman, this was a major development. Up until now, the idea that Daria’s death was caused by someone she knew was just speculation and gossip. But now, there seemed to be some evidence supporting that theory. Sure, it could have been a sick weirdo intent on making a name for himself. But what if it wasn’t?

  I crept downstairs, trying not to disturb Rachel, who’d gone to sleep early. The reporter would never reveal his source, but I suspected I knew who it was. How many people would use the word “anomaly” in the same context? Detective Milanovich had to be frustrated by his lack of progress—a carefully planted leak might cause the dam to break.

  But that wasn’t what why I went into kitchen and poured myself a large glass of wine. Luke Sutton said he’d been at his fishing cabin when Daria Flynn was killed. And that their meetings had been strictly business. But now that I knew some of the history of the two families, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. What’s more, I couldn’t ignore three other facts: Luke drove a green pickup, he had a beard, and he knew how to use a high-powered rifle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I rose sluggish and heavy the next day and brewed a strong pot of coffee. I’d spent the night in a restless haze, thrashing from one side to the other. My mood matched the weather, a grim overcast with humidity so thick I felt like I was swimming through air. I’d promised Mac I’d scout locations in Lake Geneva for B-roll, but I was already thinking up ways to procrastinate. I looked over at Rachel, who had made an early appearance. “Hey, sweetie, I’m going up to Lake Geneva to do some sightseeing. You want to come along? We can stop at the outlet mall on the way.”

  She looked up from the back of the cereal box she was reading and arched her brows. They merged together just like my mother’s used to. “When would we be back?”

  “I’d say around three.”

  She thought, then shook her head. “Julia wants me by noon.”

  A twinge of jealousy shot through me, but I forced a smile. “Sure. Hey, you must have a bunch of money by now. Want me to take it to the bank for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’m saving up for an iPod. If I pay for it, Dad said he’ll give me a hundred dollars’ worth of downloads.”

  I kept the smile pasted on. “Must be nice.”

  I trudged upstairs and threw on my clothes. But my mind wasn’t on cover footage. I went into my office and booted up the computer. Ten minutes and a few phone calls later, I was talking to Norman Desmond, who owned a bait and tackle shop in Star Lake and managed the airstrip on the side.

  “Desmond here….” His voice was deep but oddly musical.

  “Mr. Desmond, my name is Ellie Foreman. You don’t know me, but I think you know a friend of mine.”

  “And who might that be?” His inflection in just five words spanned at least an octave.

  “Luke Sutton.”

  There was a pause. “Well, now, miss—what did you say your name was?”

  “Foreman.”

  “Well, Miss Foreman, I might. Then again, I might not.”

  An equivocator. Just what I needed.

  “That’s odd, because he mentioned you by name.”

  “Lotta folks know me up here. Got the only bait and tackle shop around. Look, I’m kinda busy right now. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “You manage the airstrip, too, don’t you?”

  “That’s right.” He chuckled. “Not that we get all that much traffic.”

  I found myself mimicking his singsongy speech patterns. “Well, I wonder whether you could confirm something for me.” He didn’t answer. “Do you recall if Luke flew up to Star Lake on Thursday, the third week of June?” I scrambled for a calendar. “That would have been the nineteenth. He said he thought so, but I figured you’d know, since you manage the place.”

  I heard a swishing noise, then his voice, somewhat muffled. “No, no. You want to go after some muskies, best to start with some weighted suicks. Try some of those Reef Hawgs over there.” Another swishing sound, and he was back.

  “What’d you say you did, Miss Foreman?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He paused. “You a reporter?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Well, that narrows things down. You’re a friend of Luke’s?”

  “That’s right.” Did I sound as uncertain as I felt?

  “Well, you see, now, Miss Foreman, I got a problem. I just don’t feel right tattling on someone’s whereabouts to a perfect stranger. ’Cause as nice as you sound, we don’t know each other from Adam, I
don’t know why or what you’re gonna do with the information.”

  “But I’ll be glad to—”

  “And frankly, Miss Foreman, folks up here don’t like people knowing their business. So, until I know you a little better, or Luke tells me it’s okay to talk to you, I’m gonna have to pass. I hope you understand.” His rich tones resonated through the telephone.

  “Mr. Desmond, I’m just trying to pinpoint—”

  “Hey, why don’t you come on up and try some real fishing? Be happy to set you up with the right lures.”

  “If I did, would you tell me about Luke?”

  “No, but I’ll tell you how to catch a boatload of muskies.”

  ***

  Two hours later, I hugged the shore of Lake Geneva heading toward Black Point mansion. The most exclusive part of the resort town, Black Point is a woodsy, secluded area that stretches over a hundred acres and contains over seventy species of evergreens, according to the city’s website. The mansion itself has more than twenty rooms and is considered one of the best examples of the “great summer houses.” Its most unique feature is a tower that rises four stories off the ground and can be spotted from other points around the lake. I only caught a glimpse of it, though; I hadn’t called ahead, and the gates to the property were shut tight. There had been some controversy about it recently, I’d read. Visitors were probably scarce.

  I made some notes and then swung back into town. I took a look at the Golden Oaks mansion, which had been built by a doctor whom some called the father of Lake Geneva. It was now a bed-and-breakfast. Then I checked my map and drove past Maple Lawn, one of the oldest estates in the area; the old Wrigley estate called Green Gables; and mansions that once belonged to Montgomery Ward, John M. Smyth, and Richard Sears. Someone had told me members of the Outfit vacationed here during the summer, too, but somehow I didn’t think their homes would be on the map.

  All that wealth made me hungry, so just after two I parked behind the Mount Olympus restaurant. Although it was cloudy, it was still high season, and Main Street was thronged with summer people. Inside, nearly all of the tables were occupied. Kim bustled back and forth, as did a tall, gangly teenage girl with stringy blond hair. Summer help. The old man who’d been sipping ouzo the first time I came in was there, too.

  I grabbed a spot at the counter, figuring I’d have to wait, but the teenager promptly fished out a pad from the pocket of her apron and came over. I ordered a Greek salad with anchovies and a Diet Coke. She dutifully wrote it down and then disappeared through the swinging door.

  While I waited, I thought about a trip Barry and I had taken to California when Rachel was a baby. We’d gone to Monterey and stopped in at the aquarium on Cannery Row. The second floor housed a huge circular tank of anchovies. Anchovies are tiny fish, but what they lack in size they make up in speed, spinning around the tank so fast it’s impossible to track one fish. What we saw was a dizzying blur of silver, punctuated by an occasional burst of light when sunlight or the flash of a camera hit the tank. But the most fantastic part occurred when they changed direction. Hundreds, or maybe thousands, of the tiny creatures suddenly stopped, turned around, and whirled the other way. Simultaneously. I remember feeling dumbfounded as I watched. What prompted them to switch directions? Some kind of cosmic group consciousness? Or was it the random act of one anchovy—incapable, for whatever reason, of going with the flow—that triggered a chain reaction?

  I was still ruminating when my lunch arrived. I eyed the anchovy on my plate. Was he the troublemaker? If so, he’d paid dearly for it.

  “She get it right?” a voice said behind me.

  I twisted around. Kim Flynn was wearing a long apron over a T-shirt and jeans, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. With her hair off her face, she looked younger and more vulnerable than before, and very much like her late sister. She yanked a thumb in the direction of the teenager who’d taken my order. “She’s new. Gotta make sure she’s doing it right.”

  “Hello, Kim.” I set my fork down. The girl was now serving a table in the back. “She did just fine.”

  “Good.” Kim nodded and went behind the counter. “So what brings you back here? Besides our great food?” She busied herself refilling a salt shaker. Her expression was neutral. It occurred to me I’d never seen her smile.

  “I was scouting some locations for the video. Some of the old estates. They’re magnificent.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Hard to believe people could afford to build such huge homes.”

  She shrugged.

  A great conversationalist Kim wasn’t. I wondered how to broach the subject that was on my mind. “Kim, did you happen to see the news last night?”

  “No.” She folded the flap on the box of salt. “Actually, I’m kind of busy right now. Can this wait for a few minutes?”

  “Oh, sure. Sorry. I’m glad you’re so busy.”

  She nodded, a nod that was hard to read. “We need to be. Got a lot of bills to pay. But things should slow down soon.”

  I ate my salad at a leisurely pace, and thirty minutes later, the activity inside the restaurant did slow. Only two tables of customers remained. Even the man sipping ouzo was gone. Kim cleared the dirty dishes and motioned to the teenager to sponge down the tables. Wiping her hands on her apron, she rejoined me at the counter.

  “So what’s going on?”

  I pushed my plate away. “There was a story on a Chicago news station.” I went into the fact the police were analyzing shell casings and bullet fragments from all three sniper attacks. “Turns out the bullets used in the first and the third attack were probably .223s.”

  She gave me a puzzled frown.

  “They’re used in high-powered assault rifles, like an M16. But the interesting thing is that they don’t think that was the weapon used in Daria’s death.”

  “Oh?” I got the feeling she was trying to figure out what was so significant about that.

  “Bottom line, they found fragments that indicate the bullet was a .308.” When she frowned again, I added, “Which means a different rifle was used to kill Daria. One that wasn’t used to kill the other women. And a different rifle could mean a different shooter. Which means it could be a copycat.”

  She picked up the box of salt she’d been using to fill the salt shakers.

  “But it also opens up the possibility it was someone she knew.”

  She held the box of salt to her chest. “I’ll believe it when they get the guy.” She looked around, her gaze settling on the teenage waitress. “Is that why you’re here?”

  Kim didn’t think much of police investigations, I recalled. “No, like I said, I was scouting locations for cover footage. I might do an interview with Willetta Emerson. I understand her family were circus people at one time.”

  She seemed unimpressed.

  “I’d also like to find someone who knows something about the ice men.”

  “The ice men?” She put down the box. This time, she seemed surprised. “What do you know about them?”

  “Not much. Except that it was a pretty good business at one time. At least until refrigerators became common.”

  “That’s true.”

  An awkward pause ensued. I wasn’t winning any points in the conversation derby. “By the way, I heard about Anne Sutton.”

  She eyed me curiously. “You’re seeing all our dirty laundry, aren’t you?”

  I ignored the crack. “Did you know her?”

  “Everybody did.”

  “Do you remember when she died?”

  “Of course,” she snapped. “It changed—it changed everything.”

  “In what way?”

  For an instant she looked startled, as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. A stray lock of hair came loose across her face. “It was—well—one of those things you don’t forget.”

  “Like where you were when you heard Kennedy was shot.”

  “I was just a baby then.” She pushed the lock of hair bac
k under her hairnet. “Well, if that’s all, I’ve got to—”

  I decided I might as well just come out with it. “Kim, I found out your father worked for the Suttons.”

  She hesitated for a long moment. Then, “Of course he did.”

  That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected.

  She shook her head as though I was the most ignorant person on the planet. “My father was the Suttons’ caretaker for years. He’s the one who found Anne Sutton’s body.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. I thought I’d discovered a significant relationship between the Suttons and the Flynns. But Kim made it seem trivial.

  “How did he happen to work for them?”

  She eyed the salt, as if the answer was written on the back of the box. “My grandfather Flynn was the ice man in these parts. My father followed him into the business.”

  “Your father was an ice man?”

  She nodded. “It didn’t last. Eventually, the business collapsed, and the Suttons hired Dad to take care of their estate.” She paused. “He was lucky to get a job.”

  “How long did your father work for the Suttons?”

  The same lock of hair fell in front of her face. She tossed it back. “He was there before I was born. I guess about twenty years. Until Anne died. He—he went away after that.”

  “It must have been hard,” I said quietly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “To live with all that suspicion.”

  Her face turned steely. “What do you know about that?”

  I shrugged.

  Kim sniffed. “Willetta Emerson. That woman will say anything to anyone.”

  “I understand the pressure that must have put on you.”

  “Why do you always say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “That you understand. You sound like Clinton, you know? You can ‘feel our pain.’”

  I was taken aback. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to—”

  “You’re just trying to get as much information as you can.” She glared. “What I can’t figure out is why.”

  “That’s not fair, Kim. Your mother asked me to get back to her if I remembered anything. That’s all. I have no ulterior motive.” Which had been the case. Until the other day.