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  A Frond In Need

  A Flower Shop Mystery

  Summer Novella

  Kate Collins

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  Book cover design by Arash Jahani

  A FROND IN NEED

  A Flower Shop Mystery Summer Novella

  Copyright © 2020 Linda Tsoutsouris

  All Rights Reserved

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  Flower Shop Mystery Series

  Preview – A Big Fat Greek Murder

  About The Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, June 29

  “Abby, we’re running low on blue carnations.”

  “Abby, my glue gun isn’t working.”

  “Abby, the flowers aren’t undulating.”

  “Hold it!” I cried. “One at a time. Please!” I pointed to one of the three teenaged boys standing in front of me. “Jimmy, go to the hardware store and buy six cans of royal blue spray paint.”

  Jimmy nodded. He started for his car but stopped and turned around. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Go see your mom. She’ll give you money from the cash drawer. Joey, you’re next.”

  He held up his black glue gun and squeezed the trigger. “My gun is jammed.”

  “Take it down to Marco’s bar and have him fix it.” I turned to the next teen. “Johnny?”

  “The flowers on the flag won’t undulate.”

  I sighed. “They’re not supposed to actually undulate. You have to glue them onto the background which is created to look like it’s undulating.”

  He smiled. “Okay. I get it now, but my glue gun is broken, too.”

  I caught myself in another sigh and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Go with your brother to Down the Hatch. Take all the glue guns, make sure they work, and bring back some iced tea for everyone. Where is your brother?”

  I looked around for the fourth quadruplet and caught sight of him standing on the other side of the float bed laughing with a teenage girl. “Karl! We have five days to get this float made. No time for flirting right now.”

  His face turned bright red.

  “Go help your brother bring back the drinks.”

  I turned around to see our trailer bed completely bare, just a mess of wire mesh and wooden studs. Although I could imagine the finished float in my head, I could not imagine completing the float by the fourth of July. But I was determined to bring home the prize this year. No matter how much work I had to do, or how high the temperature climbed, I couldn’t let my team down. Not this year.

  I was standing in the huge public parking lot a block north of the New Chapel, Indiana, town square, where at least seven floats were being built for the Fourth of July parade. My assistant Lottie had bribed her quadruplet teenage sons to help me build the float. But even with the energy and exuberance of four eighteen-year-old bundles of testosterone, I had my doubts about the scale of my ambitious project.

  I glanced around. On one side of me, a group of high school kids and several of their teachers were assembling a school pride float. On the other side, Windows on the Square, a women’s boutique, was building three giant windows wrapped in colorful fabric, behind which models wearing clothing from the shop would stand. Across the lot was the Bingstrom’s Jewelry float entitled Let Freedom Ring. A replica of the Liberty Bell sat at the front of the float. Featured prominently in the center was a giant gold ring - a hula hoop right now being covered with gold foil - and a diamond on top made from a square box sprayed with silver paint.

  The idea for the Bloomers’ float was my own, a giant, undulating U.S. flag as a backdrop for an enormous basket of flowers in a carpet of white silk carnations, appropriate, I thought, for a flower shop. The giant basket, which was right now sitting in my parents’ garage, had been made from grapevines interwoven with greenery, and the flowers inside the basket would be large blue and white hydrangeas. At the front of the float my shop, Bloomers, would be spelled out in red silk carnations.

  I shielded my eyes with my hands and gazed up at the clear blue sky, wishing for a few clouds to cool things off. I pulled my yellow T-shirt away from my sweating body and turned back to the float just as my cousin Jillian came trotting toward me waving photos. “Take a look at these and tell me which dress Harper should wear.”

  “For what?”

  She searched my eyes as if I’d lost my mind. “For the beauty pageant.”

  “What is your one-year-old daughter doing in a beauty pageant?”

  She planted her hands on her waist and shook her head. “You never listen. I enrolled her in the New Chapel County Fair toddler pageant. The winner gets to ride in the Fourth of July Parade on the back of a convertible, remember?”

  “I’m assuming the winner’s mother gets to ride in that convertible, too?”

  “And the winner’s father. It’s a family affair, Abs, and who better to grace the parade than me, Claymore, and our little angel?” She held up two photos. “Now which outfit would look more patriotic?”

  Jillian and I were first cousins. She was a year younger than I was, a whole head taller, and had long, coppery locks instead of a shorter red bob like mine. We’d been very close as children. She’d developed severe scoliosis when she was twelve and had been bullied until I’d stepped in. She’d finally had surgery to correct her spine, and after that had become a beautiful, confident teenager who still looked up to me as an older sibling.

  Jillian had met Claymore, her husband, when I’d dated Pryce Osborne the second, who was Claymore’s older brother. Unlike Pryce, Claymore was down to earth and even somewhat shy. Also, unlike Pryce, I got along very well with Claymore. Pryce was a snob.

  “Abigail,” I heard and turned to see my mom coming toward me holding a clay flowerpot. She had on a white cotton blouse and a print skirt in blues and greens. Her light brown hair, cut in a shorter bob than mine, was tucked back behind her ears, displaying modest silver earrings. She held up the pot, which had a face on it complete with freckles and red hair, coincidentally, just like mine. “How do you like it?”

  Having my face on a pot had been my lifelong dream. “It’s very” -how could I be kind- “creative, Mom.”

  “Good, because this is what I want to sell on parade day. I thought I’d set up a table in front of Bloomers.”

  “You’re going to sell pots with my picture on them?”

  “No, dear.” She gave me a sympathetic smile because apparently, I’d become dim-witted. “Everyone who buys one gets their face painted on a pot.”

  “I’d buy one, Aunt Maureen,” Jillian said enthusiastically.

  “Of course, I’d buy one, too, Mom.” I gave her a sunny smile. Why crush her spirit? “It sounds like a fun idea.”

  “I’m going to put a sign on the table next to my pots that says, ‘Your face here.’ People will love them. I thought I’d call them pothead
s.”

  “The pots or the people?” Jillian asked.

  My mom gazed at Jillian as though she’d joined the ranks of the dim-witted. “The pots.”

  “Ah.” Jillian tapped her temple. “I get it now.” Did I mention she was a Harvard grad?

  “Hey, Mom?” I took my cousin by the shoulders and pushed her forward. “Jillian needs your advice about an outfit for Harper.”

  Mom smiled at her. “I’d be happy to help.”

  In addition to her being a kindergarten teacher, my mother, Maureen, “Mad Mo” Knight, fancied herself a sculptress and used my shop as her private art gallery, expecting me to sell her creations for her. Some of her more infamous projects included a mobile to hang over a baby’s crib that featured hanging bats, which Mom had labeled a “Bat mobile.” There was a coat rack whose pegs were hands with their palms facing up. She called it a palm tree. And of course, how could I not mention her “foot” stool, whose legs were bare feet?

  We dutifully displayed her artwork until someone bought it or, if it was too hideous, until Lottie could sneak it down to the basement and hide it among the stacks of clay pots. So far, she hadn’t caught on.

  “Where’s Uncle Jeffrey?” Jillian asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “where is Dad?”

  “He’s at home watching baseball,” mom said. “He didn’t want to try to navigate the crowded parking lot.”

  My dad, former Sgt. Jeffrey Knight, had been a policeman for nearly twenty years when, as he was chasing down a drug dealer, he was hit by a stray bullet, the surgery leaving him paralyzed him from the waist down. Rather than letting his handicap ruin his life, however, my dad was as energetic as he ever was, just in different ways.

  I left the two women conferring, picked up a sack of silk carnations and was about to climb onto the float bed when a pair of arms came around me and a kiss was planted on top of my head. “What’s this about me being your handyman?”

  I set the sack down and turned with a relieved smile into the arms of my beloved husband Marco Salvare, possibly the sexiest man in New Chapel. Marco, a former army ranger and now a private detective and owner of Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, had on a black T-shirt with Down the Hatch in white letters, and a pair of light blue denims with his ever-present black boots. He had dark hair that dipped onto his forehead and brushed the collar of his shirt, an olive complexion, belying his Italian heritage, and the most soulful brown eyes I’d ever seen.

  “Help me,” I said, and laid my cheek against his chest. “I’m drowning in needy people.”

  He rubbed my back. “It’s okay, Sunshine. I’m here to help. And we’ve brought drinks.”

  Karl handed me a cold takeout cup and proceeded to take a seat in the shade, while his brothers trailed behind Marco with their glue guns.

  “Are they fixed?” I asked.

  “I fixed Jimmy’s,” Marco said.

  One of the boys raised his glue gun. “I’m Johnny.”

  “Okay,” Marco said with determined patience, “Johnny’s gun is fixed but Karl’s is still plugged.”

  Another glue gun went into the air. “I’m Joey.”

  “I’m Karl,” he said from his shady spot on the ground. “I don’t have a glue gun.”

  Marco gave me a frustrated growl and changed the subject. “I have about an hour to help. What can I do?”

  I leaned back against the float and took a long, cold drink of tea. “Would you go to my parents’ house and get the basket? It’s pretty big. You’ll have to take the van.”

  He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Only if the van’s air conditioner is fixed.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s like an icebox in there. You’ll be fine. And would you pick up a few more glue guns and lots of glue?”

  “How much do you need?”

  I pointed to the multitude of bags lined up near the trailer bed, every bag full to the brim with decorations. “Every single one of those flowers needs to be hot glued onto this float. That’s how much glue we need.”

  “Abby,” Johnny called from up on the float bed, “take a look at the flag now.” He beamed at me.

  “Abby, your mom likes this dress best.” Jillian stuck a photo in front of my face. “What do you think?”

  “Abigail,” Mom called, “I’m heading home to work on my pots. Marco, I’ll meet you at the house.”

  I gave Marco a pleading look.

  He leaned close to say in my ear, “I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.”

  “I love you!” I watched him stride away and then once again picked up the sack of flowers. I was just about to climb up onto the trailer bed when I heard, “Abby?”

  Was I never going to get to work? I turned to see my best friend Nikki Hiduke wave as she made her way quickly through the crowded lot.

  “Abby,” she said breathlessly, coming to a stop before me, “I need your help.”

  It wasn’t often that Nikki called on me for assistance, especially at three-thirty in the afternoon. Judging by the scrubs she was still wearing – she was an x-ray technician at the hospital - she’d just gotten off her shift. “What’s up?”

  Worry lines creased her forehead. “Blake was just called into the police station, and I’m nervous.”

  “Who’s Blake?”

  “My boyfriend.” She gave me a duh look.

  “I thought you and Greg Morgan were still an item.”

  “Abby! Greg and I are history. This is Blake Ryder, a surgeon at the hospital. I told you about him at least two weeks ago. Don’t you remember?”

  I put down the sack of flowers. “I must’ve forgotten. I’m sorry, Nik. What happened with you and Greg?”

  “Forget about Greg. I’m worried about Blake. The police called him in for questioning this morning. He asked me to verify his alibi. What should I do?”

  “Back up a bit. Why are the police interested in your boyfriend? What happened?”

  “A nurse he worked with was found dead in her apartment.”

  I waited patiently for more information, but Nikki was hesitant. “Come on, Nik. There must be more to the story.”

  “Okay,” she said at last, “the nurse was his former girlfriend, Kim Conrad.” Nikki ran a hand through her short, spiky blonde hair. “The police are treating Blake like a suspect.”

  I finally spotted Jimmy by the high school float flirting with one of the girls and gave him a sharp whistle. He looked around, gave me a sheepish glance, and called, “I got the spray paint.”

  “Good. Now get Karl off his rear and have him help you.”

  “But it’s so hot out today,” Karl grumbled, getting to his feet.

  I turned back to Nikki. “I read about the nurse’s death in the newspaper. Wasn’t it ruled a suicide?”

  Nikki glanced around then said quietly, “Suspected suicide. I think things have changed.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the police taking Blake to the police station. I’m beside myself with worry. After he told me, I couldn’t concentrate at work. The only thing I could think was to come see you.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Investigate.”

  “Nikki, I don’t know anything about Blake or the situation. Plus, I’ve got a million things going on right now.”

  She looked away, biting her lower lip. Until Greg Morgan came along, Nikki had always had problems with the men in her life. Which was why I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Everything had seemed to be going so well with her and Greg.

  I was about to ask her about Greg when she wiped a tear from her eye. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll investigate. But I’ll need Marco’s help. I’m swamped with projects right now.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  “So you want us to investigate this nurse’s death because you’re afraid Blake is being questioned unjustly?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean maybe?”

  “It’s
just that,” -she glanced around as though making sure no one was listening- “I’m not sure if it’s unjust.”

  She had my full attention now. “You’re not sure if he’s involved?”

  “The thing is,” -she paused- “he told the police he was with me at the time of her death.”

  “Was he?”

  She scratched her nose. “Not really.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I finished my drink in one long gulp and set the cup on the back of the float bed. “We need to talk. Let’s walk back to Bloomers. I could use some more iced tea.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a relieved smile.

  I called Lottie’s four boys together, gave them strict instructions, and told them I’d be back in twenty minutes. Then Nikki and I cut across the parking lot, walked up Indiana Avenue and over to Franklin Street.

  Bloomers was the second shop on Franklin, just several doors up from Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, Marco’s bar. My flower shop was housed in a three-story redbrick building built around the turn of the twentieth century. It still had original wood floors, brick walls, and a tin ceiling, giving the shop a quaint appearance.

  Bloomers’ bright yellow door sat squarely between two big picture windows, one window on the shop side of the store, and one on the tea parlor side. Above the door hung the sign, Bloomers Flower Shop. Abby Knight, Prop. I’d been meaning to get the sign changed to Abby Knight Salvare ever since Marco and I had married. That had been a year ago and I still hadn’t done it. It was called having too much on my plate.

  Entering the door led straight into the flower shop, with its checkout counter on the left side near the front, a glass display case in the back next to a large dieffenbachia plant, a huge old china hutch on the inside wall filled with small potted plants and bric-a-brac gifts, live plants scattered around the room, and wreaths hanging on the brick walls.