Florist Grump (Flower Shop Mystery) - Softcover

Collins, Kate

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451473434 ISBN 13: 9780451473431

Publisher: Berkley, 2015

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of A Root Awakening, feisty florist Abby Knight is back with another knotty murder to solve in the next Flower Shop Mystery...

Life in Bloom

Stopping to smell the roses should be a must for flower shop owner Abby Knight, but stress has turned her into a major grump. While their house is under construction, Abby and her new husband, Marco, are living with her parents, who are driving her nuts. Not to mention that everyone has babies on the brain, with her cousin Jillian’s bundle of joy popping up in every conversation, and Marco’s mother dropping hints that she expects a new sprout from Abby and her son—as soon as possible!

But things get even thornier after a flashy former banker pushes up daisies. With a beloved window washer the prime suspect in the murder, other New Chapel shop owners rally around Abby and Marco to prove his innocence. With Abby’s energy wilting, she has to be on high alert—or she and Marco may not live to see their new home...

About this title

About the Author:

New York Times bestselling author Kate Collins grew up in a suburb of Hammond, Indiana, one block from the family home of author Jean Shepherd, whose humorous stories inspired Kate at an early age. After a stint as an elementary school teacher, Kate wrote children’s short stories and historical romance novels before turning to her true passion, mystery. The author of the popular Flower Shop Mysteries, including A Root Awakening, Throw in the Trowel, and Seed No Evil. 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

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 changing—and not always for the better. And it wasn’t 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. I’d risen at seven o’clock, showered, put on mascara, a little blush, skipped the concealer—nothing covered my freckles—and 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 we’d proceeded to the kitchen for breakfast.

The Olympic torch had barely been lit when its bright flame began to flicker.

*   *   *

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-o’clock shadow, muscular arms, and trim hips—honestly, 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 Marco’s wife, I was the owner of Bloomers Flower Shop, located on the square in New Chapel, Indiana. I had also recently become Marco’s 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 Marco’s bachelor pad, and with his lease up for renewal, we’d embarked on a laborious and tangled house hunt. By “laborious” I mean that my cousin Jillian went into false labor three times while assisting us with the hunt, and by “tangled” 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 we’d decided to build. Because of that decision, we needed to save money and find a temporary place to live, so—deep breath, Abby—we’d moved in with my parents.

To be honest, I wasn’t in favor of it, but they’d 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 I’d ever received), and posters of my favorite childhood movies. Basically, I was living in a flashback.

Now the room that had once been my punishment—as in, “Go to your room, young lady—you are grounded!”—had 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 parents’ 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 “Mad Mo” 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 didn’t 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 Dad’s areas of expertise.

“Take a seat, Maureen,” he began, scooting out a chair for her. “Right here, across from your daughter.”

My father, Sergeant Jeffrey Knight, had been a cop for twenty years before a drug dealer’s 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. He’d retired from the force soon after, but he would always and forever be a cop. Thus the negotiations.

“Now, Mo,” Dad said, one hand on her shoulder, “you know Abracadabra has breakfast at Bloomers on Mondays, right?”

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.

“And, Ab, you know that all you have to do is eat a few forkfuls to make Mom happy, right?”

I shrugged, indicating ambivalence. Bad move on my part. Dad was looking for total capitulation.

“Come on, Abby,” he said. “You know your mother is only acting in your best interests.”

“Yes, Dad, I know that.” I glanced at Marco, seated across the table from me, and rolled my eyes. He shook his head as though to say, Nope. I’m out of it.

“Now, who is willing to compromise here so we can move on to a pleasant topic of conversation?” Dad asked.

Not me. I wasn’t about to give in. That was just what Mom wanted.

Wait, what had I just said? A shiver raced up my spine. Dear God, it’s 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 I’d stepped back into my old bedroom.

I had to get that new house built fast.

“This is my last word on the subject, Abigail,” Mom said. “A little protein will make you feel better until you can have breakfast at Bloomers. You know how you crash and burn when you’re overly hungry.”

“I’ll be fine,” 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.

“Here’s something for you, Abracadabra,” 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.

“Just Jillian,” 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 Jillian’s little angel and even had a “halo” of white seed pearls that Jillian put on her tiny head like a sweatband every time a photo op presented itself.

I couldn’t very well complain, however, since Jillian had chosen Harper’s middle name as a tribute to me, the loyal cousin who’d 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.

“Abs, you won’t believe what Harper did,” Jillian said.

This was her daily mantra, and I was tired of it. “Let me guess. She woke up, nursed, pooped, and went back to sleep.”

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. I’d 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 ’Vette 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 hadn’t 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.

“Dinner at the bar after work?” Marco asked, brushing a strand of hair off my face.

“You bet. And maybe we should start having breakfast out, too.”

“Your parents aren’t that bad, Sunshine.”

“Marco, do you really like having someone read the paper to you? Or insist you eat their food when you’re not even hungry?”

“You’re always hungry when you wake up. And we’re not going to live with them forever.”

“It just feels that way,” I said with an exasperated sigh.

Marco looked deep into my eyes. “Be grateful you have them.”

I couldn’t argue. Marco’s 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 Chapel’s 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 wouldn’t open for another hour and the courthouse staff wouldn’t 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 I’d 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 wasn’t unusual. The abuse she’d suffered from her previous owner had left her with a fear of most people, especially men.

“Seedy, stop. Hold still.” 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.

“Not going to happen,” I muttered, then nearly stepped into a bucket of sudsy water that Jingles had set on the sidewalk.

“Sorry, Jingles,” 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 Jillian’s 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 bank’s, was on the sign above the door. But just to be certain bank gremlins hadn’t 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.

“Morning, love,” Grace called, coming out of the coffee-and-tea parlor, a charming Victorian-themed café I’d 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. “Shall I pour your coffee now or wait until Lottie calls us to the kitchen for breakfast?”

I crouched down to detach the leash from Seedy’s collar. “Now, please.”

“You did remember to buy the eggs, didn’t you?”

“Was I supposed to buy eggs?”

“Lottie mentioned we were out last Friday, and you said you’d take care of it.”

I really needed to start paying more attention when people were talking to me. Make that certain people.

“I’ll run to the grocery store right now.” I let Seedy off her leash, and she hobbled to the big bay window and jumped up—an amazing feat for a three-legged dog. She loved to watch the comings and goings on the courthouse square across the street.

“There won’t be enough time for a grocery run, dear,” Grace said. “You’ve got an appointment at eight forty-five—another wedding consultation. And we have flower orders for two funerals today, so it’s all hands on deck. We’ll have to skip breakfast today.”

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 mom’s words resounded in my head: You know how you crash and burn when you’re hungry.

Well, I would just prove her wrong. There would be no crashing or burning.

“The Old World Deli has breakfast sandwiches,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “I’ll order egg and sausages for all of us, then dash over and pick them up.”

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.

“It appears you’ll have company on your walk to the deli,” Grace said.

I snapped Seedy’s leash on, picked her up, and headed back outside. As soon as we’d crossed Franklin Street, I set her down agai...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0451473434
• ISBN 13: 9780451473431
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 336