Florist grump / Kate Collins.
Record details
- ISBN: 9780451473431
- ISBN: 0451473434
- Physical Description: viii, 328 pages ; 17 cm.
- Publisher: New York, New York : Penguin Group, [2015]
Content descriptions
General Note: | Series numeration from goodreads.com. "An Obsidian mystery." |
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Subject: | Knight, Abby (Fictitious character) > Fiction. Florists > Fiction. Murder > Fiction. |
Genre: | Mystery fiction. |
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- 21 of 22 copies available at Evergreen Indiana.
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Location | Call Number / Copy Notes | Barcode | Shelving Location | Status | Due Date |
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Andrews-Dallas PL - Andrews | F COL (Text) | 73351000050074 | Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Barton Rees Pogue Mem. PL - Upland | F COLLINS kate fs bk.17 (Text) | 76277000036569 | Fiction* | Available | - |
Clinton PL - Clinton | COL (FLOWER #17) (Text) | 36806002068763 | FICTION | Available | - |
Eckhart PL - Main | F COLLINS kate fs bk.17 (Text) | 840191002831027 | Adult Fiction - Main Level | Available | - |
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Kirklin PL - Kirklin | F #17 COL pbk (Text) | 34123000215681 | Adult Fiction, 2nd Floor | Available | - |
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Linden Carnegie PL - Linden | F COL #17 (Text) | 34239004376673 | Adult Fiction, Main Library | Available | - |
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Monday
I used to like Monday mornings. They were the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games, revving up my enthusiasm for the challenges of the week ahead, or the starting pistol at the horse races, sending me out of the gate with a burst of energy, ready to run the course no matter how much mud was on the track.
Sadly, those days were over, a fading vision in my rearview mirror, a reminder that life is ever changingâand not always for the better. And it wasnât only the beginning of the week that fate had fumbled. It was every morning of every day. Every. Day.
This morning was a prime example. Iâd risen at seven oâclock, showered, put on mascara, a little blush, skipped the concealerânothing covered my frecklesâand tamed the red beast that many called my hair. Marco had already walked our rescue dog, Seedy, and brought me a cup of coffee laced with half-and-half, just the way I liked it. After seven months of marriage, this small token of love still amazed me.
Then weâd proceeded to the kitchen for breakfast.
The Olympic torch had barely been lit when its bright flame began to flicker.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The previous September I had become Abigail Knight Salvare, wife of Marco Salvare, the former Army Ranger/current owner of Down the Hatch Bar and Grill and the sexiest man in town. He had dark hair, soulful brown eyes, a strong jaw, an olive complexion with a faint five-oâclock shadow, muscular arms, and trim hipsâhonestly, he could have been a cover model for GQ. What he saw in a busty, five-foot-two, Irish-tempered redhead was a mystery to me.
In addition to being Marcoâs wife, I was the owner of Bloomers Flower Shop, located on the square in New Chapel, Indiana. I had also recently become Marcoâs partner in the Salvare Detective Agency, and together we had helped solve sixteen murder cases. There was a lot on my plate, but I loved it all.
Then, after several long months of being crammed into Marcoâs bachelor pad, and with his lease up for renewal, weâd embarked on a laborious and tangled house hunt. By âlaboriousâ I mean that my cousin Jillian went into false labor three times while assisting us with the hunt, and by âtangledâ I mean that we got ourselves into quite a knot of a murder investigation.
Thanks to my budding sleuthing skills, the murder case had been resolved, but not the house hunt. So weâd decided to build. Because of that decision, we needed to save money and find a temporary place to live, soâdeep breath, Abbyâweâd moved in with my parents.
To be honest, I wasnât in favor of it, but theyâd insisted, and Marco had accepted for both of us, something I believed he had come to regret. In any case, we were now ensconced in my childhood bedroom, still painted screaming yellow with purple accents and decorated with plaster of paris handprints I made in kindergarten, a silhouette of my ten-year-old head, framed awards for perfect attendance (the only awards Iâd ever received), and posters of my favorite childhood movies. Basically, I was living in a flashback.
Now the room that had once been my punishmentâas in, âGo to your room, young ladyâyou are grounded!ââhad become my sanctuary. It was the only place in the house where Marco and I had any privacy, and even then, we had our little Seedy packed in with us.
In my parentsâ kitchen, which was spacious enough for a long, farm-style table and eight chairs, Marco made oatmeal for himself and I had a second cup of coffee. I never ate at home on Mondays because my assistant, Lottie, always served up her famous skillet breakfast at Bloomers that day. We were joined in short order by my mom, Maureen âMad Moâ Knight, a kindergarten teacher and weekend artist who managed her household with the same firm hand with which she ran her classroom.
This morning, Mom had made a new dish involving eggs, tomatoes, something, and something for herself and Dad, and now she insisted I eat it. I told her up front I didnât want any, and she knew very well why. Even so, a battle of wills ensued, with my mother maintaining that I was not getting out of the house without trying her omelet. The stalemate was broken by my dad, who had rolled his wheelchair into the kitchen to eat breakfast and instead found himself initiating what amounted to hostage negotiations, one of Dadâs areas of expertise.
âTake a seat, Maureen,â he began, scooting out a chair for her. âRight here, across from your daughter.â
My father, Sergeant Jeffrey Knight, had been a cop for twenty years before a drug dealerâs bullet blew a hole through his leg and landed him in the hospital. Then surgery to remove the bullet caused a partial paralysis of his legs that confined him mostly to the wheelchair. Heâd retired from the force soon after, but he would always and forever be a cop. Thus the negotiations.
âNow, Mo,â Dad said, one hand on her shoulder, âyou know Abracadabra has breakfast at Bloomers on Mondays, right?â
This got a reluctant yes from my mother. I suspected he had used my childhood nickname to remind Mom of the adorable cherub I had once been. I think she and I would have agreed that was a debatable point.
âAnd, Ab, you know that all you have to do is eat a few forkfuls to make Mom happy, right?â
I shrugged, indicating ambivalence. Bad move on my part. Dad was looking for total capitulation.
âCome on, Abby,â he said. âYou know your mother is only acting in your best interests.â
âYes, Dad, I know that.â I glanced at Marco, seated across the table from me, and rolled my eyes. He shook his head as though to say, Nope. Iâm out of it.
âNow, who is willing to compromise here so we can move on to a pleasant topic of conversation?â Dad asked.
Not me. I wasnât about to give in. That was just what Mom wanted.
Wait, what had I just said? A shiver raced up my spine. Dear God, itâs like I never moved away from home. It was as though the years after high school graduation, through college, through my failed attempt at law school, through two years of owning Bloomers, had vanished once Iâd stepped back into my old bedroom.
I had to get that new house built fast.
âThis is my last word on the subject, Abigail,â Mom said. âA little protein will make you feel better until you can have breakfast at Bloomers. You know how you crash and burn when youâre overly hungry.â
âIâll be fine,â I said, then sipped my coffee. Marco finished his oatmeal silently, his gaze seeking out the clock on the wall.
At that point Dad began his new ritual wherein he read aloud articles from the morning newspaper.
âHereâs something for you, Abracadabra,â he said, and began reading. I rolled my eyes at Marco again and pulled out my cell phone, ostensibly to check messages but actually to play a game so I could tune Dad out.
My phone rang in the middle of my losing the game, so I paused to check the screen and noticed that Mom and Dad were both waiting to hear who my caller was.
âJust Jillian,â I said, then left the room to take the call. My cousin Jillian was the unbearably proud mother of a one-month-old baby girl named Harper Abigail Lynne Osborne, whose initials by no coincidence spelled HALO. The child was Jillianâs little angel and even had a âhaloâ of white seed pearls that Jillian put on her tiny head like a sweatband every time a photo op presented itself.
I couldnât very well complain, however, since Jillian had chosen Harperâs middle name as a tribute to me, the loyal cousin whoâd stuck by crazy Jillian through thick and thin. And while I appreciated her having a healthy, adorable baby, it seemed a little too early in the game to declare presidential aspirations for Harper.
âAbs, you wonât believe what Harper did,â Jillian said.
This was her daily mantra, and I was tired of it. âLet me guess. She woke up, nursed, pooped, and went back to sleep.â
Seriously, what else did month-old babies do? I tuned Jillian out, too.
Fifteen minutes later, Marco and I broke free and headed for the town square in my refurbished banana yellow 1960 Corvette. Iâd gotten the car for a steal after it had been found languishing in a barn under a huge collection of junk. When the farmer who owned the property died, the family had wanted to get rid of everything, making the sporty little car totally affordable for an impoverished law school flunk-out. The poor âVette had been horribly mistreated, but a good paint job had fixed most of that.
Had it been my choice, I would have been the one driving, something I loved passionately. But Marco always got behind the wheel first, so I had to let it go because I loved him more passionately. I also would have cranked up the volume on the radio and sung along, ragtop down, wind blowing my hair, feeling as free as a cloud in the sky, but I felt self-conscious with Marco there.
I decided to stay mum about it, however, since his green Prius had been totaled just a month earlier while he was trying to save me from a killer. He hadnât bought another vehicle yet because he was certain we could save money by carpooling.
He parked in a public lot a block off the square and we walked to Franklin Street, where both of us had businesses. Seedy hobbled happily along with us, pausing as we stopped midway between our shops for a kiss.
âDinner at the bar after work?â Marco asked, brushing a strand of hair off my face.
âYou bet. And maybe we should start having breakfast out, too.â
âYour parents arenât that bad, Sunshine.â
âMarco, do you really like having someone read the paper to you? Or insist you eat their food when youâre not even hungry?â
âYouâre always hungry when you wake up. And weâre not going to live with them forever.â
âIt just feels that way,â I said with an exasperated sigh.
Marco looked deep into my eyes. âBe grateful you have them.â
I couldnât argue. Marcoâs father had died when he was a teenager, and he still felt the loss. Besides, I was starving and just wanted to get to Bloomers so I could eat. I kissed him again, then headed down the block while he headed up.
Franklin was one of four streets that made up New Chapelâs courthouse square. The five-story white limestone county seat was situated in the middle of a large expanse of green lawn, with cement planters at all four corners and cedar benches placed along the sidewalks. The courthouse was the heart of the town, making it a bustling place.
Normally at that time of the morning not much was happening, however, as most shops wouldnât open for another hour and the courthouse staff wouldnât roll in until eight thirty. But something was about to happen this morning, and by the looks of it, I was guessing a press conference. Workers were setting up microphones at the top of the wide courthouse steps, hanging banners from the portico, and cordoning off an area with thick burgundy ropes for whatever VIPs were going to be there.
Other than the workers and a few men in dark suits huddled near the mics, the only other person out that early was Jingles, the old window washer, who was squeegeeing off the windows of the business next to mine.
Jingles, so named for the coins in his pocket that he rattled when he talked, had been washing windows for as long as Iâd been coming down to the square. With his old tin pail and trusty squeegee, his worn jeans, gray sweatshirt jacket, and scuffed black work boots, the seventy-five-year-old senior was as much a fixture as the courthouse.
But as we approached Bloomers, Seedy saw Jingles and scurried behind me, causing the leash to wind around my ankles, nearly bringing me down. Her reaction wasnât unusual. The abuse sheâd suffered from her previous owner had left her with a fear of most people, especially men.
âSeedy, stop. Hold still.â As I untangled my legs, my phone beeped, so before I scooped her up I pulled out my cell and saw a text from Jillian: Call me.
âNot going to happen,â I muttered, then nearly stepped into a bucket of sudsy water that Jingles had set on the sidewalk.
âSorry, Jingles,â I called as my thumbs flew over the buttons on my phone: Busy now. Maybe later. With a huff of annoyance, I dropped the phone into my purse and picked up my dog. I had no time for Jillianâs nonsense.
I opened the yellow frame door and stepped inside the loveliest shop on the square. Did it matter that I had mortgaged Bloomers to the hilt? My name, not the bankâs, was on the sign above the door. But just to be certain bank gremlins hadnât repossessed it overnight, I put Seedy down, then peeked through the glass pane for a quick look up.
BLOOMERS FLOWER SHOP
Abby Knight, Proprietor
Oops. I had to remember to order a sign with my new name on it.
âMorning, love,â Grace called, coming out of the coffee-and-tea parlor, a charming Victorian-themed café Iâd added to lure more people into Bloomers. Grace Bingham, an elegant sixtysomething expat from Great Britain, not only ran the parlor, but also baked fresh scones daily and made the best gourmet coffee in town. âShall I pour your coffee now or wait until Lottie calls us to the kitchen for breakfast?â
I crouched down to detach the leash from Seedyâs collar. âNow, please.â
âYou did remember to buy the eggs, didnât you?â
âWas I supposed to buy eggs?â
âLottie mentioned we were out last Friday, and you said youâd take care of it.â
I really needed to start paying more attention when people were talking to me. Make that certain people.
âIâll run to the grocery store right now.â I let Seedy off her leash, and she hobbled to the big bay window and jumped upâan amazing feat for a three-legged dog. She loved to watch the comings and goings on the courthouse square across the street.
âThere wonât be enough time for a grocery run, dear,â Grace said. âYouâve got an appointment at eight forty-fiveâanother wedding consultation. And we have flower orders for two funerals today, so itâs all hands on deck. Weâll have to skip breakfast today.â
A wave of nausea rolled through my empty stomach. Skipping breakfast was not an option. My body required two things to operate efficiently: regular meals and seven hours of sleep. Deprived of either or both, Abigail Christine Knight Salvare turned into an actual redheaded beast.
At once, my momâs words resounded in my head: You know how you crash and burn when youâre hungry.
Well, I would just prove her wrong. There would be no crashing or burning.
âThe Old World Deli has breakfast sandwiches,â I said, pulling out my cell phone. âIâll order egg and sausages for all of us, then dash over and pick them up.â
That was one of the benefits of working on the town square. Everything one needed was only five minutes away.
While I was on the phone, Seedy began to whine and paw the window. Then she jumped down and hobbled to the front door, putting her paw on it and looking over at me.
âIt appears youâll have company on your walk to the deli,â Grace said.
I snapped Seedyâs leash on, picked her up, and headed back outside. As soon as weâd crossed Franklin Street, I set her down again so we could head right, circling around the front of the courthouse to reach the deli on the opposite side. Seedy had other ideas, however, and pulled me toward the left, aiming for the budding lilac bushes that nearly obliterated the courthouseâs rarely used side entrance.
In the days before videoconferencing, inmates were bused over from the jail five blocks away and hustled in through the side door, where they could be taken straight to the courtroom. Nowadays, the side entrance was used only when a VIP came to town and wanted to slip into the courthouse unnoticed. Since New Chapel was a small college town in northwest Indiana, this was a rare event, which was why the shrubs were overgrown.
I pulled her back. âNot now, Seedy. We need to keep moving.â
My phone beeped again, so I checked the screen and saw that my fourteen-year-old niece had sent me a text: Need your advice. After school OK?
Seedy had stopped to sniff a piece of material lying in the grass, so I took a second to text back: Sure. Afternoons were busy at Bloomers, especially because Rosa Marin, my part-time help, wasnât around then. But how could I say no? What was an aunt for if not to give advice? Iâd just have to squeeze in five minutes to talk to her.
âCome on, Seedy,â I said, giving her leash a gentle tug. âWe donât have time to play this morning.â Especially not with someoneâs cast-off necktie. Rather, a piece of a necktie, as it appeared to be just the knot. Someone was obviously in a hurry to disrobe.
The flurry of activity was increasing as workers set up folding chairs and more men in suits gathered at the top of the stairs. I spotted the mayor and paused. What was going on?
A worker passed by with a push broom, so I called, âHey, whatâs up?â
âPress conference at nine.â
âWhat for?â
âBig announcement about the New Chapel Savings Bank partnering with the city to build an entertainment venue downtown. It was the lead story in the newspaper this morning.â
Well, that explained a lot. I watched the activity for a few minutes, then looked around, trying to guess where the venue might go. But at a menacing growl from my stomach, I remembered my mission and set off, the two of us dodging the people now drifting in. We finally made it to the other side and, after letting several cars pass, crossed the side street. We were nearly at the deli when pounding footsteps sounded behind me.
I turned to see a woman in a black trench coat and tall black boots, her thick auburn hair sprayed so stiffly that it stood four inches above her head, running across the street heading straight for me. She was stuffing something into her purse, not looking where she was going, and it was only my shout of âHey!â that kept us from colliding.
Startled, she jerked to a stop, muttered an apology, and hurried around us. I stooped down to calm my trembling pet, heard a bang, and looked up to see that the lady had smacked into the deliâs glass door and stumbled backward. Rubbing her forehead, she glanced around to see whether anyone had witnessed her accident, gave me a weak smile, then entered the shop.
âThatâs what happens when you donât pay attention, Seedy,â I said, rising. âLetâs go get our sandwiches. Iâm starvâa little hungry.â
âMorning, Abby,â called Jennifer, the friendly woman behind the counter, when I walked into the deli. âSandwiches will be ready in a few minutes.â
I caught sight of the lady with the big hair standing in front of the meat case near the back of the shop. She kept glancing around, trying to see out the front window as though looking for someone, her fingers in tight fists at her sides.
When a clerk handed her a white bag, the woman glanced inside, then snapped, âWhereâs the receipt? I need a receipt.â
âIâm getting it for you now.â
The impatient woman jerked it from the clerkâs hand, stuffed it in her bag, then hurried past me and out the door just as Jennifer came out from behind the counter with my order. âWow. She was certainly in a hurry. Sorry for the delay, Abby. Weâve had quite a crowd this morning. Of course it helps that weâre the only ones open this early. And look what I have for you, Seedy.â She held out her hand to reveal a piece of ham in her palm. Seedy wagged her tail and yipped, happy to take the gift.
Most of the shop owners around the square had come to know and love Seedy in the short time Iâd had her, even though all agreed she was the ugliest mutt anyone had ever seen. She had a small body covered with long, patchy white, brown, and tan fur, big butterfly wing ears with tufts of hair sticking out of the tops, a pointed, bristly muzzle, an underbite, and only three legs.
Iâd first noticed Seedy at the animal shelter, where she was next in line to be euthanized because no one would adopt her. Iâd tried to find her a home, never intending to take her myself. But when sheâd looked at me with big brown eyes brimming with loveâand more than that, trustâmy heart had melted.
I settled up at the cash register, then, with the white bag in hand, led Seedy out the door. As we crossed the street and started across the wide expanse of lawn, I could see people heading toward something on the other side of the courthouse. As we drew nearer, two squad cars raced up Franklin Street and stopped in front of Bloomers, their lights flashing and sirens blaring. Right behind them was an emergency medical vehicle.
My heart began to pound. Had something happened to Grace or Lottie? But all the uniformed men were racing toward the far side of the courthouse. Seeing the men, Seedy stopped and tried to get behind me, so I crouched down to stroke her fur. âItâs okay, baby. Lookâthereâs our friend Reilly.â
I tried to point out Marcoâs buddy on the force, but Seedy was too frightened, so I picked her up and hurried on. Marco came out of the bar then and headed toward the crowd. I finally got close enough to see that the EMTs and cops were on either side of a man in a dark suit sitting on the cement steps holding his hands over his ears.
âHey,â Marco said, giving Seedyâs head a rub. She peered out from under my arm long enough to lick his hand, then tucked her head again.
âAbby,â Reilly said with a nod of greeting.
Sergeant Sean Reilly was a good-looking, six-foot, forty-two-year-old with brown hair, light brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, and a good heart. He was a cop to be trusted and had helped Marco and me on many investigations, bending rules only when our safety was at stake. The sole issue I had with him was that he referred to me as the townâs trouble magnet. I didnât attract trouble. It was more like I bumped into it.
âWhat happened to the man?â I asked. âStroke? Seizure?â
âI wish,â Reilly said.
âThatâs not nice,â I said with a scowl. I couldnât help it. My stomach was angry.
âThe manâs been strangled, Abby,â Marco said.
âOh, my God! And he survived?â I asked.
Reilly shook his head, surveying the people gathering around with a critical eye. âThis guyâs been dead a while.â
âWhat?â I tried to get another look, but there were too many people crowding around the steps. âBut heâs sitting up.â
âRigor mortis,â Marco said. âThatâs the position he was left in after he died.â
The thought of what that poor man must have suffered made me shudder. âThat body has been sitting on the courthouse steps for an entire day, and no one noticed?â
âNo one noticed because he wasnât there,â Reilly said. âSomeone placed him there this morning sometime after five a.m. That was the last time one of my men patrolled the area. We received an emergency call about it ten minutes ago.â
âWhat possible motive would a person have to kill someone and then carry the body to a public location?â I asked.
âThatâs a problem for the detectives to work out,â Reilly said, glancing around again. âMy problem is that weâve got a murderer in town.â
CHAPTER TWO
âI wonder if thatâs what Seedy wanted to investigate,â I said. âShe tried to lead me toward the side steps, but I was in a hurry to get to the deli and didnât stop.â
âWhy were you on your way to the deli?â Marco asked.
I held up the bag. âI had to buy breakfast sandwiches. I forgot to bring eggs this morning.â
âBet you wish youâd eaten that forkful of omelet now,â Marco said.
âIâm not hungry. Grace and Lottie are. Here, take her.â I handed Seedy over so I could move in for a closer view. But the gruesome sight told me that was not the smartest thing Iâd ever done, especially considering my empty stomach.
The victim appeared to be middle aged, with dark hair that had gone silver at the temples. He wore a black suit, white button-down shirt, and polished black dress shoes. He was hunched over with his head tipped back as though he were gazing at the sky, revealing a ring of dark bruises on his throat. His elbows were pressed into his ribs and his hands were flat against his ears, almost as if heâd been squeezed into a box. His skin was bloated, with a waxy blue tint to it.
Officers were moving the crowd back so they could cordon off the area, and a police photographer was taking photos of the body, so I returned to Marco and Reilly just as a young policeman wearing disposable gloves brought over a wallet heâd removed from the manâs suit coat pocket.
âThe victimâs name is Dallas Stone,â the cop said, reading off the driverâs license. âAge fifty-one. Not an organ donor. He has a local address.â
âAre the detectives here yet?â Reilly asked him, glancing around.
âNot yet,â the cop answered.
âOh, my God,â I heard a woman cry. âI know him.â
âBring that woman over here, Kane,â Reilly said to the young cop. âAnd did you locate the person who made the nine-one-one call yet?â
âNo, sir.â
The young officer returned with a stumpy little woman in her late forties. She had a round face and short brown hair, and wore a brown tweed coat. Reilly introduced himself, then asked for her name.
âJune Griffin,â the woman said. She kept looking back at the scene in horror.
âMrs. Griffin, do you know the man on the steps?â Reilly asked her.
âYes, I work with Mr. Stone at the savings and loan. What happened to him?â
âWe havenât determined the exact cause of his death,â Reilly said. âAre you on your way to work?â
June tapped the face of her watch. âYes, and I have to be there at eight thirty.â
âIâll need to ask you a few questions first,â Reilly said. âIt shouldnât take long.â
âI hope not,â she said. âMy supervisor gets upset when someone is late. Iâm always on time, though, so sheâd better not complain. Thirty years of being on time, to be exact. Of course, when sheâs lateââ
Reilly cut into her monologue. âIs that what time Mr. Stone usually gets to work?â
âYes, but all the upper management was supposed to be here at eight for the press conference.â June gave a hard shudder and rubbed her arms. âI canât believe heâs dead.â
Reilly had his notepad out and was writing. âAny family that you know of?â
âHeâs not married. I know that much. But Mr. Stone didnât talk about his personal lifeâwell, except to brag when he had a new suit. He loved his fancy suits.â As though something clicked in her head, she glanced at the body again. âHe doesnât have his tie on. Mr. Stone always wears a tie. He buys those hand-painted ones from Davidâs Menâs Store and pays a lot of money for them. Heâs such a sharp dresserâI mean, he was.â
Remembering the material Seedy had sniffed, I said quietly, âSeedy found part of a tie on the other side of the lilac bushes, Reilly, about twenty minutes ago.â
Reilly said to the young officer, âSee if you can find a necktie anywhere around here.â To June he said, âDid Mr. Stone have any close friends at the bank?â
âNot that I ever noticed,â she said. âNow, he was seeing someone, although I think they broke up. I saw them together at Rosieâs Diner on two occasions, but it didnât seem like they were getting along all that well. Sometimes I run into the lady at lunchtime, so Iâm going to say she works at one of the businesses on the square.â
I had a feeling weâd found the bankâs busybody.
âDo you know the womanâs name?â Reilly asked.
âNo, Iâm afraid not. Oh, wait. I have overheard him on the phone with a Livvy on a number of occasions, and just between us, he wasnât very nice to her, which is why I said earlier that I think they broke up. So Iâm going to go out on a limb and say Livvy is his girlfriendâs name.â
I had a sudden image of June as a plump brown squirrel sitting on a limb watching everything going on below.
âCan you give me her description?â Reilly asked.
âWell,â June said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, âsheâs a tall woman, thin boned, with high cheekbones, kind of sunken cheeks, and bouffant brown hair. Not very attractive, if you ask me. Not the sort Iâd expect Mr. Stone to go for at all. At. All.â She raised her eyebrows to make sure we got the message.
Reilly paused. âBouffant hair?â
âYou know,â June said, drawing an outline around her own head. âOut to here, eighties style.â
The description fit the woman whoâd almost collided with me at the deli. âDoes she wear a black trench coat?â I asked.
âYes,â June said. âHave you seen her?â
âJust a little while ago,â I said.
âYouâve got company,â Marco said to Reilly, nodding toward the street where a news van had just pulled up.
âTerrific,â Reilly said under his breath. âOkay, Ms. Griffin, thanks for your help. If you will go with this officer here, heâll take down your contact information.â
âI donât have much time,â June said to the other officer as they walked away. âMy supervisor hates it when anyoneâs late. Not that she has any reason to complain about me.â
âNo sign of the tie, Sarge,â the young cop reported.
âThen check to see if the lawn service was out this morning, and if so, if they found any clothing.â Reilly turned to me. âWhat did the tie look like?â
âWell,â I said, and paused. All I truly remembered was that Tara had texted me and I had been in a hurry to get the food. âIt was just the knot part of the tie, but I think it was a dark color.â
âThatâs helpful,â Reilly said dryly. âDark as in black? Navy? Brown?â
I rubbed my temples. I really had to start paying more attention. âMaybe navyâor black.â
âVictim is wearing a black suit,â Marco said. âIf he was a sharp dresser, the tie would have black in it.â
âWas there any design on it,â Reilly asked, âlike stripes, diamonds, polka dots, little pink bunnies?â
For some reason diamonds triggered a vision of the bouffant hair woman stuffing something into her purse, but I couldnât get a clear image in my head. Two strikes against my memory in one morning. Oops. Iâd forgotten the eggs, too. Make that three.
âIâm not sure, Reilly. Letâs just go with a small pattern.â
âMaterial?â
âIâm a florist, Reilly, not a seamstress.â
Reilly pushed the bill of his hat back and gave me a disgruntled look.
âLots of excitement on the square today, eh, Sergeant?â someone called.
I looked around as the New Chapel Newsâs crime reporter Connor MacKay joined our little group. Connor, who was Marcoâs age, was a handsome man with big blue eyes, light brown hair that he wore to his collar, a lanky build, and a flirtatious nature. He always dressed in cargo pants and a safari jacket with pockets that bulged with the tools of his trade.
âLooks like we have ourselves a gruesome scene, ligature marks and all,â Connor said, practically salivating at the scoop he thought heâd get. âAre we calling it murder?â
âI donât have any information for you, MacKay,â Reilly said. âYouâll have to wait until the detectives and coroner get here.â
âIâm assuming they are on their way?â Connor asked.
âYeah, letâs assume that together,â Reilly said, then walked away.
âGotcha, Sergeant,â Connor called. He nodded at Marco and said with extreme politeness, âMr. Salvare.â
âMacKay,â Marco said in a bored voice. He hadnât forgotten how Connor had played me to get information for several of the murder investigations weâd worked on before we were married, and for that reason, he was not a fan. And Connor knew it.
âMrs. Salvare,â Connor said with a devilish grin. âYouâre looking stupendous today. Any reason the two of you are here? Sniffing out a potential case perhaps?â
âIâm just taking breakfast to the shop,â I said.
Ignoring Connor, Marco said to me, âYouâd better get to Bloomers. Your bag is soaking up the butter.â
More than that, my stomach was starting to eat itself, but I wasnât about to admit it. âGood call. And I have a client coming soon.â
Marco put Seedy down and handed me the leash, and Seedy immediately began pulling me toward Franklin Street. âKeep me posted on what they find out,â I said as I backed away. I turned toward the shop just as Grace opened the door to admit my new client.
And there went my breakfast time. Good thing I was not about to crash and burn.
Not that I needed to, but I pulled out a sandwich on the spot and took a big bite, chewing hungrily as I crossed the street. Seedy hobbled ahead, straining on her leash in her eagerness to get to the shop, which surprised me since Jingles was nearby.
My next surprise was that it wasnât Bloomers she was aiming for. It was the window washer, who was now balanced on a ladder in front of the bay window on the far side of my yellow door. When Seedy paused to sniff the bucket, I scooped her up, fearing she might topple the ladder. Then, juggling the dog and the bag, which was about to disintegrate from the butter, I glanced up. âGood morning again, Jingles.â
It wasnât Jingles. Though he was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans similar to Jinglesâs, this man was young, maybe twenty, with a boyish face, fair complexion, and short brown hair.
âSorry, I thought you were someone else. Iâm Abby. I own Bloomers. And you are?â
âRobert.â He returned to his work, apparently not interested in conversing. Seedy responded by wagging her tail and yipping as though trying to get his attention.
âWhereâs Jingles?â I asked.
Without missing a stroke, he replied, âI donât know. He didnât tell me where he was going.â
âSo he did go somewhere?â
âSince Iâm here and heâs not, thatâs rather obvious, isnât it?â
Well, that was rude. And there was Seedy wagging her tail as though sheâd found a new playmate. âDo you know when Jingles will be back?â
âI donât know. He didnât tell me. Iâm just filling in for him.â
âSo earlier when I said, âSorry, Jinglesâ . . .â
âYou erred.â
Apparently my bigger error was in trying to be polite.
âAbby, I donât mean to interrupt,â Grace said, standing inside the door, âbut your client is here and sheâs in a bit of a time crunch.â
âIâm right behind you,â I said, and followed her into the shop.
Grace took the white bag and handed me a cup of coffee to wash down the food. I had no clue how she knew to have it ready, but that was the mystery of Grace. âI put Miss Dugger in the parlor with a plate of blueberry scones and a pot of tea,â she said.
âThanks, Grace.â I gave the cup and saucer back for her to hold while I let Seedy off her leash.
âWhat happened at the courthouse?â
So my client wouldnât hear, I said softly, âA banker was murdered and left on the side steps.â
âOh, good heavens,â Grace whispered. âHow dreadful.â
âIâll tell you more later,â I whispered back.
Laughter erupted from the coffee-and-tea parlor, a counterpoint to the drama Iâd just witnessed across the street.
âIs Rosa in there?â I asked.
âYes,â Grace said. âShe wanted to keep Miss Dugger company.â
I started toward the parlor, then paused. âDid you see the young guy I was talking to outside? Heâs taking Jinglesâs place.â
âYes, I noticed him earlier.â
âIâve never seen anyone fill in for Jingles before. I donât think heâs ever missed a day of work. I hope heâs not ill.â
âDidnât you see the article about Jingles in last Thursdayâs newspaper?â
âI donât get to read the newspaper anymore, Grace. Is Jingles okay?â
More laughter broke out in the adjacent room.
âYouâd better get in there,â Grace said. âIâll tell you about our poor window washer later.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Rosa Marisol Katarina Marin, my new employee, was a voluptuous thirtysomething Latina beauty with long legs, long, wavy dark brown hair, prominent cheekbones, pouty lips, and sparkling brown eyes. She wore clothing that hugged her curves and drew every male eye, and she liked it that way. She worked from eight oâclock until noon five days a week but always arrived by seven thirty right after she dropped off her eight-year-old son, Peter, at school.
A month and a half before, Rosa had come to Marco and me to find out who had killed her husband and had ended up lending a hand at the flower shop during a time when business was coming in faster than Lottie, Grace, and I could handle it. Weâd soon discovered that Rosa was a natural at floral design and wonderful with people, but we never knew what was going to come out of her mouth; she didnât seem to have any discretion. And forget about a volume button.
I had balked at hiring her because of that, and because everything she did seemed to turn out beautifully with minimal effort on her part, whereas Iâd always had to work hard to succeed. Even with extreme effort, Iâd had two major failures, once when I was booted from law school, and the other when I was dumped by my fiancé because Iâd been given the boot. Double whammy.
Eventually, however, Iâd discovered that Rosa and I were a lot alike, so most of our issues had resolved themselves. But she still had no discretion.
Carrying my coffee cup, I went through the doorway into the parlor and headed for the white wrought-iron ice cream table in front of the bay window where the two women were looking through my floral wedding planner.
Rosa was wearing a bright pink V-necked silk blouse, with her trademark silver pendant in the shape of a lightning bolt, large hoop earrings, and a tight black skirt with high-heeled black boots, while my client, a thirty-five-year-old woman, was dressed modestly in a lime green jewel-necked sweater, gray slacks, and black flats.
âHola,â Rosa cried, beaming, as I pulled a chair up to the table. âAbby Knight Salvare, meet your new customerâDaffy Duck.â
I glanced at Rosa in shock. âItâs Taffi Dugger.â
Rosa let out a tinkling laugh as she got up. âSometimes I donât say things so well. I am so sorry for the mistake, Taffi. Have fun choosing your flowers.â
âThank you,â Taffi said happily, smiling at Rosa as though she was the reason for her happiness.
As Rosa passed behind me, she leaned down to whisper, âI was close.â
While Rosa swayed from the parlor on her very high heels, I gave my client an embarrassed smile. âI apologize about the name mix-up.â
âNo, thatâs okay, really,â Taffi said. âIâve never met anyone as lively and fun as Rosa. And she had some truly inspirational ideas for my wedding.â
âGreat,â I said, forcing a smile. âLetâs see what she came up with.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Half an hour later, I finished with Taffi and headed through the shop to the workroom to eat the rest of my sandwich. The appointment had gone well, even though Rosa had steered Taffi in a completely different direction than what sheâd originally had in mind. Thinking Taffi might regret those choices later, Iâd tried to guide her back, but sheâd been adamant that Rosaâs ideas were much better than hers.
In spite of my hunger, I paused outside the parlor to absorb the beauty of my shop. Bloomers had the original wood floors and tin ceiling of the three-story redbrick building circa 1900, with two big bay windows, one on the retail side and one in the parlor. A cash counter sat near the front door, an oak claw-footed table was the focal point in the center, and a glass-fronted refrigerated display case filled the back wall.
A wicker settee with a large dieffenbachia behind it occupied a back corner, and colorful wreaths filled the brick walls. A huge oak armoire on the inside wall displayed silk floral arrangements, ceramic décor, candlesticks, and other small items, and pots stocked with various kinds of green plants filled vacant spaces all around the shop. It was a wholly gratifying sight.
âMorning, sweetie,â Lottie Dombowski said over her shoulder. She was filling the display case with fresh blossoms from the giant walk-in coolers in the back room. âI put your sandwich in the fridge.â
âSorry I forgot to buy eggs,â I said.
âDonât worry about it,â she said. âIt all worked out.â
Nothing fazed Lottie. She claimed it came from having raised her teenage quadruplet sons. Hailing from Kentucky, the tall, large-boned forty-seven-year-old had a proclivity for pink clothing, including pink barrettes to hold back her short, brassy curls. Lottie had owned Bloomers before I did, and in fact, I had worked as her delivery girl when I was home for summers between my college semesters.
But her husbandâs heart surgery and high insurance premiums had nearly bankrupted them, so Lottie had been forced to sell. Providence stepped in, because I had just been booted out of law school and had no future prospects at all. But I did have a small amount of trust money left from my grandpaâs college fund, so Lottie and I traded places. I bought Bloomers, and she taught me everything she knew while working as my assistant and delivery person.
I had also worked with Grace previously. She had been attorney Dave Hammondâs secretary when I clerked for him during my second semester of law school. About the time that Lottie was deciding whether to sell Bloomers and I was trying to find my path, Grace had retired, thinking sheâd have time to do the things sheâd always wanted to do. But two weeks into it, she was so bored that she accepted my meager offer of employment. For the past almost two years, the three of us had functioned like a well-oiled wheel.
âI just heard about the murder on the radio a few minutes ago,â Lottie said, âbut there werenât any details. Grace said you were at the scene. Do you know anything?â
âOnly that the victim was a local banker,â I said. âAccording to Reilly, he was killed at least a day ago but not at the courthouse. Someone took him there.â
âWhatever would possess a person to do that?â Lottie asked.
âIt would seem the murderer wanted to make a statement,â Grace said, joining us.
âLike what?â Lottie asked. ââLook at me, I can kill and get away with it?ââ
âOne never knows what motive a mind will conjure,â Grace said. She straightened her shoulders, locked her fingers together, and cleared her throat. It was her lecture pose, which meant a quote was forthcoming. Good thing Iâm not in a hurry to eat my egg sandwich, Mom.
âAs the Bard put it in his magnificent play The Merchant of Venice,â Grace began, ââThe devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.ââ
âGood one, Gracie,â Lottie said as we both clapped.
Grace gave a regal nod. She was a walking Wikipedia of quotations.
âWith a whole day to get away, the killer must be long gone,â Lottie said.
âOr is that certain he or she wonât be caught,â Grace added.
Normally the three of us would dissect an intriguing case for hours, but all I could think of now was the sandwich that would soon be moldering in its greasy bag, so I said, âIâll be in the kitchen,â and stepped through the purple curtain into the workroom, where Rosa was putting together a floral arrangement, singing off-key to a song on the radio.
It hadnât been easy to allow a newcomer into my sacred space, but because Rosaâs help was invaluable, Iâd had to learn to share. The workroom was my personal paradise, a place of beauty and tranquillity, of floral scents and myriad colors. It had counters that ran around the room, with shelves above to hold our large assortment of vases and containers, and cabinets below to hold supplies. A built-in desk on the outside wall held my computer, printer, a calendar, framed photos, and the spindle for open orders. On the opposite wall sat two large walk-in coolers, one for fresh flowers and the other to hold completed arrangements waiting for delivery.
âWhat do you think of this?â Rosa asked as I passed the big, slate-covered table in the middle of the room. She turned her arrangement so I could see front and back.
âItâs coming along,â I said, and kept going.
âNo, itâs finished,â she said.
âThen it looks great.â
âYou donât like it.â
I paused to take a good look. Rosa had created a design of blue hydrangea, green hypericum berries, white ranunculus, and yellow cymbidium orchids, a combination that worked wonderfully together.
Of course it would.
Lottie, who had followed me in, paused for a look, too.
âI like it, Rosa,â I said. âIâd just add a few more stems of ranunculus.â
âLottie, do you think so, too?â Rosa asked.
âIâm gonna have to agree with Abby.â
âThen I will do it.â Rosa smiled. If Lottie said it was okay, then that was the end of the discussion.
Iâd had to learn to share Lottie, too.
I passed our small bathroom and entered the kitchen, a small galley-style space that ran along the back of the building. At the right end of the kitchen was the heavy security door that opened onto the alley and a staircase that led to the basement, a deep, dark, damp place where we stored large pots and supplies that wouldnât fit into the cabinets. It was also the graveyard for my motherâs unsold art projects.
I opened the refrigerator and took out my sandwich, then sat on a stool at the small strip of counter nailed to the back wall to eat it, sighing as I chewed a bite. It was my first peaceful moment of the day.
âWant me to zap it in the microwave for you?â Lottie asked. She seemed to be tailing me.
âNope. Itâs fine.â
Lottie pulled out a stool beside me. âWhatâs up, sweetie? You seem out of sorts today. Is it because of the murder?â
It was because of a lot of things, but I wasnât in a mood to discuss them. âI just want to finish my sandwich so I can get started on orders.â I took another bite, hoping sheâd take the hint.
âHereâs a fresh cup of coffee for you,â Grace said, gliding up behind me.
âGrace said you missed the article about Jingles last week,â Lottie said.
I swallowed the bite and picked up the coffee cup. âI donât get to read the paper anymore. What happened to him?â
âHe was in an altercation,â Grace said, âand arrested.â
I nearly spit out the coffee. âJingles? Our Jingles?â
âWho is Jingles?â Rosa asked, squeezing into the small room with us.
âHe cleans windows on the square,â Lottie said. âBeen doing it for twenty-five years. Iâll pull the article up on the Internet and let you read it, Abby.â
Now? I stifled a heavy sigh. All I wanted was ten minutes alone with my food.
âWhy donât you see the newspaper anymore?â Grace asked, perching on the stool that Lottie had just vacated.
âMy dad gets to it first,â I said, chewing. âThen he reads articles out loud that he thinks will interest us.â
âHow sweet,â Rosa said.
âNo, it isnât,â I said. âItâs annoying.â
Rosa looked at me in horror. âBut he is your father.â
âCanât fathers be annoying?â I asked. Assistants certainly could. I crumbled the paper bag my sandwich had been in and tossed it into the garbage can.