Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery (36 page)

“You could learn.”

I didn’t answer him. There was no way I’d marry Pryce. Sure, it would feel great to never worry about money or my shop failing. Sure, I’d have the chicest
clothing in town. Sure, all I’d have to do would be to show up to functions, dress well, look good, and shut up. And, yes, sure, it was tempting. I wouldn’t have been human if it wasn’t.

Yet I couldn’t help but think back to how miserable I’d been while I was dating Pryce. How lonely I’d felt even in his company. How low-class. How unimportant. I compared that with how it felt to be with Marco, and there was no question what my heart wanted.

When I said nothing, he picked up both oars and started rowing. “I’m going to head back. I’ve waited long enough.”

Had he waited long enough for my answer or for a safe harbor? This time I didn’t protest. I’d had my fill of Pryce for one day, and Marco had to be there by now.

Neither one of us spoke until we approached his dock.

“Stay where you are,” Pryce said. “I’m going to come up alongside. I’ll make sure it’s okay before you get out.”

While he looped the rope around a post, then stepped up onto the pier, I scanned the beach, which was eerily silent, the only sounds water lapping against the pillars and an occasional gull calling overhead. Thick black clouds blanketed the sky, and the three-quarter moon was but a faded disk. The only illumination came from the torchlights on his deck.

Pryce walked the length of the pier and came back. “I don’t see anyone around here, Abigail.”

I shivered as it started to rain. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, Pryce. It’s too quiet.”

“It’s always quiet out here. Let’s get up to my cottage and call for help.” He leaned over and reached out a hand to help me up.

Suddenly, footsteps pounded on the wooden boards and a dark figure loomed up behind Pryce. I saw arms
rise up high and a knife glint. “Pryce!” I shouted. “Look out!”

He had turned on one heel just as the knife sliced downward, missing his back but cutting deep into his arm. With a cry of pain, Pryce grabbed his arm and tried to get out of the way, but the arms rose again, ready to strike. A thin face peered out of a hooded black coat, its eyes wild, its lips drawn back to bare its teeth.

“Orabell!” I screamed, causing her to jerk around at the last minute.

I grabbed Pryce’s hand and forced him to leap into the boat. As I yanked the rope free, I heard a furious cry as the knife’s metal blade hit the wooden planks. My heart sped as I pushed against the post, propelling us away from the dock.

Pryce sat groaning in the bottom of the boat, his right hand clasping his left upper arm. I grabbed the oar handles and began to stroke as fast as I could, while Orabell stood on the pier screaming, “I’ll kill you if you come back here. Do you hear me? I’ll kill you!”

Pryce lifted his gaze from the blood seeping between his fingers to Orabell. “Dear God. She’s crazy.”

Orabell began to run along the shoreline, following along with us, so I had no choice but to row farther out, until the black mist that had settled over the surface swallowed us up.

“Abigail, I need medical help.”

“I know that. Can I stand in this dinghy?” I asked, dropping the oars.

He nodded, so I rose carefully, cupped my hands around my mouth, and yelled, “Can anyone hear me? This is Abby. I’m in a boat on the lake and need medical assistance.”

“That won’t help. The cottages are set too far back for anyone to hear you.”

Feeling the small boat sway precariously, I sat back down, damp, bedraggled, and frustrated. How was I going to get Pryce help?

“Where are you going?” Pryce asked through gritted teeth as I resumed rowing.

“I’m going to move parallel with the shoreline until I find someone to help.”

“You’ll row forever looking for people outside in the rain after dark.”

Pryce was just one big bundle of optimism.

I noticed that the blood had spread down his sleeve to his wrist and I knew he was losing strength fast. “You need a tourniquet. Are you wearing a T-shirt under your sweatshirt?”

He shook his head, then closed his eyes. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

I dropped the oars and knelt down beside him. He was grimacing, gritting his teeth, his forehead dotted with beads of perspiration, his complexion waxy even in the dim light of the moon. I looked around for something to stem the flow of blood and spotted a fishing tackle box tucked beneath a bench. Inside, I found a Swiss Army knife, so I flipped out the scissors and laboriously cut a strip from the blanket he’d placed around my shoulders, then tied it as high up on his arm as I could.

“I could die out here,” he said in a weak voice.

“You’ll be okay,” I said, even though I knew he could still bleed out. I couldn’t tell how bad the wound was, but by the amount of blood he’d already lost, I knew the knife had sliced deep.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. We drifted for a while, neither of us talking; then I leaned forward to look at his arm. “It looks like the blood has stopped spreading, so the tourniquet must be working.”

“My fingers are numb.”

I knew I had to remove the tourniquet soon so he didn’t lose feeling in his right arm, but I feared that if I did, he’d continue to bleed. We were far away from Pryce’s boat dock now and enveloped in fog, undoubtedly invisible to anyone on the beach. How would Marco find us? How would I find my way back? I dared not row toward the shore for fear that Orabell was still stalking us. What could I do?

I folded my hands and said a prayer.

We drifted for what seemed an eternity, with Pryce coming in and out of consciousness. I licked my lips, wishing for a long drink of water. Would we be out here all night? Would Marco think to look for me on the water? Would he find us in the fog?

Sometime later, I heard a distant motor. I tried to wake Pryce up, but he was out cold.

The prow of a motorboat appeared, and then I heard that wonderful, husky male voice call out, “Abby!”

Tears sprang to my eyes and my throat closed so tightly, I could barely get out the words. “Marco! Over here.”

The entire boat became visible—a police boat with a blue flashing light on top—with Marco sitting at the prow, his eyes searching through the mist and finding me at last. When the boat came alongside, Marco climbed in and caught me up in his arms. “Thank God you’re okay. I was so worried we wouldn’t find you.”

I clung tightly to the man I loved with all my heart. “You did find me, Marco. You found me. That’s all that matters now.”

“I love you, Abby Knight,” he murmured in my ear, then kissed me with such great passion and emotion that its magnitude nearly bowled me over.

Two officers moved Pryce into the boat. Then, once
Marco and I had climbed aboard, we made our way back to his dock, with Pryce’s dinghy on a tow rope behind. On the way, I told them what Orabell had done to Pryce, and they filled me in on her capture.

Marco had arrived at the Osborne cottage just as Melissa was getting ready to search for Pryce, who’d gone out to grill fish and hadn’t returned. They went to the Burches’ and found Halston in his bedroom, drugged with sleeping pills. They roused him long enough to learn that Orabell was behind it, and then they called the police.

A search of the beach had finally located Orabell hiding under a neighbor’s deck, crouched in the corner like a wild animal, raving about conspirators trying to steal her jewelry, and Halston in on a plot with Abby and Marco to do away with her.

An ambulance had taken Orabell to a mental facility, and another was called to take Pryce to the hospital. Marco insisted I go, as well, just in case the poison was still in my system. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, he drove me home and put me to bed, promising I’d feel much better after a restful sleep.

I didn’t wake until noon the next day, with an upset stomach and a headache.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Marco said, bringing me a cup of soothing chamomile tea, “how are you?”

“I feel like I went on a drinking binge last night.”

“That’s because Orabell used sap from the nightshade vine in those martini mixes. Luckily, she didn’t use a lethal dose, and you emptied your stomach of it right away, or we wouldn’t be sitting here discussing it.”

“That’s a comforting thought.”

“Here’s another one. Guess what day it is.”

“Friday?”

“Saturday.”

“Oh, no, Marco! Our shower is this afternoon! And I haven’t even decorated the hall yet—or prepared all of the food.” I started to cry. “This was supposed to be the best shower New Chapel has ever seen and instead it’ll be a disaster. What can I do? It’s too late to call everyone and cancel.”

Marco gathered me in his arms. “Sweetheart, do you really think your friends and family would let you or your guests down?”

“What do you mean?”

“All I know is that we’re supposed to show up at the FOP hall at two o’clock, so go do whatever you need to do and I’ll drive you there.”

“Us, Marco. Remember?”

“I’ll drive
us
there. Now go shower. You smell like the lake.”

So that’s what I did. I showered, dried my hair, glossed my lips, bronzed my cheeks to diminish the freckles, put on my brown and white sundress, which was too tight and, as Jillian had said, way too out of fashion, and dug out my one pair of black heels.

“I can’t go like this,” I said to Marco, standing before a long mirror. “I look frumpy. What was I thinking?”

“Abby, you’ll be fine. You’re just going to have to forget about what you’re wearing and go to have fun. Besides, I think you look gorgeous.”

“Thank you, Marco, but I don’t feel anywhere close to gorgeous. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I should have listened to Jillian.”

Marco put his hands on either side of my face and tilted my head up. “Look into my eyes, Sunshine. What do you see? Do you see a man who loves you? Do you see a man who would love you even if you had on rags? Does it matter what the rest of the world thinks?”

I gazed up at him, and my heart swelled with love. “Thank you, Marco.”

There was no way to tell him that, yes, I did care what the rest of the world thought. That was what being female was all about. But I put my hand through the crook of his arm and walked to the car anyway.

“M
arco, I shouldn’t have gone to Pryce’s cottage alone.”

Marco turned onto Washington Street and headed south to Indiana Avenue. “Do you really want to talk about that now?”

“It’s better than worrying about what awaits us at the FOP hall. I sure didn’t see Orabell as a killer. I knew both Melissa and Jake were worried that Pryce would take up with Lily again, and the fact that they were staying at the Sandman Motel together made me think they could’ve been partners in crime, especially when Jake didn’t seem particularly upset about Lily’s death. Then when Halston was mysteriously absent, and left behind that pitcher of poisoned martinis, I thought he had killed Lily.”

“Halston told us this morning that he knew Orabell was off her rocker, as he put it,” Marco said, “but he never guessed she was responsible for Lily’s demise. He did know that Orabell had researched the nightshade vine, but he believed her when she said she was learning how to make a medicinal tea from the leaves, because she’d used other plants to make teas before, like rose hip tea.”

“So Orabell really used the leaves from the nightshade plant to poison the martinis?”

“That’s what she finally admitted. Fortunately for you, she hadn’t tested it out on anyone, because in the preparation, she didn’t use enough to kill. She had a clean batch for herself and the others to drink and basically mimicked your symptoms to make you believe she was ill, too.”

“So I was the only one she gave the poison to?”

“Only because I was late. She made up a special pitcher for you and me. It’s part of police evidence now. She told the detectives that we were conspiring with Halston to have her locked away for life so Halston would be free to pursue other women. And she was sure you had your eye on her jewelry.”

“She really is crazy, then.”

“Psychotic, according to what Reilly learned, with episodes of paranoia and delusions.”

“Halston was right to want to take her to a psychiatrist. Amazing how Orabell could come across as just a little loony.”

Marco glanced at me. “Are you ready to think about the shower instead?”

“I don’t know which is worse, Marco, coming that close to death or facing public humiliation.”

“Here we are,” he said, pulling into the police hall’s parking lot. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

Marco opened the door for me and I stepped inside, prepared for a disaster. We had to walk up ten cement steps to get to the large hall, and there I stopped to gape. Groups of women—friends, my relatives, and Marco’s—were standing along the walls or sitting at round tables, with plates in their hands, laughing, chatting, and apparently enjoying themselves. In a far corner, Lottie’s sons
performed their juggling act to rounds of applause. On a big roll-down screen at the front of the hall, clips of photos from Marco’s and my childhoods were playing, to the great delight of my guests.