A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Now she’s changed her mind. That’s fine. I don’t want to be in the middle of something I’m not supposed to be. But given what I found inside that house, it’s clear that something is very wrong.” I nodded toward the house. “And I’m involved whether I want to be or not. The man in there doesn’t look like he died from natural causes.”

  Jimmy didn’t say anything.

  “Was he murdered?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, he nodded, almost grudgingly. “It looks as if we have a homicide.”

  “Who is he? What happened to him?”

  He turned around. “Ellie, did you ever think there might be a good reason why we don’t broadcast our problems?” Jimmy’s voice was sharp. “That it has something to do with not stirring up old memories? Painful ones that never healed?”

  “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

  “Why? Because you’ve heard rumors of relationships, news stories about copycat murders, and you put two and two together and come up with—I don’t know—six?”

  “You forgot strange men lurking around the ice house at the Suttons.”

  Jimmy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t see the face of the man who was hanging around the tool shed at the Suttons the other day. But I did see his clothes.”

  Jimmy’s faced darkened.

  “The man was wearing a plaid shirt and olive drab pants. Just like the man in that house.”

  ***

  Jimmy got out of my car and fished out his cell phone. When the call went through, he stepped away, preventing me from overhearing the conversation. I guessed it was someone back at the police station and that it had to do with locating Irene Flynn.

  Meanwhile, the detective who looked like Brad Pitt came out of the house carrying a plastic sandwich bag. Inside the bag was a small object about the size of a deck of cards. But his deceptively casual shamble didn’t mask his excitement, and he went over to an older man in a police uniform and white shirt who had just arrived and looked like he might be his boss. Jimmy joined them.

  “I think we have an ID on the victim,” Brad said confidently.

  The older man scratched his nose with his index finger. “What’cha got?”

  “It’s a bank book, sir. A passbook from a bank in Chicago.”

  “And?”

  “The name on the account is Herbert Flynn.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was after ten by the time they let me go home, but a cloud cover blanketed the night sky, holding in the day’s heat. The evidence technicians had finished, and the coroner was preparing to move the body. I’d been questioned so thoroughly by Jimmy and the Delavan cops I was convinced the only thing they didn’t know was the name of my best friend in kindergarten.

  I drove home, trying to make sense of what I’d heard. Herbert Flynn—Irene Flynn’s husband, Daria’s Flynn’s father—had been gone for thirty years. “Herbert’s gone…” Irene told me. I’d assumed that meant he was dead. But Herbert Flynn was the man walking around the ice house at the Suttons’. Which meant he was very much alive. Or had been, until a couple of days ago.

  Which also meant that Irene Flynn knew he was alive and had commandeered the Saturn to visit him. Why? Was it something I said at the restaurant? If so, what? And why was Herbert back in her life? Or had they been in contact the entire thirty years he’d been “gone”? I couldn’t imagine anyone living in that ramshackle house for three decades—and the bank book from Chicago indicated he didn’t—but if he had been elsewhere, where had he been and when did he come back? Why wasn’t he living at home? And why, after everything that happened, was he lurking around the Suttons’ ice house?

  The stripes dividing the highway lanes zipped by in a blur, unnaturally bright from the throw of my headlights. The timing was almost too precious. Daria Flynn was killed at a rest stop in June. A month later, her father, who’d presumably been gone for thirty years after being suspected of killing Anne Sutton, returned and was killed. Was there a connection? When I’d mentioned it to Jimmy, his frown deepened, but all he said was, “Yes. It is interesting.” Even I knew that was cop talk for “we’re all over it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I woke up the next morning to a steady rain. I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, made coffee, and prowled restlessly around the house. I’d planned to go over to Mac’s to edit, but I called and told Hank to go ahead without me. His rough cut would be better without my shpulkes.

  I wandered back into the kitchen and took out the vacuum. Cleaning the house usually centers me—I subscribe to the “ordered house–ordered mind” theory of housekeeping. I started to dust and vacuum the family room, but it was a halfhearted effort. Before long I gave up and watched the rain pool unevenly on the street, forming series of puddles that eventually overflowed into each other to form larger ones. The rain drumming on the roof was a solemn accompaniment to my thoughts.

  I wasn’t a party to the history between the Flynns and the Suttons, but I had found Herbert Flynn’s body, and I’d met pretty much everyone in both families. All of which gave me an awkward but genuine connection to them. I doubted I’d learn much more from the Flynns, however. They were probably besieged with police anyway.

  But there was another possibility. I grabbed my bag and headed out to the car. I’d already dealt with the Hatfields. It was time to try the McCoys.

  ***

  When I pulled up to Monticello, I saw several cars including a police cruiser and a van parked in the Suttons’ circular driveway. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. When I spotted Luke’s pickup, though, a pleasant shiver ran through me. I trotted up to the front door, dodging the rain, trying to convince myself he wasn’t the reason I was here. I was about to lift the brass knocker when I noticed a buzzer on the side of the door. A series of musical notes chimed when I pressed it. Footsteps approached right away. Maybe they were Luke’s.

  They weren’t. A matronly woman wearing thick glasses, a blue shirtwaist dress, and white gym shoes opened the door. “Yes?”

  I drew in a breath. “Mrs. Sutton? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could speak to Luke.”

  “Who are you?” she asked crisply.

  “My name is Ellie Foreman. I’m—”

  “Sit there.” She pointed to what looked like a pair of silk upholstered deck chairs on either side of a long walnut console. “I’ll see if Mr. Sutton can see you. I’m Mrs. Baines.”

  Of course. The housekeeper. I sat in one of the chairs. Mrs. Baines climbed a set of stairs that, from my vantage point, seemed to ascend directly to the dome on top of the house, though there had to be a landing and second story tucked behind them. Even though it was raining, light poured in from the windows. The marble floor, in alternating squares of black and white, was art deco, but the portraits on the walls, formally posed people whom I didn’t recognize, gave out a John Sargent turn-of-the-century feel. The console was so ornate and glossy I felt insignificant in the low-slung deck chair beside it. Which probably was the intention.

  A short time later, a door closed somewhere upstairs, and a man came down the steps.

  “What do you want?” I gazed into a pair of angry eyes. Chip Sutton was wearing pressed jeans and a crisp button-down oxford shirt, but there was stubble on his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot. He gripped the edge of the banister.

  “I—I’d like to speak to Luke.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s—it’s confidential.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He kept a tight grip on the banister. “I don’t think my brother wants to talk about anything with you. Especially anything confidential.”

  “Why don’t you let him decide?” Perversely, his hostility buoyed me.

  “You think you can just show up, demand to see my brother, who you practically accused of murder, and expect to be welcomed with open arms?” His finger stabbed the air in my direction. “Who the hel
l do you think you are?”

  This was the worst of all possible outcomes. I drew myself up, affecting a calm I didn’t feel. “Look, Chip, I don’t want to cause a scene, but—”

  “Chip, dear, who’s there?” A female voice cut me off.

  Chip looked over his shoulder. Then he looked back at me. The female voice called again. “What’s going on, son?”

  A wraithlike woman descended the stairs behind him. She was wearing a white silk robe. Her hair was so blond the light seemed to bounce off it, but there were deep lines on her face. I put her somewhere in her seventies. She looked like she’d been in the process of putting on makeup but had been interrupted. One eye had eyeliner and mascara, but the other was naked.

  When she saw me, she stopped on the bottom stair. “Annie?” she asked tentatively. “Is that you?” Her voice was soft, almost breathless. A cloud of perfume surrounded her. Chanel.

  I looked at Chip. A strange expression had come over him: pain, sadness, and something else I couldn’t identify. He clasped the woman’s hand.

  “No, Mom. It’s not Anne. Annie’s gone.”

  She turned to me with a deep frown. “Anne’s gone?” She gazed at me, as if my face held the answer to her question. Then a beatific smile came over her. “Of course. She’s at school.” She nodded, the kind of nod that expects an affirmative response.

  Chip shot me a warning look.

  “Mrs. Sutton. My name is Ellie Foreman.”

  She gave me a blank look. Then a small smile. “Have we met?”

  I smiled back. “No. I’m here—well—I was hoping I could see Luke.”

  Her smile widened into a grin. “Luke, is it? I should have known. All the girls want to see Luke.” She turned to Chip. “Don’t they, sweetheart?”

  She glanced back at Chip, who stood behind her, his arms stiffly folded.

  “Now, Chip,” Gloria went on. “Don’t be cranky. Your turn’s coming.”

  Chip’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He was controlling himself. But just barely.

  I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Sutton, could I see Luke now?”

  She faced me again, as if for the first time. “Of course. Let me find him for you.” She came down the last step and started across the marble floor, the scent of Chanel trailing her. As soon as she was out of earshot, Chip muttered, “Get out of here. Before I get the police.”

  Gloria disappeared through a door on the first level. I stood my ground. “Not until I talk to Luke.”

  Chip squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. When he opened them again, the anger was still there, but something else was there, too. Futility and sorrow, both wrapped up in an oddly desperate quality. For a quick second, he looked almost human. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  I wondered what he was talking about. It didn’t take long to find out. Gloria came back into the hall, striding purposefully in my direction. I craned my neck, hoping that Luke was behind her, but she was alone. Her forehead was now lined, and the lower part of her jaw flickered.

  “I’m sorry, but Luke isn’t available right now,” she said coolly, her cordiality gone.

  “He’s—he’s not?”

  “He’s not seeing anyone. But I’ll tell him that you called.”

  “Mrs. Sutton, are you sure? I don’t—”

  Chip stepped in front of his mother. “You heard my mother. Now get out.”

  I looked at Gloria, then at Chip. Gloria stood in the hall, not moving. Her eyes lost focus and she went limp, like she might collapse at any time. Chip grabbed his mother’s arm and steered her toward the stairs. She offered no resistance. “Mrs. Baines? Where are you? Mother’s robe is dirty. You need to change it.”

  I watched Chip half push, half drag his mother up the stairs. I hadn’t seen a speck of dirt. At the top of the landing, he turned around. His parting words sliced through me like a knife. “Are you satisfied?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I let myself out of the Suttons’ home and started back down the driveway. Rain lashed my skin and clothes, but I didn’t notice. It was clear Mrs. Sutton was more than a recluse; something was seriously amiss. I wondered whether she was getting any help, aside from a housekeeper who whisked her away at the first sign of distress.

  I headed to my car. Luke’s mother was nuts, his brother pathetic, and his father was obsessed with a man who’d been dead two hundred years. Despite their cushion of wealth, this was not the profile of a steady, secure family. I could hear my father. “Stay away from these people,” he would say, shaking his head. “They have tsuris.”

  “Ellie! Ellie Foreman!”

  I spun around. Willetta Emerson was waving to me from the far end of the Suttons’ driveway. Huddling under a red umbrella, she made a stark contrast to the gray, rainy day.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  I went over and shook my head. My clothes were plastered to my skin, my sandals squeaked, and I was shivering.

  “I was trying to talk to Luke Sutton.”

  “You were, now?” She looked me up and down, a nimble feat considering her eyebrows were as high as the sky. Water dripped down between my shoulderblades.

  “It’s about Herbert Flynn, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “This is just—well, it’s such a tragedy.” She twirled the stem of her umbrella. “What’s your connection to him?”

  “I was there when they found his body.”

  Her mouth opened. Then, she put her arm around my shoulder and started walking me up the path. “Well, now, you just come on inside with me.”

  I ducked under her umbrella and let her take the lead. As we got to her front door, she glanced back toward the Suttons’ driveway. “That’s Jimmy Saclarides’ car in front of yours. They’ve been here all morning. Look.”

  I hadn’t realized the gold Toyota Camry parked ahead of my Volvo was Jimmy’s. The only time I’d seen him behind the wheel was in a cruiser. Was he closeted in the house with Luke? Was he the one who told Gloria that Luke couldn’t see me?

  “No, over there.” Willetta motioned.

  She pointed beyond the Toyota to the Suttons’ backyard. I looked over. The door to the ice house was open, and yellow crime scene tape was stretched around it. A pile of boards and planks were heaped on the lawn near the entrance. “What’s going on?”

  She flashed me a significant look and steered me inside. We went into the kitchen, where I sat in the same chair. Willetta went into a small room off the kitchen and returned with a towel. While I dried off, she took the kettle to the sink and started to fill it. Then she turned off the faucet. “No. This calls for something stronger.”

  Opening one of the cabinets, she pulled out a new bottle of bourbon and tore off the paper seal. She settled herself in her chair and poured a shot for both of us. She picked hers up and swilled it down. Her eyes grew watery. She pushed my shot toward me. I shook my head.

  “I was checking the downspouts outside this morning. One of ’em broke off, and with all this rain, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t flooding the window well. It was, and I was thinking I’d have to call the handyman when a couple of police cruisers and Jimmy’s car pulled up to Chuck’s.” She stopped. “I haven’t seen that many policemen since…well….” She reached for the bourbon and refilled her glass. “Well, knowing how skittish Gloria is with strangers and all….”

  I took a sip. “Skittish” was putting it mildly.

  “Well, I decided to do the neighborly thing and go on over. Gloria might need some help. Women’s help, you know?” She shot me a sidelong glance, as if she was testing out her theory on me. I kept my face neutral. “So I did. And….” She nodded at me. “She did.”

  “Mrs. Baines couldn’t provide it?”

  “She’s—well—she’s just the housekeeper. She needed someone to hold her hand.” Willetta shrugged again. “So I went into the study. That’s where everyone was holed up. And well, it seems as if the police found a bank book that belonged to Herbert Flynn.�
�

  “I was there when they found it.”

  “Child, we do have a lot to talk about.” She gazed at me with something close to admiration. “Then you know Herbert barely had enough to rub two sticks together.”

  I shook my head. “No one said how much was in it.”

  “Well, I can tell you it wasn’t much. The police called and went right down to the bank—it was in Chicago.” She looked at her glass. “I always wondered where Herbert went to. Anyway, that’s when they found out he had a safe-deposit box, too.”

  “A safe-deposit box?”

  “They got some kind of special order to open it up, and when they did, they found a key.”

  “A key?”

  “Turned out to be a key to the lock on the ice house. Course it was old and rusty, and it didn’t work—Chuck had replaced the lock.”

  “Then how did they know it unlocked the ice house?”

  “They didn’t. They guessed. Jimmy said someone had seen Herbert around the ice house recently.”

  I raised my hand. “Guilty.”

  “Well, you’re all over the place, aren’t you? How do you find the time to make your video?”

  I ignored the dig. “I saw him the day I was here talking to you. I thought he was the Suttons’ gardener.”

  Her eyebrows arched again.

  “Wait a second, Willetta. Are you saying the police linked that key to the ice house just because I saw him there? That sounds like a pretty flimsy connection.”

  “No. There was a note, too.”

  “A note? In the safe-deposit box?”

  “No. In the Delavan house. Herbert wrote it.”

  “What did it say?”

  She threw up her hands. “Now, that’s the thing. I don’t know. When they brought it up, Gloria—well—she got upset, and I had to take her upstairs and bring her a cup of tea.” A frustrated look came over her. “But whatever he wrote, it was enough for them to come over here first thing, break the lock, and start tearing up the floor of the ice house.”

  The pile of boards on the lawn.