“Well, my dear, you should have. They were the star acrobats of the Big Top circus.”
“Circus performers?”
She flicked the tail of her boa. “My grandfather came over from Italy at the invitation of Lester Cruickshank,” she said proudly. “He owned Big Top and saw Grandpa perform in Europe. My father and uncles took over when he retired. I grew up there.”
“You lived with the circus?”
“Yes, but I was more interested in the horses and elephants than the tightrope. I wanted to be the girl who rode bareback.”
I remembered what the realtor at the Lodge said about Delavan being the winter circus capital of the country. “Did you live in Delavan?”
She nodded. “I did indeed. Met George—my late husband—over here one Christmas. It was love at first sight.” She snapped her fingers. “That was it for the circus.” She appraised me with grudging respect. “So you’re from Chicago?”
“The North Shore.” I paused. “Boy, you sure give those jokes about running away and joining the circus new meaning.”
“I can do you one better. Did you know they once buried an elephant in Lake Delavan?”
My mouth opened. She grinned. “I’m Willetta Carlucci Emerson. What did you say your name was?”
“Ellie Foreman.”
“Now why does that name sound familiar?” She took a canapé from a passing waiter. The waiter handed her a napkin. She chewed the appetizer. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere? On TV?”
I didn’t answer.
“In the papers?”
I shrugged.
She brightened. “You’re the woman who was with the poor Flynn girl! On TV!”
I nodded glumly.
“You were standing next to her when she died.”
“It wasn’t a great day.”
“I understand. My house was robbed once. I wasn’t home, but I couldn’t sleep for weeks afterward. You feel so—so vulnerable.” She nodded theatrically. “Now, tell me something. Do they think all the shootings are related?” She shivered. “Because if they are, well—”
“They’re not saying.” This wasn’t the place to analyze the minutiae of the sniper attacks. “Did you know Daria?”
“Everyone knows everyone up here.” As if to prove the point, she waved to a woman a few feet away. “A very sweet girl, I understand. Ambitious, too.”
“Ambitious?”
“She was a chef, or some such, at the Geneva Inn. Quite good. I’ve eaten there more than once. Never had a bad meal. She could have gone anywhere.” She sniffed. “Makes you wonder why she stuck around.”
“Why did she?”
“Family, I imagine.” Willetta shook her head. “Such a tragedy. Are the police any closer to finding the guy?”
“They have a description of a possible suspect.”
“I see.” She went back to scanning the crowd. “Well, let’s not chat about such depressing subjects, shall we?” Seconds later, she seized the arm of a passing man.
The man stopped. When he recognized who had corralled him, he gave her a big smile. She patted her hair coquettishly.
I could see why. Although he had to be in his seventies, he was remarkably well preserved. Not much hair, except for a fringe around the back, but a well-shaped head, bright blue eyes, strong chin.
“Chuck, where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you in days.” She turned to me. “This is my neighbor. We share a dock. Chuck, this is Ellie.”
“A pleasure.” He flashed a smile and extended his hand. We shook. He turned back to Willetta. “I found a new book about my man. Been reading it all week.”
At my puzzled look, Willetta explained. “Now that he’s retired, Chuck spends all his time reading about Thomas Jefferson.”
“Now Willetta…” he cut in. “That’s not fair. I still work. A little.” He winked at me.
Willetta giggled and stroked her boa. “Chuck happens to be the foremost authority on Thomas Jefferson around here.”
I perked up. Someone who was interested in something besides making and spending money, or talking about others who did.
“You know who he was, of course?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure if he was serious, although given what they’re teaching in school these days, he could have been. “Third president. Scientist. Inventor. Intellectual. Wrote the Declaration of Independence. Owned slaves but had a long-term relationship with one of them. Died on July fourth, fifty years after the Declaration.” I stopped, having exhausted everything I knew about the man.
He nodded approval. “It’s reassuring that someone still has a patina of knowledge about great figures of history.”
I fidgeted, aware he was both complimenting and insulting me.
“You mentioned the sciences,” he went on. “But did you know the man pioneered aspects of archeology, paleontology, and botany that still are considered important today?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Or that he was, in effect, the first American commissioner of patents?”
I shook my head.
“Or that Mr. Jefferson, as he was wont to be called, spoke five languages and was the president of the American Philosophical Society?”
“Sounds like a Type-A.”
“Actually,” he laughed, “Jefferson was fairly…laid back, I think is the term you use. So much so that he left no treatise, no document summarizing his take on life. Or his political philosophy. All we’re left with are educated guesses about his values.”
“What about the Declaration of Independence? That’s a pretty clear statement.”
“A beautiful document, but written for specific times and circumstances. Weaving together contributions by several people.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying the Declaration was a work by committee?”
“Exactly. Jefferson was drafted into the process at the last minute. Not because he’d been vocal on the issues. In fact, he was known as the quiet member of Congress. It’s questionable whether he believed in equality at all. But he was a good writer and they needed one.”
“Behind every politician is a good speech writer,” I cracked.
He peered at me. “Are you a lover of history?”
“I think it gives us perspective on the present.”
“And what do you do? In the present?”
A waiter passed behind Willetta with only one glass of champagne on his tray. Chuck and another man reached for it at the same time. Chuck grabbed it first and took a long sip. The other man shot Chuck a withering look, then backed away. Chuck gave him his back. “Now what is it you do?”
I put my empty glass on the tray, feeling suddenly cold. “I—I’m a video producer,” I said cautiously.
“Ahh. And what are you doing here?”
I told him about the video. He nodded a few times and seemed interested. It was as if the incident with the other man had never happened.
A thought occurred to me. “Would either of you be willing to talk about your history in Lake Geneva on camera? I’d love to hear more about the circus and its influence on the area.” I turned to Chuck. “I take it you’ve lived here a long time, too?”
“Every summer since I was born.”
“And always reading,” Willetta chimed in.
“Not much else to do, if you’re not a boater.”
“You don’t like the lake?”
“Not any….” He paused. “You can’t stay on the water all the time. So I read.” He shrugged. “Helps beat the heat.”
“I thought the lake keeps things cool. Like in Chicago.”
“There’s a difference between Lake Michigan and our little pond. There are days when you think you’ve stumbled into Death Valley.”
“Remember the summer of fifty-seven, Chuck?” Willetta brushed her hand across his arm. “Even the ice didn’t help.”
“Ice?” I looked from Willetta to Chuck.
“At the beginning of each summer,” Chuck explained, “people would
drag large blocks of ice into their basements. They’d set fans up and let the cool air circulate through the house.”
“The ice man always came around Memorial Day,” Willetta added.
“Where did the ice come from?”
“The lake.”
“Lake Geneva?”
Chuck nodded. “The lake freezes solid every winter. Before it thawed, men would chop up large chunks of it and store them in an ice house until summer. By the end of August, of course, most of it was melted.” He smiled genially. “At one time ice was a huge business. Lake Geneva ice was transported as far south as Chicago.”
“I had no idea how much history there is up here. Would it—could I—would it be possible to see an ice house? Maybe there’s a way to include it in the video.”
“We have an ice house,” Chuck began, “but it’s been converted into a tool shed.”
“I’d love to see it.”
He looked me over, then balanced his drink in one hand and fished out a card from his pocket. “Well, I’m in and out a lot, but why don’t you call my assistant and we’ll see if we can set something up.”
“I’ll do that.” I smiled. “Thanks.”
He nodded, then turned away to greet someone else.
“What an interesting man,” I said to Willetta.
“The best neighbor I’ve ever had.”
It was only when I held up the card to read his full name that I gasped.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“What’s wrong?” Willetta wrapped her hands around her wineglass.
“Chuck…” I spat out. “He’s Charles Sutton.”
“Charles Sutton the Third.”
I looked at his retreating back.
“What’s wrong, woman?” Willetta repeated. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
I made some quick calculations. Chuck was in his seventies. Luke Sutton looked somewhere in his forties. Which meant Chuck was Luke Sutton’s father. I tried to recover. “It’s just—well, I’ve heard the name.”
“Not surprising, given who they are.” She eyed me carefully. “Or were. Before the tragedy, of course.”
“What tragedy?”
“And now, with his wife, Gloria….” She looked at me meaningfully.
Mrs. Charles Sutton. Luke Sutton’s mother. “Which one is she?”
Willetta waved a hand. “Oh, Gloria’s not here. She doesn’t—she keeps to herself. Rarely leaves the house.” Willetta peered at me. “You didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
“But you’re from the North Shore. Chuck and Gloria live in Lake Forest during the winter.”
“That’s all well and good, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I tell you what. You come on over to my place sometime. I have all sorts of pictures and stories about the way Lake Geneva used to be. And what happened around here. You can even bring your camera if you want. I live next door to the Suttons, by the way. I’m in the book.”
“Thanks.”
She winked at me, then pulled her boa more snugly across her broad shoulders and swished away.
I watched her go, grateful she was so willing to share information. I couldn’t help but be curious about the Suttons. And surprised. Charles Sutton was, except for the champagne incident, charming. Not at all the evil robber baron I’d imagined. And while his son, Luke, was a different matter, my curiosity about the family and the tragedy they’d suffered was piqued.
I turned around, a trickle of sweat inching down between my shoulderblades. The press of people, the wine, the close air were making me uncomfortably warm. I caught a glimpse of glasses on a tray and zeroed in on them. When I got there, I discovered Pari Noskin Taichert, clad in a tuxedo, passing drinks with a practiced smile. Of course. The Lodge would be using all their staff to work the gala. Happily, there was one glass left on the tray.
“Hello, Pari.”
She looked over, but when she recognized me, her hostess smile disappeared.
“I said, ‘Hello, Pari.’”
She continued to ignore me.
I sidestepped around to her face. “Excuse me, but—”
“Just leave me alone.” She handed the last glass to a man whose forehead was bathed in sweat.
I’m not sure if it was the tone of her voice or the fact I was hot and cranky and fed up with trying to be charming to people who didn’t care about me, but I snapped. Impulsively, I grabbed the empty tray from her hands and hugged it to my chest.
Pari went rigid.
“Gimme that back. You can’t do that. I’ll lose my job for sure.”
She reached for the tray, but I held on to it. “Not until you tell me why you’re so angry.”
“You’re crazy, lady.” There was a desperate quality to her voice. “Give me that back!” I knew if she made a grab for it, and I didn’t relinquish it, we could end up making a scene. Which would not be helpful—for either of us. She seemed to know it, too, and stood uncertainly. A man waved an empty glass toward me. I held out the tray. He deposited it with a frown, as if he knew something was wrong but didn’t know quite what.
Pari made another attempt to snatch the tray from me, but I grabbed the empty glass and swooped the tray out of reach. “Talk and you get it back.”
She shot me another dark look and scanned the crowd. Then in a voice so low I could barely hear her, she said, “Why’d you go to the police? I ast you not to.”
“Come on. You knew I would.”
“Yeah, well, Chief Saclarides was all over me like the skin on an onion. And now everybody thinks I’m a snitch. No one’ll talk to me. I probably won’t last another three days here.”
“Pari, it was the right thing to do.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Calm down. In the final analysis, it wasn’t even very important.”
A woman in a tight black sheath cut me off and set down an almost full glass of red wine on the tray. I guess she didn’t like the vintage. Before moving on, she looked down her nose at me as if to deplore the quality of the hired help.
“Since the last shooting, the police are going in a completely different direction. They even have a lead on a suspect.”
Pari glared at me, obviously unimpressed with my analysis. “That don’t help me much.”
I understood what she was saying. In her mind, I’d undermined her at her job. Made her an “untrustworthy.” Even though she was the one who first volunteered the gossip.
“Pari. If something happens—if you lose your job—I want you to call me. I’ll help you out. Let me get you my card. They’re out in the hall.” I loosened my hold on the tray.
She blocked my path. “I don’t need charity from you. What I need is for you to go away and leave me be.” With that she snatched the tray out of my hands. The movement was so abrupt that the glass of red wine on the tray went flying, hit the floor, and shattered. Splattering the front of my outfit.
A moment of shocked silence followed. Pari scowled defiantly, as if daring me to make a scene. Then, clutching the tray in front of her, she turned on her heel and was gone.
I caught my breath and looked down. Big splotches of red and pink were spreading across my new silk pantsuit. It was so saturated in some spots that the wet penetrated down to my skin. To make matters worse, people’s gazes were drawn to the spectacle, and I was the object of unwelcome attention. They probably thought I was too drunk to hold my liquor.
Trying to be as inconspicuous as a woman in an ivory-colored wine-stained outfit could be. I pushed my way through the crowd. I wondered if I even cared. I didn’t know most of these people, and with the exception of Willetta Emerson, I wasn’t sure I liked the ones I did. But I was out the cost of a new outfit, and I did care about that. I sighed. The way my luck was going, the next person I’d run into would be Luke Sutton.
***
If being a little psychic is like being a little pregnant, I should have been able to bend a spoon. It wasn’t Luke S
utton standing in the hall, but rather, the next best—or worst—thing, depending on your perspective. Jimmy Saclarides, Lake Geneva’s chief of police and the man who’d been riding shotgun in Luke Sutton’s plane, was lounging against the railing.
He nodded in recognition. “Evening, Miss Foreman.”
I’d been hurrying to the ladies’ room, but, in truth, there wasn’t much I could do about the wine stains. The material was silk; I couldn’t soak it in cold water. If there was any chance of reclaiming my outfit, I’d have to depend on the kindness of dry cleaners. I made a right turn and veered toward Jimmy. “You have a habit of turning up when I least expect it.”
“That’s exactly what the guy said when I caught him ripping off the bank.” He smiled affably.
The amusement in his eyes surprised me.
He looked toward Mac, who had set up at the end of the hall. A couple had just finished their sound bites and were strolling back into the ballroom. “Working tonight?”
“Just trying to get some ‘color.’”
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Bourbon, I wondered. Or scotch. “Color? Like Jimmy Piersall?”
“Excuse me?”
“Piersall, the baseball player. My namesake. After his playing days were over, he was the color man on the Sox broadcasts.” He laughed. “God knows they needed something.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m a Cubs fan.”
“It figures.” He smiled again. Then his attention focused on my outfit. “Those red—or are they pink—designs are, er, interesting. You get ’em done just for tonight?”
I felt my cheeks get hot.
“You want to talk about it?”
Something in the way he said it made me think he wasn’t talking about my outfit. This was one of those good news–bad news situations. The good news was that someone in Lake Geneva actually seemed pleased to see me. The bad news was it was one of the people about whom I had the most misgivings. Jimmy Saclarides had apparently given Pari a hard time about talking to me. And though he didn’t seem to be very aggressive about it, theoretically he was working the case with Milanovich. He was the chief of police. For all I knew, he could have been furious Pari talked to me rather than going directly to him.
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