A Shot to Die For by Libby Fischer Hellmann Read Free Book Online

use?”
    “For what?”
    “To kill people from a distance.”
    “There are all sorts of high-powered rifles. And assault weapons. With a tripod and a scope, any one of those babies could do the job.”
    “What kind of baby?”
    “For starters, something like an M16,” he said helpfully.
    “The ones they use in the army?”
    “Or a commercial version. Why? You thinking of packing some heat?” He stroked his beard. “Actually, with your record, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
    “Sure. Me and Annie Oakley. No. I was just thinking—do you think the shooter was a vet?”
    He snorted. “Military…mob…it could be anyone. Those pieces aren’t hard to use. Even you could learn to shoot one in about an hour.”
    “I could?”
    “All in a day’s work. Clean the house, cook dinner, and brush up on your marksmanship.”
    “I must have missed it on ‘Here’s Martha.’”
    “It was a good thing.”
    I looked through Mac’s windows. A docile summer sun was climbing through a sky so uniformly blue it looked like someone had splashed a bucket of paint across it. A huge garbage truck lumbered by and stopped, its high-pitched whistle warning it was backing up. A woman climbed out of a red Toyota, carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts bag. Life looked normal. I wanted mine to be, too. I turned to Mac. “Okay. I’m done with this. Let’s talk video.”
    “Good.” Mac pulled out his notes. The Lodge had just finished extensive renovations, and our shoot would begin next Monday. We would continue on and off for two weeks, culminating at a black-tie gala to celebrate the resort’s official reopening. We would tape all the amenities at the resort, including the private airstrip and the bunny hill for skiers. The Lodge would provide employees for cheerful sound bites, and we’d interview some guests. I was trying to nail down one or two townsfolk to add “color”—perhaps a few recollections about the resort’s Playboy days.
    Mac brightened. “Hey, maybe we could interview some former Bunnies.”
    “In your dreams.” Despite thirty years of feminism, the mention of anything connected to the Playboy era still triggers a Pavlovian response among men. Forget Samoa; Margaret Mead could have had a field day analyzing Hugh Hefner’s effect on the male psyche. “I was thinking more along the lines of people who own those huge estates.”
    Lake Geneva first came to public attention after the Great Chicago Fire in 1871 when a few industrialists built temporary homes—they called them “cottages”—while their city property was being restored. Once the railroad linked the two places, more Chicagoans followed—Chicagoans with names like Wrigley, Pullman, and Sears. Between 1880 and 1920 dozens of estates went up on the shores of the lake.
    “Don’t you want to see what the robber barons did with their fortunes?”
    Mac didn’t answer.
    “Oh.” I smacked the palm of my hand against my cheek. “I forgot. That wouldn’t be some of
your
relatives, would it?”
    For a moment, I couldn’t read his reaction. Then he laughed. “As a matter of fact, one of my uncles or cousins has a place up there. I haven’t talked to him in years.”
    Mac was estranged from most of his family. Not only were they appalled that he had abandoned his affluent lifestyle for something as tedious as a real job, but they’d never forgiven him for marrying a girl from Chicago’s West Side, and raising two children as—dare it be said—Catholics.
    “Hey. I was just kidding.”
    “I’m not. Maybe I should give him a call.”
    I shrugged. “It’s not worth deepening the family feud. We can always grab guests at that black-tie gala. They’ll all be wearing tuxedos and smoking cigars—they’ll look the part.”
    Mac drummed the pencil on his desk. “Let’s see. Rich Chicago industrialists in tuxedos extolling a luxury resort in their backyard. Are we going for a little visual irony here, Ellie? A touch of Studs Terkel