I meant it, too. Nikki wasn’t a murderer, and I’d stake my flower shop on it. I only hoped it didn’t come to that.
When I walked into Bloomers at eight o’clock the next morning, I smelled the welcoming aroma of Grace’s coffee but didn’t hear the familiar sound of Lottie’s humming to her country music on the radio. I missed that.
“Morning, Grace,” I called, shedding my scarf and coat.
“Good morning, love. How are we today?”
“Tired,” I called from the workroom. “Late night.”
Grace breezed through the curtain moments later with a cup and saucer in hand. “This should perk you up. I’ve taken the liberty of adding your half-and-half. I hope that’s all right.”
I tasted the coffee and smiled. “It’s perfection. Thanks, Grace.”
“Now tell me what has you so down in the mouth.”
Grace clicked her tongue as I gave her a rundown on Nikki’s current situation. Then she said, “I was afraid Nikki wasn’t being truthful. Given her circumstances, it defies belief that she could be so imprudent. As Albert Schweitzer said, ‘Truth has not special time of its own. Its hour is now—always and indeed then most truly when it seems unsuitable to actual circumstances.’ ”
“That’s what I told her last night.” Only not nearly as eloquently.
“Has she finally revealed everything that happened, do you think?”
A week ago I wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes. Now, I just wasn’t sure. “For her sake, I hope so, Grace.”
“For your sake, too, love.” She handed me a message, then, in usual Grace style, spared me the effort of reading it. “Your mother will be in after school today. She promised you’d be bowled over by her visit.”
“Sounds like Mom wants to drop off a new art project.”
“I’m afraid I must agree, love.”
My mother, Maureen “Mad Mo” Knight, taught kindergarten during the week and created art on the weekends. Her medium changed constantly—neon-colored clay, giant wooden beads, small mirrored tiles, and rainbow-colored feathers, to name a few. Usually, Mom showed up at Bloomers on Mondays to surprise us with her latest endeavors—she was a big fan of surprises—but due to her trip to Chicago, she was off schedule this week.
Unfortunately, Mom expected us to sell her so-called works of art, thinking she was helping us boost sales. We usually displayed her piece until someone with a sense of humor bought it or, if it was really ugly, until Lottie could sneak it down to the basement.
“Is she making bowls now, do you think?” Grace called, returning to the parlor.
I massaged my temples, trying to stop a headache from coming on. “Let’s hope that’s all it is.”
While Grace prepared the parlor for our usual morning customers, I started the get-well basket for Lottie from my parents. I was putting off calling Marco to tell him the rest of Nikki’s story because I’d slept very little and wasn’t in the mood to debate the issue of helping him hunt for the killer. In my mind, the decision was made. If he wouldn’t let me work with him as his intern, I’d find a way to work without him.
I filled a short, square glass vase with white narcissuses, pink tulips, and blue grape hyacinths, pink and blue being Lottie’s favorite colors. The vase was small enough to fit into a gift basket, and short enough that it shouldn’t get knocked off a bedside table. I left the bulbs attached to the flower stems so Lottie could replant them in her garden in the spring; then I tucked the arrangement inside a generous wicker basket along with wrapped scones, herbal teas, a Dove chocolate bar, and the latest edition of
Florists’ Review
magazine.
Arranging flowers always gave me a fresh perspective, so as I worked, I started a mental list of who I needed to talk to about Jonas Treat. First on my list was Robin Lennox, the jilted ex-fiancée, followed by Carmen Gold, the Cloud Nine event organizer. Maybe her hostile glances had meant nothing more than that Jonas had been rude to her, but I needed to know. If nothing else, Carmen might share with me the names of the other women Jonas met at the event.
As I was trimming ribbon to tie around the basket handle, Grace came into the workroom to announce that it was time to open the shop. Seeing the basket she said, “Is that for Lottie?”
“Yes. My mom ordered it.”
“A paperback mystery would be a lovely addition, wouldn’t it? You know how Lottie loves them. Perhaps you can stop at the hospital gift shop. . . .” She paused, hearing furious rapping on the front door, then went to peer through the curtain. “Good heavens, it’s your cousin.”
Jillian? At nine in the morning? I put down my scissors and followed Grace into the shop. “Something bad must have happened to get her out of bed so early.”
Strangely, Jillian didn’t appear to be in any distress. In fact, she was smiling and waving through the beveled-glass pane in the door, then pointing to her watch and wagging her finger. “It’s two minutes after nine,” she chided, as I stepped back to let her sail past me. “You’re late.”
She made straight for the workroom, where she draped her coat over the back of my desk chair, removed her beret, shook out her shimmering coppery locks, and pushed up the sleeves of her emerald green silk sweater. “What should I do first?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said yesterday that you’re shorthanded, so I’m here to help.”
The curtain trembled behind her. Grace was eavesdropping again.
“I appreciate the offer, Jillian, but I don’t have time to train you today.”
“Train me? I know how to run a business, Abby. And by the way, my all-white arrangement was the hit of the dinner party. So tell me what you need done.”
This was so unlike my self-centered cousin that I couldn’t help but suspect she had an ulterior motive. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I wuv my wittle cuz,” she said, and came at me as if to hug me. Luckily, the bell over the door chimed, causing her to change direction. “Customers,” Jillian sang out, and headed for the curtain. Her hormones had to be out of whack.
The bell jingled twice more as I hurried after her. Seeing the new arrivals head toward the parlor for their morning caffeine fix, Jillian stationed herself behind the cash register in the shop. “Grace has the parlor, so I’ll manage this room. You go do your thing in the workroom.”
“You don’t know how to work our cash register, Jillian. It’s an antique and takes some getting used to.”
“Abby, I’m a Harvard grad. How hard can it be? Now would you be an angel and bring me a cup of coffee? No, make it a latte. A soy latte. With cinnamon. No, nutmeg. Wait. Make that chocolate . . . a soy mocha latte.”
I took a deep breath and marched into the parlor, where Grace was waiting on customers. At the coffee counter, I prepared my cousin’s latte just as Grace came back to refill her pot.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I had no idea Jillian was coming today.”
“As long as she’s here, you may as well make the best of it,” Grace whispered back. “We could use a delivery-person.”
Grace was a genius. That would keep Jillian out of my way.
“Here you go, Jill.” I put her coffee on the check-out counter. “When you’re finished, I’d like you to make some deliveries.”
She sucked in her breath.
“What?” I asked.
“Deliveries?”
“Yes, deliveries. That’s one of the best parts of the floral business. You get to hand people their flowers and watch their faces light up.”
“But then I’d have to drive that bugly leased delivery van.”
“It’s not . . . Wait. Did you just say
bugly
?”
“I’m not about to say
butt-ugly
. It’s too . . . bugly. So I shortened it.”
“The van isn’t
bugly
, Jill; it’s serviceable. And it’s not actually a van; it’s a minivan.”
“Frog or toad, Abby. They’re both bugly. I wouldn’t be caught dead kissing either one.”
“Fine. I’ll make the deliveries, but that means you’ll have to wait on customers.”
“Not a problem. I wait on my clients all the time.”
“I don’t mean waiting on them as in while they try on clothing in a dressing room. I mean help them make choices, take their orders—”
“Will you stop treating me like I’m five years old? Just go do your deliveries and leave everything to me.” At my hesitation, she motioned me away. “Go! Bloomers is in good hands with Jillian on the job.”
I felt Grace’s shudder from a room away.
CHAPTER TEN
A
fter making my deliveries, I stopped at the hospital to give Lottie her basket. She looked much better than the last time I’d seen her, and wouldn’t let me leave until I’d filled her in on everything she’d missed. I kept my report light, figuring she didn’t need any depressing news, and returned to Bloomers just as one of my steady customers exited the shop without her usual bouquet of flowers, which she liked to select herself from the glass-fronted display case.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tanner,” I called.
She was about to cross the street, but came back toward me. “It was a good morning until I came
here
. Abby, you really should screen your help before you hire them. Your new clerk refused to sell me the flowers I wanted.”
“I’m so sorry. The young woman is my . . . um”—did I really want to admit sharing a gene pool with Jillian?—“my temp. She’ll be gone tomorrow. Why don’t you come inside and have a cup of coffee or tea on the house? Then you can select flowers for your bouquet afterward. I’m offering a one-day-only special, half off any order.” Made up on the spot just for her.
Mrs. Tanner gave it a moment’s thought, then accompanied me inside. Jillian was on the phone behind the counter and started to wave at me. Then she saw Mrs. Tanner and her eyes narrowed.
I ushered Mrs. Tanner into the parlor and turned her over to Grace, who would know just how to placate the woman. Then I headed straight for Jill, who was still on the phone.
“Is that all you want to spend?” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “Didn’t you just say this was for your mother? Would it kill you to throw in some roses?”
I grabbed the phone from her hand. “Hello, this is Abby Knight. I apologize for my rude employee, who I assure you won’t be working here after today. How can I help you?”
“Abby? What happened to my wife? What’s going on?”
Yikes. It was Claymore, Jillian’s husband. Brother of my ex-fiancé.
With a sigh of regret, I handed the phone back to my cousin and went straight into the workroom to bury myself in flowers.
“That was rude,” Jillian said, sailing through the curtain moments later.
“
That
was rude? How about the way you treated Mrs. Tanner? Why wouldn’t you let her pick out her own flowers?”
“She has abominable taste. She wanted to mix freesia with baby’s breath.”
As if Jillian had suddenly become a flower expert. “It’s Mrs. Tanner’s choice, Jill. She’s paying for them. Do you understand? The customer is
always
right. Memorize that!”
Jillian flipped her hair away from her face and started toward the curtain. “You’d never make it as a personal shopper.”
If Jillian wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t make it to noon.
At eleven thirty, Marco stopped in to tell me about his meeting with Dave. I led him into the parlor, which was empty at the moment and, more important, away from Jillian’s alert ears.
“Why is your cousin here?” Marco asked quietly as I brought over our coffees.
“I made the mistake of telling her about Lottie’s gastritis. For some as-yet-unknown reason, Jillian decided that she should help me out.” I paused to stir half-and-half into my cup, then glanced over my shoulder to be sure my cousin couldn’t hear me.
“She’s a disaster, Marco. She’s rude to the customers and won’t make deliveries because the minivan is ugly. I spent fifteen minutes trying to teach her how to answer the phone with, ‘Bloomers Flower Shop, how can I help you?’ instead of, ‘Jillian Knight Osborne, personal shopper and florist extraordinaire. Talk to me.’ ”
“Fire her.”
“How do I fire a volunteer? And if I order her to leave . . . well, I don’t even want to think about the repercussions within our family. The truth is, we
are
shorthanded. I don’t know how I’m going to get away to—” I caught myself before I made the mistake of finishing that sentence, since I hadn’t talked Marco into letting me help him, and instead ended with—“make deliveries.” I took a break for a sip of coffee to give my mind time to regroup. “How did your meeting go?”
“Dave filled me in on the latest development with Nikki. I suppose she told you last night what she did between midnight and two o’clock Monday morning.”
“Yes. Now I’m really scared. Her fingerprints are bound to be inside that model home.”
“They are. The cops lifted them yesterday. Dave said he wouldn’t be surprised if they indicted Nikki for murder before the week is out.”
A week? How would Marco clear Nikki in such a short time? And how was I going to squeeze in a few hours to assist him? With one employee out sick, and a self-indulgent cousin to monitor, my hands were tied.
Marco pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket. “Do you want to help?”
I immediately perked up. “Sure, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get away.”
“Not that kind of help.” He opened his notebook so I could see it. “Here are the names Dave and I came up with. Take a look at them, see if you can think of anyone else.”
It wasn’t what I was hoping for, but it was something. “ ‘Number one,’ ” I read. “ ‘Anyone who filed a recent complaint or lawsuit against Jonas Treat or his development company.’ ”
I thought about it for a moment and decided it would be a good time for me to mention my internship again. “That’s going to take some time to investigate.”
“I know, but it’s going to the bottom of my list, so I’m not concerned at this point. I’ve got a greater chance of finding viable suspects by talking to the others on the list first.”