Throw in the Trowel (2 page)

CHAPTER
ONE

Tuesday

H
ey! You there. Abby Christine Knight! Snap to it, girl. You've got to get to work. The honeymoon is over.

Correction. Let's make that Abby Christine Knight
Salvare.

Pep talk over, I yawned, scratched my head, and squinted at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A short, sleepy, freckle-faced redhead squinted back, a bit bleary-eyed but generally happy. No, make that extremely happy, because I was a married woman now. Me.
A married woman
. Hitched to my dream guy in a fantastic wedding ceremony followed by an incredible honeymoon in Key West, Florida. Wow.

I sighed wistfully at the thought of those stunning sunsets over the Gulf of Mexico, primrose pink, goldenrod yellow, pansy purple—a florist's dream—as I'd stood arm in arm with my new husband watching the sun melt into the ocean. I remembered holding Marco's hand as we parasailed high over the island and neighboring Sunset Key, pointing out the places we knew. I sighed again, recalling how we'd biked along the Atlantic side of the island as pelicans dove for fish, and strolled along Duval Street licking chocolate gelato cones, and toured the coral reef in a glass-bottom boat, and Jet Skied across turquoise wat—

I leaned closer to the mirror. Could those be bags under my eyes? Did people get bags at the age of twenty-seven?

Confession time. I was extremely happy and also
extremely tired and, if truth be told, just a little bit—minuscule even, hardly worth mentioning but, yes, I'd have to say it—annoyed. Marco had rolled to the middle of the bed during the night, taking up more than half of the mattress, forcing me to squeeze onto one edge and sleep fitfully. Plus his bedroom had too much morning light coming in behind the old window shades, waking me at the crack of dawn. And forget about prying my clothes from his small bedroom closet, where I hardly had room for two shirts and a pair of jeans.

I splashed my face with cool water, hoping that would rev me up.

Okay, then maybe coffee would do the trick. Marco would probably have a pot already brewed and a cup waiting for me on the kitchen counter. I just needed to look presentable for my gorgeous groom. Unlike him, I didn't roll out of bed looking camera ready. I didn't even roll out of bed. It was more like a tumble.

I balanced my hairbrush on the edge of the sink, shoved the hand-soap dispenser as far back into the corner of the narrow countertop as possible, zipped open my flower-print makeup kit, and laid out my blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss. They barely fit in the small space.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Marco said, standing in the doorway, looking indecently hot in his pajama bottoms. “Coffee's made. Want to join me for a bowl of oatmeal?”

“Lottie makes breakfast at the shop on Mondays, remember?” I always looked forward to her delicious scrambled eggs with thick slices of toasted homemade bread. My stomach growled just thinking about the feast that awaited.

“Today's Tuesday.”

The stomach growls turned angry. “Oh, right. Do you have toast?”

He shook his head. “Oatmeal is it. You like oatmeal, don't you?”

Had he ever seen me eat oatmeal? At my apartment I had kept a box of oatmeal for
him
. Why didn't he have toast for me? But, hey, this was Day One of our brand-spanking-new life together (honeymoons didn't count), so I forgave him and gazed at him with tired but adoring eyes. “I'd love to join you. And maybe we can shop for groceries after Bloomers closes today.”

Marco stepped in behind me for what I thought was going to be a hug. Instead, he opened the medicine cabinet in front of me with one hand and began to rummage through it with the other.

“Let me get out of your way,” I said, trying to duck under his arm.

“No, you're fine. I'm making room for your things.”

How considerate was that? “Thank you, Marco.”

He removed a box of bandages and a bottle of ibuprofen. “There you go.”

If he thought that would do it, my helpful hubby had a whole lot to learn.

My hairbrush slid into the sink. I grabbed for it and knocked over the tube of lip gloss, sending it plummeting to the floor. “You know what we need in here?” I pointed to empty wall space above the toilet tank. “A cabinet.”

“We need a house, Abby. A cabinet isn't going to give us the kind of space we want.”

“In the short run it will. We're not going to find a house overnight.”

A wet tongue licked my ankle. I glanced down and saw Seedy gazing up at me as if to say, “Hey, don't leave me out!”

And doggy makes three.

Marco had adopted Seedy the day before we got married as a surprise wedding gift. She was the homeliest dog I'd ever seen, with brown, black, and tan patchy fur, large, pointed ears with tufts of hair that fanned out at the top, a small pointed muzzle, protruding lower teeth, and the kicker—pardon the pun—only three legs. I'd first seen the dog while investigating a murder at the animal shelter. My niece, Tara, had wanted to adopt both Seedy and her adorable pup Seedling to keep them from being separated, but her parents had said an emphatic no. They'd let her have the puppy but not his mom.

Abused, malnourished, timid around most people, and scared to death of men—Marco being a recent exception—Seedy had instantly bonded with me, even though I'm more of a cat person. From that moment on, I wasn't able to get the little pooch out of my mind, especially after I'd learned that she was in danger of being put down due to her unadoptable status. Because I hadn't thought Marco would want to start off our new life with a dog, and because I'd known that his landlady wouldn't accept pets, I'd tried my best to find her a home. But eventually I'd run out of options. That was when my hero had come to Seedy's rescue.

Fortunately, Marco's landlady was allowing the dog to stay with the understanding that we would find a new dwelling as soon as possible. And now that we were back from our honeymoon, the house hunt would begin.

While I was spooning oatmeal into a bowl from the pot on the stove, Marco's cell phone rang. He took the call in the living room, where I could hear the floorboards creak as he paced. His apartment occupied the second floor of an old two-story house, and while it had high ceilings, decent-sized rooms, and sturdy plaster walls, it also had noisy floors, drafty windows, and scant counter space in both the kitchen and bathroom.

I heard Marco grumbling to the person on the other end. Whatever the call was about, it couldn't be good.

“That was Rafe,” he told me a few minutes later, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Two things instantly jumped to my mind. First, Rafe, Marco's younger brother, called only when something at Marco's bar, Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, had gone wrong. Second, Rafe was not the most reliable person you'd ever want to meet. Which was why Marco's next statement was alarming.

“He said there's a plumbing problem in the basement, but he's been handling it.”

“So the problem is ongoing?”

“Apparently it's in the process of being repaired. Rafe wanted to prepare me because the old cement floor had to be torn up to locate the problem. I'm heading down to the bar now to see what they found.”

A hard shudder ran through my body. That happened when I was cold or when my sixth sense vibrated a warning. Since I wasn't cold, I said, “Marco, be careful.”

“Abby, it's an old basement. No boogeymen down there, I promise.”

“I've just got a bad feeling about it.”

He gave me a kiss and hugged me close. “You worry too much.”

Seedy let out a little yip and leaned against my legs. As Marco headed for the door, I scooped her up, felt her trembling, and wondered if she had picked up a bad vibe, too.

CHAPTER T
WO

W
ith Seedy in my arms, I stood on the sidewalk outside of Bloomers and gazed up at the sign over the yellow framed door.

Bloomers Flower Shop Abby Knight, Proprietor

“See that?” I directed the dog's gaze upward. “That means this little shop belongs to me.” She licked my chin. Okay, so she couldn't appreciate what those words signified. To me, though, they were proof that I'd overcome great adversity in my life—getting booted out of law school, effectively ruining my career plans, and subsequently being dumped by my then-fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, two months before our wedding. His family, scions of our cozy college town of New Chapel, Indiana, hadn't been able to bear the social stigma of my failure.

Humiliated, discouraged, but not defeated, I'd returned to the little shop where I'd spent summers happily delivering flowers and doing odd jobs for the owner, Lottie Dombowski. I'd asked to be taken on as her assistant only to learn that Lottie, a forty-five-year-old mother of quadruplet teenage boys, was looking for a buyer. Her husband had had major heart surgery that had overtaxed her medical insurance policy and was about to plunge them into bankruptcy. So I'd used the last bit of college money my grandfather had left me, bought up the mortgage, and now Lottie worked for me as mentor and assistant. She was still paying off those medical bills.

“From now on,” I told Seedy, “you're going to be Bloomers's mascot. Are you ready to see your daytime quarters?”

Before I could get the door open, it was flung wide and two women rushed forward to embrace me. One was Lottie, of course. The other was Grace Bingham, my sixtysomething assistant, who ran the coffee-and-tea parlor.

“How lovely that you're back,” Grace exclaimed in her charming British accent, ushering me inside. “We've missed you, dear. And welcome to you, Mistress Seedy. We have toys and even a treat for you. Homemade doggy biscuits. And come see the comfy bed we've tucked under the worktable.”

She took the dog from my arms and carried her off toward the parlor, while Lottie spun me around and enfolded me in a bear hug. Being a woman of substance, she gave a substantial hug.

“How're ya doing, sweetie?” She held me at arm's length and smiled. “Honeymoons sure must agree with you because you look”—she paused as she searched my face, her enthusiasm waning—“well, like you have a glow—or something.”

“Bags under my eyes,” I said.

Her cheeks turning pink, she said, “I didn't want to say anything. You
have
been on your honeymoon after all.”

“And the honeymoon was wonderful, Lottie. Honestly, it was a dream come true. I'll tell you and Grace all about it later—I have a ton of photos on my phone—but these under-eye bags are from a bed problem that Marco and I—”

“TMI!” Lottie cried and stuck her fingers in her ears.

I tugged at her elbow. “You didn't let me finish. The problem is with Marco's old mattress. It dips in the middle, so he rolls into it, and I end up hanging on to the side.”

She fanned her face, a broad, friendly visage framed by short, brassy curls. “Whew. You had me going there for a second. Well, then, that's easy to solve. Buy a new mattress. You don't want to start off your marriage being mad at your new husband.”

“Angry at Marco already?” Grace asked, gliding through the purple curtain that separated the shop from the workroom with Seedy in her arms. Grace had short silver-white hair and a trim body, which she kept in impeccable shape. She was my role model for what an older woman should look like.

“Mattress problems,” Lottie said.

Grace handed the dog to Lottie, then took hold of the edges of her pale green wool jacket and cleared her throat. It was her classic lecture pose. “‘O bed! O bed! Delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.'”

I wasn't sure what point she was making but I clapped anyway. Lottie put Seedy on the floor to join me in the applause, and Seedy immediately began to check out her surroundings.

“That was Thomas Hood, in case you're curious,” Grace said.

I wasn't, but she'd never know by my expression.

“What it means, love,” Grace said, “is that you can't afford a cheap mattress. There's nothing healthier for a relationship, as well as for a body, than a good night's sleep.”

“Then I definitely need to discuss a new mattress with Marco,” I said.

“Talking about beds,” Lottie said, “come back to the workroom and see what we fixed up for Seedy.”

“Come, Seedy,” I called, following the women through the shop. The little dog looked up, saw me on the move, and began to trail after us. “So you're both okay with Seedy being here during the day?”

“You bet,” Lottie said. “A mascot is a great idea. Customers like well-behaved pets, and she seems very well-behaved.”

“She's a love,” Grace said. “It's amazing how she gets along on three legs.”

Hearing a crash, I spun around to see a tall ceramic floor vase filled with silk roses lying on its side. The obvious culprit backed under a wicker settee, her little body trembling as she gazed up at me with guilty eyes.

So much for well-behaved. “I guess she has to get used to the place,” I said, and crouched in front of the settee to coax her out.

I spent the hour before we opened working with Seedy. I thought she might sit in the big bay window with the floral arrangements so she could watch people passing by on the sidewalk outside. Since we were directly across from the courthouse on the square, the window offered the perfect vantage point. But when the first customer entered and set off the bell over the door, Seedy leaped from the window and ran with her awkward gait as fast as she could across the tile floor to the purple curtain. In the workroom, I found her cowering beneath my desk.

I calmed her down until the next person entered the shop and then had to start all over. As more and more customers came in, Seedy grew increasingly distraught. I ended up counting how many times the bell rang, and pretty soon my nerves were jingling, too.

“Seedy needs a nice walk in the park,” Grace said. “She's had enough for one morning.”

“What about all the orders waiting?” I asked.

“I've got it covered,” Lottie said. “Now scoot!”

•   •   •

Since I'd heard nothing from Marco about the plumbing crisis, after a long walk, Seedy and I headed up the street to Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, one of the most popular watering holes on the town square. The bar had the advantage of being across the street from the courthouse and within walking distance of New Chapel University, drawing in a diverse clientele of attorneys, judges, secretaries, clerks, business people, and college students.

Marco had purchased the bar nearly two years ago but hadn't touched the decor at all. Last outfitted sometime in the sixties, Down the Hatch had a big, polished wood, L-shaped bar that ran down the left side of the building and a row of booths with orange vinyl cushions opposite. A large fisherman's net hung suspended from the ceiling in one corner, and a big blue plastic carp occupied a space of prominence above the bar, along with old photographs that ranged from the 1940s to the present. I thought the place needed a makeover, but customers seemed to like the ambience, so Marco was reluctant to change a thing.

As soon as Seedy and I walked inside, the bartenders and waitstaff came over to congratulate me. They looked at Seedy askance at first, but after they learned of her history and saw how sweet-natured she was, Seedy won them over, even if she did hide behind me. People made her nervous. Men absolutely terrified her.

“Where's Marco?” I asked Gert, the waitress who'd worked at the bar for over thirty years.

“In the basement with the plumber,” she said in her gravelly voice. “Too bad he had to come back to such a mess. I told Rafe to go ahead and have it fixed, but he refused to make any decisions without his brother's okay.” She rolled her eyes. “It's a leak, I told him. But he wouldn't budge. It's like he has no confidence.”

“Is Rafe downstairs, too?” I asked.

“He's in the office doing some tasks Marco gave him.” In a low voice Gert added, “I think he's keeping a low profile, if you know what I mean.”

Obviously Marco wasn't pleased with the way that Rafe had handled things in his absence. But what else was new?

I picked up Seedy, followed the hallway to the back of the building, and descended the old wooden steps. Basements in buildings that had been constructed in the early nineteen hundreds were not pleasant places to be. As mine was at Bloomers, so was Marco's—dank, chilly, dimly lit from the poor electrical wiring, and, in this case, smelling of musty earth. By the time we reached the bottom, Seedy and I were both shivering.

We entered a large room filled with deep, sturdy wall shelves that the previous owner had installed for storage. Marco kept that room neat and clean, but through the doorway beyond, the basement was a horror. The windowless cellar had a stockpile of broken barstools, pieces of slatted benches, stacks of ancient wooden crates, and rusty tools, including some old wooden-handled garden tools. I doubted if anyone had cleaned it in a century.

Marco was standing at the far end with Stan, a plumber from Greer Plumbing, whom I had used on many occasions. Both men were gazing up at the ceiling while Stan gestured. I was about to start toward them when Marco called, “Abby, watch out!”

I froze. Then in the dim light from an overhead bulb, I saw that the center of the old concrete floor had been excavated, exposing a mixture of damp sand, stone, and dirt. I circumvented the exposed area by stepping carefully along one side and joined Marco on the far end. Seedy was wiggling in my arms, so I set her down, unsnapped the strap from her collar, and let her explore. She hobbled into the storage room, then peered fearfully around the corner at Stan.

“What's the problem?” I asked.

“Old pipes,” Stan said, hitching up his brown work pants. “When ya got old pipes, ya got old problems.”

“He's going to have to replace this whole section of plumbing,” Marco said, pointing upward.

“Might have to follow the pipe up to the next floor,” Stan said, “but I won't know that until I get started.”

“Why is the floor torn up?” I asked, looking back at the mess. Seedy ventured out of the storage room, her nose pointing toward the corner beyond Marco.

“Drain pipe's clogged,” Stan said. “We're gonna have to clean it out.”

“Will your insurance cover the cost?” I asked Marco.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Stan said. “Insurance companies hate these old buildings.”

“It doesn't look promising,” Marco said. “I'll probably end up eating a lot of the cost.”

Didn't look promising for a new mattress, either.

“Your dog likes it down here,” Stan said with a chuckle.

I glanced around for Seedy and saw her digging in the dirt. “Seedy, no!” I cried. But she was having such a good time, she ignored me. It was too late anyway. I'd just have to wash her paws before I took her back to Bloomers.

“So what's the game plan?” I asked.

“I think we've got enough of the cement up to get to the old drainpipes,” Stan said. “If I have your okay, Marco, I'll get my guys down here this afternoon to start digging.”

Seedy gave a little yip to get my attention. When I glanced down at her, she dropped a dirty, old-fashioned wooden-handled garden trowel at my feet, then wagged her bushy tail, looking exceptionally pleased with herself. So pleased, in fact, that she forgot to be terrified of Stan.

“Did you find a treasure?” I asked her.

She gave another yip and hobbled back to her dig site, while I dropped the trowel alongside the other garden tools amid the junk farther back in the room.

“How long do you think the job will take?” Marco asked.

“That depends on what I find up there.” Stan pointed toward the ceiling.

Seedy returned to drop a twig at my feet. “Good girl,” I said, giving her head a pat. She waited, tail wagging as though she wanted something else from me.

“I think she wants you to throw it,” Marco said.

I picked up the twig and tossed it onto a part of the floor that wasn't torn up. Seedy watched it go, then looked back at me expectantly.

“Maybe she doesn't know how to play,” Stan suggested.

I pointed to where it lay. “Go get it!”

Seedy watched it for a moment, then looked up at me and tilted her head, as though puzzled.

Now all three of us were in on it. While Stan crouched down to give Seedy a lesson, gesturing to show her how to run after the twig, causing her to back away in fear, Marco retrieved the twig and knelt in front of her, holding it out for her to sniff.

“Ready to go for it?” he asked her.

I grabbed his shoulder. “Marco.”

“I think she understands this time,” he said.