A Shot to Die For (24 page)

Julia tipped her head to the side. “You really want to know?”

When I nodded, she paused, then picked up her glass and swirled the wine. I heard a tiny plop. “It was the mackerel loaf.”

“Excuse me?”

“The mackerel loaf,” she said solemnly.

I frowned. “Julia, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Okay.” She drained the rest of the wine and set down her glass. “I had this great salmon loaf recipe. It’s been in my family for ages. Handed down for four generations.”

“Salmon? I thought you just—”

She cut me off with a raised finger. “It was—it
is
fabulous. You make it with a white sauce and mayonnaise and olives. Maybe pimento. Gives it both a sweet and sour flavor. I mean, this thing was delicious. You serve it for brunch or dinner, and everyone oohs and ahhs.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, one day my husband told me to make it, except he didn’t want me to make it with salmon. He wanted me to make it with…” She paused again and wrinkled her nose. “…mackerel.”

“Mackerel?”

“Mackerel.”

It was my turn to pause. “I’m not sure I know what mackerel tastes like.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” She sniffed. “If you did, you would never buy the stuff.”

“That bad?”

When she nodded, I poured the last of the wine into our glasses. “Where do you get mackerel?”

“It comes in a can,” she said.

“It does? I thought you could only buy it fresh.” When she shook her head, I asked, “What does it look like?”

“It’s gray.”

“Gray,” I repeated.

“Iron gray.”

“Where do you buy it? At an army-navy surplus store?”

“Just about.”

I drank more wine. “Okay. What did you do when he said he wanted the mackerel?”

“I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. The salmon didn’t cut it. He had to have the damn mackerel. The salmon was from my side of the family, he said, and my side of the family has no taste in anything, including food. But mackerel, now that was something special. He went on and on. In fact, he gave me so much shit about it I eventually threw up my hands and made the damn mackerel loaf.”

“You did?” I marveled.

“I did.”

“How was it?”

“It tasted awful. Even the kids thought it was gross. They poked at it but wouldn’t touch it.”

“What about your husband?”

“He ate it.”

“The whole thing?”

“I don’t know about the leftovers.”

“Why not?”

“I filed for divorce the next day and moved out.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

Julia Hauldren was as good as her word. An hour later she called with the number of Sharon Singer, a former bunny who worked at the Lake Geneva Playboy Resort during the seventies. I thanked her and vowed not to let my prejudices get in the way of a possible friendship again.

Sharon and I made a date for coffee the next morning. But after we hung up, I stared at my computer monitor. There had to be something else I could do. Someone else I could talk to about Luke or the Suttons or what went on that summer. I pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil and started to list everyone I could think of who had a relationship with the Suttons. When I got to Chip, I tapped the pencil on my desk.

Five minutes later, with the help of Google and the crisscross phone directory, I had what I was looking for. I got in the car and swung east on Willow Road.

Tucked away on some private streets in Winnetka are huge homes that you can get to only if you know they’re there. I turned down White Oak Lane and slowly made my way down a one-lane road more like a driveway than a street. I stopped at a stately red brick Georgian home with a gravel-lined drive in front and a backyard that looked like a miniature forest preserve. Just visible in a clearing on the side was a tennis court surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. I couldn’t see the players, but I heard the plop and twang of a serious rally.

I got out of the car and rang the doorbell. The chimes echoed noisily inside, and a moment later, the plop and twang ceased. A moment after that, the door was opened by a tall, slim woman with short black hair held off her face by a sweatband. She was wearing a powder blue tennis dress, and the sheen of sweat on her face said she was one of the players.

I took a breath, hoping Jennifer Brinks Sutton, Chip’s wife, was nothing like her husband. “Mrs. Sutton, I’m sorry to intrude, but I’d like to talk to you. My name is Ellie Foreman, and I’m a friend of Luke’s.”

For a moment she didn’t reply, just stared at me with dark, piercing eyes that made me think she saw straight through me. Then, a female voice called out behind her. “Everything okay, Jenny?”

She turned away from me and answered, “Everything’s fine.” She turned back and looked me up and down, her gaze taking in my jeans, T-shirt, and sweaty palms. “So what can I do for you, friend of Luke’s?” she said with a curious but not unkind expression.

I sagged in relief. “I was hoping you might talk to me about the night Anne Sutton died. I know you weren’t married to Chip then, but maybe he—or someone else in the family—said something afterward that would help Luke establish an alibi for that night.”

She eyed me again, and I sensed she was deciding whether or not to talk to me. Finally, she opened the door wide. “Come in.”

She led me down a wide hall with a marble floor. On the left was a formal living room with a thick carpet and wall sconces that looked like mini-chandeliers. It was filled with delicate Louis XVI furniture, and a whiff of furniture polish drifted out as we passed. On the right was a wide, winding staircase that made the one Clark Gable carried Scarlett up look shabby. We ended up at the back of the house in a wood-paneled great room with twelve-foot ceilings. Another woman, also in tennis gear, sprawled on a long couch.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your game, Mrs. Sutton,” I said.

“We were almost done anyway,” she said. “And please. Call me Jen.” She gestured to the other woman. She was slim also, but petite and blond. “This is my friend, Julie Nothstine.”

We exchanged nods, and Jen went behind a bar in the corner. “Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?”

“Thanks.” I sat down in an oversized navy blue armchair, watching as she filled three glasses with ice and poured Diet Coke into each. She handed one to me and one to her friend, then sat down on the couch a little too close to her. Julie threw her arm on the back of the sofa. Jen relaxed against her arm, sipped her drink, and shot me a defiant smile. I sensed she was daring me to judge her.

I returned what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Are you keeping up with events in Lake Geneva?” I began cautiously.

She rearranged herself, curling her legs underneath her. “I’ve been reading about it in the paper. God, what a mess
that’s
turning out to be. Glad I’m not there.”

Why was she relying on the newspaper, I wondered. Shouldn’t Chip be calling her, giving her a blow-by-blow?

She watched me, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re wondering why I’m reading about it in the paper instead of talking to my husband.”

I looked at her, startled. “You read my mind.”

She hesitated, then tipped her glass to me. “To Chip Sutton.” She took a sip.

Julie followed suit. They traded smiles.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Jen hesitated. Then, “You know that line from
Fiddler on the Roof?
The one about the czar?”

“May God bless and keep the czar…far away from us?”

“That’s the one,” she said. “Well, that’s the way I feel about Chip.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“And by the way, I haven’t been totally honest about something. I do know who you are. Chip called a few weeks ago and asked me to check you out. He doesn’t like you very much.”

“I had that feeling.”

“Which predisposed me to like you right away. Then, after I did some checking, I decided I liked you even more. You made the WISH video, right?”

I’d produced a video for WISH—Women for Interim Subsidized Housing—last winter. “How did you know?”

“Word gets around. I sit on several boards. Infant Welfare, Northwestern Settlement. I have an interest in children’s issues. Chip says it’s my misplaced motherhood. We never had any.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Actually, now I’m glad. I wouldn’t want them to see how much I despise their father,” she said scornfully. “Believe me, I’m just thankful he stays up in Lake Geneva.” She placed her hand on Julie’s knee.

I sipped my drink.

She eyed me. “You’re wondering why we bother to stay together at all, aren’t you?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“It’s simple.” She leaned back, her hands flopping in her lap. “Together, we’re worth more than a small country. It makes for a mutually satisfying strategic alliance. Strange bedfellows and all that.”

I put my drink down. I wasn’t interested in any of her bedfellows, strange or not. “Jen, I really came to ask you about Luke.”

“Right.” She sighed. “Poor Luke. I don’t know how he managed to survive in that nest of vipers. If only I’d met him first….” She looked wistful for an instant, then flashed Julie a smile and snuggled in next to her. “I didn’t get to know him till he got back from Montana. A good person. But such a lost soul.” She looked over. “He’s quite a catch, you know.”

I felt my cheeks get hot.

“Mmm…I thought so.” She laughed. “But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. I’m harmless.”

And I’m Grace Slick. I had the feeling Jen Sutton could turn into a barracuda at will. I looked around. The kitchen extended off the great room. A pizza box lay on the counter. Magazines and today’s newspaper were spread out on the coffee table in front of me. Two half-filled coffee mugs lay on top.

She followed my gaze. “Sorry for the clutter. It’s just such a relief to live like a normal person.”

“Pardon me?”

“When Chip’s here, it’s always a struggle.” At my frown, she went on. “He’s—well, let’s just say, he’s a tad obsessive-compulsive.”

Julie snorted. I looked at Jen.

“He’s got a control jones you wouldn’t believe. Everything has to be in order. And I mean perfect order. No coffee grounds in the sink. Toilet paper torn off at the perforations. Once he went into a tirade about the shelf paper lining the cabinets. It was crooked. And his clothes.” She rolled her eyes. “His shirts have to line up in his drawer just so. Jesus, he even inspects the damn linen closet. Not that he’s ever made a bed in his life, but the maids have to fold the sheets and pillowcases to his precise specifications. If they don’t, he fires them.” She shook her head.

“My pantsuit,” I murmured.

“Excuse me?”

I remembered how concerned Chip had been by the wine stain on my outfit at the gala. I’d thought he was just being rude, but apparently, there was more to it. “I had a run-in with him along those lines.” I gazed around.

She waved a hand. “I live a normal life when he’s not here.”

I nodded politely. “So you didn’t know Luke thirty years ago?”

“Thirty years ago I was spending summers on Mackinac Island. I didn’t know the Suttons existed. And while I regret that isn’t still the case, I can tell you unequivocally that Luke Sutton is the last person I’d suspect of hurting—much less killing—anyone.”

***

I was stacking plates in the dishwasher that night when it hit me. Despite Jen Sutton’s explanation, I’d been pondering how she could stay married to Chip. I wasn’t sure whether to pity her, be irritated, or admire her behavior. I could never live with a man like Chip. Inspecting the linen closet, drawers, even sinks. Making sure everything was perfectly aligned. I barely even fold the clothes out of the dryer. Fortune or not, I’d have been gone the first year.

Suddenly, I gasped, nearly dropping the plate I’d been holding. The clothes. Anne Sutton’s clothes. When the police found them in the ice house, they’d been neatly folded.

Chapter Thirty-eight

I called Jimmy early the next morning. He wasn’t in his office, and I didn’t want to leave a message on his voice mail, so I hung up. I drove downtown and parked a block away from the East Bank Club in River North. A combination health club, restaurant, and gathering place, it was one of the first of its kind twenty years ago. It was also one of the few that has maintained its cachet.

I waited on a padded marble bench in the lobby. Across from me was the pro shop, which featured leather jackets and a polka dot party dress in its window. It was only midmorning, but plenty of people streamed in and out. Didn’t anybody work? I tried not to feel intimated by the parade of women with sports bags slung over their shoulders. Some had long frizzy hair, others the short, wet sculpted look, but all of them were incredibly fit. Even the pregnant women looked better than I did, although at $3,500 a year for dues, they should.

A chic-looking woman in casual sweats skipped down a flight of stairs and made her way over to me. Her blond hair hung straight to her shoulders, and her makeup was carefully applied. I doubted she was there to work out.

“Are you Ellie?”

I stood up. “You must be Sharon.”

We shook hands. She was so fit and her face so unlined it was impossible to determine her age. She led me back up the stairs, and we went into the grill, a cheerful restaurant with an art deco floor and impressionist prints on the walls. Within seconds, we both had coffee, and she had ordered omelets with sourdough toast.

“I didn’t expect breakfast,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Any friend of Julia’s is a friend of mine.” She laced her fingers and stretched out her arms as if she’d just gotten out of bed. “Julia said you had questions about the Playboy Resort.”

I nodded. “You were a bunny in Lake Geneva during the seventies, right?”

“Five years.”

“Were you there in seventy-four?”

“I sure was.” She looked off as if remembering. “That was the summer I almost applied to be a Bunny mother. Changed my mind, though.”

“A what?”

“It’s kind of a Girl Scout leader for bunnies. The den mother.”

“I didn’t realize you had—”

“You wouldn’t believe how strictly we were supervised. The company was very protective of the Bunny image. For good reason. They taught us everything.”

“What do you mean, everything?”

“Oh, my. Let’s see. They taught us how to serve, how to taste wine—we wore these little silver wine-tasting cups around our neck. How to make people feel at ease, make sure they were having a good time.” She straightened up at my smirk. “Hey, let’s make one thing clear. There was absolutely no hanky-panky going on with bunnies. If you stepped out of line in
any
way, you were out.”

“Really?”

“You better believe it.”

“So the Bunny mother was your chastity belt?”

“In a way. She was generally a former bunny herself, so she knew the score. She’d try to point you in the right direction, but God help you if you got caught fraternizing. They were so strict we couldn’t even be seen with a man on the premises unless we had written permission. And that included your father. Even then, you always had to be with another female. If you weren’t, even the Bunny mother couldn’t save you.”

“Sounds like a prison.”

“Maybe to you.” She smiled. “But I don’t regret a single minute. Where else does an eighteen-year-old make fifty grand a year without being on your back?” She shrugged. “Let’s face it. I’m no great brain, and I don’t have much talent. I knew from the get-go my looks were my ticket to success.”

“That sounds harsh.”

“Not when you’re pulling down a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars a night,” she said. “It was a great gig. All we had to do was smile, be perky, and follow the rules. Everything else was thought out and prepared in advance. Hell, even our costumes matched the décor.”

“Really?” I was interested in spite of myself.

She leaned forward. “The VIP Room was done up in silver and blue, with lots of smoky mirrors on the walls. We would dress in these royal blue velvet costumes with silver trim. The fabric was the same velvet they used in the booths. All the serving dishes were silver, too. Including our wine-tasting cups.”

“So you actually tasted the wine?”

“Of course.” She nodded. “That’s how I learned all that stuff.”

I felt a newfound appreciation for the Playboy organization. “Are you sad that it’s over?”

“Sure. Maybe a little.”

“I guess women’s lib pretty much put an end to it.”

She frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

I looked over. “No?”

“It probably didn’t help, but the real blow was the murder of Dorothy Stratton.”

Dorothy Stratton. A long-ago memory surfaced. A Playboy bunny and aspiring actress. Brutally murdered by her estranged husband. At the time it was a sordid affair, full of gossip and innuendo. She’d been having an affair with film director Peter Bogdanovich. I seem to recall rumors of others, too. Even Hugh Hefner.

“There was so much bad publicity about it that things kind of fell apart,” Sharon explained. “Particularly for Hef. He took it really hard.”

“Was he having an affair with her?”

“Who knows? Maybe it was just a father-daughter thing. I don’t know. But he lost interest in everything for a while, and then, well, nothing was the same. The resort went downhill. It closed a year or so later.” Her face took on a determined smile. “But that’s not the period you’re interested in, is it?”

“You’re right. I’m wondering about the summer that Luke Sutton ran the airstrip.”

A gleam came into her eyes. “Luke Sutton, huh? How come you’re interested in him?”

I didn’t feel like explaining. “Did you know him?”

She giggled. “Everyone knew Luke.”

Our omelets came. Sharon sprinkled salt and pepper on hers and took a small bite. “He was a hottie.”

I tore off a piece of toast and stuffed it in my mouth. “He was?”

“Oh yes. Lots of the girls would sneak down to ‘visit’ him at the hangar on their break. Of course, if they got caught, they were screwed.” She took another bite of her omelet. “Didn’t seem to stop some of ’em. Although, now that I’m thinking about it, they weren’t that concerned about bunnies socializing with the staff. Customers and performers were the no-no’s.” She started telling me about a popular singer who performed at the resort but couldn’t keep his hands off the girls. “One of my friends was caught in his room. She was fired the next day.”

“Umm.” I chewed another piece of toast. “So, what about Luke?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “Well, actually, from what I remember, Luke kept pretty much to himself.”

“He did?” I don’t know why that made me feel better—it was thirty years ago—but it did.

“No, wait a minute. How could I forget?”

My spirits sank. “Forget what?”

“There was this townie.”

“Townie?” I picked up my fork and dug into my omelet.

She nodded. “She worked as a maid over the summer. The poor girl was head over heels in love with Luke. Followed him all over like a puppy dog.”

I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth.

Sharon didn’t seem to notice and shook her head. “She was relentless.”

“Wha—what happened?”

Sharon shot me a meaningful look. “What do you think happened? I mean, what do you suppose a man’s going to do when a girl keeps throwing herself at him?”

“She threw herself at Luke? This townie?”

“It was pitiful.”

“Do you—by any chance—remember her name?”

She chewed thoughtfully. “Let’s see. No. She had dark hair. It was long. She wasn’t bad looking. Actually, I do remember when they finally got it on. You’d think she’d just won the lottery.”

My stomach turned over. “They—they got it on?”

“Well, that’s what she told everyone. You know that thing women do when they think they’ve got something going. They start talking about what they’re gonna do with the guy. Use the word ‘we’ a lot. That kind of thing.”

I kept my mouth shut. My appetite vanished.

Sharon kept eating. Then she brightened. “I remember her name now. It was Kim.”