Free Cut to the Quick by Dianne Emley Page A

messages. Vining began going through her nightly routine of putting her weapons to bed.
    She took the Glock .40 from the holster attached to her belt and ejected the magazine, which she stashed in a kitchen drawer behind tea towels. The gun went inside an empty box of Count Chocula cereal in a cabinet. The .32-caliber Walther PPK that she wore in an ankle holster would go beneath her bed pillow, loaded. The rest of her arsenal—Winchester Model 70 Featherweight, Mossberg 500, and Smith and Wesson .38—was locked inside a gun safe. Every month, she and Em took all the weapons for a workout at the PPD gun range in Eaton Canyon. Afterward, they’d grab a bite and spend the rest of the day in the garage, cleaning and oiling the guns and talking until late. It was their tradition.
    She grabbed a new box of Count Chocula, pulled apart the inner liner, and ate a handful as she leaned against the sink listening to her phone messages. She doubted that either was from Emily, who had already checked in.
    The first message was from her grandmother, wondering how she was doing without Emily and in light of the big double homicide that was all over the news. Vining was Nanette Brown’s namesake and proud to carry the flag. She smiled, appreciating the call, wistful as she listened to the tremor of age in Granny’s voice, which sounded more pronounced in the recording than in person.
    The first syllables of the second message, “Hi, Cutie, haven’t heard from you in a while,” made Vining shove her hand angrily into the box. Chocolate morsels spilled from her fingers as she crammed cereal into her mouth.Her mother, Patsy Brightly, never called unless she wanted something, even if that something was to assuage her own anxiety. This time, Patsy, a serial bride with four marriages under her belt, wanted something more tangible: Vining on a double date with her latest flame, Harvey, and his newly single son. Vining’s younger sister ducked such requests from their mother. Stephanie’s husband and children gave her a built-in excuse.
    “Wouldn’t that be adorable?” Patsy gushed. “Mother and daughter marry father and son? I told you about Harvey Torma. He’s a regional manager for a company that makes polystyrene foam packaging.”
    Vining made a face at the chemically imbued description. “Like you have a clue, Mom.”
    Patsy was fifty-one but could pass for thirty-nine in the right light. She invested hard work in keeping her figure. Her voice on the answering machine had that life-of-the-party lilt she poured on in the presence of men or others she wanted to impress. She had never learned that she didn’t have to work so hard for the men. They’d come around anyway, at least until they got what they wanted.
    Vining immediately felt guilty for having such mean thoughts about her mother.
    “Patsy’s just being Patsy,” she said aloud. “She doesn’t really think you’re a slave that she bought and paid for by giving birth to you.”
    Patsy went on. “Things are getting serious between Harvey and me. I’m even taking golf lessons. Me, a golfer. Can you imagine?”
    Vining deleted the message before she’d heard it all. She put the cereal away and dusted her palms. She gave Granny a quick call to let her know she was okay. She’d call her mother tomorrow. She could delay no more thantwenty-four hours before Patsy would call again and then keep calling.
    In her bathroom, she hooked the hanger with her suit jacket on a towel rack, where the steam from her morning shower would freshen it. She threw her blouse in the hamper and examined her slacks to see if she could wear them once more before a trip to the dry cleaners. Using her fingernail to scratch something off the fabric, she decided she could and hung them beside the jacket.
    Sitting on the bed, she unclasped her ankle holster and put the Walther PPK to bed, literally, beneath her pillow. She had once resisted being one of those paranoid cops who kept arsenals in