A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  I waited.

  “The truth is, it was pretty clear she was raped. Maybe she tried to resist—who knows—but she was overpowered. Then she was murdered. Strangled, then drowned.” Willetta twirled her glass on the table. “Her body was naked when they found her. The police never found who did it. They said it was some kind of vagrant. An intruder. You know, like the Percy girl.”

  I felt a chill. Valerie Percy, one of Senator Charles Percy’s twin daughters, was brutally murdered in 1966 in their Kenilworth home. Someone allegedly broke into the house in the middle of the night and pummeled the girl to death with a ball-peen hammer. In that case, there was an intense investigation, but the murderer was never found.

  I reached for the bourbon. “When did—when did Anne die?”

  “The summer of seventy-four. June.”

  Almost ten years after the Percy murder.

  “Were there any witnesses? Any evidence?”

  “No one saw anything. But it wouldn’t have been hard for someone to tie up at the dock, come on up, and do whatever it was they wanted. Especially in the summer, when there’s so many people on the water.” She motioned toward the window. “It was after that we put in all the burglar alarms and electric fences and things.”

  “Willetta, the article makes it sound like an accident. How could a murder like that have been covered up? I mean, the police, the press—I would have thought—”

  “It wasn’t covered up. That was just the first article. Look here.” She opened the scrapbook again to another article about a week later. The headline, from the Tribune, read, SUTTON GIRL FOUND MURDERED. And another, from the Daily News, LITTLE EVIDENCE IN MURDER OF ANNE SUTTON. And yet another from the Sun-Times: MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS…THE REAL STORY BEHIND THE SUTTON TRAGEDY….

  I didn’t remember the coverage. But that was the summer Nixon resigned. I was young and political and wholly consumed by Watergate, Nixon’s refusal to hand over the tapes, and the impeachment hearings.

  “It was different back then,” Willetta went on. “At least around here. People weren’t so interested in cashing in on other people’s troubles. Not that there weren’t a lot of questions, mind you. In fact, just a few years ago one of those investigative reporters—isn’t that what you call them—came out from Chicago and was snooping around, asking all sorts of questions.”

  I leaned back in my chair. That could explain why Luke Sutton and his brother were so quick to paint me as one of the “enemy.”

  “Nobody wanted the circus that surrounded the Percy murder,” Willetta went on. “And the chief of police didn’t want to sully the town any more than it had been.”

  “Not Jimmy.”

  “Oh no. Henry Babcock was the chief of police back then. Jimmy was just a kid—well, a teenager. The theory was it was someone who came in off the lake, maybe looking to rob the house or something. When he saw Annie—well, she was always a friendly little thing—hell, she probably offered to help the creep. Maybe promised him a meal or something to drink. Then, one thing led to another, and, well, for the most part, they kept the details quiet. But it wasn’t a cover-up. Just respecting their feelings. The Suttons are a prestigious family, and people figured they were entitled to grieve in private.”

  “They never came up with any suspects?” I asked.

  Willetta cocked her head. “Well, there was one.”

  “Who?”

  She reached for her glass. “The Suttons’ caretaker.”

  “The one who found her body?”

  Willetta nodded. “I never knew exactly what happened. We went abroad that summer. In fact, we left soon after Annie died. By the time George and I got back—it was about a month later—Herbert had disappeared, and rumors were flying.”

  “Rumors that he killed Annie?”

  “That he raped her, killed her, maybe knew the person who did. It was all very murky and speculative.” She sniffed. “I tried not to listen, of course, George and I being so close to Gloria and Chuck.”

  “Of course.”

  “At any rate, nothing ever came of it.”

  “He wasn’t charged?”

  “No.” A slightly puzzled look came over her. “He wasn’t. Everything died down after that.”

  “You mean after he left town?”

  She nodded.

  “And never came back?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I have no idea.” She shrugged, then looked at me. “Sometimes it’s best not to pry, you know?”

  “So the caretaker finds Annie’s body, no one can come up with any suspects, then he suddenly disappears off the face of the earth.” I flipped through the scrapbook. “You don’t have any articles about that part of it.”

  “I told you. We were in Europe. By the time we got home, it was pretty much over.” She broke off, the remnants of deep sadness on her face. Then, as though ashamed I’d caught her in a vulnerable state, she poured herself another shot.

  I looked through the kitchen window. The view gave onto the stand of evergreens and, beyond that, the Suttons’ backyard.

  Willetta followed my gaze. “Sometimes I see Gloria walking around the yard. But she never leaves the grounds. Got a nurse-type person with her all the time. They call her a housekeeper.” She shrugged. “But her job is to keep Gloria—quiet. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Nothing was the same afterward,” she sighed. “Luke left right afterward. Didn’t come back until last year. Chip was the only one who stuck around.”

  “Seems like he moved on, too. I mean, he got married. Went into the family business.”

  “Uh-huh.” Willetta’s face was impenetrable.

  For some reason I remembered Pari Noskin Taichert saying Chip was a good tipper. Was that his quid pro quo? A way to buy silence about his boozing? I stood up and put my hand on Willetta’s shoulder. “Thanks, Willetta. I appreciate everything you’ve told me.” I took a last sip of bourbon.

  She waved away my thanks. “Hey, how about that interview?”

  “How about next week?”

  “Grand.” She stood up, too. “We—we won’t be talking about Annie, will we?”

  “No, of course not. I want to hear about the circus.”

  “And how I met my wonderful George?”

  “And how you met your wonderful George.”

  Her face brightened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Before getting into the car, I made my way down to the dock. Sailboats tacked back and forth on the lake. A group of kids roared past on jet skis. Some had girls in the back, their arms wrapped around the drivers. The Hells Angels of the nautical set.

  I thought back to Willetta’s comment about security. After what happened to Anne Sutton, I would have thought Monticello would be locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Except, as we’ve learned, it’s hard to sustain a “red alert” for thirty days, let alone thirty years. Not that the ravages of the tragedy hadn’t marked the Suttons: the wife was a hermit, one son was a drunk, and the other one had only just come back to the family fold.

  The sun finally broke through the clouds and sat low in the western sky. A breeze stirred the trees, and the tangy scent of pine sap drifted over me. It was time to leave. As I headed back to the car, I peeked at the Suttons’ property one last time.

  I froze. Someone—a man—was walking around the ice house. No. Not walking. Tiptoeing. He was hunched over, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and olive drab pants. He moved stealthily, as though he wanted to remain hidden. Although his back was to me, I had the impression of a tall man. He disappeared around the back of the ice house.

  I stood still, my senses on alert. Then I relaxed. It was probably the gardener or the caretaker or whatever they called them up here. But why was he sneaking around? Or was he? Unsettled by Willetta’s story, I could be imagining things. But then where were his gardening tools? When Fouad works, he spreads everything out across the lawn, and he wears pa
nts with lots of pockets so his hand tools are within reach. The man I saw didn’t have any equipment, although, to be fair, he could have just finished stowing it in the tool shed.

  I shrugged. It was an odd way for a gardener to behave. But then, everyone up in Lake Geneva was a little odd.

  ***

  It was dusk, and the smoky aroma of meat from my neighbor’s grill filled the air. An accident on I-94 had snarled traffic just past the toll booth, and the drive took over two hours. I finally turned onto my block, tired, cross, and anxious to wash up. But as I pulled into the garage, the wooden ladder that extends down from the attic stood directly in my path. Someone had lowered it from the ceiling but neglected to put it back up. I slammed on the brakes an inch shy of impact. Who was rummaging through my attic? This wasn’t the kind of day for unexpected events or visitors.

  I slid out of the car, went to the ladder, and peered into the attic. It was dark and quiet. I walked around to the front of the house. No one there either. I came back, took out my key, and quietly let myself into the kitchen.

  No one was inside, but they had been. Dishes littered the counter and spilled into the sink. A jar of chocolate sauce sat on the table with splotches of brown congealing on its surface. A half-gallon of vanilla ice cream, mostly melted now, lay on the other counter. Next to it was the better half of a grilled cheese sandwich. The smell of grease hung in the air, and the frying pan on the stove was coated with a layer of crust.

  I let out my breath, went to the refrigerator, and poured a large glass of water. As I took a sip, a series of squeals chorused through the window. I looked out to see a towheaded little boy furiously pedaling Rachel’s old tricycle, the one we’d stored in the attic. Rachel and a towheaded little girl raced behind him.

  I took my water outside. The kids were shouting, the girl demanding that her brother give her a turn. The boy refused and pedaled faster. And Rachel was hollering just as loud as they were. When they reached the end of the block, the boy turned the tricycle around, but Rachel blocked him and lifted him off. The little girl threw herself on the seat. As they made their way, the little boy tried to outrun his sister, who shrieked in delight at his pursuit. Rachel tried to keep up, but her face grew bright red, and her chest rose and fell.

  “Not so easy, is it?” I said as they came abreast of me.

  Rachel pretended to shrug, as if agreeing with me would imply some kind of psychic defeat.

  “How old are they?”

  “Charlie’s six. Melanie’s four.”

  “I guess that makes you the Perle Mesta of the preschool set.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  She looked at me. “Mother, you are so dorky sometimes.”

  “I thought you were spending the day at Dad’s.”

  “Daddy and Julia went shopping. We decided to play here for a change. Julia said it was okay.”

  I harrumphed. If the disaster in the kitchen was any indication of what went on at her house, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Which reminds me. Can I have fifty dollars?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She yanked a thumb toward Charlie. “He broke my CD player. He thought it was a Frisbee.”

  “What about all the money you’re making?”

  “Come on, Mom. It’s in the mother-daughter handbook. Page seventy-two. Daughters are allowed to get their allowance plus whatever money they make on their own.”

  “You must have the revised version. Mine says young ladies need to learn the value of money, which happens only by earning and saving for what they want.”

  Rachel scrunched up her face and walked away.

  ***

  When I finally managed to go online, I did another search on the Sutton family, looking for anything I could find on the daughter. A few articles mentioned the sons but no daughter. I Googled again, plugging in the date of her death, and the words “Anne Fitzgerald Sutton.” This time, I got a few hits: the same article from the Tribune I’d seen in Willetta’s scrapbook, and an even shorter one from The New York Times.

  I wondered if the investigative reporter whom Willetta said showed up in Lake Geneva ever wrote his article. If he did, it wasn’t on Google. I tried another news database, but came up empty. If someone was trying to discourage press coverage about the murder, they’d done a good job. I was about to give up but decided to search the Wisconsin papers, just in case Willetta had it wrong, and the reporter hailed from Milwaukee or Madison, not Chicago. I clicked onto the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and entered Anne’s name.

  There it was! I clicked on a headline that said, 25 YEARS LATER, STILL NO ANSWERS. The article was a roundup looking back at historical events a quarter-century ago. Several unsolved crimes around the state were reexamined, including a bank robbery in Madison in which two security guards were gunned down, the kidnapping of a ten-year-old boy, and Anne Sutton’s murder. I started to read. It wasn’t a long article, and the part devoted to Anne Sutton was only one paragraph. Still, I had to suppress my shock at the last sentence.

  At one point suspicion centered on the estate’s caretaker, which was heightened when he fled Lake Geneva after the crime. Today, though, police admit there was never any solid evidence linking Herbert Flynn to the Sutton girl’s murder, a fact which his wife Irene and her two daughters have repeatedly declared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I printed out the article feeling foolish, the way you do when you realize everybody else knows something that you don’t. Why hadn’t anyone told me Herbert Flynn was the caretaker who found Anne Sutton’s body? Why didn’t I know Daria Flynn’s father had worked for the Suttons? True, it had been thirty years ago, ancient history in most people’s lives. True, there was no reason to link Daria Flynn’s death to Anne Sutton’s. True, revisiting the event would resurrect painful memories for many people. Even so, there had been a relationship between the Suttons and the Flynns, a relationship that had apparently spanned several decades, but no one had seen fit to mention it.

  Why did people think Herbert Flynn committed the murder, I wondered. Was there something shady in his past? Was he a shifty, untrustworthy type? Sometimes the mere perception of guilt, especially when someone is dislikable, can trigger a rush to judgment. And who had first made those accusations? Had one of the Suttons seen something that made them think Herbert killed Anne? It was odd; he’d been the one who found her body. He should have been considered a hero. Instead, he’d fled town in disgrace.

  I reread the article, wondering if anyone at the Journal Sentinel might have more information, when the phone rang.

  Rachel answered and began an animated conversation. I figured it was one of her friends, so I was surprised when she called upstairs a minute later. “Mom…it’s David.”

  I stared at the cordless, then picked up the phone.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Ellie.”

  “So long, David,” Rachel said cheerfully. I heard the click as she hung up.

  There was silence.

  I cleared my throat. “How are you?”

  “Ellie, we have to talk.”

  My skin felt itchy. “I know.”

  “I don’t like being in—in this no-man’s-land. I feel like I’m stumbling through fog.”

  This wasn’t a new conversation. We both knew our relationship was flawed. What I didn’t know—and David probably didn’t either—was whether we could salvage it. Can relationships really be repaired or is that just Dr. Phil’s hype? As I thought about it, I almost missed what David was saying.

  “…little, my mother used to tell me the story—”

  “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  He paused, then sighed. “I was saying when I was a little boy, my mother told me the story of the nail. You probably know it. A long time ago, a merchant made a lot of money at a fair and started home on his horse.”

  I steeled myself. “And?”

  “According to the story, he stopped at a town and the stable boy said h
is horse needed a nail in his shoe. The man ignored the boy’s warning—he was in a hurry. At the next stop, he was told the horse needed a new shoe. The merchant still didn’t pay attention, and the horse began to limp, then stumbled, then fell down and broke its leg.”

  “For want of a nail….”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  David went on, “We’ve crippled the horse, Ellie, haven’t we?”

  I pictured him in his townhouse in Philadelphia holding the cordless. Was he staring out at the cherry trees in his backyard? Was he wearing shorts or sweats? A T-shirt or a button-down? “Yes.” It came out as a whisper.

  Silence hung between us. Finally, I said, “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I think we should put the horse out of its misery.”

  More silence.

  “Then I guess there’s not much more to say.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Ellie….”

  “David….”

  “Never mind.”

  I hung up and buried my face in my hands. I heard noise from a sitcom on the tube downstairs. The laugh track was punctuated by an occasional chuckle from Rachel. I heard her shuffling from the family room into the kitchen. The slap of the refrigerator door. The snap and hiss of a can opening. It was over. No trumpets. No announcement. Just canned laughter and the snap of a pop-top.

  I heard Rachel climbing the steps. A moment later, she appeared at the door to my office, the can of pop in her hand. “So what’s going on with David?”

  I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

  She took a long sip. “You broke up, didn’t you?”

  I nodded slowly.

  Rachel stared at me. Then she said, “I wish I were at Julia’s. I like it better there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My father was the one I called the next morning.

  I’d spent a sleepless night filled with terrors. It was my fault David and I were finished. Even my daughter didn’t want to be around me. I was incapable of sustaining intimacy with any man. A failure in the relationship sweepstakes. As the sky lightened, I felt the need to connect with someone who loved me unconditionally. There was only one person.