Shoots to Kill Read Online Free PDF

little.’ ”
    “This Stanislaus,” Lottie said, “has he ever been in People magazine?”
    Grace carefully placed a napkin across her lap. “You, of all people, should know who Stanislaus is, Lottie Dombowski.”
    Lottie put down her cup. “Why is that?”
    “Wouldn’t it be best to research it, and find out for yourself?” Grace teased.
    “Why would I waste my time researching when we have you?” Lottie gave me a wink.
    “In the words of William Hazlitt,” Grace volleyed back, “ ‘Learning is its own exceeding great reward.’ ”
    “In the words of my wise old granny,” Lottie said, and we held our breath, waiting for the slang to start flying, “ ‘A learned man is an idler who kills time by study.’ ”
    Grace and I looked at each other in bewilderment. “That wasn’t your granny who said that,” Grace said. “That was George Bernard Shaw.”
    “Shaw . . . Granny. I knew it was one of them. And just so you know, Abby, Stanislaus was the patron saint of Poland.” With a sly smile, Lottie took her plate to the sink.
    I tossed Libby’s message into the trash and finished eating.
    After breakfast, we headed our separate ways, Lottie to take inventory, Grace to freshen the supply of cut flowers for the showroom, and me to prioritize the orders and gather the tools and supplies I would need.
    The first order was for a kitchen-table centerpiece. The client wanted something earthy and spicy, appropriate for a fall display. I turned to gaze at the containers on a top shelf. Earthy and spicy. I’d seen an idea using cinnamon sticks, and had ordered a supply to keep on hand. I pulled those now, along with a ribbed papier-mâché pot. Then I got out my glue gun and began gluing the sticks around the pot like fence posts, giving it a rustic feel.
    Next I gathered the flowers, pods, vegetables, and berries, all in shades of yellow, gold, rust, and green— miniature callas, gloriosas, hypericum berries, cockscomb, artichokes, scabiosa pods, persimmons, sneezeweed, and my favorite, chocolate cosmos. Humming happily, I cut the wet foam, lined the container with it, and began to arrange my flowers. This was where true artistry came in. Plus it kept my mind off Gina’s shower.
    At nine o’clock Grace called into the workroom that she was going to open the shop. Almost at once, the bell over the door jingled, and a moment later, Grace stuck her head through the curtain. “Abby, Libby Blume is here to see you.”
    Feeling a wrinkle of annoyance crease the space between my eyebrows, I put down my floral knife, wiped my hands, and headed for the curtain. I’d just have to give Libby a quick tour and shuffle her out the door.
    But Grace had already seated Libby at a table in the parlor.
    “Abby!” Libby exclaimed, jumping up to give me a hug, “Grace was just telling me how she came to work here. I’ve been wondering how you were so lucky to find her. And I just love her accent. It’s divine. Grace, you sound just like Dame Judi Dench.” She focused her admiring gaze on Grace, who wasn’t usually swayed by compliments. This time, however, Grace beamed.
    “My goodness,” Grace exclaimed, glancing from me to Libby, “but for your hair and eye color, you could be sisters.”
    Libby’s big brown eyes opened in amazement. “Honestly?”
    “Honestly.” Grace smiled at her just like she always smiled at me—fondly. Honestly! She didn’t even know the girl.
    “Coffee?” Grace asked her.
    Libby turned her gaze on me. “Do you have time?”
    “Well,” I said, glancing at my watch, “Mondays are kind of hectic. . . .”
    “Don’t give it a second thought,” Grace said. “I’ll mind the shop while you two have a nice chat. Now, what do you take in your coffee, love?”
    Love? Libby took off her white coat and laid it carefully over the chair. “The same as Abby, please.”
    She knew how I drank my coffee? I hadn’t even taken up the caffeine habit until after I’d gone away to