Evil In Carnations (34 page)

Before I could splutter out an explanation, Portia said cannily, “Then there’s the wedding gown you tried on.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “That was supposed to be a joke, Portia. I meant to send the photo to Nikki, not you.”

“So why were you trying it on in the first place?” Portia asked.

“I was investigating!”

“Right,” she said, “by trying on a wedding gown.” Everyone snickered. Okay, I’ll admit it did sound a bit far-fetched.

“When can we see your ring?” Jillian clamored, clearing up the mystery of why she’d wanted to examine my hands.

As I gave her a scowl, Mrs. Salvare said, “And what about your honeymoon plans, eh?”

“What honeymoon plans?” Marco asked, frowning at her.

Rafe gave us a sheepish grin. “I found some Key West brochures on your desk and took them home with me.”

“Why would you do a stupid thing like that?” Marco growled.

“Hey! It wasn’t stupid!” Rafe shot back. “Can I help it if Gina and Mom came to that conclusion when they saw the brochures?”

“So naturally I called your mom to find out if we were on the right track,” Gina said.

“Of course, I didn’t know a thing at the time,” Mom said. “But then Corrine called to tell us about seeing you at Bindstroms, and then Portia called about the wedding dress photo, and that’s when I put two and two together and came up with the idea of a surprise party, because, well, you love surprises so much.”

Right. Surprise! No engagement! They were so determined to believe their own version of the events, they weren’t listening to a word I was saying. How could I get through to them?

“Looks like they put the pieces together,” Marco said quietly.

“It sure does,” I said. “Too bad it was the wrong puzzle.”

Mrs. Salvare hobbled toward us on her crutch and held out her free arm. “Come here, both of you, and let me hug you.” She wrapped her arm around me first and gave me an exuberant hug. “
Bella
, you saved my boy’s life. And may I be the first to welcome you to the Salvare family.” Then she let me go to pinch Marco’s cheek and say proudly, “My boy, eh? He’s a good man. He’ll make you a fine husband.”

“So, Abby, have you two set a date?” Gina asked, her eyes holding a hint of a challenge.
Ah, yes. Fish or cut bait. Very clever, Gina.

As I gazed at all the faces watching us expectantly, waiting for my answer, I had a sudden inspiration. I squeezed Marco’s hand. “Sorry to disappoint you, Gina, but we haven’t set a date just yet. When we have one, I promise you’ll be one of the first to know.”

“Actually,” Marco said, “I’m partial to September. How about you, Abby?”

I darted a glance at him, trying not to show my surprise. He hadn’t squeezed my hand. What did he mean?
Oh, my God!
Did he really want to get married? Was Gina right about him after all?

What if she was right? Was I ready for marriage? And babies? And diapers? What would I do with Bloomers?

What’s wrong with you?
the little voice of reason in my head asked.
You’re crazy about Marco. Would you rather lose him than marry him?

Of course I didn’t want to lose him. I loved Marco with all my heart. And, truthfully, why wouldn’t I want to marry him? Had any other man ever come close to being what I wanted in a husband?

Still . . .

I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll get back to you on that.”

Marco’s mouth curved up at the corners and his dark eyes twinkled mischievously. And then he squeezed my hand.

Read on for an excerpt from the next
Flower Shop Mystery by Kate Collins,
coming from Obsidian in
February 2010.

A
lean figure stepped out of the shadows into the circle of dim yellow light cast by a single bulb hanging overhead. He circled the old wooden desk chair, the heels of his pricey dress shoes tapping softly against the concrete floor. A predator sizing up 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?” The predator’s manner was low-key, his voice smooth, almost bemused, yet the sweating man knew better than to trust his outward appearance. Woe to the unwary who failed to sense the danger behind those hooded eyes and 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 man’s shoulders. “I don’t believe you appreciate the ramifications of your actions, and for 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 of the immense building, he said softly, “Her name?”

“Abby Knight.”

Silence.

“Look, I swear I’ll take care of her. Just give me a chance!”

“I simply cannot risk it.”

The bulky man wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand and said a silent prayer for his soul. “Wh-what are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is that you, my friend, are finished. You have failed me, and now I shall have to put this
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, 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 roses and white carnations, one of Bloomers’ many Valentine’s Day selections.” I pivoted the arrangement so they could see 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.

“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 other 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 with their udders swollen so large, they drag on the ground.”

“Oh, my!” the other said, both women drawing back in horror.

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 name 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 suffering of those poor cows?” 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 flower shop? Where else would I be guaranteed masses of people desperate to escape the winter doldrums?

Rather than handing out free flowers, however, 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 hat rack; and her beaded clothing-and-accessories line, featuring one-inch wooden beads that worked as foot massagers, but not so much for jackets.

As with her past projects, Mom expected me to sell her designer candy at Bloomers. Luckily she’d tested her initial batch on our family before offering it for sale; otherwise there would surely 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.

“We’ll sign your petition,” a young couple offered, stepping up to the table.

“It’s like I said before, Aunt Abby,” Tara, my thirteen-year-old niece, said, sitting beside me. “You have to aim for the young people. The moldy-oldies just don’t get it.”

“Don’t let your grandparents hear you say that,” I cautioned, glancing around to be sure my parents weren’t heading toward us at that very moment.

“Don’t worry. Grandma and Grandpa know they’re cool.”

Tara was the only grandchild in our family, born when I was fourteen years old, which made her more like my kid sister than my niece. She had shown up at the center allegedly to keep me company. While I appreciated her camaraderie, I was fully aware that Tara never volunteered for anything unless there was something in it for her. I had yet to learn what that something was.

Looking bored, Tara rocked her chair back on two legs. “So, when are you and Uncle Marco going to set a wedding date?”

Aha! The hidden agenda comes forth. “Did Grandma send you here? She put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“No way! It was totally my idea.”

“Okay, fine. I’m going to say this just once, so listen close. We’re still in the discussion stage. And by the way, Marco is not your uncle. Have some jelly beans.” I pushed the bowl toward her.

“Yeah, right. I couldn’t swallow for two days after Grandma’s last batch. Seriously, she could have wiped out the entire Knight family. If you ask me, she should stick to her clay sculptures, and you and Hot Pockets Salvare should set a date.”

“How about just
Mr.
Salvare?”

Tara made a face. “He’s way too cool for that. Hmm. Let’s see. What should I call my aunt’s boyfriend-and-possible-future-husband? Oh, I know. How about
uncle
?”

“How about
no
?”

Her chair came down on all four legs as she reached for the petition and added her name in balloon letters. “So, when is Mr. Not-My-Uncle Salvare going to show up?”

“You’re just too cute for words, you know that? He said he’d come by this afternoon. He’s working on a private investigation this morning.”

“My friends are jealous because you’re dating him, you know. I mean, how many boyfriends go from Army Ranger Special Ops to owner of a bar named Down the Hatch,
plus
being a private eye?”

“Your friends aren’t jealous because I own Bloomers, my own business?”

“They’d be
totally
jealous if you owned Bloomers
and
were married to Mr. Army Ranger-Bar Owner-Private Eye Salvare. How about Valentine’s Day? It’s the perfect day to get married
and
it’s the day before my birthday. So how about next February fourteenth?”

“Tara, would you stop? We’re getting enough pressure from both of our families without you adding to it. When we make a decision, I’ll let you know.”

“Whatev.” She rocked back on her chair. “So, getting back to my birthday . . .”

Now we were getting to the real agenda.

“Want to know what I want for a present?”

“I’m dying to find out.”

“You know the Barrow Boys are coming here to perform, right?”

“Who are the Barrow Boys?”

“OMG, Aunt Abby, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the BBs. They’re just the hottest new boy band to come across the ocean in, like, decades. My friend Sonya texted me last night that tickets are available because they added a show on Valentine’s Day.”

“So you want a ticket to the concert for your birthday?”

“Actually,” she said, “I want you and Dreamy Eyes Salvare to take me to the concert.”

The agenda unfolds. “Why?”

“Because Mom and Dad won’t let me go unless I’m chaperoned, and you and Macho Marco are cool enough that I won’t look like the biggest nimrod ever.” Tara clasped her hands together. “Please, Aunt Abby? I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me.”

I studied her hopeful little face, so much like mine at that age, down to the red hair and freckles. “I’ll need permission from your parents.”

“Awesome. I’ll text Mom right now.” Her thumbs worked her cell phone at warp speed.