Read Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery Online
Authors: Kate Collins
Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery (2 page)
Monday, August 1
Dear Euphorbia,
Half an hour until the flower shop opens, so I’m grabbing a minute to update you. Sorry to have been MIA, but, hey, life is never dull here at Bloomers, even after the chaos of the wealthy dowager’s murder died down. So far today, things have been quiet. We started off with Lottie’s traditional Monday-morning scrambled egg and toast breakfast, and Grace’s gourmet coffee and fresh blueberry scones, so how bad can the rest of the day be?
Wait. What am I saying? Today is
Monday
—the day Mom always brings in her latest art project for us to sell. Last time it was a whole box of sea glass sunglasses, with frames studded so thickly with sea glass chips that they became instruments of torture. Still, I’m going to remain optimistic because I really want to have a pleasant day, so I’ll imagine myself loving whatever debacle Mom bequeaths us. It’ll be my new challenge, and you know how I love a challenge.
On the good-news front, I’ve taken back my bridal shower! Euphorbia, you’ve been listening to
me complain since I began this journal three months ago, so you know what would have happened if I’d allowed Mom, with her outrageous ideas, and Marco’s mom, with her take-no-prisoners approach to any kind of event, to pull it off. And heaven help me had my cousin Jillian been allowed to choose my shower outfit from one of the haute couture boutiques she frequents.
Being five feet two, with red hair, way too many freckles, and what my mom refers to as an
ample
bosom, I don’t fit into the kind of garb Jillian’s ultrachic customers do, but she never seems to get that. Well, actually, no surprise there. For a Harvard grad, Jillian doesn’t get much. Luckily, Marco, my groom-to-be, the malest of all males, the man who causes women of all ages to drool with desire, likes the way I look, freckles and all. So why should I spend megabucks on an outfit that would only
make me look like an upscale fireplug?
A
voice interrupted my train of thought. My assistant Lottie swept back the purple curtain that separated the flower shop from my workroom and handed me a slip of pink paper, which, coincidentally, coordinated with her cherry blouse, white denims, primrose Keds, and the rose-colored barrettes in her short, brassy curls. It took courage for a tall, big-boned, middle-aged woman to pull off all that pink.
“Sorry to interrupt, sweetie, but I thought you’d want to know about this phone call.”
I read the message—twice. “
Pryce
called here? For me?”
“Disgusting, isn’t it? He claimed it was extremely important that he talk to you right away.”
Determined not to let anything or any
one
ruin my day, I dropped the paper in the wastebasket beneath my desk.
“Everything Pryce does is extremely important, Lottie, because Pryce is extremely important. Just ask him.”
Not that I harbored any lingering ill will toward the heel who had jilted me two months before I was supposed to march down the aisle with him. Now that I looked back, I’d dodged a bullet—make that a hail of bullets—although at the time Pryce Osborne II had seemed like the answer to my prayers. Indeed, according to Pryce, it was a privilege to be joining one of the dynasties of New Chapel, Indiana.
His
family tree had branches that reached back to the founding fathers of our country.
I had nothing to bring to that table. All my family tree had were nuts.
Still, I’d been living at home with my parents, struggling to get through my first year of law school, and Pryce had purchased his own condo, was about to take the bar exam, and had a high-salaried job all lined up. What logical-minded woman wouldn’t go for that? Plus he had a plan for us: After I got my law degree, we would rule the justice system.
Only one problem. I flunked out.
With swift vengeance, Pryce’s parents stepped in and decreed me an Untouchable for doing the unthinkable. Pryce, who never
ever
crossed his parents, quietly asked for his ring back. My pain was unimaginable.
But as my other assistant, Grace Bingham, liked to say, when God closed a door, he opened a window somewhere. And that window had been humongous, because if Pryce hadn’t dumped me, I wouldn’t have become the poor but happy owner of Bloomers Flower Shop. Nor would I have met Marco Salvare, the bravest, most sincere, most loving, and, frankly, hottest guy in town. So
merci beaucoup
, Osbornes, for not ruining my life.
“Why don’t you let me call Pryce for you?” Lottie asked, rubbing her hands together as though anticipating
the chance to tell him off. “I’ll let him know you’ve got more important things to do.”
“Perfect.” I fished the message from the waste can and gave it back to her. “Thanks.”
But…on second thought, maybe I
should
return Pryce’s call. It would be a great opportunity to let him know I was getting married in a month and a half. Plus, I was nosy. Erase that. I was
curious
as to what was so important that Pryce would be forced to phone
me
. Was he writing a book on how to crush a woman’s self-esteem?
“Wait, Lottie. I think I’ll return that call after all.”
Lottie shook her head as she handed me the pink slip. Her view of Pryce was that he was lower than a snake’s belly. It was one of those sayings she’d learned growing up in the rolling hills of Kentucky.
I reached for the receiver, then changed my mind and put the message aside. I didn’t want Pryce to think I was eager to talk to him. Picking up my pen, I wrote:
Euphorbia, I will have to tell you about my phone conversation with Pryce later, but only if it’s worth memorializing. Otherwise, where was I? Oh, right, preparing for the shower.
Okay, in keeping with my carnival theme, I’ve purchased plastic cups, paper napkins, and coated plates with a colorful pinwheel design on them. I’ve ordered carnival masks, flower pinwheels, flower lei garlands, and hibiscus toothpicks. I want this
shower to be an afternoon of flowers and fun, not the boring cake, punch, and present-opening event everyone else does.
Marco agreed to attend only if I promised that there wouldn’t be any games whatsoever, so I still have to come up with another form of entertainment. I’m thinking of a flower-arranging contest. Or
maybe a juggling act. Jugglers who juggle flowerpots? I’ll have to investigate this further.
I also have plastic utensils, paper tablecloths in bright yellow—my favorite color, as you know—and I’ve ordered a chocolate sheet cake that will have candy flowers in the shape of a pinwheel on top. Let’s see, what have I forgotten?
“Abby,” Lottie said, peering in, “Pryce is on the phone again. Now he’s saying it’s exceedingly urgent.” She snickered. “Maybe his manicurist moved away.”
I held up my short, unpolished nails. “I wouldn’t be much help there, but thanks, Lottie.”
I set my journal aside, then inhaled and exhaled a few times before picking up the phone. I didn’t want to sound angry when, in fact, I should want to hug him.
“Hello, Pryce,” I said in a cool yet not unfriendly voice.
“Abigail, I need a favor.”
No preamble, no warmth, and he’d called me by my proper name, knowing that I’d always preferred Abby. So I didn’t respond.
As though he hadn’t even noticed, he continued. “One of my friends is missing. I wouldn’t bother you except she’s been gone for twenty hours now, and I’m starting to fret.”
Osbornes never worried. They fretted. It was the superior emotion. “Missing from where?”
“Our lake cottage. I’ve checked her condo and her shop repeatedly, but there’s no sign of her. I’m at my wit’s end. She could be in a hospital somewhere or she might possibly have been abducted. She does have a rather large stock portfolio.”
“If you think something serious happened to her, Pryce, I’d recommend calling the cops.”
He let out an impatient sigh. “You know Mother and Father would never allow me to involve the police unless I’m one hundred percent sure it’s a life-or-death situation.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
“Because of circumstances that I’d rather not divulge over the phone. I have to keep this matter hush-hush, Abigail. Mother and Father are vacationing in Europe and I dare not let them catch wind of it. That’s why I need to hire Marco. Would you contact him for me?”
“Yes, but just so you’ll know, it would be Marco and
me
taking the case, Pryce. We work as a team.”
Rub it in, Abby. That a girl.
“That’s fine,” he said dismissively. “I just want Melissa found.”
“So her name is Melissa?”
“Yes, Melissa Hazelton. She owns Pisces, the interior decorating shop on West Lincoln. You know her. I introduced you to her at one of our country-club functions back when you and I were, well, you know.”
About to make the biggest mistake of our lives?
“I vaguely remember a Melissa. Tall blonde with legs like a weight lifter? Interior decorator more noted for her enthusiasm than her talent?”
“Did you know I’d planned to marry Melissa?”
Oops.
Foot-in-mouth moment. Why hadn’t he mentioned that at the outset? “So I guess congratulations are in order?”
“Yes, well…” He let it hang there and went on. “I’d like to have Marco—and you, I suppose—come out to the cottage as soon as possible while my houseguests are still here.”
“Do you think one of your guests may have had something to do with Melissa’s disappearance?”
“I have no thoughts on the matter. I merely intuited
that you would need everyone who was here this weekend to be present so you can interview them. Isn’t that how it’s usually handled?”
He was showing off. “I’ll call Marco to see if he’s interested in the case.”
“Let him know I’m prepared to pay half again as much as his usual fee, and I’m positive he will be.”
Ah! The Osborne philosophy: You can make anything happen if you throw enough money at it. “I’ll fill him in and get back to you with our decision.”
“Grand. I’ll be expecting your call, say, within the quarter hour?”
“All I can do is pass along the message.” I wasn’t giving an inch. Let the worm squirm.
“You’re being awfully stilted, Abigail.”
“Am I?”
“I hope you’re not harboring any ill will toward me.”
In as innocent a tone as I could muster, I asked, “For what?”
There was a moment of silence, after which he said, “I’ll await your phone call, then. Good-b— Hold on a moment. Jillian is signaling—I believe she’s waving hello to you.”
My cousin was there? Great. Now I had even less desire to get involved. Not only was Jillian married to Pryce’s younger brother, Claymore, but also, whenever she was around, things got crazy.
“Pardon me,” Pryce said. “My error. She’s signaling for you to come quickly.”
The line went dead. I hadn’t even had an opportunity to slip in a mention of
my
engagement.
Oh, well. I could do that when I called to tell him that there was no way we’d take his case.
HAPTER
T
WO
Euphorbia, I still can’t believe Pryce had the nerve to call here asking for help, but I’m sure Marco will understand that we have to say no. Believe me, it’s more than a matter of Pryce having humiliated me in front of the whole town. Way more. Still, you can understand how embarrassing it was returning the wedding band I’d bought for Pryce and had engraved with our initials joined in a heart.
I have my hands full running Bloomers, not to mention the gargantuan task of preparing for my wedding and for my bridal shower, which will take place in five short days, while keeping our families at bay. I could go on, but you know my hectic schedule. I simply don’t need the added aggravation of dealing with Pryce.
So why am I worried that Marco will think I’m being churlish?
I
glanced at my watch, saw that it was nine o’clock, and stowed my journal in the bottom drawer of my desk. Then, pausing to inhale the perfume of fresh, fragrant
flowers, which always calmed me, I stepped through the curtain into our lovely floral garden setting.
Bloomers is the second shop from the corner on Franklin Street, one of four blocks surrounding the majestic limestone courthouse, which, like the other buildings on the square, was built around the turn of the twentieth century. Bloomers is in a redbrick building three stories tall, with two big bay windows on either side of a yellow frame door with a beveled glass center. The wooden floors and door are original, as are the tin ceilings and brick walls. There’s a cashier counter on the left side of the shop at the front, and a bay window that’s stocked with floral decorations both fresh and silk.
A glass display case against the back wall holds buckets of daisies, roses, alstroemeria, spider mums, and a wide range of floral arrangements, with a white wicker settee beneath a tall dieffenbachia in the corner beside it. Ceramic figurines, crystal candlesticks, and silk flower arrangements fill an antique armoire on one side of the long room; wreaths and mirrors decorate two brick walls, and potted green houseplants line a curving path that leads to the front door.