Free Snipped in the Bud by Kate Collins Page B

imitation of Nikki’s grandmother’s husky Slavic accent. “Go avay from car.”
    The next thing I knew, he was peering in the open window. “You’re Abby, right?”
    He wasn’t bad looking if your taste ran to guys with silky, dark brown hair long enough to pull back in a ponytail. On the plus side, he did have striking sea-foam green eyes framed by a handsome set of brown eyebrows. But the real clincher was his wide, captivating smile. I couldn’t help wondering whether his teeth were naturally that white or he bleached them.
    Since I was hardly in the right frame of mind to be captivated by a guy who chased me down in a parking lot, I said, “Olga does not know thees Abby.” I eased the gas pedal down and the Vette started to roll backward.
    “I’d really like to talk to you, Abby—or Olga,” he said, keeping pace with me. “I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
    My side of the story? “Go avay. Olga ees busy voman.” I shifted into drive and took off, but not before he tossed his business card into the car. “My cell phone number is on it,” he yelled. “Don’t lose it. You’re going to want to talk to me.”
    Don’t hold your breath, buddy . I paused at the street to make sure it was clear, then sped away with a squeal of tires. I whipped off the scarf, ran my fingers through my hair, and turned on the radio. But instead of playing the usual variety of songs, all the local stations were reporting on the murder—and my connection to it. Annoyed, I shut it off and drove in silence, hoping the killer would be found quickly and my life would get back to normal—such as it was.
    As I pulled into my parking space at the apartment building, my phone rang. I shut off the motor, checked the screen for an ID, and saw it was Nikki.
    “Omigod, Abby. I went on my break and got your message about the murder. How horrible! Are you all right?”
    “Let’s just say I feel very close to your grandmother right now.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    I got out of the car, plucked the reporter’s card out of the back—convertibles should always be litter free—and glanced at the printing. It read: CONNOR MACKAY, REPORTER .
    THE NEW CHAPEL NEWS . Beneath that was a phone number and an e-mail address. Mackay. Hmm. Not a local name. Probably from out of town.
    Without giving Connor Mackay another thought, I tucked the card in my purse and said to Nikki, “If you have five minutes I’ll tell you what happened.”
    “I have six, so go ahead.”
    As I headed for our apartment, stopping to check the mailbox and dump the junk mail into the trash container, I caught her up to speed on my meetings with Reilly and Dave Hammond, Rob and Rick’s radio show, and my sudden notoriety. “Tell me, Nikki, how am I supposed to keep a low profile now?”
    “You can start by instructing Jillian not to blab anything to anyone. Otherwise, if a reporter shows up at the door, she’ll probably invite him in for a drink. Then you can remind her about my shelf in the medicine cabinet. And don’t forget you promised to talk to her about moving out. Oops. I’m being paged. Gotta go.”
    At that moment my neighbor, Mrs. Sample, came around the corner with her Chihuahua, Peewee, on his leash. The Samples were a friendly, middle-aged, childless couple who adored their pet, a tiny, fragile animal who wore little sweaters and booties Mrs. Sample herself had knitted—as she had told me many times, along with other, equally fascinating tidbits.
    “Peewee, look who’s here,” Mrs. Sample cooed, scooping up the yapping minibeast before he could nip off a hunk of my flesh. For a reason known only to the dog, he resented me—or at least my ankles. “We saw your picture in the paper today, Abby, and we just can’t imagine why anyone would think you had anything to do with the murder. Can we, Peewee?” She waved the dog’s paw at me to show his concern, as if I couldn’t see his flattened ears and exposed