An Eye for Murder by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

everything?”
    “You bet.”
    “You have sound bites of people saying they’ll rebuild, no matter what it takes, thanks to Midwest Mutual?”
    “We can probably dig some up.”
    “What about the close-up of the kid’s teddy bear swirling down the river?”
    “Oh, come on. You can shoot that yourself.”
    “Deal.”
    We moved on to the script. I’d dropped the concept of The Tempest ; I couldn’t justify the love story of Ferdinand and Miranda. But I consoled myself with dramatic tension in the sound track: lots of sirens, crashing thunder, and gale force winds. Karen said she liked it. Then, in her understated way, she made massive revisions.
    We decided to shoot the interviews at headquarters over the next two weeks. We would edit the rough cut in-house, and finish the online at Mac’s place.
    This would work out well. The project would be finished within a month, it wasn’t a tough job, and I could prebill for the first half.
     
     
    Susan and Doug picked me up that evening, and we barreled up 41 while Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young sang about moving forward. As we wound through the shady, well-bred streets of Lake Forest, a breeze rustled the thick canopy of trees. Already it was ten degrees cooler, as if the village elders had decreed that the quality of life here must be better than anywhere else. East of the railroad tracks, the houses grew larger and the driveways grander. By the time we were on Lake Road, we had passed an Art Deco mansion, a Moorish-style home, and several versions of Tara.
    We arrived at a huge stone estate that sprawled over ten acres. The landscaping alone—hostas and impatiens, which, thanks to Fouad, I now knew were shade plants—probably cost more than my mortgage. Ivy obediently hugged a brick wall, and a break revealed a fountain with porcelain water nymphs poised for a dip. Three gravel driveways led to separate wings of the house. Valets in red vests were busy parking and reparking BMWs, Mercedes, and the occasional Cadillac.
    “I’m glad I wore my Donna Karan,” I said, as we made our way to the front entrance. Susan didn’t answer. Even she seemed intimidated.
    A heavy, paneled door was open, and a butler greeted us in the foyer. After placing our business cards on a silver tray, he ushered us through a dark hall lined with tapestries and oil portraits. I heard the distant tinkle of laughter and glasses. “Da steel been bery, bery good to me,” Doug whispered.
    “I’m Marian Iverson, and I’m running for Congress,” I shot back.
    “It’s the Senate,” Susan said dryly.
    We passed through a large drawing room with a set of French doors to a flagstone terrace. People milled about, drinks in hand. Beyond the terrace was a manicured lawn that sloped down to a narrow beach. In the distance a sloop bobbed on the lake. Two gulls played tag with the sails.
    My eyes swept back to the terrace, where guests clustered in small groups. The women were dressed in casual springtime chic, the men sporty but moneyed. There was more moussed hair than at the Academy Awards.
    “We can still make a getaway,” I grumbled, increasingly aware that my pants suit was four years old.
    Susan took some hors d’oeuvres from a passing waiter. The waiter turned to me, but I passed. I’ve never taken the course where they teach you to balance a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other.
    “It’s black caviar,” Susan said, nibbling on a toast point, her plate perfectly balanced. “Beluga, I think. Or Osetra.”
    “Must be nice,” I sighed. “What?”
    “To throw yourself a party like this.”
    “I guess.”
    “The problem is you keep on spending money like water, people will think you don’t need to raise any.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Susan said, her eyes on Doug, who was chatting up a portly man in a golf shirt and madras pants. “I guess it depends on the type of funds you want to raise.” A guffaw went up from madras man, and Doug came back to round up Susan. I