Shoots to Kill (9 page)

As Oliver reached for the phone, Tilly headed for the door muttering swearwords.

“Don’t you walk out of here!” Delphi shouted, her pixie face red with rage. But Tilly charged straight out the door with Delphi fast on her heels yelling threats.

“Mummy, don’t!” Libby cried, racing behind. “You might get hurt!”

Through the window I watched as Delphi caught up with Tilly and tried to wrestle the purse away, while Libby stood off to the side wringing her hands. Being larger, Tilly gave Delphi a shove that sent her sprawling, then quickly loped up the block and around the corner, moving surprisingly fast for a woman her size.

Hearing the wail of a police siren, I decided a quick exit was in order. I couldn’t afford to be caught in the middle of another fracas.

“Ma’am?” Oliver called as I darted for the door. “You didn’t leave a bill for the flowers.”

“They’re a gift,” I called back. “Happy grand opening.”

Too late. A squad car pulled up and two officers got out—one of them Reilly.

At once Delphi marched up to them and began to rattle off her complaints, while Libby stood mutely at her side. As the other officer took off in pursuit of the would-be thief, Reilly pulled out his notepad and pencil, listening to Delphi as his gaze quietly took in the scene. I edged away from Blume’s, hoping my brown corduroy jacket and khakis would blend in with the brick front, but he spotted me anyway. Damn my red hair.

Not again!
Reilly’s look said when he saw me. I gave him a little wave and headed in the opposite direction.

“Abby!” he barked. “Stick around.”

Yikes.
“I’ll wait on the bench across the street,” I called, and darted away before he could protest. Once the other officer returned—without Tilly—and took over interviewing Delphi and Libby, Reilly came across, sat down beside me, and stretched out his long legs.

“Please believe me, Reilly, I wasn’t involved. All I did was carry over an arrangement for their grand opening.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I just wanted to get your take on the situation.”

“Now you’re talking.” I gave him my explanation, which he dutifully recorded. When he was done, I said, “Now I’d like your take on something, Sarge.” I pointed across the street. “Does anything seem odd about Blume’s Art Shop?”

“Odd how?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe that Blume’s Art Shop looks just like Bloomers, down to the sign and yellow door? And then there’s Libby, who has turned herself into a blond copy of me. If she ever dyes her hair red, it’ll be hard to tell us apart.”

Reilly squinted his eyes at Libby. “You’re right. That’s quite a resemblance.”

“I’m glad you agree, Reilly. I think Libby is copying me on purpose because I wouldn’t let her work at Bloomers. Everyone else thinks I’m making a big deal out of nothing—imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, blah, blah—but they don’t know her like I do. So is there anything I can do to make her stop copying me and my store?”

“Has she stolen your credit card, driver’s license, or taken out a mortgage in your name?”

“Well, no, but—”

“There’s no law against what she’s done, Abby.”

I crossed my arms and scowled at the ground.

“What does Marco think?”

“He thinks I’m harboring grudges against Libby from the past,” I grumbled, “because I used to babysit her and she was a monster.”

“Are you harboring a grudge?”

I sighed. “Maybe.”

“Take the advice of a wise old divorced man, Abby. Move on.”

Blume’s grand-opening celebration day came without one mention in the newspaper of Tilly’s theft. I went to the ribbon-cutting ceremony at nine o’clock because I’d told Libby I would, and because I was still trying to demonstrate that I could forgive and forget. My mom was there, beaming proudly beside her beaded jacket, and Jillian was there, too, dressed in a designer outfit, posing for the photographer from the
New Chapel News
.

Standing beside the photographer was crime reporter Connor MacKay, who’d covered a murder investigation that I’d entangled myself in a few months back. Connor had enchanting green eyes and a wide smile that could coax the spots off a Dalmatian, but after he tried to trick me out of confidential information so he could score a big story, I’d made it a point to steer clear of him. However, this time I was trapped.

“Well, if it isn’t Libby—er—Abby Knight,” Connor said with a wink, sauntering my way.

“Not funny, MacKay.”

“Sorry. I’m having a hard time telling you two apart. What do you think of Blume’s Art Shop? Kind of reminds me of another shop on the square.”

“So you see it, too?”

“Hard to miss that bright yellow door. How do you feel about that?”

I was so ready to tell him. Then I reminded myself that I wasn’t there to smear Libby’s name. I was there to show what a good person I was. So I forced a smile and said, “Can there ever be enough yellow doors in town?”

He held up his pen and reporter’s notebook. “Can I quote you on that?”

Did I want to be named in an article about Libby? “Let me put it this way, Connor: What kind of flowers would you like at your funeral?”

The weekend passed too quietly. Although Marco managed to squeeze in our nightly phone conversations, he was too busy to see me, so I buried myself in my work. Meanwhile, Libby and her art shop were garnering lots of attention, the store was always crowded, and everyone liked her. And although Libby’s presence on the square was grating, and my gut was still telling me that there was more behind her behavior than simple admiration, I didn’t say a word. Thank goodness I had Nikki to talk to. She might have been the only person who believed me.

Then, five days ago, just before we opened for business, I spotted Libby across the square getting out of a yellow Corvette convertible with a black ragtop.

“She has a car like mine!” I ranted to Lottie and Grace, who were standing at the big bay window with me. “Do you still think I’m overreacting?”

“I must say, that is an extraordinary coincidence,” Grace conceded.

“I’ve been trying to put the past behind me and give Libby the benefit of the doubt, but
that
”—I jabbed my index finger toward the shiny Corvette—“makes my blood boil.”

“I wonder where it’s gonna end,” Lottie said.

A sudden chill ran through my body. “I don’t know, and that’s what really disturbs me.”

I phoned Marco to tell him about Libby’s new car, but got his voice mail. I left him a message asking him to call, but I didn’t hear from him. Finally, at eleven o’clock that morning I hurried down to his bar—and there was Libby having a cup of coffee with him at
our
booth. She turned around to see who came in, then gave me a smug little smile, as if to say,
He’s next.

Fury rose up inside me like an ugly, uncontrollable beast. I didn’t trust myself to confront her. Instead, I marched straight past the booth and into the middle of Marco’s office, where I stood with my back to the door, my arms crossed, and my foot tapping angrily against the carpet.

Marco followed, shutting the door behind us. He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Why is Libby here?” I demanded, turning to face him.

“Take it easy, Sunshine. She wanted me to see a letter she got this morning.”

“It came this morning? How convenient. She showed up here every evening last week, totally monopolizing your attention, and now she’s added mornings to her list.”

“Aren’t you exaggerating a little?”

“Libby is playing you, Marco, and you’ve fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.”

He sighed. “Don’t start that again.”

“Did she tell you she bought a car like mine?”

“It’s twenty years newer, and her mother bought it for her as a surprise.”

He knew! And he hadn’t even bothered to warn me. “So what if it’s newer? It’s still a yellow Corvette convertible. And I’m not buying the surprise-gift bit.”

“Why? You know Delphi has the money to do it.”

“Why would Delphi buy an older Corvette with no air bags, no CD player, and none of the modern conveniences when Libby already has a Mercedes SL convertible?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “I suppose I’m going to hear why.”

“Because Libby asked for it. That Vette moves her one step closer to taking over my identity. And you know what that leaves for her to take over? My hair color—and
you.
”

“For God’s sake, Abby—”

“Bow out of her case, Marco. Refer her to another PI. You don’t need the work.”

“I’ve already accepted a retainer.”

“Give it back.”

“It’s not the money. I gave my word, and you know I don’t go back on my word.”

“Even if she’s lying to you?”

Marco’s expressive mouth took a downward turn. “I asked you to trust me on that.”

“I wish I could, but she’s got you buffaloed just like everyone else.”

His frown turned to an irritated scowl. “No one is buffaloing me.”

“Please, Marco, make up something. Tell her that you forgot that you made a prior commitment . . . or that your mother took ill. Seriously, Libby is deranged. Who knows where this will end? Maybe she’ll try to do away with me.”

“Okay, now you’re being irrational.”

“I’m not irrational and my instincts aren’t wrong. You’ve got to send her to someone else.”

“I need to be able to call my own shots, Abby, and I need you to trust me.”

“Trust works both ways.”

He pressed his lips together and said nothing, which meant he wasn’t going to budge on the matter. What was wrong with him? Why wouldn’t he believe me? “Give her back her file, Marco, or I’ll—” I searched for a way to make him understand how strongly I felt.

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

Was I? “I wish I didn’t have to.”

“Then don’t.”

Frustrated, I flapped my hands against my sides. “Then give Libby back her file.”

“We’re going in circles. I’m not going to give Libby back her file, and you’re not going to be happy unless I do, so let’s just call it a draw, okay?” He turned to walk over to his desk, as though the matter were settled.

“Do you expect me to just sit on the sidelines and watch her manipulate you?”

Marco sat in his chair and regarded me steadily. “I believe you’re the one doing the manipulating, Abby.”

My mouth dropped open and my cheeks blazed with heat. “Is that what you think? That I’m trying to manipulate you? Fine. Then maybe I should leave.”

“Abby, stop. Don’t say another word until you cool down and think about what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m saying,” I retorted in the heat of the moment. “Maybe
you
should think about what you’re doing.”

His jaw muscle twitched. “Maybe you should take your own advice, since you can’t seem to give up your need for control—or this obsessive idea that Libby is out for revenge.”

First I was irrational, then manipulative, and now an obsessive control freak? Fuming, I spun around and stalked to the door. “It seems we’re at a stalemate, Marco. I don’t know what else to do to convince you how serious I am about this except to walk out.”

“Walk out . . . on us?”

“I guess so.”

It was a dramatic moment worthy of a good soap opera. Unfortunately, it didn’t have the effect I’d hoped for. Instead of trying to stop me, Marco said nothing, just continued to regard me, as though he didn’t really believe I meant to do it. Which I truly didn’t want to do. The problem was that now I’d drawn a line in the sand. How could I back down?
Way to go,
my conscience chided.
How does it feel to jam yourself between a rock and a hard place?

Hard.

I waited a moment longer, my hand on the doorknob, giving him time to relent. Finally I said, “Good-bye, Marco.”

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, still hoping he’d stop me. He didn’t.

CHAPTER SIX

“That’s about it, Dave,” I said, reaching for a tissue from the box on his desk to wipe my eyes. “I’ve been holed up at Bloomers ever since, working late, trying to keep my mind off Marco and Libby. I haven’t heard from Marco since that day, but I
have
seen Libby. She’s sporting red hair now, just like mine. Customers say they can’t tell us apart.”

Dave sat back, tapping his pen on the legal pad. “Intriguing.”

“I knew Libby had a plan in mind when she took over my identity, but she comes off so innocent that no one would believe me.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s been half an hour. Think you can find out now who her victim was?”

Dave picked up the phone. “Considering that you were wrongfully arrested, I’m sure the prosecutor will bend over backward to be of assistance to us.”

Dave placed the call to the DA, Melvin Darnell, and was put through immediately. “Mel, I’m here with my client, Abby Knight. We need some answers as to what happened this morning. Can you help?” He listened a moment, gave me a thumbs-up, then began to jot notes on his yellow pad. After a few more minutes, he said, “Thanks, Mel,” and hung up.

“Okay, the good news first,” he said. “You don’t need a lawyer.”

I sighed in relief. I was in the clear—at least for the present. “Victim?”

“Libby’s mother, Delphi Blume.”

“No way!” I sat back as the icy shock rolled over me. Delphi was dead? By
Libby’s
hand? “How was she— how did it happen?”

“A blow to the head is what it appears at first glance. The body was discovered in the alley behind Franklin Street. A witness out walking his dog early this morning noticed a yellow Corvette idling at the other end of the alley. The car sped away as he approached, so he got only a glimpse of the driver’s red hair. His dog found the body. It had been wrapped in a blanket and left between two big garbage bins behind your shop.”