A Shot to Die For by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

the mugs. “You mean, did she confess she was having an affair with a married man and was flying off to the Caribbean?”
    She flipped up her hands as if to say, “Whatever.…”
    “It was nothing like that,” I said firmly. “She didn’t say anything at all.”
    Kim nodded, almost imperceptibly. “What about the guy who lent her his cell? Did he hear anything about this boyfriend?”
    “I wouldn’t know. He left before it happened.”
    “You don’t know where he was from?”
    I put the kettle back on the stove. “No. He was going on vacation. Fishing, I think.”
    “You don’t know where?”
    “I don’t even know what kind of car he had.”
    “You told the police all that, right?”
    “Of course.” I put the mugs on the tray. “In fact, the police are asking anyone who might know him to call in. You probably saw it on TV.”
    “Right.”
    I turned around. “You don’t have much confidence in the cops, do you?”
    She hesitated, then fingered a lock of hair and tucked it behind her ears. “You know the pledge of allegiance? Where they say liberty and justice for all? Well, when it comes to the police up in my neck of the woods, those things go to the highest bidder.”
    I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t, and I didn’t push it. I’ve had my own run-ins with cops over the years, and while I might even agree with her, I couldn’t see how a discussion about the limitations of law enforcement would help. The police were doing everything they could to find the shooter.
    I took the tray into the living room.
    “She was a good girl,” Irene said, picking up the thread of conversation as if we’d never left. “And she did seem happy recently. I suppose it could have been because of a man.”
    I handed her a mug.
    She stared into it. “But why did he abandon her? How can he not come forward? How can he let us suffer?” She pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand. Something violent seemed to be fighting for dominance, and for an instant, anger won. “Whoever he is, I hope he rots in hell.” Then she set the mug down, her anger ebbing as quickly as it had come. She covered her eyes. Kim put an awkward arm around her.
    I waited, then said quietly, “Irene, whether you and Kim trust them or not, the police have more information than I do. You need to be asking them these questions. Why don’t I give you Detective Milanovich’s number?”
    I dug out his card from my bag, wrote down the name and number on another piece of paper, and handed it to her. She gazed at it silently for a moment, then raised her eyes to mine. “Well, if you remember something—anything at all, you’ll let us know?”
    I nodded.
    “You might remember, you know, especially when you’re going to sleep. Happens to me. I’ll be just dozing off when I think of something. Have to get up and write it down. Otherwise, I lose it.”
    Irene snapped open her purse and dropped the paper inside. Kim helped her mother get up, adjusted the cane, and together they slowly headed out. Irene paused at the front door and laid her hand on my arm. “People always let you down, you know. But you’ve been very kind.”
    I nodded politely, unsure whether she’d handed me an insult or a compliment. They went down the front steps, trailing the scent of lavender behind them.

Chapter Eight
    Seeing Lake Geneva for the first time was disappointing. My father claimed he’d taken me there as a child, but I have no memory of it. So when I drove up to scout it for the shoot, I was expecting something grand: a vista of sand and water surrounded by thick foliage perhaps, or an expanse of turquoise dotted with snowy white sails.
    Unfortunately, the reality didn’t measure up. Lake Geneva’s beach, at least the public portion, was meager, the parkland behind it sparse, the view uninspiring. To be fair, a good chunk of the public land had been grudgingly coughed up by landowners over the years. The land that’s still private, I was