An Elegant Death: A Short Story by Camilla Läckberg Page A

pulled up at the kerb. Two women jumped out.
    ‘What happened? Where is she?’ screamed one of them, an immaculately dressed woman in her forties. The woman behind her looked a bit younger. Concern and alarm were written all over her face.
    Erica remembered the two women from the opening. They were Lisbeth Wåhlberg’s daughters.
    ‘We can’t give out information at this stage,’ Patrik began, blocking their way as he took up position in front of the shop door.
    ‘Is Mamma …? Is she inside?’
    The older sister pointed towards the shop. Patrik took a deep breath.
    ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your mother is dead.’
    The older sister let out a shriek. The anguish on the younger sister’s face made Erica’s heart ache for her.
    ‘We want to talk to both of you as soon as possible,’ said Patrik. ‘But right now I wonder if there’s someone you’d like to phone. Or would you like us to contact the vicar here in Fjällbacka?’
    As Patrik waited for a reply, Erica stepped forward to place her hand on the older sister’s shoulder.
    ‘Let’s go have a coffee,’ she said. Then she led both sisters back to their car. ‘Give me the keys, and I’ll drive.’
    Five minutes later they were sitting in Josefina’s café with a cup of strong, hot coffee in front of each of them.
    ‘The neighbours rang us,’ said the older sister, who now introduced herself as Tina. ‘My husband and I have a summer house on the other side of town, and my sister just happened to be visiting. She’s staying in our guest cottage.’ She nodded at the younger woman, who was sitting silently beside her and staring down at her coffee cup. ‘She was supposed to stay one week, but as usual she’s mucked things up, so God only knows how long she’ll be here.’
    The younger sister looked at Erica. ‘The person I rented a flat from came home earlier than expected. I’m doing my best to find another place to live.’
    ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,’ said Erica, whose dislike for Tina, the older sister, was growing by the minute.
    ‘Linnea,’ said the woman quietly. She lifted her cup with trembling fingers.
    ‘Is Mamma really dead?’ she said. And now the tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe it.’
    ‘I hardly think the police would lie about something like that,’ snapped Tina as she got up to fetch more coffee.
    She didn’t ask Erica or her sister whether they’d care for a refill.
    ‘Tell me about your mother,’ said Erica.
    ‘She had just realized her biggest dream,’ said Linnea, slowly wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. ‘Mamma has always loved clothes. She worked for years as a seamstress. She was such an expert; most of her customers belonged to the upper crust of Göteborg and she did a lot of alterations for the big, exclusive fashion houses. For years she dreamed of opening a small vintage clothing shop that would sell only the best – Dior, Chanel, Hermès, Louis Vuitton …’
    ‘Your mother certainly had lovely things in her shop,’ said Erica. ‘But they weren’t exactly cheap. I couldn’t really understand how she was going to make ends meet here in Fjällbacka.’
    ‘Precisely what I told her,’ Tina said with a snort as she came back to join them at the table. ‘It was the most idiotic idea I ever heard of! She might as well have tossed all of Pappa’s money into the fireplace.’
    ‘So what?’ said Linnea. ‘Pappa left the money to her. Why shouldn’t she spend it on whatever she liked? Mamma wasn’t stupid. She knew it was going to be a labour of love, and that the business would never pay back what she put into it. That wasn’t why she did it. She wasn’t interested in making money. She wanted to have a house here in Fjällbacka, where she grew up, and a little shop on the ground floor filled with things that she loved. That’s why Mamma opened the shop. To live her dream. Not to earn money.’
    ‘But financially it was