A Shot to Die For by Libby Fischer Hellmann Read Free Book Online Page A

class-consciousness, perhaps?”
    “I can get away with it.” I grinned. “After all, I am a superhero.”

Chapter Seven
    I stopped off at Sunset Foods on the way home to buy shrimp from Stan the Fish Man. Sunset is one of the last upscale but locally owned supermarkets on the North Shore. It’s a place where service and quality still matter, and Stan is one of the most knowledgeable people I know when it comes to seafood. He’s one of the sexiest, too, and I drove home full of fantasies about grilled shrimp in a lemony-garlic marinade. The problem was I couldn’t remember if I had any skewers. I vaguely recalled an adventure in the culinary arts last year involving shish kebob on skinny wooden sticks, but I couldn’t remember where I’d stashed them. I was absorbed in a mental search when I turned the corner and spotted an unfamiliar car parked in my driveway.
    I pulled up behind a gray Saturn with Wisconsin plates. A pine air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and the car looked unusually clean, but the beige upholstery was faded in patches, as if it had been parked in the sun too long. I turned off the engine and got out.
    Two women climbed out of the Saturn. The woman who’d been in the passenger seat was delicately built, almost frail, with gray hair pulled back in a tight roll. Her face was pinched, and her head was curiously flat on the sides, as if it had been squeezed in a vise, but there was a stately bearing about her. The other woman, the driver, was younger, about my age, and tall. As she lifted a pair of shades, my stomach pitched. She wasn’t as slender, and her dark glossy hair was threaded with gray, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
    “You’re Daria Flynn’s sister.”
    She nodded. “Kim Flynn. And this is my mother, Irene.” She walked around to the passenger side, pulled out a cane, and held out her arm, which her mother took. “Could we—talk to you for a few minutes?” Kim asked after she’d helped her mother position the cane. “If it isn’t inconvenient.”
    Kim had the same thick hair and green eyes as her sister but somehow just missed being pretty. Her features were harsher, her forehead broader, her eyes smaller. As if to make up for it, she wore long earrings with her jeans and shirt, and a collection of silver bracelets flashed at her wrist. Irene was dressed in a fussy white blouse and dark trousers.
    “Not at all.” I opened the door to the Volvo and retrieved my bag of groceries. “Please. Come in.”
    Irene walked haltingly, and Kim kept a firm grasp on her arm. I unlocked my front door. The silence told me Rachel wasn’t home. For some reason, I was relieved. I led them into the living room, which I rarely use. As Irene shuffled to the sofa, the scent of lavender trailed after her. I tried not to react. My former mother-in-law used to douse herself in lavender. I never liked it.
    Kim helped Irene sit down on one end of the couch and then took a seat on the other. I put the groceries in the kitchen, and sat in the black leather Eames chair Barry insisted we buy when we moved in even though we couldn’t afford it.
    “I’m curious,” I began awkwardly. “How did you get my name?”
    “The police asked us if we knew you,” Kim said. “And then I found you on the Internet.” She frowned. “I hope that isn’t a problem.”
    Milanovich probably asked them if they knew me the same way he asked if I knew Daria. And my name and number are listed. “No problem. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Irene regarded me with an almost regal chilliness, as if my condolences were her due.
    Kim nodded. “Well, Mother needed—we both need—well, it was all so sudden, you see—”
    “I understand.”
    “I’m sure you don’t, my dear,” Irene cut in. “Understand, that is.” The skin on her face looked brittle, almost shellacked. She moved stiffly. “But we—I—you are a mother, aren’t you?”
    I nodded.
    “Did Daria say anything at the end? Anything at