A Flower Shop Mystery, 2010

So many facts go into a book that it’s impossible to remember where they all came from, but I sincerely hope to thank everyone who provided information.

Leon Dean, horticulturist, landscape designer, agriculturist, educator, and uncle, for his tremendous knowledge and support.

James V. Tsoutsouris, Esq., as always, for his legal expertise and delicious Greek salads.

Harry E. Ramsey, MD, for his medical counsel.

Aaron Rhame, for his assistance with police procedure in the K-9 division.

Diana Nielsen, florist, A.S.K. For Flowers, Plymouth, Indiana; and

Nulita, florist, Love In Bloom, Key West, Florida, for their knowledge and guidance.

Linci C., for a thirteen-year-old’s point of view.

Barbara Ferrari, educator and friend, for her tireless and devoted promotional efforts.

Sergeant Lester O’Brien (1926-1987), police officer. Were he alive today, I imagine he would be the father Abby’s dad is.

Writers spend hours researching information that may show up in only one sentence in the book-or be edited out entirely. Some information is made deliberately vague to fit the purpose of the plot. Nevertheless, I strive for accuracy and apologize for any errors I may have made.

A man stepped from the shadows into a circle of yellow light cast by a single bulb hanging from the high ceiling. He circled the rickety desk chair, the heels of his dress shoes striking the concrete floor, echoing in the chilly chamber. A predator circling his prey.

In the chair sat a large, bulky man, beads of sweat inching down his temples as he watched the other’s every move. He jumped when the figure spoke.

“You ask me to believe this situation was caused by a florist?”

His manner was low-key, his voice smooth, almost amused. Still, the sweating man knew better than to trust outward appearances. Woe to the unwary who failed to sense the danger behind those hooded eyes and that deceptively calm demeanor. “I know it sounds crazy, but you don’t understand how persistent the woman is.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m beginning to understand how incompetent you are, my friend.”

“Wait just a minute here,” the sweating man said, twisting to keep him in sight. “This isn’t my fault.”

“Ah, but it is your fault,” the predator hissed, serpentlike, in his ear, sending a shudder down his spine. “I put the matter in your hands-did I not? You failed me, and now you want to blame this mess on a florist, as if that removes your culpability.” Strong fingers gripped the large man’s shoulders. “I don’t believe you appreciate the ramifications of your actions, and to that I must take exception.”

The big man swallowed hard, hoping his trembling couldn’t be felt by the fingers digging into his flesh. How ironic that for once he was the one in the hot seat. “Let’s not do anything hasty, okay? We both want to make money on this, so give me time to make it right. I promise you, I’ll handle the problem.”

The predator released him. “The problem? Would that be the florist?”

“See, that’s the thing,” the large man said, this time afraid to turn, unwilling to meet that cold gaze again. “It’s not like she’s just a florist. She studied law. She worked for a public defender. Now she believes she’s some kind of crusader.”

A long stretch of silence followed, broken only by a dripping faucet. Finally, from a distance, as though he’d receded back into the shadows, he said softly, “Her name?”

“Abby Knight.”

Silence.

“Look, I swear I’ll take care of her,” the large man said, peering into the gloom. “Just give me a week. That’s all I ask. One week.”

Silence.

The man wiped sweat out of his eyes. Waiting.

“All right,” came the reply at last. “But if you fail this time, you, my friend, are finished, and I shall put the problem to rest myself. Permanently.”

Free jelly beans!” I called to the people walking past my table. “Heart-shaped red jelly beans. Get them before they’re gone!”

A pair of middle-aged women veered toward my table to dip their hands in the giant glass bowl, each taking a handful of the small cellophane-wrapped packages.

“Compliments of Bloomers Flower Shop,” I said, “located on the New Chapel town square across the street from the courthouse. And if you’ll sign my petition, you’re eligible to win this beautiful arrangement of red callas, pink roses, blue delphiniums, and white carnations, one of Bloomers’ many Valentine’s Day selections.” I pivoted the vase to display it from all sides.

“Lovely,” one said.

“What’s the petition for?” the other asked right on cue, bending down to see the names on the clipboard I pushed in front of her.

“You’ve heard that Uniworld Food Corporation is going to open a giant dairy farm on the outskirts of town, haven’t you?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied, reaching for more candy.

Raising my voice to attract attention, I said, “Did you know that Uniworld’s policy is to inject cows with bovine hormones to make the poor creatures lactate nine times more than normal, and that any Uniworld dairy product you consume will be loaded with those same hormones, which can disrupt your endocrine system and have all kinds of harmful effects on your body?”

“That’s awful!” one of them declared.

I slid two glossy eight by tens toward them. “These are photos of hormone-injected cows. Take a look at those udders.”

“Oh, my!” the other said as both women drew back in horror. “They’re dragging on the ground!” Only a woman could begin to understand the cows’ discomfort.

People were starting to gather behind the pair, so, holding up my clipboard with the yellow notebook paper on it, I continued. “This petition is to stop Uniworld from opening their dairy farm factory unless they guarantee, in writing, that they will not inject cows with hormones. Will you help by adding your names to this list?”

“We’ll think about it,” the first woman said with an apologetic smile, backing away, taking her candy and most of the crowd with her.

“What’s there to think about except ending the poor animals’ suffering?” I called.

Before they could escape completely, I added, “Remember Bloomers when you need flowers.”

It was my first year exhibiting at New Chapel, Indiana’s, Winter Home and Garden Show, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. With the exposition center’s cavernous hall filled with businesses from all over the county, where better to make people aware of the impending opening of the dairy farm, as well as to drum up business for my struggling flower shop? Where else would I be guaranteed masses of people desperate to escape the winter doldrums?

Rather than handing out free flowers to draw people in, I was giving away samples of my mother’s jelly beans. Artisan candy was the latest in Mom’s long list of creative endeavors, which included her infamous neon-hued Dancing Naked Monkey Table, her ginormous bowling pin-shaped hat rack, and her clothing and accessories line made out of one-inch wooden balls that gave a whole new meaning to the term beaded jacket. As with past projects, my mom, an excellent kindergarten teacher, expected me to sell her designer candy at Bloomers. Luckily she’d tested her initial batch on her family before offering it for sale; otherwise there would have been lawsuits involving blistered tongues and seared tonsils caused by her use of red pepper flakes for both flavor and color. She’d since switched to a recipe she promised was naturally sweet and mild.