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
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
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