Death's Last Run by Robin Spano Page B

like leading up to . . .” Martha felt her words begin to falter. Stupidly, she felt closer to tears in this horrible kitchen than she had in the past eleven days. But she steeled herself. “Leading up to her death.”
    Daisy reached a hand toward Martha and touched her arm. “I guess that’s a fair question. You want to piece together why she killed herself. But it had nothing to do with family. Sacha’s life in Whistler was complicated.”
    â€œSacha did not kill herself.” Martha lifted Daisy’s hand from her arm and placed it gently on the table. “But how was her life complicated?”
    â€œI don’t want to betray her friends’ confidence.”
    Martha inhaled deeply so she didn’t strangle Daisy. She could not understand the bond between her intelligent daughter and this trivial piece of fluff — and she didn’t want to admit that she cared. “These
friends
could be involved in her death. I would expect your loyalty to be with Sacha rather than with some Canadian snowboarding slackers.”
    Daisy pushed her chest out even further than she normally did. “No wonder Sacha never shared private details of her life with you. All you do is criticize.”
    Martha felt her cheeks tighten, maybe because her teeth were clenched inside them. “I want you to pretend for five seconds that you have one intelligent brain cell. Okay? Are you imagining that? I want you to use that one cell to analyze this situation: your stepdaughter is dead. You have information that might shed light onto why. Do you (a) use that information to help find her killer or do you (b) withhold the information to protect the identity of some degenerate ski bums?”
    â€œFor someone who wants information, you’re sure not asking very nicely.” Daisy leaned back in her chair and stuck out her chin. “I think I’m going to ask you to leave.”
    Ugh
. Martha was tired and the coffee was starting to smell good. “Forgive me. I know I should be nicer. This is not a normal week for me.”
    â€œYeah, but you’re not normally nice to me, either.” Daisy rested her hands on her tiny belly.
    â€œLook, you’re right — I’ve never fully forgiven you for your affair with Fraser while he was married to me.”
    â€œBut you’ve forgiven Fraser.” Sharper than she looked, this one.
    â€œWe have a child together.”
    â€œYou don’t, though. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
    â€œLook, Daisy, this isn’t about you and me. It’s about what we can both do for Sacha.”
    â€œSacha’s dead. We can’t do anything for her.”
    The coffee machine was gurgling to say it was nearly ready, and Martha sat quietly, listening to it. “Please, Daisy, tell me what my daughter was involved in.”
    â€œWhy? So you can tell the FBI ? Fraser called me after his lunch with you.”
    The table was big enough for four, but Martha felt suddenly claustrophobic. It was the same feeling she’d had earlier in the restaurant. She might be getting a fever — Daisy’s head seemed cartoonishly large. She wished she’d impressed the need for silence upon Fraser — as in
please don’t tell your bimbo wife about the
FBI
involvement —
but she’d thought it was obvious.
    â€œThat’s top secret information, Daisy. Fraser trusts you with it, clearly. But it’s vital that you don’t tell a soul about the FBI being in Whistler.”
    Daisy smirked. “Or what?”
    â€œOr Sacha’s killer might go free.”
    â€œOh. For a second I thought you were going to tell the truth and admit that it could ruin you politically.”
    â€œFor Sacha, can we not be on the same side?”
    â€œIf I tell you what I know, will you leave? I hate being late for appointments. It stresses me out and throws off the rest of my day.”
    â€œYes. I’ll gladly go