Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant Read Free Book Online

to find Mr. Right, or as I like to think of him, Sir Right.”
    â€œA horny bastard is OK,” says Kristy brightly. “So long as he has good teeth and a clean medical record.”
    â€œWhy horny?” Sam asks. “You’re not sleeping with him.”
    â€œI know.” Kristy rolls her eyes. “But with hands like mine, I could get a donation lickety-split.”
    Sam shudders and I must admit I feel a little queasy myself.
    â€œWhat about finding someone who would be excited about being a father?” I ask.
    Sam shakes her head. “We don’t want a man involved beyond the donation.”
    â€œWe certainly don’t need one,” Kristy agrees. “Sam has a good job with the trolleys—”
    â€œCable cars,” interjects Sam.
    â€œAnd I do most of my research from home—”
    â€œWhich reminds me,” I interrupt, recalling a strange incident from two nights before. “Who are you researching those awful chastity belts for?”
    â€œYou know I can’t disclose that. Author-researcher confidentiality.”
    â€œIt was Janet Evanovich, right?”
    â€œNot even close.”
    â€œRobert Crais?”
    â€œQuit it.”
    â€œKarin Slaughter? Sean Black? Tess Gerritsen? Matt Hilton? Lee Child? Come on, give me a hint?”
    Kristy giggles. “We’re changing the topic.”
    â€œTo what?”
    â€œThe bad news.”
    â€œYou might not know this about me, Kristy, but I’m not a fan of bad news.”
    â€œThen you’re really not going to like this.”
    I sigh. “Hit me.”
    â€œMrs. Pennell received a threatening letter this morning.”
    â€œShe what?” I blurt. “From who?”
    â€œWe don’t know, but she seemed quite upset. Sam met her in the lobby when she was getting the mail.”
    â€œPost,” Sam interrupts. “We’re not calling it mail anymore, remember? Mail, male .”
    â€œI’ll pop in and see her after my shower,” I say. “Threaten one of us and you threaten us all.”
    Kristy beams and leaps to her feet to give me a big hug. She smells like fresh daisies in the rain.

Five
    Half an hour later, I knock on Mrs. Pennell’s door.
    When she opens it, her eyes are puffy and red, while her creased and pallid complexion is a feeble complement to her professionally coiffed platinum hair.
    â€œThe girls told me about the note,” I say.
    She opens the door wider.
    â€œCup of tea?” she asks.
    â€œLovely.”
    I step inside and close the door. Instantly, King William brushes against the back of my legs and begins to walk figure eights around my feet. It is the same shape as handcuffs and just as effective. When I bend to pet him, he plops onto his side and rolls over to expose a furry and very generous stomach.
    I scratch belly and chest, working my way up to ears and chin as his appreciative purr shakes the walls.
    â€œOh, come now, William,” Mrs. Pennell scolds affectionately. “At least let our guest in the door.”
    King William winks, rolls back onto his feet, and pads down the hallway. I follow.
    In the kitchen, Mrs. Pennell pours boiling water into a large brown teapot. Her shoulders are slumped within a flower-patterned housecoat that has large white buttons dotting the front. Indoors, you rarely see her without the housecoat over her clothes, and from the amount of cat dander I find coating my hand, I understand why.
    I wash my hands in the sink and ask, “Can I see it? The note.”
    Mrs. Pennell produces a small envelope—the size one normally associates with thank-you cards and invitations—from her pocket and hands it over.
    The paper feels old, as though it has been sitting in a drawer for a long time without being used. I open the envelope and read the note. The handwriting is neat, but overly cursive and decidedly feminine.
    It reads:
    I know it was you.
    Do not believe for a moment you