Read Online Shoots to Kill by Kate Collins - Free Book Online Page A

he said, standing in the cooler behind me.
    “Is your mother the owner?”
    He bent to examine a rose, pricked himself on a thorn, and immediately sucked the wound. “Part and parcel,” he said. “Overlord and landlord. Business as usual.”
    I hated when people talked cryptically. It made me feel dumb. I located the other three plants all the way at the back and had him help me carry them out. “Is it nice to have your little sister back home again?”
    Oliver selected a plump yellow daisy from a bucket on the floor and began to pluck the petals. “An ally is always welcome. Two forces are mightier than one. . . . Loves me, loves me not . . . Besides, Libby is way better at playing the obedient child. Takes the heat off me.”
    I was beginning to think that his military guise was his way of coping with Delphi. We carried the pots to the cash register, where I wrote out a statement and handed the yellow copy to him. He immediately whipped out his wallet, counted out the money, then laid the bills and my statement on the counter.
    “This is your copy,” I said, pushing the piece of paper toward him.
    “Never leave evidence. Always pay in cash. You never know who’ll be checking your receipts.”
    Obviously he didn’t want Delphi to know where he’d purchased the plants. “Are you parked out front?”
    “Not for a covert operation. We always use the rear.”
    I found boxes to hold the plants and we carried them to the back door. Oliver motioned for me to stand back. Then he opened the heavy fire door and peered cautiously outside. When he was sure the alley was safe, he carried one of the boxes to the pastel green van that said BLUME’S ART SHOP on the side. When the boxes were loaded, he saluted me. “Ma’am, thank you, ma’am. Remember”—he glanced around—“this is a covert operation. We must never speak of it again.”
    My mother stopped by Bloomers during her lunch break the next day to show us her latest artistic endeavor— a jacket made entirely of beads, but not those pretty little colored beads that were used to make bracelets and necklaces. These were giant wooden beads, like the massaging backrests cabdrivers used for long days behind the wheel. Not an attractive look for a jacket.
    “What do you think?” Mom asked eagerly.
    “It’s quite unusual,” Grace replied tactfully.
    “Really nice,” Lottie said, trying to sound admiring.
    Mom took it off a wooden hanger and held it open. “Abigail, will you model it for us?”
    I slipped my arms into the sleeves and then couldn’t move. Not only was the jacket so heavy that it flattened my breasts; it was so thick that I couldn’t put my arms against my sides. I rotated like a bird on a spit so they could see.
    Grace tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Might be a bit awkward to wear about town.”
    “Kind of breezy, too,” Lottie said, pinching her lips to keep from laughing.
    “It’s not designed to wear,” Mom said, helping me out of the jacket. “I’m taking it down to Blume’s. Libby invited me to include it in her ‘Fashion as Art’ display.”
    I gaped at her. My mom was taking her jacket to Libby’s shop? I should have been relieved, but instead I felt betrayed.
    “I feel so validated as an artist,” Mom said happily. “To think that my work will be displayed in a real art gallery.”
    “How lovely, Maureen,” Grace said. “We’re so proud of you, aren’t we, Abby?”
    They both must have noticed my stricken expression, because Lottie immediately threw a meaty arm around my shoulders and gave me a shake, as though to wake me from my shock. “You bet we are.”
    “How did this invitation come about?” I asked as Mom placed her jacket on the hanger.
    “We discussed it at dinner Friday night. Don’t you remember?”
    “I was at the far end of the table, Mom. All I could hear was Portia crunching her beans.”
    “Your father was telling Libby about my hobby. Then Libby asked if I had ever considered selling my art,