Free A Shot to Die For by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

they mentioned him to Daria’s mother and sister? I frowned. We’ve all heard of townsfolk who protect, even embrace, their “favorite sons,” despite the fact everyone knows they’re troublemakers. They might be scoundrels, the thinking goes, but they’re “our” scoundrels, and we’ll deal with them. Sometimes you can feel the affection—even pride—for their bad boys.
    In cases like that, the task of meting out justice while still keeping the peace falls to the police. But even the best cops aren’t immune to pressure, and all the wealth concentrated in Lake Geneva had to be tantamount to a steamroller. Lieutenant Milanovich seemed decent enough, but he was from Illinois. Lake Geneva was in Wisconsin. Different cops, different jurisdictions. It would be easy for reports to be lost, interviews glossed over. Certain facts might never cross Milanovich’s desk.
    I veered onto the Edens. I should stop speculating. What I’d heard wasn’t evidence. It was gossip from a barmaid about whom I knew very little. What was her stake in this? Did she harbor a grudge against Daria? Or was it Luke Sutton? Maybe she’d come on to him, and he hadn’t responded. Or maybe they’d had a fling, and she was jealous when he’d moved on. The women in “Cell Block Tango” had killed for less. Or maybe it was his wealth she resented. She’d mentioned it several times. Maybe she just wanted to make life tough for a rich guy. Or maybe she was trying to do the right thing. She had information; she wanted it to get out.
    I snapped off the music. Whatever her motivation, it wasn’t my problem. My only responsibility in Lake Geneva was to produce a video for the Lodge. The police were working the case. Besides, everything pointed to some psycho serial killer with a thing for young women.
    Still, as I barreled down the highway, an image of Daria’s mother kept drifting into my mind. Her spine impossibly straight, her voice soft but insistent. “What did my daughter say at the end?” she was asking. “If you remember anything else…. Please. We have to know.”
    ***
    I stopped off at Costco for steaks before going home. I’d throw them on the grill and make a salad for dinner. Rachel was into a low-carb diet, though at five-four and a hundred fifteen pounds, she didn’t need to be. Given that the teenage body is wholly consumed by either food or hormones, however, I was grateful she wasn’t a fanatic. I might convince her to go to Dairy Queen for dessert.
    But there was no sign of Rachel when I walked in. The newspaper was spread out over the kitchen table, and a half-eaten tuna sandwich lay on a plate. I glanced at the paper: classifieds for used cars. I dropped the meat on the counter and went back outside. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was cool enough to water the flowers. I uncoiled the hose, turned it on, and pointed the sprinkler on the flower bed. The grass was starting to look overgrown and toothy; I hoped Fouad would be back soon. I collected the mail and trudged up the driveway, scanning the bills and junk mail. Didn’t anyone write real letters anymore? I was almost at the end of the driveway when a shrill, ear-splitting blast sounded just inches behind me.
    Reflex kicked in. I leaped to the side and dropped to the ground. The mail fell from my hands, scattering on the grass. I looked up just in time to see a burst of black metal sweep past not six inches from my foot. It lurched to a stop at the end of the driveway, exactly where I’d stood.
    I slowly stood up. It was my ex-husband’s car. My heart hammered in my chest, and my skin felt cold. I felt almost giddy, veering between relief and rage. As I ran up to the car, I saw two figures in the front seat. Neither made any attempt to look at me.
    I realized why when I came abreast of the car. Rachel was in the driver’s seat, shoulders hunched, her hands gripping the wheel. Barry was in the passenger seat, his hand covering his eyes. Rachel stared