Shoots to Kill (4 page)

I froze. Not the
baby’s breath
!

“It’s a mold issue apparently,” Grace explained. “I’ve placed a few calls to other suppliers and hopefully we’ll hear back later this morning.”

“I’ve got to have that gypsophila by Saturday, Grace.”

“I understand the importance, dear. We’ll have it by then.”

What would I ever do without Grace?

Grace Bingham was a well-read, charming sixty-something widow who’d had many careers before coming to Bloomers, all of which enabled her to perform the many tasks I heaped on her, including running the tea parlor, answering the phone, waiting on customers, and even handling my mom. Grace loved her job, luckily, because there was nothing lovable about the salary I could afford to pay her.

I walked through the purple curtain at the back of the shop into our workroom, detouring up the left side of the big table in the center to grab the messages from the spindle on my desk. I continued past a long counter and a wall of shelving filled with plant containers, buckets of silk flowers, and various other supplies, through a doorway in back that led to the galley kitchen, where Lottie was stirring scrambled eggs. A stack of toast and a jar of orange marmalade sat nearby.

“Here you go, sweetie,” Lottie said, dishing out a heap of fluffy eggs onto a plate.

Lottie Dombowski was a friendly, hearty, forty-five-year-old mother of four who hailed from Kentucky. She had owned Bloomers until her husband’s health got so bad and the medical bills got so high that she had to sell. It nearly broke her heart to lose the charming but not very profitable shop, but with having to care for her beloved Herman, not to mention raising her quadruplet teenage sons, she’d had no choice.

That was where I entered the picture. Having been ejected from (a) law school and (b) my then fiancé Pryce Osborne’s life, I was desperate to do something that justified my existence. Still holding the remnants of my farmer grandpa’s trust money, and having worked as Lottie’s delivery girl, where I discovered my talent for floral artistry, I plunked down the last of Gramps’s money, got a
ginormous
mortgage, and never looked back.

I pulled up a stool, read the first message about the moldy baby’s breath, then scrunched it up and tossed it into the trash can in the corner. Grace was already on it. I glanced at the second slip of paper just as Grace came in with a tray holding three cups of coffee.

“ ’Elizabeth Blume is in town. Please call,’ ” Lottie read over my shoulder. “Now, there’s a name from the past.” She put the skillet back on the range and sat down beside me.

“Who’s Elizabeth Blume?” Grace asked, delivering our cups. Mine was made just the way I liked it, with a healthy shot of half-and-half.

“Just a kid I used to babysit when I was in high school. Lottie, did Grace tell you about the mold issue with the gypso—”

“
Just
a kid you babysat?” Lottie snorted, as though I’d somehow belittled Libby. “Gracie, do you remember Delphi, the famous cover model?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Grace said, sitting down on another stool.

“You have to remember Delphi. Her trademark look was her pale blond hair cut in a pixie do, big brown doe eyes, red, bow-shaped lips, enormous”—she held her hands way out in front of her breasts—“and long legs. She was the swimsuit model who first appeared in a magazine with a belly button ring. They called her the Belly Button Babe. She and her family were always in the tabloids. Well, anyway, Elizabeth is her daughter.”

Grace took a sip of coffee. She wouldn’t read a tabloid if her life depended on it.

“Delphi’s real name is Delphinia Haskell,” Lottie continued, determined to prod Grace’s memory. “Delphi’s first husband had a big bank account and a weak heart. She had a son with him, Oliver, and inherited a fortune. Hubby number two was a foot shorter than her, owned a minor-league baseball team, and was Elizabeth’s daddy. Delphi kept his moniker as her professional name.

“Then there was number three, who gave her a huge divorce settlement. She used that to open a talent agency here in town for all those little angels whose mommies want to turn them into TV stars.” Lottie stuck out her tongue, leaving no doubt as to her opinion on the subject.

“So, getting back to the gypsophila,” I said.

My words floated off into space unnoticed, because Lottie’s comment had induced Grace to weigh in with her perspective, which she usually imparted in the form of a quotation.

“As Stanislaus cleverly observed,” Grace began, “ ‘What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.’ ”

“This Stanislaus,” Lottie said, “has he ever been in
People
magazine?”

Grace carefully placed a napkin across her lap. “You, of all people, should know who Stanislaus is, Lottie Dombowski.”

Lottie put down her cup. “Why is that?”

“Wouldn’t it be best to research it, and find out for yourself?” Grace teased.

“Why would I waste my time researching when we have you?” Lottie gave me a wink.

“In the words of William Hazlitt,” Grace volleyed back, “ ‘Learning is its own exceeding great reward.’ ”

“In the words of my wise old granny,” Lottie said, and we held our breath, waiting for the slang to start flying, “ ‘A learned man is an idler who kills time by study.’ ”

Grace and I looked at each other in bewilderment. “That wasn’t your granny who said that,” Grace said. “That was George Bernard Shaw.”

“Shaw . . . Granny. I knew it was one of them. And just so you know, Abby, Stanislaus was the patron saint of Poland.” With a sly smile, Lottie took her plate to the sink.

I tossed Libby’s message into the trash and finished eating.

After breakfast, we headed our separate ways, Lottie to take inventory, Grace to freshen the supply of cut flowers for the showroom, and me to prioritize the orders and gather the tools and supplies I would need.

The first order was for a kitchen-table centerpiece. The client wanted something earthy and spicy, appropriate for a fall display. I turned to gaze at the containers on a top shelf. Earthy and spicy. I’d seen an idea using cinnamon sticks, and had ordered a supply to keep on hand. I pulled those now, along with a ribbed papier-mâché pot. Then I got out my glue gun and began gluing the sticks around the pot like fence posts, giving it a rustic feel.

Next I gathered the flowers, pods, vegetables, and berries, all in shades of yellow, gold, rust, and green— miniature callas, gloriosas, hypericum berries, cockscomb, artichokes, scabiosa pods, persimmons, sneezeweed, and my favorite, chocolate cosmos. Humming happily, I cut the wet foam, lined the container with it, and began to arrange my flowers. This was where true artistry came in. Plus it kept my mind off Gina’s shower.

At nine o’clock Grace called into the workroom that she was going to open the shop. Almost at once, the bell over the door jingled, and a moment later, Grace stuck her head through the curtain. “Abby, Libby Blume is here to see you.”

Feeling a wrinkle of annoyance crease the space between my eyebrows, I put down my floral knife, wiped my hands, and headed for the curtain. I’d just have to give Libby a quick tour and shuffle her out the door.

But Grace had already seated Libby at a table in the parlor.

“Abby!” Libby exclaimed, jumping up to give me a hug, “Grace was just telling me how she came to work here. I’ve been wondering how you were so lucky to find her. And I just love her accent. It’s divine. Grace, you sound just like Dame Judi Dench.” She focused her admiring gaze on Grace, who wasn’t usually swayed by compliments. This time, however, Grace beamed.

“My goodness,” Grace exclaimed, glancing from me to Libby, “but for your hair and eye color, you could be sisters.”

Libby’s big brown eyes opened in amazement. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.” Grace smiled at her just like she always smiled at me—fondly. Honestly! She didn’t even know the girl.

“Coffee?” Grace asked her.

Libby turned her gaze on me. “Do you have time?”

“Well,” I said, glancing at my watch, “Mondays are kind of hectic. . . .”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” Grace said. “I’ll mind the shop while you two have a nice chat. Now, what do you take in your coffee, love?”

Love? Libby took off her white coat and laid it carefully over the chair. “The same as Abby, please.”

She knew how I drank my coffee? I hadn’t even taken up the caffeine habit until after I’d gone away to college.

“Bloomers is amazing,” Libby told me, gazing around in delight as Grace brought over two cups of coffee. “How I adore these high tin ceilings and the creaky wood floors, and I love what you’ve done with the brick walls. Look at these darling ice-cream tables. And of course there are no words for your gorgeous flower arrangements. Honestly, Abby, walking into Bloomers is like stepping into a fantasy world.” She sighed dreamily.

“Your cream is on the table, dear,” Grace said to Libby as she brought over two cups.

Libby reached for the little pitcher and doused her java with a generous helping. I refrained just out of spite, then could hardly drink my coffee.

“I have something for you,” Libby told me. She pulled a large albumlike book out of her bag, set it aside, then reached in for a small silver box tied with a gold ribbon. “It’s a welcome-home gift.”

A welcome-home gift? But I wasn’t the one who’d come home. I glanced at Grace to see if she caught it, but she was already bustling off toward the shop. Libby thrust the box at me, then watched eagerly as I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was a sterling-silver “Best Friends Forever” locket—a jagged half of a heart on a silver chain.

“You shouldn’t have,” I said, trying to hide my dismay.

“Look, I’m wearing the matching half.” She tugged on a chain hidden inside her shirt and out came the other half.

I thanked her and started to put the locket back in the box, but Libby snatched it out of my hands. “Here, let me fasten it around your neck.”

Moments later, wearing my new BFF locket, I put the cup of coffee to my lips to hide my annoyance. This was going to be a long five minutes.

“Now,” Libby said, scooting her chair close to mine, “I have to show you the scrapbook I made.” She flipped to the first page of the album, onto which she had pasted a newspaper article about Bloomers’ grand reopening. From the
New Chapel News
, the headline read: NEW FLOWER-SHOP OWNER BLOSSOMS ON SQUARE. Beneath it was a grainy black-and-white photo of me in front of Bloomers, with a pot of mums in my arms. I noticed that Libby had hand-painted a trellis around the photo and decorated it with tiny roses.

Libby smoothed out a wrinkle in the photo, gazing at my flower shop as if it were her own. “Such a pretty building, isn’t it?”

“I’ve always thought so,” I said, glancing at her askance.

Glowing with pride, she continued through the album, showing me pages filled with every article in which I’d ever been mentioned, even those about my involvement in helping to solve local murders. Each clipping had been meticulously decorated with a border of leaves, vines, or various types of flowers. Clearly, she’d spent a lot of time on the scrapbook. When she’d finally exhausted her supply of articles, she closed the book and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “So?”

“I’m blown away, Libby. I can’t believe you went to all this effort for me. Thanks!”

“Oh,” she said in surprise, gathering the album to her chest. “It’s not for you. It’s my keepsake. To be honest, I came to ask if I could work for you.”

CHAPTER TWO

It took me a few seconds to absorb her request, and even then I didn’t believe it. Libby turned to gaze around her. “I just have to be a part of this. You understand that feeling, don’t you?”

Maybe I was wrong to let the past influence me, but there was no way I wanted Libby near me every day. Luckily, I had the perfect excuse. “The thing is, Libby, I’m not in a financial position to hire any more help.”

“Oh, that.” She waved away my concern. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll be your intern.”

My hand shook, rattling the cup as I set it on the saucer. My
intern
?

“Just imagine me at your side, soaking up everything there is to know about flowers. Plus, I can take orders, clean up the workroom at the end of the day, pick up sandwiches for lunch—whatever you need. I’ll even make deliveries. Honestly, doesn’t that sound perfect?”

Perfectly appalling. Trying to be gracious, I said, “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

She tilted her head as though she didn’t know how to interpret my answer. Then, as it sank in that I wasn’t leaping at her offer, a fiery blush stained her cheeks. She removed a business card from her purse and tossed it onto the table. “Here’s my phone number.” She rose, slipped into her coat, gathered her purse and shopping bag, and walked out of the parlor.

Feeling like a heel, I tucked her card into my pants pocket and followed her to the front door. Wearing the expression of a heartbroken child, Libby said good-bye to Grace, gave me solemn air kisses on both cheeks, then left, her boots crunching the leaves as she hurried away. I felt Grace’s inquisitive gaze upon me as I shut the door.

Lottie came hurrying through the curtain and glanced around. “Did I miss her? Does she look like her mom?”

“A little,” I said, and returned to the parlor to clean off the table.

“Didn’t you think we could use the extra hand, dear?” Grace asked from the doorway.

“Extra hand at what?” Lottie asked.

“Libby Blume volunteered her services as an intern,” Grace explained.

“We can always use another pair of hands around here,” Lottie said, “especially when they come free.”

“As you’re always fond of saying, Grace,” I said, “there is no such thing as free help. Besides, we’re not busy enough to have an intern.”