Dearly Depotted

Table of Contents

 

 

“Kate Collins plants all the right seeds to grow a fertile garden of mystery. . . . Abby Knight is an Indiana florist who cannot keep her nose out of other people’s business. She’s rash, brash, and audacious. Move over, Stephanie Plum, Abby Knight has come to town.”

—Denise Swanson, author of the Scumble River mysteries

“An engaging debut planted with a spirited sleuth, quirky side-kicks, and page-turning action . . . delightfully addictive. . . . A charming addition to the cozy subgenre. Here’s hoping we see more of intrepid florist Abby Knight and sexy restaurateur Marco Salvare.”

—Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mysteries

“Kate Collins’s new flower shop mystery is fresh as a daisy, with a bouquet of irresistible characters and deep roots in the Indiana soil.”

—Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job mysteries

“A bountiful bouquet of clues, colorful characters, and tantalizing twists. . . . Kate Collins carefully cultivates clues, plants surprising suspects, and harvests a killer in this fresh and frolicsome new Flower Shop Mystery series.”

—Ellen Byerrum, author of the Crime of Fashion mysteries

“This amusing new author has devised an excellent cast of characters and thrown them in to a cleverly tumultuous plot. . . . Readers will savor Abby’s courage. . . . The pacing is brisk, with parallel plots that intersect in interesting ways. A terrific debut!”

—
Romantic Times

“This engaging read has a list of crazy characters that step off the pages to the delight of the reader. Don’t miss this wanna-be sleuth’s adventures.”

—
Rendezvous

“This story was cute and funny, had a good plot line which entwined a lot of interesting threads . . . an enjoyable read and a fine debut for this new mystery series.”

—Dangerously Curvy Novels

Other Flower Shop Mysteries

SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, July 2005

Copyright © Linda Tsoutsouris, 2005

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

eISBN : 978-1-101-10008-0

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing this book has been a true labor of love—then again, after hours and days and months of pounding the keys, staring at the computer with glazed eyes, there were times when the love part was nowhere to be found. However, Abby and I both lived to see another day, thanks in large part to the following people:

My very wise, very supportive, always encouraging editor, Ellen Edwards.

My extremely knowledgeable, also supportive agent, Karen Solem.

My sweet and highly capable editor, Serena Jones, who has a keen ear for humor and can spot a flat line from a hundred yards.

Barb Ferrari, Mary Kennedy, and Cindy Winter, who have listened to me groan, whine, brag, shout for joy, and generally be annoying—and still let me be their friend.

Deanna, at Barry’s Photography Studio, who was kind enough to give me a crash course in Videography for Dummies.

Phil Potempa, reporter extraordinaire, who has helped me many times over the years.

The girls at the T & B law office. (You really should put out a calendar, ladies.)

And could I not mention the unflagging support of my family? (Especially with my husband reading this over my shoulder?) Love you guys.

 

 

 

 

“R
ed, white, and blue carnations . . . That’s what you ordered, right?”

“That’s what I ordered,” I assured my customer, a thirty-four-year-old, bubblegum-chewing, Barbie doll look-alike by the name of Trudee DeWitt. We were standing on the dew-coated front lawn of her sprawling house early on the Fourth of July; so early, in fact, that I was not fully awake—otherwise I would have caught the note of concern in her voice.

“Well, then,” she said with a nervous giggle. “Oops.”

Oops
? I blinked hard as my sleepy brain scrambled into alert. “They’re not red, white, and blue carnations?”

“Not exactly.” Trudee motioned for me to follow, then started across the yard, wobbling unsteadily in her sequined red heels. In honor of the holiday she had donned a pair of extremely red, extremely short shorts and a tight, spangled T-shirt that looked like an explosion of fireworks across her bosom. Her shiny, silvery blond hair, pulled back in a loose, sexy braid tied with red, white, and blue ribbons, moved like a wiper blade across her back.

The DeWitts had hired me to provide floral decorations for their Fourth of July barbeque bash, culminating in a giant U.S. flag spread over the grass behind their house. It was one of two jobs I’d agreed to take on for the holiday; Bloomers was normally closed on Independence Day. The other job was an opulent evening wedding and reception for my cousin Jillian-the-drama-queen, which was stressful enough all by itself without adding an
oops
to it.

Trailing Trudee across the lawn were my helpers for the day, seventeen-year-old quadruplets Jimmy, Joey, Johnny, and Karl Dombowski, wearing unlaced Nikes, baggy jeans, and extra-large button-down shirts. The quads belonged to my assistant Lottie, who’d happily volunteered their services for the day to keep them out of trouble. I brought up the rear of our little parade, still trying to decipher what Trudee had meant by
Not exactly.
Not exactly carnations?

When Trudee came to a halt in front of an insulated trailer and opened the tailgate, the boys quickly formed a semicircle around her, unable to take their eyes off the spangles bouncing in front of their noses. I broke through the ranks and stepped up to the gate. In the cool, fragrant interior I saw three enormous bins, each filled with a different color of carnation: patriotic blue, paper white, and—petal pink?

“See what I mean?” Trudee asked, wrinkling her nose as if the pink flowers gave off an offensive odor.

“Not exactly red,” I concurred.

“You can exchange them, can’t you?”

On a holiday? Hours before her party? Was this her first visit to Earth?

I grabbed the arm of one of the quads—I wasn’t sure which—slapped money into his palm, and said in his ear, “Go to the hardware store and buy every can of fire-engine red spray paint you can find. Hurry!” Then I turned back to Trudee with a smile. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”