Mother's Day Murder by Leslie Meier

tennis courts below. Players, absorbed in their game, would never have noticed the predator perched high above them. The thought made Lucy shudder, and she stood up, eager to get away from the evil that seemed to sit like a low-lying cloud over the place. She could almost feel it, like a dank morning mist that gave you goose bumps, and she hurried toward the gate, where Horowitz was conferring with a couple of officers. They moved aside to let her pass, but he held up his hand, indicating he wanted a word with her. She had to fight the impulse to flee while she stood a polite distance away, waiting for him.
    Finally, he turned and approached her. “There was something I forgot to mention,” he said.
    Lucy knew what was coming. “I know, I know. Mind my own business. Leave this investigation to the professionals. Well, don’t worry. I’m not covering the shooting. Ted’s assigned me to a different story.”
    “Well, good,” said Horowitz, nodding. “If you don’t mind, what’s the other story?”
    “The prom,” said Lucy.
    “The prom!” exclaimed Horowitz, chuckling. “You, covering the prom! That’s a good one.” He grinned mischievously. “I’ll alert the rescue squad, tell them to keep an ambulance on standby.”
    “Ha-ha,” said Lucy, who wasn’t finding this the least bit funny. “Are you implying that I had something to do with this?”
    “Well,” he said, “you do seem to have a knack for finding bodies.”
    “Pure coincidence. I was here for a relaxing day of pampering at the spa.”
    “You should demand a refund,” advised Horowitz before turning and heading into the woods for the climb to the rocky patch.
    For once she agreed with him, thought Lucy, walking along the driveway back to her car. This had hardly been the soothing experience she had been looking forward to. The blissful sense of relaxation she had felt after her massage was long gone; now it seemed as if every muscle in her body was clenched tight. Even worse, she felt exposed and vulnerable, as if she had a target painted on her back, and she had to resist the urge to keep looking over her shoulder. It wouldn’t do any good, she realized as she dragged the car door open and collapsed behind the steering wheel, because if the shooter had her in her sights, she’d never be able to avoid the bullet.

Chapter Nine
    D riving home, Lucy couldn’t erase the image of that red stain spreading on Tina’s white Ralph Lauren shirt, swallowing up the little embroidered polo player logo. Even at a gallop, he couldn’t escape the flowing blood, and neither could Tina. This was no random shooting, not one of those frequent Boston drive-by shootings that hit innocent bystanders. Whoever had shot Tina had carefully chosen a spot that gave a clear line of fire and had deliberately and cold-bloodedly chosen her as a target.
    But was Bar the shooter? She certainly had the means: she was recognized as a skilled shooter and owned guns. She also had had the opportunity, but for that matter, so had the whole world. Tina had been shot in plain sight. And what about motive? Sure, the two had been rivals, but that had been going on for a long time, and when Lucy interviewed them about the after-prom party, they had apparently agreed to disagree while working together on a shared project. She could hardly believe that they’d suddenly had a conflict strong enough to prompt one to kill the other. But, she admitted to herself, it could all have been a big show for her benefit. Her instincts weren’t infallible. She’d been fooled before and likely would be fooled in the future. It was one of the hazards of reporting.
    And she knew from her own recent experience with Sara that sometimes it was difficult for a mother to separate her emotions from those of her child. If Bar had felt that Ashley was somehow threatened by Heather, she might have come to the tortured conclusion that killing Tina, Heather’s mother, would somehow tip the scale in