Slay it with Flowers

Table of Contents

 

“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

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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.

 

 

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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.

J
ust 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.