A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery

A Root Awakening

“Kate Collins never fails to deliver a spectacular story. Abby and Marco embark on a house hunt filled with surprises and intrigue. . . . Another triumph in the well-loved Flower Shop Mystery series.”

—Lorna Barrett,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Book Clubbed: A Booktown Mystery

Throw in the Trowel

“Where most series can run out of steam around book ten, Kate Collins manages to keep each of Abby’s adventures fresh and exciting, even at number fifteen. The mystery is well plotted, the characters well fleshed-out, and Abby and Marco fans will not be disappointed!”

—Night Owl Reviews

“The Flower Shop Mystery series stays fresh and keeps getting better. Collins has created a small-town community that readers feel part of. The mystery in this installment keeps readers guessing all the way until the twisted end.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Seed No Evil

“A great mystery. . . . Abby is one of my favorite protagonists.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Kate Collins has played a major role in shaping the offshoot of the ‘cozy’ mystery into a growing entity of its own, the romantic mystery. I, for one, am grateful.”

—Once Upon a Romance

Nightshade on Elm Street

“Abby’s warm and caring relationships, especially with Marco, will draw readers back as this cozy series continues to grow.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“The investigation contains entertaining red herrings and twists . . . a fun, lighthearted whodunit.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“A delightful installment. . . . I can’t wait to see what awaits Abby and Marco in marriage.”

—Fresh Fiction

To Catch a Leaf

“There are twists and surprises along with the comfort of the characters we have all grown to love. . . . This story is a must read!”

—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

“Ms. Collins has a devious and creative mind when it comes to each new Flower Shop Mystery. Her plots are ingenious [and] Abby and Marco’s chemistry is alluring.”

—Once Upon a Romance

Night of the Living Dandelion

“Great plotting and interesting secondary characters add depth and humor. . . . Abby and Marco’s relationship strengthens and sizzles.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A heartwarming cozy. . . . Fans of the series will feel mesmerized by the plot.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

Dirty Rotten Tendrils

“Each book in this series contains murder, continuous mayhem, a bit of sizzle, and one justice-seeking amateur sleuth.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“Abby is an excellent heroine who finds herself in some of the most unlikely, entertaining situations.”

—The Mystery Reader

Sleeping with Anemone

“A nimble, well-crafted plot with forget-me-not characters.”

—Laura Childs,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries

“A clever, fast-moving plot and distinctive characters add up to fun.”

—JoAnna Carl, national bestselling author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

Evil in Carnations

“The fun, family, and romance are still fresh, and the mystery is tidily wrapped up, with just enough suspense to keep readers flipping pages.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Ms. Collins’s writing remains above par with quality and consistency: fun and breezy, intriguing and suspenseful, excitement and sizzle.”

—Once Upon a Romance

Shoots to Kill

“Colorful characters, a sharp and funny heroine, and a sexy hunk boyfriend.”

—Maggie Sefton, national bestselling author of the Knitting Mysteries

“Once again Kate Collins delivers an entertaining, amusing, and deliciously suspenseful mystery.”

—Cleo Coyle,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

A Rose from the Dead

“The latest Flower Shop Mystery is an amusing graveyard amateur sleuth that will have the audience laughing.”

—The Best Reviews

Acts of Violets

“A delightful, lighthearted cozy.”

—The Best Reviews

Snipped in the Bud

“Lighthearted and fast-paced, Collins’s new book is an entertaining read.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Dearly Depotted

“Ms. Collins’s writing style is crisp, her characters fun . . . and her stories are well thought-out and engaging.”

—Fresh Fiction

Slay It with Flowers

“You can’t help but laugh . . . an enormously entertaining read.”

—
Rendezvous

Mum’s the Word

“Abby Knight [is] rash, brash, and audacious. Move over, Stephanie Plum. Abby Knight has come to town.”

—Denise Swanson,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Scumble River 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

“As fresh as a daisy, with a bouquet of irresistible characters.”

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

Mum’s the Word

Slay It with Flowers

Dearly Depotted

Snipped in the Bud

Acts of Violets

A Rose from the Dead

Shoots to Kill

Evil in Carnations

Sleeping with Anemone

Dirty Rotten Tendrils

Night of the Living Dandelion

To Catch a Leaf

Nightshade on Elm Street

Seed No Evil

Throw in the Trowel

Published by the Penguin Group

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A Penguin Random House Company

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

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Linda Tsoutsouris, 2015

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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ISBN 978-0-698-16862-6

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.

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

—Marcel Proust

To Jason and Julie. You not only make me happy— you make me proud.

To my beloved Jim. Our souls will be forever entwined.

“Help me, Cassius, or I sink!”

—William Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2

What author hasn’t felt her boat sinking at some point in the writing process? I am so grateful to the following people for keeping me afloat, no matter how rough the sea:

My editor, Ellen Edwards, who has guided me through sixteen books and counting, helping me make my mysteries gel and my words sparkle.

My son, Jason Eberhardt, for his fantastic plotting ability, editorial eye, and promotional skills.

My agent, Karen Solem, for her continuous support and guidance.

My beloved daughter, Julie; my family; my dear friend Barb Ferrari; and my Cozy Chick Mystery Author buddies: Ellery Adams, Deb Baker, Lorraine Bartlett, Leann Sweeney, Mary Kennedy, M. J. Maffini, and Maggie
Sefton.

Monday

“A
re my newlyweds ready to go inside for a look?”

Our Realtor pressed her hands together as though praying, her smile as desperate as her enthusiastic nods, as if to say,
Of course you’re ready! At that price, you’d be fools not to be. Please, please, please?

I glanced at Marco, who was studying the dilapidated Victorian home with a shrewd and, yes, disdainful eye. Good. We were on the same page.

“No,” I said, just as Marco said, “Sure.”

I turned to my handsome hubby in surprise.
“Sure?”

“No harm in looking.”

“I am looking, Marco. The question is, what are you seeing?”

It was peculiar for us to be at odds because our tastes ran in remarkably similar veins. Hand us a menu and we’d pick the same entrée every time. But clearly he wasn’t seeing what I was seeing today, because directly in front of us stood a narrow, wood-sided two-story with peeling paint, a porch that tilted dangerously to the right,
a sharply peaked roof whose tiles had curled, dingy gray gingerbread trim, and a detached shed-turned-garage that might have held a Volkswagen Beetle—with no door handles.

The old house, built sometime in the early 1900s, swarmed with roofers and painters who’d been hired to get it ready to be put on the market. Lorelei Hays, our overly eager Realtor, had heard that the Victorian was going up for sale and wanted us to see it before the crowds beat a path to the warped brown door. As far as I was concerned, a path would have been an improvement over the cracked cement sidewalk on which we stood.

I loosened the emerald-and-navy-plaid scarf around my neck and took off my green gloves. The March sun was making a rare appearance in a week that had been rainy and cold. My little dog, Seedy, kept tugging at her leash, so I turned to see what she wanted and saw her wagging her shaggy tail, gazing up toward the roof where a painter was giving the decorative trim along the roofline above an attic window a coat of white paint. I doubted it was the worker who’d intrigued her. Seedy was a rescue dog who’d had an abusive owner, and she was still wary around most men. But I didn’t see anything else that could have attracted her attention.

Studying the Victorian’s shabby facade, I could only imagine what the inside was like. No, I didn’t want to imagine it, because I was definitely not interested. The only positives were that it would be available in a month and it was located five blocks off the town square in my hometown of New Chapel, Indiana. And because my flower shop, Bloomers, and Marco’s business, Down the
Hatch Bar and Grill, were located on the square, we could have walked to work.

Lorelei bounced on the toes of her black patent pumps. “So? Are we ready to see the interior?” She was wearing a marine blue two-piece suit trimmed in black braid, with shiny black button earrings and a black tote bag, all nicely accenting her short platinum hair.

Marco had wanted to go with a well-seasoned Realtor, but I had opted to give a newbie our business because it hadn’t been that long since I’d opened Bloomers and I remembered how it felt to be the new kid on the block. In her late forties and just starting out in real estate, Lorelei fit the bill. But so far, she hadn’t shown us a single house we’d liked, and we’d been looking since October.

Our landlady had been patient thus far—she didn’t normally allow pets—but she’d been dropping enough hints lately that we knew we had to find something soon.

Marco was still analyzing as the roofers nimbly navigated the steep pitch. Two painters in blue coveralls stood on scaffolding on the right side of the house applying tan paint to the second story, while the third painter, the apparent object of Seedy’s attention, balanced at the top of a tall extension ladder. All of the workmen wore navy baseball caps and light blue coveralls with the logo HHI—Handy Home Improvements—on them.

“Judging by the condition of the outside,” I said to Marco, “this house is going to need a lot of time and money pumped into it.”

“You look like do-it-yourselfers,” Lorelei said. “It could be the perfect little project for you to work on together, a real bonding experience.”

Or grounds for divorce.

Deep in contemplation, Marco rubbed his jaw. “I can see us working on it.”

“Clearly, Marco, you’ve forgotten about our experience painting the bathroom at Down the Hatch over Christmas.”

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.

“For you.”

“Sunshine, you’re the one who wanted to put seven coats of paint on it.”

“One application of sugar maple does not cover glossy navy blue, Marco. I can still see blue showing through—and that was three coats, by the way, not seven.”

He put his arm around me. “I think the bathroom looks great. Come on, sweetheart. We should at least have a look at the inside.”

I moved us off the walkway. “Between your long hours at the bar and your private investigations, when would we have time?”

“You’ve been looking for something to do in the evenings,” he said.

“Not renovating a home—alone!”

“You wouldn’t have to do it alone. I’d be there as much as possible, and I’ll bet your niece and your cousin would love to lend a hand.”

That, in itself, was reason to say no. Tara, my fourteen-year-old niece, would need to take a Twitter break every five minutes, while my cousin, Jillian—a spoiled pregnant diva precariously near her due date—wouldn’t even paint her own fingernails, let alone someone else’s walls. Besides, between running her personal shopping
service and doing dry runs to the hospital, she was too busy.

“Just take one walk-through,” the Realtor urged. “If you don’t like its charming layout or don’t see any potential, we’ll cross it off your list.”

We had a list? “Sorry,” I said to both of them. “I really don’t like it.”

A cry from the roof made me turn in alarm just in time to see the extension ladder fall in an arc away from the house, the painter still clinging to the rungs. Everyone, including me, stood frozen in horror as the ladder carried the painter backward until the poor man hit the ground with a loud
thunk
, his head smacking the cement sidewalk with an audible crack. Then he lay still, the aluminum ladder on top of him.

As though someone had pressed a button, all of us sprang into action. I scooped up Seedy and ran toward the man along with Marco and Lorelei, while workmen scrambled to get to the ground. Marco was on the phone calling for an ambulance before we’d even reached the man’s side.

The Realtor lifted the ladder aside as I put Seedy down and crouched beside the painter, whose coveralls read
Sergio
on the pocket. “Sergio,” I called, feeling for a pulse in his neck. “Can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?”

His eyes were closed and he made no response, but his pulse beat steadily beneath my fingertips.

Another man in coveralls, the name
Sam
on his pocket, dropped to his knees on the other side, grabbed Sergio’s face, and gave it a shake. “Sergio, buddy. Talk to me.”

“Don’t shake him,” Marco commanded, putting away his phone. “His neck could be broken. Step back and wait for the paramedics.”

The other painters joined us and within minutes the roofers were there, too, all standing in a semicircle around their fallen coworker. In the distance I heard a siren, and then another, and a minute later a squad car roared to a stop and two cops jumped out and jogged over. One of them was Marco’s buddy Sergeant Sean Reilly, whom Marco had trained under during his stint on the New Chapel police force.

“What do we have?” Reilly asked Marco as he knelt beside the man.

“He’s a painter.” Marco turned toward the house and pointed. “When we got here, he was at the top of the ladder painting above that attic window. I heard someone cry out and looked around to see him falling backward.”

Neighbors began to emerge from their houses. Then an emergency van pulled up and the two-man crew hopped out and sprinted toward us. While they began their examination of Sergio, I turned to see why Seedy was tugging on her leash and saw a short, stout woman and two children coming down the steps of the Victorian. They stopped a short distance away to watch the proceedings. I checked my watch. It was noon. What were the kids doing home from school?

The woman wore a thick brown cardigan over a white blouse and jeans, and white athletic shoes. Her long dark-brown hair hung flat against the sides of her head. She had small brown eyes and a wide nose set in a round face devoid of makeup. She was holding her children’s
hands as though she was afraid some danger might befall them. They must be the current occupants of this house, I thought.

The boy, who appeared to be around ten years old, had jet-black hair with a heart-shaped face and vivid blue eyes. He was wearing a quilted navy jacket, jeans, and black sneakers. The girl, whom I pegged at six years old, had wide cheekbones in a tiny face and long black hair. She wore a deep purple hooded jacket and black corduroy pants with purple-and-white sneakers. Oddly, neither child seemed interested in the accident. Instead, the boy was watching my dog, while the girl seemed more interested in me.

I was accustomed to people staring at Seedy, one of the homeliest dogs I’d ever seen. Her big pointed ears had tufts of hair on the ends, her lower teeth protruded, her muzzle was grizzly, the ridges of her spine showed, her brown, black, and tan fur was uneven, her tail was bushy, and she was missing a hind leg. But the first time I’d gazed into her loving brown eyes, I’d been captivated.

Considered unadoptable, Seedy had been at the top of the list to be euthanized when I’d found her at the animal shelter. I’d worked hard to find her a home, thinking that Marco wouldn’t want to start married life with a new pet, not to mention that his landlady didn’t allow them, but to no avail. In the nick of time, my intended had swept in and rescued her. Taking her had been the second best decision we’d ever made. The first, naturally, had been to marry each other.

I wasn’t used to people staring at
me
, however. Maybe it was my bright red hair that drew the girl’s attention.

Seedy wagged her tail and gave a little yip, tugging as
though she wanted to go see the children, so I walked her over to where they stood.

“Hi,” I said, and received shy smiles from the children. Their mother was watching the paramedics work, a look of alarm on her face, so I said, “Do you know what happened?”

She shook her head. “I was in the kitchen.” Her voice was like soft cotton.

“One of your painters fell from way high up.”

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“He’s unconscious. I can’t tell how serious his condition is.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Abby Knight . . . Salvare. I own Bloomers Flower Shop.”

She let go of the girl’s hand to shake mine. “Sandra Jones.” She put her hand on top of the boy’s head. “This is Bud”—she put her other hand on the girl’s head—“and this is Daisy. What do we say to Miss Abby, children?”

“Hello, Miss Abby,” they replied in unison.

“Your dog has three legs,” Daisy said. She pointed toward Seedy, but her vivid green eyes were still on me.

“Yes, she does, but she doesn’t let that stop her,” I said.

Daisy reached out to let Seedy sniff her hand, but her mother pulled her back. “You don’t want to get bit, honey. Remember our rule? We never pet a strange dog.”

The girl gazed at the dog with such longing that I crouched down to show her how friendly Seedy was. “My dog’s name is Seedy. She likes children. She won’t bite.”

“Unfortunately, Daisy is allergic to dogs,” Sandra said.

The child gave her mother a puzzled glance, as though that was the first time she’d heard that information.

The boy stepped forward. “I’m not allergic,” he said almost defiantly, and crouched down beside me to run his hand along Seedy’s back. “She has really sharp bones.”

“She’s a rescue dog,” I said. “She was badly abused. But now she has a good home and gets lots of food and attention; don’t you, Seedy?”

Seedy yipped and wagged her tail. She gave the boy’s hand a lick, making him laugh.

“I had a dog,” Daisy said.

“When?” Bud asked with a scoff.

She thought for a moment, then said to her mother, “I had one, didn’t I?”

“Didn’t I what?” Sandra asked in a schoolteacher’s voice.

“Didn’t I, Mommy?”

“Of course you did, honey,” Sandra said, giving her an affectionate smile. She whispered to me, “Imaginary playmates.”

“They’re home from school early today,” I said.

“They’re homeschooled,” Sandra said with a mixture of pride and exhaustion. “Bud, Daisy, our gingerbread cookies should be about done. We’d better go back inside and make sure they don’t burn.”

The boy rose with obvious reluctance.

“Say good-bye,” I said to Seedy, who obliged by giving two yips and wagging her tail as the children reluctantly took their mother’s hands.

“Bye, Seedy,” Bud said sadly.

I heard a car door slam and turned to see a large,
balding man with a bad comb-over, wearing an XXXL shirt and battered blue jeans, climb out of a faded blue Chevy van. He paused to look at the emergency situation unfolding just yards away and then continued in our direction.