I stared down the barrel of a big black bad-ass gun pointed at my chest. Ever since last winter when Karl Pollack, my not-so-dearly-departed husband, died suddenly, people have been trying to kill me. First, Karl’s loan shark. Then a crazy co-worker. Most recently, a hired assassin. My name is Anastasia Pollack. I’m a debt-ridden, pear-shaped, middle-aged single mom, and crafts editor at a woman’s magazine. I’m also apparently a killer magnet, not only in my home state of New Jersey but also across the Atlantic Ocean in Spain. Worst of all, unlike my three previous run-ins with killers, I had no idea who this guy was or why he wanted me dead. He apparently didn’t speak English, and my Spanish is limited to a few words and phrases picked up from watching Sesame Street years ago with my kids. My Catalan is non-existent. So much for a quick getaway to Barcelona. After the relief of finding that my passport hadn’t expired, I thought my biggest problem would be arranging extra care for my semi-invalid mother-in-law during my three-day absence.
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