Slay It With Flowers Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Praise for Mum’s the Word, the first Flower Shop Mystery

  “Kate Collins plants all the right seeds to grow a fertile garden of mystery… . Abby Knight is an Indiana florist who cannot keep her nose out of other people’s business. She’s rash, brash, and audacious. Move over Stephanie Plum, Abby Knight has come to town.”

  —Denise Swanson, author of the Scumble River mysteries

  “An engaging debut planted with a spirited sleuth, quirky sidekicks, and page-turning action … Delightfully addictive … A charming addition to the cozy subgenre. Here’s hoping we see more of intrepid florist, Abby Knight, and sexy restaurateur, Marco Salvare.”

  —Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mysteries

  “Kate Collins’ new Flower Shop Mystery is fresh as a daisy, with a bouquet of irresistible characters and deep roots in the Indiana soil.”

  —Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job mysteries

  “A bountiful bouquet of clues, colorful characters, and tantalizing twists … Kate Collins carefully cultivates clues, plants surprising suspects, and harvests a killer in this fresh and frolicsome new Flower Shop Mystery series.”

  —Ellen Byerrum, author of A Crime of Fashion mysteries

  “A charming debut … Abby makes for a spunky, feisty heroine, her sidekicks are quirky, and Marco is suitably hunky … well-fleshed-out, witty characters.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “This amusing new author has devised an excellent cast of characters and thrown them into a cleverly tumultuous plot… . Readers will savor Abby’s courage as she confronts corruption, violence and evil. The pacing is brisk, with parallel plots that intersect in interesting ways. A terrific debut!”

  —Romantic Times

  “This engaging read has a list of crazy characters that step off the pages to the delight of the reader. Don’t miss this wanna-be sleuth’s adventures.”

  —Rendezvous

  “The story was cute and funny, had a good plot line, which entwined a lot of interesting threads, and although the mystery was somewhat easy to figure out in some respects there were still twists that I didn’t see coming… . The shop and its associates sounded darling. I’d love to visit there for a cup of coffee. I also enjoyed Simon the cat, though non-cat lovers might not feel the same… . Mum’s the Word is an enjoyable read and a fine debut for this new mystery series.”

  —Dangerously Curvy Novels

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, March 2005

  Copyright © Linda Tsoutsouris, 2005

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-101-11827-6

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  As always, a big thanks to my home support team—my

  husband, Jim; children Jason, Julie, and Tasha; and my

  away team, Lacinda, Damian, Tamara, Wolfgang, and of

  course, baby Niobe. I thank you all deeply for your

  understanding and encouragement.

  To my mother, for your patience and support,

  and for not being like Abby’s mom.

  To my late father, a cop with a sharp sense of humor and

  an Irish temper, for inspiring the

  character of Abby’s father.

  To all the dedicated “Men in Blue” who have

  the integrity and backbone to stand up for what is right.

  And to Karen and Julie at Expressions for

  their valuable assistance.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Just for the record, I am not, in the true definition of the word, a meddler.

  According to my dictionary, a meddler is one who involves herself in a matter without right or invitation. Phfffft. Isn’t me at all. I am a naturally curious, caring individual strongly opposed to two things: tyranny and injustice. That strong sense of right has been with me as far back as third grade, when I first strode the halls of Morton Elementary School with my-hall monitor sash strapped across my chest.

  I inherited these traits from my father, Jeffrey Knight, who was a sergeant on the New Chapel, Indiana, police force until a felon’s bullet put him in a wheelchair. He firmly believed that his badge stood for honesty and right, and because of that he refused to play politics, which took a lot of courage but cost him many promotions. He has always been my hero.

  But after the previous week—when my beloved 1960 yellow Corvette and I were run off the road, my flower shop was burgled, and a homicidal garden center owner decided to put a stop to my breathing capabilities—even my father had determined that I’d put my safety in jeopardy once too often.

  As my assistant Grace, who had a quote for everything, was fond of saying
, “If we don’t learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it.” Grace was usually right.

  That week was behind me now. The bullies had been caught, the innocent cleared, and I had sworn offf what my friends termed my meddling, a vow they did not have to twist my arm to get me to make.

  This particular Monday started at the customary time of eight o’clock in the morning—or ten minutes past four by the clock on the courthouse spire. The clock had stopped running in either 1997 or 1897, but none of our elected officials were willing to take a stand on the matter—or find someone to fix it. When asked, their usual response was, “What clock?”

  I pulled the Vette into a space two doors down from my floral shop, landing it directly in front of the town’s local watering hole, the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, owned by the sexiest man who has ever worn a uniform, Marco Salvare, a former cop turned bar owner who dabbled in PI work on the side. Out front, Jingles the window washer was already hard at work with his trusty squeegee. Jingles was a friendly retiree whose goal in life appeared to be to keep every window and door on the square squeaky clean. His nickname came from his habit of jingling coins in his pocket. I wasn’t sure if anyone actually knew his real name.

  I gave Jingles a wave, then continued down the block, stopping on the sidewalk outside the old brick building that housed my shop to gaze up at the hand-lettered sign that proudly proclaimed my ownership. Even after two months, I was still in awe. Me, Abby Knight, a businesswoman. All grown up and in debt up to my eyebrows.

  I traced a finger across my left eyebrow. The ring was gone. I had truly crossed the threshold into adulthood.

  Bloomers was the second shop from the corner on Franklin Street, one of the four streets that surrounded the courthouse square. The store occupied the first floor and basement of the three-story building and had two bay windows with a yellow-framed door in between. The left side of the shop housed our flowers and the right side was our coffee and tea parlor, where customers sat at white wrought-iron tables and watched the happenings on the square.

  The courthouse, built in 1896 from Indiana limestone, housed the county and circuit courts, plus all the government offices. Around the square were the typical assortment of family-owned shops, banks, law offices, and restaurants. Five blocks east of the square marked the western edge of the campus of New Chapel University, a small, private college where I would have graduated from law school if I wouldn’t have flunked out.

  Because I had flunked out, I’d had to rethink my career plans to find something I could do successfully. It had been a very short list. Then I’d learned that the quaint little flower shop where I’d once worked part-time was for sale—a stroke of luck for me because I loved flowers and actually had a talent for growing things. So I used the rest of my grandfather’s college trust as a down payment and had an instant career, which mollified my stunned parents. It also saved the owner, Lottie Dombowski, from bankruptcy caused by her husband’s massive medical bills. Now Lottie worked for me, doing what she loved best, and I worked for the bank, trying to make the mortgage payments.

  Inside the shop, my assistant Grace Bingham was preparing her coffee machines for the day. As soon as I stepped inside and shut the door, she sang out in her crisp British accent, “Good morning, dear. How are we today?”

  Grace spent years working as a nurse and sometimes still spoke in first person plural. I met her the summer I law clerked for Dave Hammond, a lawyer with a one-man office on the square. Grace was his legal secretary at the time. After she retired and found herself with too much time on her hands, I persuaded her to work for me at Bloomers. It was a perfect fit.

  “We are in a good mood,” I called back. “The sun is shining, the temperature is just right, and it’s Monday. The only way it could get better is if twenty orders came in overnight.” I peered into the parlor. “They didn’t, did they?”

  “No, dear, only five.”

  Grace handled as many tasks as I cared to load on her. Since she was an expert tea steeper, coffee brewer, and scone baker, her main job was to run the parlor. It was one of our many efforts to lure in more customers. We were in dire need of more customers, especially now that a gigantic floral and hobby shop had opened on the main highway.

  At that moment Lottie came bustling through the curtain from the workroom in back, a bundle of white roses in her ample arms, her usual pink satin bow pinned into the short, brassy curls above her right ear. It was a daring look for a forty-five-year-old mother of a highly embarrassable seventeen-year-old boy. Even more daring considering that she had four highly embarrassable seventeen-year-old boys. Lottie’s opinion on that was simple: Suck it up.

  “Oh, good, you made it before Jillian did,” she said to me as she stocked a container in the glass display cooler.

  The gray clouds were moving in. I almost expected to hear ominous music in the background. “Jillian is coming? Now? Something dreadful must have happened to get her up before noon.”

  Lottie rolled her eyes. “She’s got another bee in her bonnet about her wedding plans.”

  Grace handed me a rose-patterned china cup filled with her gourmet coffee, fixed just the way I liked it with a good shot of half-and-half. “Drink up, dear. You’ll need the fortification. You know how tiring your cousin can be.”

  Grace phrased it so politely. My term would have been pain in the ass, which Jillian had been since she hit puberty and discovered that boys adored her. Jillian Knight was twenty-five, tall, gorgeous, and one year younger than me. She was also the only other girl in the family, which was about all we had in common.

  My father was a retired cop. Jillian’s was a stockbroker. My mother was a kindergarten teacher. Jillian’s mother wielded a five iron at the New Chapel Country Club. I paid the mortgage on a floral shop. Jillian got paid to shop for other people’s wardrobes. As children, my brothers, Jonathan and Jordan, and I worked for our allowances. Jillian allowed their maid to work for hers.

  The only justice in our separate worlds was that my two brothers became successful surgeons, while Jillian’s brother waited tables in a Chicago diner. For years, our families spent all holidays together, and that had given Jillian and me a siblinglike relationship: we loved each other but didn’t get along.

  “I’m telling you, Abby, don’t pay for that bridesmaid dress,” Lottie warned.

  I waved away her concern. “Jillian won’t call off this wedding. She wouldn’t dare.”

  “Ha! Look at her track record.”

  Lottie had a good point. Jillian got engaged once a year—it seemed to be a hobby of hers. Her list of ex-fiancés read like a travel brochure: an Italian restaurant owner from Chicago’s Little Italy; a moody Parisian artist named Jean Luc; an English consulate Sir Something-or-Other; and a Greek plastic surgeon with an unpronounceable name. This was the first time she’d ever made it to the actual choosing-of-the-flowers stage.

  Jillian’s current groom-to-be was Claymore Osborne, who, coincidentally, was the younger brother of my former fiancé, Pryce Osborne the Second. Claymore was every bit as boorish and snooty as Pryce was, but that didn’t matter to Jillian. What mattered was that Claymore stood to inherit half the Osborne fortune. Jillian always did go after money.

  The wedding was set for the Fourth of July, three weeks away. At first Jillian wanted to hold it in a field of daisies, but having none in the area suitable for a wedding ceremony, she settled for a hotel ballroom that she believed had daisies in the carpet. Somewhere.

  On top of choosing me as a bridesmaid, Jillian had also asked me to do her wedding flowers. I had agreed because Jillian’s wedding would most certainly be lavish, and that meant expensive flowers, which translated into money to pay my bills. I really needed to pay my bills.

  “Here are your messages, dear,” Grace said, handing me a small pile of memos. “Lottie has breakfast ready in the kitchen.”

  Monday breakfast was a tradition at Bloomers, and I was already drooling in anticipation. There were four messages: three fr
om my mother and one from a client named Trudee DeWitt, or “Double-E Double-T,” as she called herself, who needed to know when I was coming over to consult with her on decorations for her party.

  The three messages from my mother all said the same thing: “Call me. Urgent.” Nearly all her messages claimed urgency. One of these days, I’ve told her, it really will be urgent and then won’t she be sorry? The Mother Who Cried Wolf.

  I took the memos and the coffee and headed for the workroom, a gardenlike haven where I’ve spent some of my happiest moments. As soon as I stepped through the curtain I had to stop to inhale the aromas—rose, lily, eucalyptus, buttered toast, scrambled eggs. It didn’t get any better than that.

  I dropped the messages on my desk—a messy affair littered with a computer, printer, phone, a pencil cup shaped like a grinning cat, a few framed photos, and assorted office items—and went to the kitchen to grab a plate of food. While I ate, Lottie and I went over the orders and discussed the coming week so we could make a list and call our suppliers. After washing my plate in the tiny kitchen sink, I tacked the orders on the corkboard and sat at my desk to call Trudee.

  I had just punched in her number when I heard the bell over the front door jingle, and a moment later the curtain parted and the bride-to-be swept in, pausing to look around the room in confusion. I could understand her bewilderment. The workroom was a riot of color and shape and texture and scents. Dried and silk flowers sat in tall containers, ribbon-festooned wreaths adorned the walls, and brightly hued foil and painted pots lined the shelves. A small person like me, even with my red hair, could blend right in. A female Waldo.