Bloom and Doom

“
Bloom and Doom
captivated my attention from the very first page. With the meanings of flowers skillfully woven throughout the story, it was as delightful as a freshly cut bouquet of ranunculus (radiant charm) and tarragon (lasting interest). Beverly Allen writes wonderfully engaging characters in a lovely small- town setting. Audrey Bloom, the heroine, is quick-witted and clever as she unravels the mystery, which was a puzzler right up to the dramatic end. A thoroughly entertaining and engaging mystery! I can’t wait for the next one!”

—Jenn McKinlay
, New York Times
bestselling author

“It’s an engaging bouquet of mayhem and murder. What a delight for cozy readers!”

—Erika Chase, national bestselling author of the
Ashton Corners Book Club Mysteries

The wedding is off . . .

“Liv, what is it?”

“Eric had a hard time seeing because of those tinted windows. And when he got close, he saw him.”

“Who?”

“Derek. Audrey, he was dead. Dead and sitting behind the steering wheel of his car.”

“Maybe Derek just passed out or something.”

“Audrey, there’s more. When Eric got closer, he could tell something was smeared all over the windows. Audrey, it was blood, and Eric said there was a knife still . . .”

Derek was murdered. Right on the streets of Ramble. No wonder she was so shook up.

“Audrey, Eric thinks the knife was one of ours—from the shop.”

“He must be mistaken.” Liv ordered a dozen of those knives with the florist shop name printed on them so they wouldn’t wander. And if they did wander, at least they would serve as advertisements.

She stared hard at me. And then I remembered.

“I gave Jenny a knife yesterday, but she wouldn’t . . . couldn’t have done anything like that.”

Liv shook her head. “Audrey, Eric said the bouquet was there too, in the car. Torn to bits and covered with blood.”

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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BLOOM AND DOOM

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

Excerpt from
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls
by Beverly Allen copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60947-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2014

Cover illustration by Ben Perini;
Pink rose heart
© by Titania / Shutterstock.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

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.

Acknowledgments

In the language of flowers, the Canterbury bell is a symbol of
gratitude
and
acknowledgment
. And I have a bouquet of them to hand out. I’ve long enjoyed reading Berkley Prime Crime mysteries, so first I’d like to thank Berkley for the opportunity to write one. And my delightful editor, Katherine Pelz, and my agent, Kim Lionetti, for making it possible.

Thanks to Janice Cline, Kathleen Hurst, Susan Johnson, Virginia Mackey, Debra Marvin, Dawn Mohr, Lisa Richardson, and Lynne Wallace-Lee for trudging through various versions of my manuscript. Your insightful comments were invaluable.

And for Christine Bress for reviewing the floral design in the book. Thanks also to the Atrium School of Floral Design, and to Brighton-Eggert Florists (Tonawanda, New York) and Jessica Carter of Sponseller’s Flower Shop (Berryville, Virginia) for inviting me into their backrooms, allowing me to look around, hang out, and ask silly questions.

Also thanks to Laura Patten and T.W. Fritts of the Berryville Police Department for being so helpful. And to Lee Lofland and his fabulous Writers’ Police Academy. Also Logan Van Meter of the Berryville-Clarke County Visitor Center. While the town of Ramble is fictional, you helped me ground it more firmly in Virginia soil.

Perhaps most thanks should go to my husband, family, and friends who put up with vacant stares, furious typing, and more than one takeout meal.

Dedicated to Him who is the Author and Finisher of my faith.

“White roses symbolize
innocence.”

I stripped the thorns, leaves, and guard petals from a cluster of luscious white blooms and looked up just as the photographer’s flash went off, leaving a bright afterimage in the center of my field of view. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision, then tilted my head and squinted one eye so I could see to choose a large lavender rose to form the center of the bouquet. The flash went off, blinding me again.

“Okay, Miss Bloom, I know you’re not used to working with cameras around.” The reporter, who’d introduced himself as Ben Hanson, shifted positions with the photographer in our tiny back room. “Just keep stepping me through the bouquet you’re making.”

“Call me Audrey, please.” The petals in front of me were still obscured by the bright spots, but I decided I should be able to do this in my sleep by now anyway. I blinked again. “The lavender rose is the symbol of
love at first sight
.” Oh, great. I resisted the urge to wince at my own words. Love at first sight was a romantic concept I’d have to reconsider after Brad the Cad.

A deep purple iris went in next as an accent, providing just the right amount of contrast. “Iris can mean a few different things. Generally, it means
a message
. The purple iris in particular can stand for
wisdom
, an important ingredient in a marriage.” One that might have helped me see through Brad.

Maybe this particular bouquet was a bad idea. But it was the only one that came to mind when Hanson casually said, “Make something original. Just throw in some of your personal favorites.”

Another flash went off, followed by a disgusted sigh from the photographer. “There’s just so much junk back here.” He waved to the floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with vases, balloons, dried floral accents, picks, wire, floral tape, spray glitter, and ribbon of every color and size imaginable—everything it takes to keep a busy floral shop supplied.

“Just do your best,” Hanson said to the photographer. “Hey”—he pointed to the Queen Anne’s lace I’d incorporated while the men were talking—“isn’t that the same thing that grows on the side of the road?”

“You
did
ask me to use my favorites. I used Queen Anne’s lace in my first childhood bouquet, so it holds special meaning for me.” A quick flash of Grandma Mae treasuring that bouquet brought a new sense of calm, despite the running voice recorder and the photographer jockeying for position. “It adds texture and softness and makes the arrangement a little more informal and fun. It symbolizes
protection
.”

I added more white and lavender roses around the outside, then handed the bouquet to Hanson, so I could see how it would look held by a bride. I had to stifle a chuckle. The gaunt older man with the red beard and green suit jacket looked more like a leprechaun than a blushing bride.

The photographer couldn’t resist taking his picture. I suspected blackmail as a motive.

“Are you finished?” Hanson asked, his body slumping in relief when I took the bouquet from him.

“Almost.” I made one minor adjustment before heading to the walk-in cooler for ivy, which I used to rim the edges. “Another slightly old-fashioned look, but ivy is one of my favorites because it represents both
friendship
and
fidelity
.”

I then tucked in some white veronica. The spiky, cone-shaped flower added dimension and interest. “Veronica represents
faithfulness
. Can never have too much of that in a relationship.”

I bound the stems with floral tape, snipped them to the appropriate length, then wrapped them with satin ribbon. I fastened the ribbon with two pearl pins, then attached a premade bow of thin white ribbon and held the completed bouquet up for display. The flash went off again.

“Ooh, killer shot.” The photographer held the digital camera screen out for Hanson’s perusal. “Will that work?”

Hanson muttered approval. The photographer gathered his equipment and darted out the door.

“Allergies?” I asked.

“Not that I’m aware of. He’s the only photographer the
Ramble On
has, and he needs to be at the mayor’s press conference in five minutes.”

I smiled at Hanson’s reference to the small-town paper. “Tell me, how did they ever come up with that name?”

Hanson’s ears turned the color of his beard. “I guess it’s not the most impressive masthead. The paper was originally named the
Ramble Pilot
. But Ramblers have been calling it the
On
for over a century. The new owners just caved in.” Hanson looked around the back room, littered with stems and leaves. “Say, do you have an office or someplace quiet we could sit down and finish the interview?”

“We have a table where I meet with prospective clients.”

When Hanson nodded, I led him past the curious glances of Liv—my cousin and business partner—and through the shop’s meandering aisles.

Like many florists in an age when customers can go online and have a dozen roses overnighted directly to their homes, we’d had to diversify. We’d expanded into helium balloons—including our signature balloon bouquets—giftware, houseplants, and a small range of garden statuary. We displayed all these treasures on tired old furniture scrounged up at estate sales and refinished in white crackle paint. With the colorfully painted walls, our coolers bursting with blooms, and each of our furniture treasures laden with plants, sample arrangements, and giftware, the once run-down shop had been transformed into a garden oasis. Since it was spring, that oasis spilled over onto the sidewalk, with displays (not exceeding the local statutes) of blooming annuals and perennials ready to be transplanted into local gardens.

I ushered Hanson toward the consulting nook where “We make bridal dreams come true!” It said so right on the sign we’d mounted above the wrought-iron gazebo I’d found at an estate sale. Liv and I had flanked the structure with two homemade water features, which now displayed our collection of flowering houseplants, making the nook both charming and private. Here I would, as Liv had suggested, attempt to dazzle Hanson with my expert knowledge.

Of course, dazzling a reporter can be tough when your heel turns on the top step and he has to catch you as you stumble.

When I regained my balance, if not my composure, I took a seat opposite him at the fieldstone-topped table. “Liv told me you wanted this interview for an upcoming wedding issue. Perhaps you’d like to start with the trends we’re seeing in bouquets this year?” I’d spent half the night studying bridal magazines to prepare, and I wanted to get that question out of the way before I forgot what I’d read.

“I’d like to take a different approach.” Hanson stroked his beard, looking every bit like an absentminded leprechaun wondering where he’d hidden his gold. “I could pull half a dozen articles off the news service that would give me the same information. Readers will want to know the secret of your marriage success rate.”

“Of my . . . what?”

“Your marriage success rate.”

I fought to keep the corners of my mouth propped in a smile. I’d come close to marriage once, and I’d hardly call it a success. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you have any idea how many bouquets you’ve made for Ramble brides?”

“I guess the Rose in Bloom has supplied most of the recent weddings in Ramble—and some of the outlying areas. Well over a hundred, I’d imagine.”

“A hundred and fifty-six, to be exact.”

“How did you . . . ?”

“I checked with your partner. That’s the reason I wanted to do this interview.”

Right then, Liv caught my eye as she headed toward the gazebo with her watering can. Remarkable, considering she’d already watered the flowering plants that morning. Any more and they’d drown.

Hanson continued, “One of your clients came to me with an observation I found intriguing. She insists that none of the couples who use the Rose in Bloom for their bridal bouquets have ever split up. Olivia let me sneak a peek at the client list last week. I recognized most names as belonging to couples who are still together. Those I didn’t know, I called. And none of them, including those who later moved out of Ramble, have split up.”

“That’s . . . wow . . . that’s so nice to hear.”

“It’s more than nice. Do you know what the divorce rate is currently in Virginia?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well . . . it’s . . . I . . . never mind. I’ll Google it before I write the article. But I’m pretty sure it’s
not
zero. This is a statistical anomaly worth exploring, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Hanson, while I’d like to think I had something to do with that, how could flowers affect divorce rates?”

My question drew Hanson’s chuckle while Liv cleared her throat nearby. When I caught her eye, she gave me
the look—
the same one she’d given me when we were teenagers and I took a swing at Patti Vogt for calling me Audrey Bloomers . . . again. Liv’s expression melted into a smile just as Hanson turned in her direction. She continued cheerfully dowsing the dry-loving African violets.

“Look, it’s probably just a fluke,” Hanson said. “But it sounded like a great angle for a story to me, and it could end up driving more business to the Rose in Bloom. People eat up that kind of thing. So let’s pretend a couple comes in to order flowers. Is there something you say to them?”

“First, the groom seldom sets foot in the shop. It’s the bride and her mother—often the bride and a friend. Sometimes a wedding planner.”

“And you bring them back here . . .”

“They’ll take a look through our books and choose something that catches their eye. Usually they come in with an idea—maybe something they’ve seen on the Internet or in a bridal magazine or in photos of a celebrity wedding. Right after the royal wedding, we did a few bouquets similar to Kate Middleton’s.”

“And then?”

“Then I tweak their ideas a bit and count up the flowers, adding in labor and materials, to give them an estimate of the cost. I start with the bride’s bouquet first, then base the rest of the flowers—”

“What do you mean by tweaking?”

“I’d be lying if I didn’t say most of our business involves putting together arrangements from a picture. But I like to encourage brides to put their own personal stamp on their bouquets. As a designer, I can help them choose flowers with the right colors, sizes, and textures to complement each other or contrast in ways that make a statement.”

Hanson tilted his head.

“Think about baby’s breath. When’s the last time you saw baby’s breath not wrapped around a rose? The two flowers couldn’t be more dissimilar, yet they complement each other. The baby’s breath makes the rose more luscious. And the rose makes the baby’s breath seem lighter and more delicate. They bring out the natural beauty in each other. And it speaks volumes.”

“Sounds more like an analogy for marriage.”

I laughed. “I guess it is, but don’t let Liv hear you say that. She teases me when I refer to people in terms of flowers.”

“And here I thought bouquets just had to be pretty.”

“Most bouquets are pretty. But are they memorable? Do they speak to you? When a bouquet tells me something, then I know I’ve gotten it right.”

“That’s the second time you’ve talked about flowers speaking. Does anything else go into a bouquet that
speaks to you
?”

“Well, there’s another thing. It may seem silly and old-fashioned, but many of the brides find it romantic . . .”

Hanson said nothing, only leaned in closer. As did Liv and her watering can. Based upon the time she’d spent hovering over the geraniums, I imagined plans for an ark were well under way.

I gulped. “I like to tweak the design based on the language of flowers.”

“Language?” His creased brow made me wonder if he thought I communed with flowers. And they talked back.

“Like I said as I made my bouquet for the picture. Each flower has at least one meaning attached. When you put them together, they can form more complex statements. The language of flowers goes back . . . well, quite a ways. The Turks were using it as early as the seventeenth century, for example. Shakespeare used it. ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for
remembrance
; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies. That’s for
thoughts
.’”

Hanson quirked an eyebrow.

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “
Hamlet
. I got carried away. But the language of flowers reached a pinnacle during the Victorian era. During the age of chaperones, often the only way a couple could communicate what they felt was through flowers.”

“How did they know what the meanings were?”

“A number of books were published on the meanings of flowers.” I reached over to the small side table that held our flower books and pulled out a reprint of my favorite illustrated tome on the subject. “I still like to choose flowers that have meanings good for a marriage. Often a bride will embrace the process and choose flowers that demonstrate her personality—or characterize her relationship with her fiancé.”

“Your method must make brides give some serious thought to their relationships. Perhaps that has something to do with your success rate.”