A Shot to Die For (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

The cameraman drove the van back to Chicago, but Mac and I decided to wait out the storm. Mac got into my Volvo, and we drove into Lake Geneva to dry off and grab a late lunch.

“You sure you’re okay, Ellie?” Mac asked.

“I lost an earring my boyfriend gave me, I made an enemy at the airstrip, and we didn’t get any footage. Other than that, I’m great. How about you?”

“Hungry,” Mac said.

I circled the three or four blocks of downtown Lake Geneva. “So what do you feel like? There’s supposed to be a Greek restaurant somewhere around here.”

“In Lake Geneva?”

I nodded. “Unless it’s just a restaurant that happens to be owned by Greeks.”

“Which would be every restaurant in Chicago.”

“But we’re not in Chicago. Look for a place like Greek Islands.”

We turned onto Main Street, and I cruised slowly down the block.

“I don’t believe it.” Mac straightened up.

“What?”

“We just passed something called Mount Olympus.”

“Bingo.”

***

Mount Olympus had none of the affectations of Greek Town restaurants: no stucco, faux Doric columns, blue décor. And no trellised grapevines, fake or otherwise. The restaurant was sandwiched into a narrow space between a jewelry store and an art gallery. It had a plain black door. The only indication it was a restaurant was the lettering on a plate glass window through which you could see a large hunk of lamb revolving on a spit.

Inside, we were hit by a tangy mix of garlic, lemon, and roasted meat. The smell was so tantalizing I overlooked the shabby room, chipped counter, and neon Budweiser sign on the wall.

A man seated at the first of about twelve tables was nursing a clear liquid in a shot glass. He didn’t look up when we passed, though a bell tinkled when we entered. We sat at a table behind him. Only three other tables were occupied. A swinging door was cut into the wall behind the counter, and I heard a clatter of dishes on the other side. A moment later, Kim Flynn pushed through the door, balancing a tray of food.

She wore a long apron tied around her waist. The top of a pink T-shirt peeked out underneath. Her legs were bare; she must have been wearing shorts. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and covered with a hairnet. She threaded her way past our table.

“Hello, Kim.”

Her eyes widened when she saw me. She set the plates down two tables away and then worked her way back. “Foreman, right? Ellie Foreman?”

I nodded and motioned to Mac. “This is Mac Kendall. We work together.”

As soon as Kim mentioned my name, a frown spread across Mac’s face. He must have realized I had an ulterior motive for coming here. He doesn’t like it when I do that.

“Mac, this is Kim Flynn.… Her sister was Daria Flynn, the woman who died at the rest stop.”

Mac’s frown deepened. Then he remembered his manners. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

Kim dipped her head in acknowledgment, then looked at me. “Well, this is a surprise.” She glanced out the window. “Especially with the weather.”

“We were shooting at the Lodge but got rained out. I remembered your mother mentioning the restaurant. Are you still serving lunch?”

She hesitated, as if she wasn’t convinced that’s why I was there, but then her business sense kicked in. “Of course. Let me bring you some menus.”

As we waited, Mac nudged me under the table with his foot. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you were putting it behind you.”

“I was. But then….” I told him about Kim’s visit to my house with her mother. I stressed how needy they’d seemed. How desperate. And that I’d said I’d let them know if I discovered anything.

Mac folded his arms. He wasn’t buying it.

Kim brought the menus. “Sorry to be so slow. We’re a little shorthanded. One of my guys—well, he just up and left. How did you know this was our place?”

“We guessed. Your mother did say it was a Greek restaurant.”

“You were lucky. There’s two of them in town, you know.”

“There are two Greek restaurants here?”

She nodded. “The other one is Saclarides.’”

“Saclarides? As in Jimmy Saclarides? The chief of police?”

An odd expression crept across her face. “How did you know?”

Mac, who’d been growing increasingly agitated, stood up. “Can you point me to the facilities?”

Kim gestured to the back.

“Order me a gyros, okay, Ellie? And a Coke.”

“Sure.” Mac disappeared. “And I’ll have a Greek salad.” I looked up at Kim. “And a Diet Coke.”

She scribbled our orders on a pad.

“Luke Sutton.”

She started. “Excuse me?”

“That’s how I met Jimmy Saclarides.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

She disappeared through the swinging door. When she came back with the pop, she was more composed, but I knew she was waiting for an explanation. I took a quick sip of my drink. “Luke Sutton nearly ran me down in his plane today. Jimmy Saclarides was with him.”

She looked startled. “You’re kidding. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. But that isn’t the reason I’m here. Meeting him reminded me of something I heard at the Lodge, and I wanted to ask if you knew about it.”

She stuffed the pad into her apron pocket.

“We were having a drink there a few days ago, and there was this waitress, Pari something….”

“I know Pari.”

I forgot. Subtract the tourists, and this was a small town. “She said your sister and Luke met there for drinks. More than once.”

“Luke Sutton and Daria?”

When I nodded, she looked at the ceiling, then the floor. Then she looked back at me. “You’re sure?”

Again I nodded. “I was thinking, well, I wondered if the police knew. And if they did, what they were doing about it. It’s not like the Suttons aren’t well known. You know what I mean?”

She nodded, a distracted, absentminded gesture. What was she thinking?

“And then, when it turned out Jimmy Saclarides was riding shotgun in the plane with Sutton….” I looked out the window. The rain was starting to let up. “Well, I guess I’m beginning to see your point.”

“My point? About what?”

“About the police up here. Selective justice.”

She ran her tongue around her lips. Her expression changed again, confusion giving way to an almost steely look. She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, just—just forget what I said before. I was pissed off. Everyone knows Luke and Jimmy are friends. They have been for a long time.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

“Yeah, but Jimmy Saclarides…well, his family and ours are close. Our mothers are best friends. He and I grew up together. We even went out in high school.”

“You and Jimmy Saclarides?”

“We used to call him Super Chief. And not for the train.”

“Well, this close family friend has a buddy who just might be the man who abandoned your sister at the rest stop.”

A door in back squeaked. Mac was on his way back.

“That’s just—I can’t believe that. When were they supposed to have—have been together?”

“According to Pari, it was late. Ten, eleven at night.”

“But when? A month ago? Six months? A year?”

“Not long before she died.”

Mac came back and pulled out his chair. The scrape of the legs against the tile floor grated. Kim blinked, as if the sound had refocused her attention. A tiny vertical line creased her forehead. “Well. I guess I’ll have to ask Jimmy about it.” She looked over, as if seeing me for the first time. “Hey, thanks for coming in to tell me. I appreciate it.” She forced a smile, then started back to the kitchen. “Your food’s probably ready.”

I watched her go. That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. Suspicion, alarm, even rage. But not blasé detachment. I glanced at the old man at the next table. He hadn’t given any indication he knew we were there. But he was a fixture. He belonged. Not like me, an outsider who seemed to be discovering what everyone already knew and didn’t much care about.

***

That night I went online and Googled the name “Sutton.” After wading through pages of websites about the London borough, hotel chains, and even a publishing company, I clicked onto a website that traced the history of trains.

In the early days, rail cars were equipped with a metal bar and ring on each end called a “link and pin.” The cars were manually attached by workers who braced themselves between the cars and dropped a metal pin into place at the exact moment the holes in the bars lined up. This was a delicate and dangerous operation. The slightest mistake in timing meant a man could be crushed, and it wasn’t uncommon to see railroad workers missing a finger, an arm, or even a leg.

The first patent for an automatic coupler was granted in 1873 to a store clerk in Atlanta. An improvement to the device was patented twenty-four years later by Andrew Beard, a former Alabama slave, who himself had lost a leg in a coupling accident. By the turn of the century, the government mandated the addition of automatic couplers to every rail car in the country.

Enter Luke Sutton’s great-grandfather, Charles. A farmer from the same part of Alabama as Beard, Sutton claimed to have purchased the rights to the coupler from Beard. He started Sutton Rail Services, which, over the next fifty years, grew into a huge concern. By the 1930s, the company was manufacturing over half of all the automatic couplers in the world; in fact, it narrowly escaped antitrust action under FDR. When Sutton died right after World War Two, his son, Charles Junior, took over.

Curiously, no one knows what happened to Andrew Beard, the slave who sold his invention to the Suttons. There is no record of his life—or death. But ten years later when Charles II died unexpectedly in an automobile accident, his son Charles III took the reins of the company. He had been only twenty-two at the time and was still running the company today. His son Chip, Charles IV, was executive vice-president.

Was “Chip” a nickname for Luke? Maybe his full name was Charles Luke Sutton. Or was Chip the other Sutton brother? If I could find an organization chart, I could answer that question. Except that a privately held company isn’t subject to the same disclosure requirements as a publicly owned one, and there’s no obligation to list the company officers. I went back to Google and entered the name Charles Sutton. Happily, I ran across an article from
Forbes
profiling Sutton Services.

Charles Ashcroft Sutton III was the CEO. His son, Charles Ashcroft Sutton IV, executive vice-president. Ashcroft was his grandfather’s middle name, his great-grandfather’s, too. The CFO was Henry Banker; Jeffrey Hopkins, first vice-president. The article went on to name several other officers, none of whom were female, and none of whom I recognized. The name Luke Sutton was nowhere in the article.

I typed in “Chip Sutton.” A few sites popped up. From one of them, I learned that he was married to Jennifer Brinks from Detroit, an heiress in her own right. They lived in Winnetka, the next village over from me. She sat on the board of several North Shore charities. Then I entered the name Luke Sutton. I got nothing.

I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. The Sutton family was fabulously wealthy, rich enough for their sons to have planes for toys. But only “Chip” followed his father into the family business. Why didn’t Luke? What did he do for a living—if he, in fact, did anything besides meet Daria Flynn for drinks at the Lodge?

And what about Jimmy Saclarides, Lake Geneva’s chief of police? If he and Luke Sutton were best friends, I could understand the guy wanting to protect his friend. But how far did that protection stretch?

Chapter Thirteen

“Do you know how to spell ‘arrogant’?”

Susan and I hiked down the bike path the next morning.

“He even demanded to see a permit, for god’s sake!” I grumbled. “Like he was the schoolyard bully and I was supposed to hand over my lunch.”

Yesterday’s storm, fierce but brief, left underbrush strewn on the ground. But it was still hot and humid, one of those summer days that bears down and smothers you with its weight.

Susan skirted the underbrush. It was a metaphor for her life. A tall, willowy redhead who turns the word “elegant” into a transitive verb, she never seems to make a misstep. She has a solid marriage, two well-behaved kids, and a part-time job that she loves. And unlike me, she’s always ready for her close-up. While I had thrown on cutoffs, dirty sneakers, and an oversized T, Susan wore khaki shorts and an ivory shirt that set off her creamy complexion. The sun caught sparks in her hair.

“A permit? Does he own the airstrip?” she asked.

“Just a Cessna or two. But you know who his flying buddy was?”

“Who?”

“The chief of police of Lake Geneva.”

Her brows drew together. “So?” Susan’s husband is active in village politics. She’s used to hobnobbing with VIPs.

“Susan, a waitress at the Lodge told me he and Daria Flynn had drinks together there. More than once. Then Daria was abandoned at the rest stop by her boyfriend. Just before she was killed.”

“And the significance of that is…?”

“Well, if the chief of police is your best friend, you can get away with a lot.”

Susan threw out her hand, like the Supremes used to when they performed “Stop in the Name of Love.” “Slow down, there.” I stopped.

“Just because two people have drinks together doesn’t mean they’re in a relationship. And it certainly doesn’t mean the man had anything to do with her murder.” She looked at me. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“But just suppose he
was
Daria’s lover. She’s young, beautiful, and ambitious. He’s rich and powerful, and his best friend is the chief of police. You know how those things work.”

“Ellie, you know better than to string together a lot of hypotheticals.”

“If you’d had the same kind of run-in with him as I did, you might, too. But here’s the kicker.”

Susan smiled triumphantly. “There is something else.”

“Maybe. When I told Daria’s sister about seeing them together, she seemed—well, after some initial surprise, altogether unconcerned. But just a week or so ago, she was complaining the police weren’t doing enough to find the killer.”

“Wait a minute. You told Daria’s sister that she’d been seeing this—this Sutton?”

I explained how we’d gone to the restaurant during the storm. As we rounded a bend, the bike path sloped up. It wasn’t a hill, but it did require me to put my effort into walking rather than talking.

Susan took advantage of my silence. “Tell me something, Ellie. Why would you (A) believe a cocktail waitress, whom you never met before, and who might or might not be telling the truth? And (B) start to spread rumors…hurtful ones, by the sound of them?”

I tried to reply, but she cut me off.

“But (C) and this is the most important part, why are you still involved in this? It has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with your life. You swore up and down a few months ago you wouldn’t go near anything that even smelled dangerous.”

“I only went to the restaurant for one reason,” I said defensively. I told her about Irene and Kim Flynn’s visit to my house. “Her mother, who’s just recovering from a stroke, by the way, kept asking me about Daria’s last words. As if that somehow held the key to her death. She begged me to get back to them if I thought of anything else. That’s not getting involved. It’s just compassion. Any mother would do the same.”

Susan nodded. “But why you? Didn’t you tell me two different police forces are working the case?”

I looked at her sideways. “That’s right.”

“Don’t you think that between them they’re covering all the possibilities?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s my point. Maybe they already know about the drinks at the Lodge. Maybe there’s a perfectly logical explanation. Just because you don’t know it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

I shrugged. “It’s—it’s just that Luke Sutton was so damn sure of himself. So cocky. Like he was protected by his wealth. And nothing he could possibly do or say would ever be challenged.”

Susan tilted her head. “Ahh…now we get to the root cause. He trampled on your ego. And you want payback.”

“No.” I made one more attempt to defend myself. “I just can’t abide people with moral certainty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about people who reduce everything all down to a simple formula, the underlying assumption of which is that they’re right and just and powerful and nobody else is.”

“Which is something you’d never think of doing.”

“I try not to,” I said weakly.

“You do try.” She flashed me a smile. “That’s what I love about you.”

As we reached the other side of the slope, Susan stepped up her pace. I kept up easily. A friend’s smile can work wonders.

“The thing is you’re probably right. When I reported it to Kim, she said Sutton and the police chief had been friends for a long time, and—get this—this police chief and her family are friends, too. She didn’t seem to think any of it was important.” I shook my head. “Small towns.”

“Sorry?”

“Eliminate the tourists, and Lake Geneva is basically a small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and everyone’s history is tied up with their neighbors’.” I pictured the old man at the restaurant. “It breeds an acceptance that outsiders can’t penetrate.” I sighed. “I suppose it really was a sniper attack.”

“If it looks like a fish, and smells like a fish….” Susan changed the subject. “Hey, did you hear about the new wonder drug they’re testing? I can’t remember the name, but it’s supposed to tan you, help you lose weight, and increase your libido all at the same time.”

“Wow. Bring it on!”

“The problem is they’ve decided to release it as three different drugs,” she said ruefully.

I grunted. “Well now, isn’t that the American way? Squeeze out every penny of profit you can.”

She laughed. “By the way, Doug and I are throwing a barbecue on July fourth. Will you and Rachel come? David, too.”

“I haven’t talked to him recently.”

“Well, then, call him. You guys need to spend more time together.”

I didn’t answer.

“Ellie, six months is a long time to keep a relationship at bay. You can’t play this out much longer.”

“I’m not playing. And now there’s his uncle Willie to consider.” He’d moved in with David while he was being treated for kidney disease.

“So, invite him out, too. And your father. They’re about the same age, aren’t they?”

I wavered. Inviting David out was a huge risk. Although I missed the sharing and the intimacy, I’d been hurt. I was afraid. “I’ll think about it.”

Susan peered at me. “Don’t think too long.”

“I’m not sure about Rachel, though.”

“Oh?”

“Speaking of arrogant, my daughter seems to have landed a job with Ms. North Shore.”

“Who are you talking about now?”

“Julia Hauldren,” I said, my voice tight.

“Julia? Arrogant? Where’d you get that idea?”

“Come on, Susan. Just look at her—perfectly done hair. And nails. And makeup. Even her tan. She obviously has a high opinion of herself.”

“Sounds like you were describing me.”

I stopped, startled. “You? Oh, no. You’re different.”

“How do you know she isn’t, too?”

“She’s going out with Barry.” I started walking again. “She’s got to be pretty superficial to put up with him.”

“Funny about that,” Susan replied. “One of my best friends was married to him, and I don’t think
she’s
superficial.”

“Okay.” I smiled ruefully. “He does give good face.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s good looking, he takes care of himself, and he’s a lawyer. I can see why he’d be considered a catch.” A flock of sparrows suddenly lifted off a bush and scattered into the sky. “It’s only when you live with him that you realize that’s all there is.”

Susan grunted. “I still don’t see the problem here.”

“It seems Julia wants Rachel to babysit a few hours a day. She’s paying good money, too.”

“Given that Rachel is only fifteen and can’t get hired in most places, this is a bad thing?”

“You sound like you’re defending her. Julia, that is.”

“Do you know her?”

“I don’t need to. I know the type.”

“Uh-huh. So this is all conjecture. First impressions on your part.”

“I’m usually right.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Why is it a raised eyebrow from Susan can make me doubt everything I learned since kindergarten?

***

That evening Rachel and I went to dinner at a cafeteria-style salad bar that seemed to stretch from here to California, which was probably where the chain started. I loaded my plate with every green, red, and yellow vegetable ever propagated; added a layer of croutons; drenched all of it in a thick, creamy dressing; and tried to convince myself I was eating light.

Sliding our trays up to the cash register, I glanced over at Rachel’s. She’d been more moderate with her salad, but she’d speared a large chunk of pizza bread, and I knew she’d probably want frozen yogurt for dessert. I made a rough estimate of what I owed and was digging my wallet out of my bag when something else caught my eye. At first I couldn’t figure out what it was, then it dawned on me. It wasn’t what was on Rachel’s tray, it was what was clutching the tray. Rachel’s fingers. Her nails were bright pink. Almost fuchsia.

Rachel had never used nail polish. As far as I knew, she was still biting her nails well below her fingertips, which made a coat of polish look like a brightly colored pea. Now, though, her nails were a vision: glossy, buffed, no cuticles in sight. She even had perfect little half-moons at the base.

I reached for a roll and stole a glance at my own nails. I don’t do polish. The few times I tried, it chipped within minutes and I ended up scraping it off with my teeth. In fact, except for the brush in the shower, and the occasional file, I don’t pay much attention to my nails. Where had Rachel learned?

I paid the cashier and headed for a table. The interior designer had made sure the place didn’t look institutional: blond wood furniture, upholstered cushions, and lots of ferns. Twenty years ago, it would have been a bar. We unloaded our trays and sat down.

“Nice manicure,” I said casually.

Rachel put her fork down and stretched out her fingers the way women do when they want to show off their hands. “You like it?”

“Very impressive.” I stuffed a chunk of tomato in my mouth. “What inspired you?”

Suddenly Rachel’s manner changed. She shrugged too quickly and wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I—I just felt like it.”

“Did Katie help you?”

She shook her head and slumped in her seat. I buttered my roll, wondering why she seemed so uneasy. Then, in a flash of understanding, it came to me. She’d been babysitting all day. “Julia Hauldren did it.”

If it were possible for someone to slide so far under the table they’d disappear completely, that someone would have been Rachel.

I put down the knife, unprepared for the stab of jealousy that sliced through me. Why didn’t Rachel come to me? True, I don’t have much interest—or knowledge—about fake nails and manicures, but wasn’t that one of those things a mother and daughter were supposed to do together? Not that my mother and I ever did. I couldn’t even recall any frivolous shopping expeditions. She was always too busy. I’d resolved to be different with Rachel, to make sure we spent time doing lighthearted, fun things. What happened? Was I just too busy—like my mother? Or had my role been usurped?

I’d have to puzzle it out later. Rachel looked miserable, and it wasn’t her fault. To be honest, it wasn’t Julia’s either. I might even be making too much of it. I dug down deep for a cheery smile. “It looks fabulous. And very professional.”

Rachel brightened. “You really think so?”

I nodded. “Could you teach me how to do that?”

She straightened up and flashed me a smile. “Cool. Let’s stop at the drugstore on the way home.”