Snipped in the Bud
Praise for the Flower Shop Mysteries
Dearly Depotted
“Flowers and murder are unlikely but entertaining companions in another solid effort by Collins…. There is plenty to please here.”
—Romantic Times
“Original and charming.”
—Midwest Book Review
Slay It with Flowers
“You can’t help but laugh at Abby because trouble sure can find her. The supporting characters make this plot even better. An enormously entertaining read.”
—Rendezvous
“Collins has created a delightful amateur sleuth, and the plot is smooth…. The inclusion of a contemporary social problem gave the story extra juice.”
—Romantic Times
“What a delight! Ms. Collins has a flair for engaging characters and witty dialogue. Try as you might, you won’t guess the outcome, nor does the murderer tip a hand until the very end. Loved the flower shop setting and the first-person style of writing.”
—FreshFiction.com Mum’s the Word
“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’s 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 the Crime of Fashion mysteries “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…. 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 wannabe sleuth’s adventures.”
—Rendezvous
“This story was cute and funny, had a good plot line which entwined a lot of interesting threads…an enjoyable read and a fine debut for this new mystery series.”
—Dangerously Curvy Novels “A charming debut…. Abby makes for a spunky, feisty heroine, her sidekicks are quirky, and Marco is suitably hunky.”
—The Best Reviews
Other Flower Shop Mysteries
Mum’s the Word
Slay It with Flowers
Dearly Depotted
Snipped in the Bud
A Flower Shop Mystery
Kate Collins
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Linda Tsoutsouris, 2006
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1064-2
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.
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To my mother, Rosemary,
who always believed in me,
who was, and who always will be,
my role model for what a mother should be.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE
I jammed both feet on the brake and brought my old yellow convertible to a screeching halt mere inches from the groin of a dragon. Okay, not a dragon in the fairy tale sense of the word. This dragon was the flesh-and-blood human variety—one Z. Archibald Puffer, a former JAG officer turned law professor who was often referred to as Puffer the Dragon. He was called that not because of his last name but also because of his ability to destroy even the bravest law student in one fiery blast of fury.
My personal name for him was Snapdragon, because he had a habit of snapping pencils in two and hurling the eraser half at the head of the student whose answer had displeased him. He went through so many pencils that he bought them in bulk, made to his specifications—glossy black barrels with his initials monogrammed in silver to look like bolts of lightning: ZAP. I had been struck by
them many times and even bore a tiny scar on my forehead from his last attack, which came with his pronouncement that I was never to set foot in his lecture hall again. That was followed in short order by my expulsion from law school, which, in turn, prompted my then fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, to break off our engagement and leave town until his humiliation over my failure had faded. His humiliation.
It had occurred to me back then that the old maxim of bad luck coming in threes was true. Now, as Puffer glared up the shiny hood of my reconditioned 1960 Corvette with his spiteful, ice blue eyes, and my heart pounded and my clammy hands clasped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt, my gut feeling was that the Rule of Three had begun again. Which meant I still had two to go.
The irony was that the only reason I had come to the law school—a place I tried my best to avoid—was to deliver a flower that Professor Puffer had ordered. However, I didn’t think now would be the best time to hand it over. He might snap it off and chuck the vase at me.
“You redheaded fumigant,” he jeered, as college students gathered on both sides of the street. “You nearly killed me.”
I wasn’t sure what a fumigant was, but I knew it couldn’t be good. “Sorry,” I squeaked, slumping down as far as I could. Considering that I was short, it was pretty far.
Was it my fault he hadn’t used the crosswalk? Was it my fault he was talking on his mobile phone instead of paying attention to traffic? I didn’t think so. Had it been anyone else, I would have told him as much. But that steely glare brought back so many bad memories that all I could do was duck.
“Hey, there is someone inside,” one curious student said, coming up for a look.
I raised my head just enough to peer over the dash. Mercifully, Snapdragon had moved on, but not before stopping at the curb to deliver a parting shot. “Be expecting a call from the police,” he said, working his cell phone buttons. “I’m turning you in for reckless driving.”
Great. Just what I needed to make my morning complete. ZAP.
I knew what his fury was really about. Puffer was still indignant about the night he’d spent in the slammer over three years ago on a driving-under-the-influence charge. I’d had nothing to do with it, of course—I was still downstate at Indiana University at the time—but that hadn’t mattered to Puffer. What had mattered was that the Dragon had been publicly disgraced by a Knight—my father, Sgt. Jeffrey Knight, then of the New Chapel Police Department—and once I set foot in his classroom and Puffer made the connection, he never let me forget it.
So it really shouldn’t have surprised me that this new trio of unpleasant events would begin with Snapdragon. In fact, my first clue should have been the strange order that had been waiting for me when I walked into my flower shop, Bloomers, this overcast Tuesday morning: one black rose suitable for funeral display, noon delivery, to Professor Z. Puffer, New Chapel University School of Law. I mean, who would order a single black flower for a funeral? Bugs Bunny?
Knowing my history with Puffer, my assistant Lottie had tried to talk me out of making the delivery. But no, I’d decided I needed to face the Dragon to conquer those irrational fears I’d held on to way too long. After all, Puffer had no power over me now. I wasn’t that frightened first-year law student anymore. I owned a business, or at least I owned the mortgage for a business. It took courage to run a flower shop at the age of twenty-six. It also took money, which was something I hadn’t yet managed to produce in quantity. Which reminded me. I still had to deliver the flower and collect my money.
I glanced over at the dark red rose (the closest I could get to black since there was no such thing) in its slender chrome vase, the entire package wrapped in black-tinted cellophane, tied with a solemn black ribbon and wedged securely in a foam container in front of the passenger seat—and tried to imagine Puffer’s reaction when he saw who the delivery person was. Maybe I should take Lottie up on her offer after all.
Horns honked behind me. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a line of cars waiting to turn into the law school’s parking lot, so I pulled into a visitor’s space, shut off the engine, and took deep breaths to calm my nerves. What was the big deal anyway? All I had to do was put the vase on Puffer’s desk and leave a bill. If I was lucky, he might even be in the cafeteria, in which case I could just give everything to his secretary, Bea, who always ate lunch at her desk.
A car pulled into the space to my right. I glanced over at the metallic green Mini Cooper and saw Professor Carson Reed at the wheel. Great. Of the hundreds of people I could have seen at the college that day, I had to find the only two on campus who held grudges against me.
From the corner of my eye I watched Reed polish off the last of a burger, crumple the wrapper, check his teeth in his rearview mirror, and get out. He eyed my Vette but ignored me as he strode off, briefcase in hand.
Professor Reed was a tall, vain, handsome, single man in his late thirties with a fondness for poetry and black clothing (including a black eyepatch and cape, if he was feeling particularly dashing). He thought of himself as a modern-day Lord Byron and frequently could be seen strolling the campus grounds reciting odes to the starry-eyed female students who seemed to follow him everywhere. Sad to say, Reed enjoyed the benefits of having his own fan club and had left many a broken heart in his wake.
However much I found his behavior offensive, Professor Reed had been one of the few teachers whose lectures I’d actually understood, even if I hadn’t always passed his exams. Plus, he’d written papers and often spoke on the importance of taking a stand against injustice—a subject dear to my heart. I’d even memorized his favorite Byron quote on that subject:
As the Liberty lads o’er the sea,
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free…
But a few months ago, Reed became the legal adviser for Dermacol, a new cosmetics laboratory in town, and suddenly his poetic ideals were replaced by dollar signs, causing my respect for him to take a nosedive. Dermacol tested products on animals kept in wire cages, something I couldn’t—make that wouldn’t—tolerate. In fact, just a week ago, during a demonstration to protest Dermacol’s policies, I was arrested for obstruction. Apparently, Reed hadn’t welcomed the picket line I’d organized to block Dermacol’s entrance gate and had called the police.
As I was being led away in handcuffs, I told him in a voice loud enough to carry to the reporters on hand that I’d do it again if it meant saving the lives of innocent creatures, and I’d take on anyone who advocated torturing helpless animals—including him. Then I called him a hypocritical snake in the grass for selling out to corporate greed. The local newspaper even quoted me on that.
Needless to say, Reed was no fan of mine, especially since photos of the protest made the front page of the New Chapel News, and the accompanying article painted him in a particularly unflattering light. For a man of Reed’s arrogance, I didn’t imagine it had been an easy pill to swallow, and I was certain the less we saw of each other the better. But since his office was next to Puffer’s, the odds of meeting were high.
I toyed again with the idea of letting Lottie come back with the flower, but that just wasn’t my style. I never shy away from a challenge—my parents would attest to that. To hear them describe it, they’d stumbled around in a zombie-like stupor for the better part of a decade due to their sleepless nights of worrying about me.
My cell phone rang, so I looked at the screen, flipped it open, and said, “Nikki, I’m so glad you called. You’ll never believe what happened.”
I knew I’d get lots of sympathy from Nikki. She was my best friend, confidante, and roommate. We had a bond so strong that when one of us was in distress, the other felt the pain.
“I don’t have time for that right now, Abby. I’m standing here on the curb waiting for a guy from the gas station to put a spare tire on my car so I can make it to work this afternoon. And do you want to know why he’s putting on a spare ti
re? Because your cousin Jillian punctured my Toyota’s good tire. That’s why.”
Obviously there were times when Nikki’s distress and my distress canceled that whole share-the-pain thing. “To be fair, Nikki, Jillian didn’t puncture your tire. Something sharp punctured it.”
“Why did it get punctured in the first place, Abby? Why?”
Two professors strolled past my car, so I whispered, “Can we discuss this later?”
“Here’s why. Because Jillian parked her car in my designated space, forcing me to leave my car on the street in front of the house that’s being remodeled.”
For someone who didn’t have time to talk, she was doing a good job of it.
“Jillian has also taken over one of my shelves in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and that’s just unacceptable.”
“At least you’re not the one sleeping on the lumpy sofa.”
“Whose fault is that?” she snapped.
There was a protracted silence on both ends. Nikki and I had been friends since third grade—nothing had ever come between us—yet in the short time my cousin had squeezed herself into our lives, we were reduced to taking potshots at each other. Truthfully, if Jillian hadn’t been a blood relation—first cousin on my father’s side—I wouldn’t have defended her. But having shared many sisterlike experiences with her, such as first bras, bad vacations, and painful sunburns, I felt duty bound.
“She has to move out, Abby. That apartment is not big enough for the three of us.”