A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “If it matches the fragments we already have, I’d say we’re in good shape.”

  “I got more good news,” the other tech piped up from the bed of the pickup.

  Milanovich whipped around.

  “I just lifted a great pair of prints.”

  Milanovich looked positively joyful.

  ***

  “It’s a problem,” Susan said as we walked the bike path that afternoon. A spring-like breeze tossed a cool wash of air around us. “How can you possibly believe this man?”

  “I don’t think he did it.” I skirted a heavily leafed bush bowed over by its own weight.

  “Right.” She sniffed. “Neither did Ted Bundy. Or Gacy. Or Andrew Cunanan.”

  “Susan, that’s not fair. There’s absolutely no evidence linking him to any of the rest stop murders.”

  “I don’t have to be fair when it concerns my best friend. This is a man who refuses to talk about his sister’s murder, but yet his shirt shows up with her clothes. This is a man who claims to have been at his fishing cabin when the girl was killed at the rest stop, but you haven’t the faintest idea whether that’s true. Tell me, where did he say he was when the other man—Herbert Flynn—was killed?”

  “I’ve been meaning to find out.”

  “You do that. And by the way, if I recall, a month ago you were wondering whether he was involved in the rest stop murder.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “You thought he was an arrogant, spoiled, rich boy then. Were you wrong about that, too?”

  I winced. “Yes.”

  “Ellie, why don’t you go down to Cook County Jail and fall in love with a prisoner? It would be a lot safer.”

  “Susan! Stop.”

  She stopped and faced me. “I’m sorry. But did you ever think that possibly—just possibly—all of this is part of a rebound effect?”

  I felt myself get tight. “What are you getting at?”

  “What I mean is that—is this attraction a reaction to your problems with David?”

  “David?”

  “The two of you never really gave it a chance. You let yourselves be buffeted by events. Neither of you slowed down long enough to evaluate things. It’s not all passion and butterflies, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I snapped.

  “Are you?” She peered over. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  I picked up a stone and palmed it. Being criticized by a daughter, an ex-husband, even a father is one thing, but when it’s coming from your best friend, it’s quite another. “David and I aren’t together anymore,” I said slowly. “And whether I’m on the rebound or not isn’t the issue. The fact is that I don’t think Luke Sutton killed anyone. At the same time, I do concede there is a lot he’s not talking about. But that’s because his lawyer advised him not to.”

  “Great,” Susan said. “Not only are you hot for his body, but you’re willing to look the other way at the gaps—I mean canyons—in his story.”

  “Susan, why are you being so—so judgmental?”

  She picked a leaf off a bush as we passed. “Listen to me, Ellie. What if the shoe were on the other foot? What if I broke up with Doug and got involved with someone who might be connected—hell, might even be a suspect—in not one, but possibly two—no, three—murders, if you count the caretaker.” She paused. “You’d be all over me in a heartbeat. What do I have to say? I’m worried about you.” She started down the path again. “And I’m not the only one.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She turned around and bit her lip. Then, “I swore I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Your father called me.”

  “Dad? What about?”

  “You haven’t talked to him in over a week. He doesn’t know what you’re up to. Or why you haven’t called. He thinks you’re angry at him.”

  I thought about it. Dad had called a couple of times since we had lunch. I hadn’t called him back. “Did he say why?”

  “No.” She peered at me again in her expectant but knowing way. When I didn’t answer, she said, “Are you angry?”

  I ran my fingers over the stone in my hand. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. Subconsciously.”

  “Why?”

  “Because….” This time I stopped. “I just found out I had a brother.”

  Susan slowed. I told her about Joseph. Three horizontal lines appeared on her forehead when I had finished. Finally she said, “So you’re punishing him for not telling you about a brother who lived only a day or so, years before you were born?”

  “I—I didn’t think I was. But I’m entitled to be upset, aren’t I?”

  “Upset, maybe. Sad, certainly. Angry? I don’t know. This all happened before you were born. It didn’t affect you. It was something your parents had to deal with. Which they ultimately did, by having you.”

  “Still, it would have been nice if they’d shared it with me.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “It might have explained a lot about my mother—and my relationship with her. I always wondered why she was so—so remote. And my father—well, he basically admitted they should have told me.”

  “Your mother had her reasons,” Susan said. “And while you might not approve of them, why hold them against your father?”

  A wave of guilt started to bubble up from my gut. Susan was right. That’s what I’d been doing. “I—I’ll call him.”

  Susan nodded, and we picked up our pace.

  “But you see? Lousy communication isn’t limited to the Suttons,” I said. “Lots of families have secrets.”

  “But not every family is connected to three murders.”

  “Listen to me. To believe Luke killed his sister, you have to believe he was capable of raping her, and then, for whatever reason, killing her or letting her drown. He’s just not that kind of man. No one knows what happened to Herbert Flynn. And as far as Daria Flynn’s murder is concerned, well, that’s just malicious gossip.” I paused. “Except now it turns out a former employee at the Flynns’ restaurant is dead.”

  “Another body?”

  I explained about Billy Watkins.

  “My god, Ellie. There are dark doings in that town. Four murders, bloody shirts, rifles, meth labs….You know I love you, but this time, you might have gone too far.”

  “Just a minute. Bear with me. We’ve already established that the communication in the Sutton family is miserable. That no one talks to anyone. What if Luke’s being pressured to keep his mouth shut?”

  “By whom? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Someone in the shadows?”

  “Now we’re moving into conspiracy theories.” Susan rolled her eyes. “What is it you really want from me?”

  “An open mind, for starters.”

  “Now who’s being snippy?”

  I stopped and spread my hands. “I’m sorry. I guess I am on edge. And I do know you’re only looking out for my interests. Thank you for caring.”

  She ran a hand down my arm. “I’m sorry, too. I can get carried away.” She smiled. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” I smiled back. We started walking again. “But I would like to do some research.”

  “What for?”

  “Turns out Luke managed the airstrip at the Playboy Club the summer of seventy-four. If we can prove he was working at the time his sister died, it might exonerate him.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?” Then she corrected herself. “Oh, right. He’s not talking.” She pursed her lips. “Why can’t his lawyers find an alibi for him? Why do you have to do it?”

  “I don’t have to. I want to. It’s not a big deal. I’ll just put out a few feelers. Try to find someone who worked or was hanging around there that summer.”

  Susan didn’t say anything.

  “You think it’s a lousy idea.”

  “You know I do.” We marched to the end of the path. The sun, released from the shade of the trees, cast a hard glare on us
. Then she sighed. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this.”

  “Tell me what?”

  She turned around. “I’m going to regret it, I’m sure. But I know someone who worked up at the Playboy Club. She was a bunny.”

  “A bunny? That’s perfect!”

  “I don’t know when she worked there—it might not have been the same time you’re looking at. But she might know someone who was there in seventy-four.”

  “Who is it? I’ll call her.”

  She eyed me curiously. “You already know her.”

  “Susan….”

  “I want you to know I don’t approve of any of this.”

  “I hear you. Now, who are you talking about?”

  A tiny smile appeared on her lips. “Julia Hauldren.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  This was turning out to be a day of making amends. As soon as I got home, I called my father. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “For what?”

  “I blamed you for not telling me about Joseph. I was wrong.”

  “We should have told you.”

  “Mother had her reasons. I just wish—well—it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “You always thought she didn’t love you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m not totally oblivious, sweetheart. I could see how much you wanted her approval. And how your sweet little face crumpled when you didn’t get it.” He paused. “But she loved you, Ellie. More than life itself. She just couldn’t express it.”

  My eyes felt hot. I wasn’t sure I could speak. “Thank you, Daddy,” I finally managed.

  We were quiet. Then he cleared his throat. “Now, what’s this I hear about you and the Sutton family? I thought I told you—”

  Susan. “Er…nothing, Dad.”

  “When you say that, I worry more.”

  “It’s just—I think someone is being falsely accused of a crime.”

  “Someone who happens to have the name Luke Sutton?”

  How much had Susan told him? I debated whether to ask, then decided not to. I didn’t need his disapproval, too. “Dad, I’m not in any danger. And I don’t intend to be.”

  “Not the physical kind.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “The Sutton family are bad news. Always have been.”

  “Why? Just because their daughter died and the mother couldn’t handle it?”

  Dad was quiet a moment. “Ellie, Charles Sutton is not a man to be trifled with. He’s powerful. And cunning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The rumor is he tripled the family’s assets by his acquisitions and investments.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “Not necessarily. But he always seems to get what he wants.”

  “He’s mostly retired now.”

  Dad blew out a breath. “You think that means he’s relinquished control? Sweetheart, I know you and David are having problems, but—”

  “It’s more than that, Dad. We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

  There was silence. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  Dad had always been fond of David. Part of it was the fact that he’d once been in love with David’s mother, but now something occurred to me. Was David, in some way, a surrogate for the son my father never had? I closed my eyes. “Sometimes you just have to cut your losses and get out,” I said quietly. “At least, that’s what someone who I know and love tells me.”

  “You know you’ve had an impact when your children quote you,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “You just don’t know if it’s good or bad. But listen, sweetheart, about the Suttons—”

  “If I didn’t have you, Dad, I’d be lost,” I cut in. I couldn’t hear any more. Luke wasn’t like his father, or the rest of his family. Was he? “I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  ***

  The next thing I did was swallow my pride and drive over to Julia Hauldren’s. She lived a few blocks away in a small brick colonial that wasn’t much bigger than mine. In the front yard were a tricycle, a bike with training wheels, and a kiddie swimming pool, filled. A few twigs floated on the water’s surface.

  Rachel looked shocked when she opened the door. “Mom. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, honey.” I gave her my most reassuring smile. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Can I come in?”

  She stepped back, and I walked into Julia’s living room. It looked like a tornado had touched down. The TV blared, and small plastic tubs of paint littered the floor. Newspapers had been thrown down haphazardly, and sheets of construction paper smudged with every imaginable shade of paint lay on top. In the center of the floor, like the eye of the hurricane, were Julia’s daughter and son stretched out on the floor, calmly painting. The little girl had red smears on her arm; the boy had suspicious colors in his hair. Rachel might be the Pied Piper of the preschool set, but her housekeeping skills were more like Pig Pen’s.

  “Does Julia know you make this much of a mess?”

  Rachel hung her head. “I clean up before she gets home.”

  “You do?” I have to read her the riot act before she’ll deign to pick up anything at home. “When will she be home?”

  Rachel glanced at a wall clock in the kitchen. “Actually, she should be back in a few minutes.” She came out and scurried around, picking up newspapers and sheets of construction paper, some of which were still wet.

  While she straightened up, I looked around. Julia’s house was less than a mile from mine, and judging from the mismatched furniture, which on the North Shore we call “eclectic,” not shabby, she was on a similar budget. She had more of a knack for decorating than me, though. I spotted a faux-cloisonné enamel bowl that probably came from Tuesday Morning and an Oriental runner in the hall that I thought I remembered from Costco. Rachel stopped cleaning long enough to call over her shoulder, “Mom, I don’t need a ride home, you know. I rode my bike.”

  “I know.”

  She turned around and stared at me. “So why are you here?”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to Julia.”

  “About what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It’s not about you,” I said. “Or your father.”

  Rachel squinted as if she didn’t believe me. I shrugged. She opened her mouth but was cut off by the slam of a screen door. A voice called out from the kitchen. “Hey, guys, I’m home. Anyone here?”

  “Hi, Julia,” Rachel answered. “We’re in here.”

  Footsteps clacked across a narrow hallway, and Julia appeared at the entrance to the living room. When she saw me, she stopped. She was wearing cutoffs, a pink T-shirt, and sandals. Her blond hair was pinned up in a twist. “Ellie. Is something wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine.” I tried out a smile.

  She didn’t return it. “Oh. You’re here to pick up Rachel.” She turned to Rachel. “I thought you rode your bike.”

  “Actually, Julia, I came to talk to you. If that’s okay.”

  The frown deepened, but she was polite. “Of course.”

  I shot a sidelong glance at Rachel, who, despite her efforts at cleaning up, was listening to us with three ears.

  Julia nodded. “Rachel,” she said sweetly. “Honey, would you mind throwing the kids into the tub while I talk to your mother?”

  “They’re not dirty. We went swimming.”

  Julia just looked at her. Rachel shot a sullen look at me, then Julia. “Come on guys,” she sighed. “You heard the drill sergeant.”

  Julia and I exchanged smiles as they trooped up the stairs. Then Julia turned to me. “How about a glass of wine?”

  I checked my watch. Barely four. I nodded.

  “Follow me.” She led the way back into the kitchen. Two bags of groceries sat on a butcher block table. She got out two glasses, opened the fridge, took out a half-gallon jug of wine, and poured generous amounts into both.

&nbs
p; “Thanks,” I said as she handed one to me.

  She took a sip of hers and then started to unpack the grocery bags. “Hope you don’t mind.” She pulled out a box of Cheerios, lettuce, and a box of Wheat Thins, and started to put them away. Then she brought the box of Wheat Thins over to the table and ripped the plastic liner. “I love these.” She dipped in and brought out a handful. “Less than ten calories apiece. Much better than chips.” She pushed the box toward me. “So, what’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  Shaking my head, I grabbed some crackers. “Everything’s fine. And I want to thank you for giving Rachel something to do this summer. It’s been a godsend for her.”

  “For me, too. I don’t know what I would have done without her. During the school year, there’s time to regroup before three o’clock, you know? But in summer, with two kids underfoot all the time, it can be a long day.”

  “Why don’t you send them to camp?”

  “Can’t afford it.”

  I stuffed three crackers in my mouth, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

  Julia turned around. “No problem.” She hesitated. “Their father—well—he’s not that dependable with his support payments.”

  “I know that tune,” I said between bites. Then I realized who I was talking to. “Oh, shit. I—I’m really putting my foot in today.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She started to giggle. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? Men, I mean.”

  “Well.” I finished chewing and allowed myself a shy grin. “Well, not all of them.”

  “Name two who aren’t. Excluding ex-husbands.”

  I picked up my glass. “Not on a bet.”

  She folded the now empty paper bags and put them in a closet. The sounds of running water drifted down from upstairs. I heard Rachel say, “Alley oop. In you go.”

  Julia refilled our wineglasses and sat down. “Okay. What gives? I know this isn’t a social visit.”

  I straightened up. “Okay. Here it is. You were once a Playboy bunny up at Lake Geneva, I understand.”

  A look of surprise came over her. “Who told you?”

  “Why? Is it a secret?”

  “Not at all, but it’s not something I go around broadcasting.” She waved a hand. “At least in this neighborhood.”

  “It was Susan Siler,” I confessed.