Read Online All Shots by Susan Conant - Free Book Online Page A

to stay on high alert all the time, or we’ll—”
    “She was younger than you. Early twenties or so. Different, uh, style. Long fingernails, nail polish, lots of makeup. Capri pants. Is that what you call them? And those high-heeled sandals with no backs. She smoked. Traces of methamphetamine. Whole other world from you.”
    “Good,” I said.
    He dug back into his steak. I passed the time by nibbling on a few french fries. Finally, I said, “And?”
    “There’s this other thing.”
    “What? What other thing?”
    “I’m not saying she was some kind of twin of yours or anything.”
    “Her hair. Kevin, you seem to have forgotten that I saw her. Not her face, but I did notice her hair. It was about the same color as mine. Same length.”
    “Same height as you, more or less. Same build.”
    “Average height, ordinary build.”
    “She dyed her hair.”
    “This is my natural color.”
    “Like I said, she dyed her hair the color of yours.”
    “And the color of a million other people’s! For all we know, it’s the most popular shade of hair coloring in America. Well, it probably isn’t. It’s too reddish for most people. But if you’re suggesting that she was trying to look like me, that’s…let me quote the other Holly Winter. It’s a preposterous notion.”
    “And the picture of the dog?”
    “The photo you brought with you has to be a copy. Of course it is. You must have other copies. I want this one. I’ve never seen this malamute before, but I’m going to a show tomorrow, and I can hand it around. There’ll be other malamute people there. There’s one person in particular who knows everything about blue malamutes. Phyllis Hamilton. I mentioned her before. She has a dog entered. I want to show this picture to her.”
    “Go ahead.”
    We ate silently for a minute. Then I said, “Kevin? Not that I buy this theory of yours. Not at all. But…you said she wasn’t some kind of twin of mine. But was there…?”
    “Like I said.”
    “Hair, height, build. Her face?”
    “Not really.”
    “What about this other Holly Winter?”
    “What about her?”
    “Kevin, talk to me! Do you think that the dead woman was trying to look like her, too?”
    “Nope. The other one’s a scrawny little thing with a short haircut. Severe-looking woman, dark brown hair, all bones. Five feet, five-one. No resemblance, not to you, not to the victim.”
    “Not that I care,” I said. “Really, this Holly Winter and I have nothing in common except the planned identity theft. Or thefts. Plural. And that must just have been a matter of convenience. If you’re going to steal identities, it’s probably easier and simpler to use one name instead of two, isn’t it? Especially since we both live in Cambridge. And that’s all there was to it.” I paused. “Unless…Kevin, does the other Holly Winter happen to own a dog?”
    “Hates them,” he said. “Hates the sight of them.”
    I felt oddly pleased. “Well, that settles it,” I said. “From a cosmic perspective, we have nothing in common at all.”

CHAPTER 10

    My father, Buck, is in his element at a dog show. That’s because his element is a place where he can cause maximum embarrassment with a minimum of effort. My stepmother, Gabrielle, disagrees. They met at a show when Gabrielle was new to the dog game, and in what I’m sure was his most mooselike fashion, Buck stomped in and, according to Gabrielle, poured oil on troubled waters. Nonsense! What does a moose know about oil? I am convinced that Buck trampled down underbrush, tore up saplings, felled trees, locked horns, and bellowed. He always does. But Gabrielle was smitten. According to her, Buck made everything fun.
    At the moment, he, at least, was having fun, or so I assumed from the irritating smile plastered on his big face. “What’d you want to go and hire a handler for?” he was demanding in that deep, booming voice of his. “You were the best little junior handler in New England. Why, I