A Shot to Die For (18 page)

“If it’s that bad, why do you stay around? Why not just pick up and move?”

“Where am I gonna go? My mother won’t leave. Her family’s been here forever. And I don’t have enough money to set up a new household. Besides, now, since she’s been so sick….” She gazed around the restaurant. “I’m trapped. I have no options.” Her rage etched deep lines on her face. “That’s what the Suttons did to me.”

“But Daria left…or was planning to.”

“Daria always did what she wanted. She was very good at taking care of herself. She never would have—”

“Kim, stop this. Right now,” an angry voice cracked.

Kim spun around. Irene Flynn had come through the swinging door. She must have been standing there for a while, but I was so involved in talking to Kim, I hadn’t registered her presence.

“Mrs. Flynn. I had no idea you were here.”

It had only been a few weeks since she’d visited my house, but Irene had changed. Her face was pinched, and the lines carved across her forehead seemed deeper. Her spine was still impossibly straight, but she still looked weary and fragile, not nearly strong enough to handle a shift in the kitchen. But then, the will to persevere can overcome all sorts of deficiencies, and Irene certainly had the will. She leaned against the wall. “Kim, you have more important things to do than whine.”

I rose to Kim’s defense. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Flynn. I was just telling her what I heard on the news last night, and then we just started to—”

“Is—is it something about Daria?” Irene asked.

Kim shook her head. “She was asking about Dad. And Anne Sutton.”

A series of emotions paged across Irene’s face. A frown, then concern, then something deeper. Almost fear. “Who told you about that?”

“Willetta Emerson.” Kim spat it out.

“Figures.” Irene flicked her hand dismissively.

“I found some articles also,” I added.

She looked at me with empty eyes and a tight-lipped smile that only the most naïve person would consider mirthful. “Anne Sutton has nothing to do with Daria. If you have news about my daughter, that’s one thing. But don’t come here gossiping about events from thirty years ago.”

“Well, Irene, as a matter of fact, I do have some news about Daria.”

“What’s that?” She looked slightly irritated. I had the feeling I was keeping her from something important.

“You remember the rumors about meetings between Daria and Luke Sutton?” She tensed. “Well, it seems as if Daria wanted Luke to hire her.”

“What?” Kim looked incredulous.

I told her what Luke had said on the plane. When I had finished, Kim ran a hand through her hair, her fingers tangling in the hairnet. Given her bitterness toward the Suttons, she probably thought her sister was consorting with the enemy.

“How do you know that?”

“Luke.”

She looked confused. “You talked to Luke?”

“Yesterday.”

“Where? How?”

“At the airstrip. We were shooting pickups, and—and he was there.” I didn’t go into details.

Kim’s gaze locked on me. The corners of her mouth twitched, but as with her mother, it wasn’t a smile. I shifted. Both Flynn women were making me nervous. And when I’m nervous, I talk too much. “Like I said, he’s—he’s starting a new airline. No frills. It seemed reasonable, you know. With Daria wanting to be a caterer and all.”

Kim’s stare deepened. I felt like an insect pinned under a microscope.

“And now you don’t think he and Daria were having an affair?”

“It doesn’t seem as likely as before.” I was babbling now. Filling the air with noise. I needed to change the subject. “Did I tell you I saw the Suttons’ ice house the other day?”

If anything, Kim’s expression hardened. “You seem to be traveling in all the right circles.”

I forced myself not to react. “I was hoping to include something about the ice business in the video. You know, this is what Lake Geneva used to look like a century ago. That kind of thing.” I stopped. I was repeating myself.

Now both Kim and her mother were staring at me.

“It would have been wonderful to get a shot with ice inside, you know? For the video. But it probably won’t happen. I understand they use it as a tool shed now.”

Neither woman said anything.

“At least that’s what I guessed when I saw their gardener.”

Kim stood very still. “Their gardener?”

“A tall man with a plaid shirt. He was just finishing up for the day. At least that’s what it looked like.” Kim’s attitude was taking its toll. I was spouting effluents. Anything to get her off my back.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Then, “Well, now, Miss Foreman,” Irene Flynn said tartly, “I think it’s time to stop focusing on Daria.” She drew herself up. “I know I asked you to get back to me if you remembered anything Daria said. But I had no idea you would stir things up like this. We need to move on. So, it’s over. No more of this.” She slipped her hands behind her waist and untied her apron. “Kim, I need some air. I’m going for a walk.”

“Give me five minutes, Mother. I’ll go with you.”

“No.” Irene waved a hand. “You have the restaurant to run. I’ll be fine.”

Kim looked worried.

“I’ll take the cane.” Irene pushed through the swinging door. A moment later, I heard the angry clatter of pots.

Kim eyed me. “I’d better go.”

I hoped she didn’t see my relief.

Chapter Twenty-six

I threw down a ten-dollar bill and went out to my car. It had taken all my energy to deal with the Flynns. The experience reminded me of the police interrogation the time I was caught shoplifting. I’d done the same thing then, too: jabbered away, confessing to everything, just to make it stop. I’d make a lousy career criminal. Still, I was grateful Irene’s focus on her daughter’s death appeared to be waning. Maybe she
was
trying to move on. I should probably cut her—and Kim—some slack.

Back in my car, I adjusted the rearview mirror, checked my seat position, and ran my hand down the strap of my seat belt. I was finished for the day, but I didn’t want to go home. Kim’s venom toward the Suttons had unnerved me. Not just because she thought the Suttons were powerful and devious and would do anything to have their own way. I wanted to believe Luke was different. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know. The one attempt I’d made to find out—confirming whether he’d been at the family’s fishing cabin when he claimed to be—hadn’t been very successful.

And yet, ever since the plane ride, I’d been parsing every word of our conversation. Had he meant something significant when he said he enjoyed himself? What was he really saying when he apologized for his brother? Or when he kissed me on the cheek? I was aware that my feelings for him had developed fast. Maybe too fast. But I couldn’t do much to stop them. Correction. I didn’t want to.

I sighed and started the engine. It was time to go home. I was backing out of the lot when I saw Irene Flynn emerge from the rear of the restaurant. She tentatively made her way to the gray Saturn, wearing the same troubled expression I’d seen inside. She’d said she was going for a walk; her cane must have been in the car. I waited for her to open the passenger door and get it. Instead she went around to the driver’s side.

When she climbed into the driver’s seat, I grew alarmed. She was still recovering from a stroke. She shouldn’t be driving. When she started the engine, I tensed. She was taking a huge risk. What if she had an accident? Even my father, who is still relatively healthy, surrendered his license a few years ago, admitting that his reflexes weren’t what they once were. Irene was younger than Dad, but her health was more precarious.

She keyed the engine, threw the car in reverse, and swung out of the lot. The car lurched forward and she turned onto Main Street heading west at a fast clip. Why was she in such a hurry? Was she still upset about our conversation? There
had
been a palpable shift in her mood when I brought up Anne Sutton and Herbert. But he’d been dead for thirty years. Why would discussing him make her so irritable?

I checked the time. It was still early, and I didn’t have any place I needed to be. I debated whether to follow Irene, at least for a few miles. It was out of my way—but I’d feel better if I knew she was okay. She was only about a block ahead. I pulled out behind her.

***

In thinking over the events of that afternoon, I still find it hard to believe Irene didn’t know I was following her. I had no clue how to tail someone, and she’d seen my car. The only conclusion I can draw is that she was so focused on her destination she was oblivious to the journey. We drove west on Route 50 past a string of farms, tract houses, and farm implements dealers. The sky was still gray, a humid, sweat-soaking gray. I rolled the window down and heavy air rushed in, smelling like a mix of manure, honeysuckle, and the slightly astringent odor of asphalt.

Ten minutes later, we cruised past a golf course attached to Lake Lawn Lodge. Landmarks started to appear closer together, and I realized we were on the outskirts of Delavan. Irene turned off the highway and then turned again. I stayed a few car lengths behind. We clattered over railroad tracks, and after another turn, she started down a street whose name was a number—Sixth.

We were on a residential block, not very well heeled by the look of it. Some of the houses looked seedy and run-down. One had boarded-up windows, another a yard of packed dirt marked by a rusty tricycle and a flat tire. Irene seemed to know where she was going. Two thirds of the way down the block, she stopped at a one-story house with aluminum siding. The windows were covered with yellowed shades. A rickety porch led to a door with a thick mesh screen.

I waited at the other end of the block. The street was quiet. No children playing outside. No one walking a dog. Time seemed to have passed over this stretch of civilization. Time and attention. But something had drawn Irene here.

She slid out of the car and made her way to the porch, leaning heavily on her cane. When she reached the front door, she shifted the cane to her other hand and pressed the buzzer. A minute later, she rang again and switched the cane back. When nothing happened after a third ring, she pulled the screen door open. Sneaking a look in both directions, she pushed on the front door. A wedge of black space appeared; the door was unlocked. She went inside.

I chewed my lip, unsure what to do. I decided to wait five more minutes, then cruise slowly by the house. If I saw nothing unusual, I’d head home. I leaned back against the headrest to wait.

Two minutes later, the front door flew open, and Irene Flynn stumbled out with the cane, her free hand clasped over her mouth. She staggered off the porch. The screen door banged loudly. She lurched across the yard. With a strength I wouldn’t have thought possible, she flung open the car door. Before getting in, she gulped down a few ragged breaths. She glanced back at the house over her shoulder, then buried her face in her hands. Finally, she threw herself into the Saturn, started the engine, and pulled away so fast the tires squealed.

A chill crawled up my spine. I looked back at the house. The door was still ajar. Whatever Irene had just seen or done had filled her with dread. I didn’t know what to do. Should I try to catch up with the Saturn, intercept Irene, and make sure she was okay? Or should I take a look myself?

I wasn’t foolish enough to go into a strange house alone. Especially if whatever was inside was as frightening as Irene thought it was. But something inside wasn’t right. Maybe I should go to one of the neighbors. No. How would I explain what I was doing here? But I couldn’t leave. What if someone was hurt?

In the end, I compromised. Irene would be back at the restaurant at some point. I could find her later. But I’d probably never come back to this house again. I decided to walk up to the front door. I wouldn’t step inside, and if I didn’t see anything, I’d leave. But if I did see something—well—I’d deal with it.

I climbed out of the car. I crossed the yard, looking to see if the neighbors were watching. I didn’t notice anyone, not even a flutter of a curtain or shade. I stepped up onto the porch. The floorboards squeaked. I rapped on the screen door.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”

No response.

“Hello?” I repeated.

Nothing.

I took a breath. The front door was open, revealing a yawning mass of black. I wouldn’t step across the threshold, but if I opened the screen door, I could lean my head in. I grabbed the handle and pulled.

The smell overpowered me right away. I’ve smelled rotting meat before. This was similar, but sweeter and more powerful. I pinched my nostrils. My pulse pounded in my ears.

The entranceway narrowed to a shadowy hall leading to a room at the back of the house. The edge of a table and a couple of chairs showed through. A kitchen. Light spilled from the room, illuminating something sprawled just outside in the hall. I squinted. As my eyes adjusted, my stomach roiled.

It was a man’s body. His face, or what had been his face, was bloated, and his features swam on a bluish sea of skin. Dark stains saturated his clothes, smearing the floor beside him. I staggered back onto the porch. The screen door banged shut. I covered my mouth with my hand. I didn’t know who he was, but I’d seen him before. He’d been wearing the same plaid shirt and olive drab pants.

Chapter Twenty-seven

My hands were still shaking even after I called the police. It took a few minutes to figure out which police department should respond, but once they determined I was in Delavan, a dispatcher told me to stay where I was. I clutched the steering wheel and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to erase the images of the body. I’ve seen dead bodies before—my mother died in my arms—but I’d never seen one like this.

Eventually, a white patrol car pulled up, and an officer got out. After confirming I was the person who had made the call, he pulled plastic gloves over his hands and went inside the house. He came back out a moment later and jogged to his cruiser. Ten minutes later, more squad cars and an unmarked arrived. A young detective questioned me. From his bleached hair and grunge style, I guessed he considered himself the Brad Pitt of southern Wisconsin. I told him everything, including the fact that Irene Flynn was the person who had led me here. Brad told me to wait in my car.

Thirty minutes later a blue and white squad car with the Lake Geneva Police insignia screeched to a stop in front of the house. A uniformed officer jumped out of the driver’s side; Jimmy Saclarides got out of the other. He came over to the Volvo with Brad. I rolled down the window.

“Are you okay?”

I looked at him, back at Brad, and burst into tears.

***

Darkness was rapidly encroaching when the Walworth County Sheriff’s van pulled up. Inside were two men who, after conferring with the officers on the front lawn, grabbed a large backpack, a Polaroid camera, and a video camera, and headed into the house.

Jimmy detached himself from the knot of officers. He’d given me time to pull myself together, even given me tissues from a box inside his cruiser. Now he walked around to the passenger side of the Volvo, opened the door, and climbed in.

“So what were you doing here, Ellie?”

I confessed, somewhat guiltily, that I’d been following Irene.

“Why?”

I told him about my visit to the restaurant and her reaction to our conversation. Jimmy’s eyebrows knit together. “She told you to butt out?”

I nodded. “I’d been telling Kim about the second sniper attack and the fact that the bullet fragments didn’t match the others. Then we started talking about Herbert Flynn and Anne Sutton, and her demeanor changed.”

“You were talking about Herbert?”

“I just found out he was the caretaker for the Suttons when Anne was killed.”

Jimmy looked past me. He didn’t say anything for a moment. “A bad business, that.”

“It sounded horrible. So unfair.”

“It was a long time ago.” He refocused. “What do you mean, Irene’s demeanor changed?”

“She grew—agitated. She took off her apron and told Kim she was going for a walk. Then she jumped in the car and took off.” I rubbed my hands on my jeans legs. “I was worried. I thought she might not be well enough to drive. Especially since she took off so fast. I thought I should make sure she was okay.”

Jimmy looked as if he understood. In fact, his equanimity made me think I wasn’t telling him anything new.

“Why is it you don’t seem surprised?”

He gazed at the house.

“Jimmy, I realize I’m not from around here. And I know there’s a lot of history—between you and the Flynns and the Suttons—that I’m not a part of. But Irene Flynn did ask me to get back to her if I heard anything about her daughter’s death. That’s what I was doing.

“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.”