Shoots to Kill (3 page)

With a brief hello to Dave’s secretary, we headed straight for his office, a room with forest green carpeting and peach walls that screamed 1980s. I sat in one of the two leather club chairs in front of his desk and Dave settled into his creaky, high-backed brown leather chair, slid his briefcase across the top, and leaned back with a sigh. “Coffee?”

“I could really use some water.” I glanced at my hands and thought of those grimy steel bars. “And maybe some disinfectant.”

Minutes later Martha bustled in with a cup of coffee for Dave and a bottle of water for me, promising to return with sanitizing lotion. She was always on top of things. She reminded me of my own assistant Grace, who used to work for Dave. In fact, I’d met her in this very office when I’d clerked for him—back in the days when I thought I had a chance in law school.

Dave had thought so, too, apparently, or he wouldn’t have hired me. But after I flunked out and found a new home at Bloomers, where I’d blossomed, so to speak, he agreed that flowers were my true calling. He just hadn’t realized that they weren’t my only calling. I was developing quite a little sideline solving puzzles, usually involving some very bad people.

“End my misery, Dave,” I said, opening the screw-top water bottle. “What did the trooper think I’d done?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Abby, a case of mistaken identity.”

I nearly spilled the water.
Mistaken identity?
A suspicion began to form in my mind.

“The trooper was responding to an APB. He happened to be passing by the public parking lot as you were getting out of your car, and reacted instinctively. He’s a rookie, and right now a very embarrassed one.”

“He ought to be. But you still haven’t told me what my alleged crime was.”

Dave gazed at me from under lowered brows. “Are you calm?”

I put the bottle on his desk and showed him my unclenched fists. “Absolutely.”

“Murder.”

Not calm now. My fingers curled into my palms as my eyes narrowed in fury.

“Are you okay?” Dave asked.

“Not so much. Who was the victim?”

He scanned the typed page in front of him. “No information on that yet.”

“And this person the trooper thought was me, is her name Elizabeth Blume?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

With a groan, I buried my face in my hands. “She’s my evil twin.”

“Your
what
?”

“My doppelgänger, my deadly double—whatever you want to call her. You’re probably the only one on the square who hasn’t met her. She’s a young woman I used to babysit, and for the past three weeks she’s been slowly making her life over into a perfect copy of mine. I knew she was planning something. I just never expected a murder.”

At that thought I sat forward, my whole body tensing. “Have I been cleared as a suspect?”

“Your arrest was a mistake, Abby. You’re not a suspect.”

“I will be, Dave. Trust me. It’s all part of her plan.”

“You’d better enlighten me.” He took a hearty swallow of coffee and, thus fortified, pulled his yellow legal pad closer and readied his pen.

CHAPTER ONE

“Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Salvare,” I said into my cell phone, hurrying up the street as the mid-October wind whipped my hair into a red froth. “The shower centerpiece and table decorations will be there first thing Sunday morning. I have it all under control.”

The woman on the other end, Francesca Salvare, my boyfriend’s mother, said, “
Bene, bambina
. We’ll see you then, eh?”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Like a tooth pulling.

I slid my phone into my purse and pulled my scarf tighter around my neck. The only reason I’d agreed to furnish the flowers for Marco’s sister’s baby shower was to make points with his family. I hadn’t realized what an ordeal it would be—all because of his sister Gina.

I hate gerberas,
she’d told me when I sat down with her to make flower recommendations.
And don’t even
think about using cockscomb. Ew. Scabiosa? Isn’t that a disease? Anemone? Aren’t those sea creatures? I absolutely have to have baby’s breath in the centerpiece. It’s bad luck not to have baby’s breath at a baby shower. Artichokes? Seriously?

I’d nearly shredded my tongue that afternoon, trying to keep my cool. I was fairly certain that Gina was being difficult because she didn’t want me dating her brother. She was determined that he should find a woman who wanted to get married and have lots of kids right away, and that just wasn’t me—or Marco, for that matter. Although we’d been dating each other exclusively for four and a half months and were very close, neither one of us felt ready for that walk down the aisle. For me it was a matter of maturity. I was only twenty-six, after all, and trying to establish my new career. And although Marco was thirty, he didn’t feel the need to rush things, either.

I turned the corner onto Franklin, wondering if I could send over the flowers and skip the shower. Trip on the curb and sprain my ankle, perhaps? Ouch. Too painful. Color my freckles red and claim I had measles? Um, no. The health inspector might shut me down.

You can handle a baby shower, Abby,
that little voice of reason said.
Just clear your Saturday calendar so you’ll have a full day to concentrate on making those centerpieces the most awesome they’ve ever seen.

I eyed the curb in front of my shop, wondering just
how
painful a sprain would be.

“Hey, Sunshine. Why the frown?”

When I heard that low sexy voice, my frown was history. I turned to see Marco getting out of his dark green Prius, a surprise since his bar didn’t open until eleven o’clock.

Marco Salvare owned the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, located two doors up the block from my flower shop. He was an ex-Army Ranger and ex-cop, and had a nice sideline going as a private investigator. He and I had clicked the moment he’d first set foot inside Bloomers. With his dark hair, bedroom eyes framed by dark, expressive eyebrows, nose that was strong and just a tad bit askew, expressive mouth, and sexy grin, he’d set off bells inside my head that were still chiming. Add to that a black leather motorcycle jacket, tight-fitting blue denims, and polished-to-a-sheen black boots, and how could I have resisted?

He came sauntering toward me, looking hot and dangerously yummy, as always—maybe even more so than usual because of that serious five-o’clock shadow he had going on. “I’ve been up all night on a stakeout.”

“Which case? Missing uncle, or rich wife-cheating husband?”

“Rich wife-cheating husband.”

“Poor baby.” I stroked his stubbly cheek, knowing how much he hated that kind of case. In Marco’s opinion, either you trusted someone or you didn’t. If you didn’t, then forget trying to prove an infidelity. Just get out of the marriage. “I’d volunteer to tuck you into bed for a nap,” I said, lifting one eyebrow suggestively, “but I’ve got a jammed schedule today.”

“Me, too. Besides, my mother is staying with me until after the shower.” He sighed miserably. “I’ll be so happy once that damn thing is over.”

“Make that two of us. I just got off the phone with her. She needed more reassurance that the centerpieces would be ready on time.”

“She called you again? I’m sorry.” He picked up my hands and rubbed them between his warm ones. “I’ll make it up to you.”

I leaned into him. “Want to give me a little preview?”

He glanced around to make sure no one was coming up the sidewalk. Then he dipped his head toward mine for a kiss.

“Abby? Abby Knight?”

I turned to see a young woman approaching us from the courthouse square across the street. She was my height, with long, gleaming, pale blond hair topped by a stylish tam. She was wearing a white wool trench coat and silver boots, carrying a shopping bag in one hand and a silver-hued woven leather purse in the other.

“Who’s she?” Marco asked.

A strong gust of wind carried her to the curb, bringing her close enough for me to recognize. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “That’s Elizabeth Blume, a girl I used to babysit.”

“Abby!” she squealed. She dropped the shopping bag and, with a childlike cry of delight, ran toward me with open arms. It was Elizabeth all right.

She squeezed me tightly, then leaned back to smile. “It’s
so
good to see you. I was hoping I’d run into you this morning.”

Hearing Marco clear his throat—as if I could forget he was there—I said, “Elizabeth, I want you to meet Marco Salvare. Marco, this is Elizabeth Blume—”

“There’s no need for introductions,” she said, giving Marco a fey grin. “I’d know this gorgeous guy anywhere. I’ve heard all about you, Mr. PI Salvare.”

Marco darted me a questioning look, but since I hadn’t told her anything—I hadn’t spoken to Elizabeth in eight years—all I could do was shrug.

She held out her hand and he shook it. “Please call me Libby. Elizabeth is too formal.” Then she turned to loop her arm through mine, drawing me to her side. “Abby was my babysitter, but she was really more like a big sister to me. I was eleven and she was fifteen, and I thought she was wonderful—as I still do. We had oodles of fun back then, didn’t we, Abby?”

That wasn’t how I remembered it. “So, are you home on a college break?”

“I graduated,” she said, seeming surprised that I hadn’t known. “I came home to launch my career.” She turned to look at Bloomers. “So, this is your shop. Oh, Abby, you must be so proud. Look at that lovely old-fashioned door. I’m not surprised it’s yellow. I remember how much you love that color. Is that a genuine beveled-glass center? And that charming redbrick facade, those two big bay windows . . . I mean, it’s perfect, isn’t it? I’ll bet the inside is just as nice as I’ve imagined it to be.”

I watched Libby hurry to the nearer bay window and cup her hands to the glass to peer inside. “Will you give me a tour? I’m free all morning.”

She caught me off guard. “Gee, I’d love to, Elizabe— er, Libby, but Bloomers opens at nine, and my assistants and I have a lot to get ready before then.”

“Then I’ll just have to come back.” She retrieved her shopping bag from where she’d dropped it, then aimed a high-beam smile at Marco. “It was such an honor to meet you, Mr. Salvare. I’ll see you around town soon, I’m sure.” With a little wave at me, she headed back the way she’d come, moving at a brisk pace.

“Why didn’t you show her inside?” Marco asked. “It wouldn’t have taken long.”

“Are you kidding? The last thing I want to do is encourage her.”

“Why? She’s a cute kid, and she seems harmless enough.”

“That’s what I thought when I first met her.” I turned to gaze across the square, where Libby was getting into a white Mercedes SL. “She’s always been able to fool people.”

“Libby seems to have done well for herself,” Marco commented, eyeing her car.

“It’s not her money. Her mother is an extremely wealthy woman—also a tyrant. Think Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada.
When I babysat for her, I hated going over to the Blume house. The woman scared me, so I usually babysat at my house, which turned out to be a big mistake. Boy, I sure hope Elizabeth doesn’t come back.”

“You mean Libby.”

I wrinkled my nose. “
Libby
sounds so juvenile.”

“I like it. It reminds me of your name.” Marco drew me close, gazing down at me with those dark, sexy eyes. “And that reminds me of this evening. So what do you say we meet at the bar after work for a little dinner?”

“This dinner,” I asked in a sultry voice, “does it include dessert?”

“You name it.”

“In that case, I’m thinking of something Italian—last initial
S
.”

“Spumoni it is.”

“Good morning, dear,” my assistant Grace called in her crisp British accent as a pile of dried leaves blew through the doorway with me. Grace was in the coffee-and-tea-parlorside of the shop placing red roses in bud vases on the white wrought-iron tables. I knew by the heavenly aroma that greeted me that she’d already brewed her gourmet coffee.

As always, I felt a renewed burst of pride as I took in my surroundings—the Victorian-themed tea parlor; the glass-fronted display cooler stocked with a rainbow of fresh daisies, mums, orchids, roses, carnations, and lilies; the sales counter with its old-fashioned cash register; the antique tables and armoires filled with silk-flower arrangements, candlesticks, and other gift items; and the decorated wreaths, sconces, and mirrors of varying shapes and sizes hanging on the walls. It was my personal paradise.

Through the curtained doorway at the back of the shop came the sounds of my other assistant, Lottie, humming a Willie Nelson song, and as I walked farther into the shop, I could smell toasted bread and eggs fried in butter. Monday morning breakfast was a tradition that Lottie had started years ago.

“I’m heading toward the kitchen, Grace,” I called. “Let’s eat.”

“I’ll join you momentarily. By the way, Abby, sixteen orders came in over the wire yesterday.”

“Sixteen! Wow. We’re off to a good start.”

“Also, dear, one of the walk-in coolers is acting up.”

“Figures. As soon as we get a little extra money, it’s gone.”

“And there are two messages for you on the spindle.”

I stopped short. “From my mom?”

“No, love. Had that been the case, I would have prepared you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Monday was traditionally the day my mother dropped off her latest work of art—although the word
art
applied loosely in her case. She thought displaying her work at Bloomers would increase my sales, but about the only thing that
had
increased was the pile of unsold Maureen Knight originals in our basement.

“Thanks, Grace,” I said, and again started toward the kitchen.

“However,” she called, “I do want to prepare you for one message. There’s a problem with your order of
Gypsophila paniculata.
”