Free One Hot Mess by Lois Greiman

up.”
    She was watching me pretty closely. It gave me the willies. “Now's not a good time.”
    “Oh. I'm sorry. Shall I stop by later?”
    She drew a deep breath. “If you put down a deposit, I'll make certain you get a refund. What's your name?”
    The question caught me off guard, but I refrained from starting like a particularly stupid deer and tried to kick my mind into gear. “There's no problem, is there?” I asked. “I was hoping to get my…” Still couldn't read the damn sign. “…
piece
today.”
    “What's your name?” she asked again, and her eyes narrowed a little.
    “Uhhh, Bea,” I said. I don't know why I chose that particular lie. Possibly because I'm deranged. “Beatrice Ankeny.”
    “How did you know Kat?” she asked.
    “Kat?” I was stalling—and possibly very stupid.
    “You work with her at the plant?” She took another step toward me.
    “No, I… I never met her, actually. Just her… I think it was her daughter… at the mall in Chatsworth. I ordered through her.”
    “You never met her?” She seemed to relax a little, but I wasn't that optimistic.
    “No. Just her daughter. Jessica, wasn't it?” I watched her, looking for clues, hoping she wouldn't try to kill me. “She was sure a pretty girl.”
    “Jess?” She pursed her lips, nodded. “Yeah. Pretty, just like her mom.” She choked up a little. “She woulda done anything for that kid.”
    “Well, that's—” I began, and stopped myself short, as if shocked into silence.
“Would
have? What do you mean? Has something happened?”
    She cleared her throat, glanced toward the street. A car drove by at a leisurely pace. Small-town life. Crazy. “She's dead.”
    “Dead! No! What happened?” Oscar material right there.
    Her eyes narrowed. “I don't really know.”
    “You don't know! You mean… she's missing?”
    She glanced toward the street again. “The coroner said she died from loss of blood. In her workshop.”
    I gasped. If I hadn't felt so guilty I would have been proud. “How'd it happen?”
    “They say she passed out, fell into the saw.”
    “Oh my God, that's horrible. Did she have a history of seizures, or why—”
    “What did you say your name was?” she asked, and took another step toward me. There was something in her eyes, something that stopped my brain entirely. I searched my mind for my fake name, but it was gone, entirely gone.
    “Who are you?” she gritted, and pulled a pistol from behind her back.

8
    When in doubt, shoot first and ask questions later. But avoid the head, 'cuz they're a lot more likely to answer if they're not dead.
    —D,
Chicago mob boss and

pretty good friend
    Y HEART WAS BEATING like a wild bunny's, but my brain had stopped dead in its tracks. “Hey!” It was the only word I could come up with on such short notice. “What are you doing?”
    “Who are you?” she repeated.
    The pistol was short and black, but I'm told guns can kill you no matter what their size and ethnic background.
    “My name's…my name's Beatrice,” I said, and found that for the literal life of me I couldn't remember my declared surname. Damn it!
    “You're lying,” she snarled, and leaned toward me. The gun muzzle wavered a little. “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”
    “What? No one sent me! I just—”
    “Why can't you leave her alone? Why couldn't everyone just leave her alone?” she blurted, and suddenly she was crying, sobbing like a heartbroken child. She lowered the gun muzzle and wilted to the ground. I glanced toward my Saturn and considered making a dash for it. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. But my would-be attacker had slumped onto her elbows, weeping into the perfectly manicured bluegrass.
    “Hey,” I said again, voice tentative enough to suggest I really wasn't nuts. “You okay?”
    “No.” She was shaking her head. “No.”
    I glanced toward my car again, thinking Harley was probably crazed with the need to save me, but not so much as a whisker