Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery (38 page)

I led her back into the work room and pulled out two wooden stools just as Grace bustled in with cups of coffee and a plate of blueberry scones.

“Here you go, loveys. Lottie will be making breakfast in a bit, Abby, and I’ll be off to pick up a new espresso machine. I should be back before nine, but just in case, be sure to keep your eye on the clock.”

“Thanks, Grace.” I took a sip of coffee and sighed with pleasure. “Delicious, as always. Do I taste a hint of cinnamon?”

She gave me a coy smile and glided out of the room. Grace never divulged her gourmet coffee recipes.

“Okay, Mom, tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m frozen, Abigail. I have artist’s block and that has never happened to me before. You know I’m usually brimming with ideas for a new project, but this time I haven’t been able to come up with a single one that’s worth anything. Not one! I sat in front of my pottery
wheel for two hours on Saturday and stared at a lump of wet clay. The only idea that came to me was to make a clock in the shape of a giant tick, with tick hands.”

“I’m not getting the reference.”

“You know. A tick ’n clock? As in a ticking clock? The stumbling block was that I couldn’t think of anything to associate with tock. I’m telling you, Abigail, artist’s block is terrible.”

Not as terrible as actually making a tick ’n clock.

Mom prided herself on her creativity. The kind of art she made was subject to change weekly, because she was continually moving from one medium to the next, first trying clay, then plaster, followed by vinyl, feathers, beads, mirrored tiles, knitting yarn, felt, and finally back to clay. Mom completed a new piece each weekend, then brought it to my shop on Monday after school so we could put it out with our other gift items…if we dared. And because she truly believed she was helping us draw in customers, I never had the heart to discourage her.

“What can I do to help?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

“I was hoping you’d ask. I’d like you to find out what’s going on in our local chapter of PAR. There’s a rumor spreading among the members that the board of directors is considering changing the policy of their animal shelter from no-kill to kill.”

“That’s horrible, Mom. They’re supposed to protect animal rights.”

“Tell me about it,” Mom said. “I can’t stand the thought of homeless animals being put down. This could ruin PAR’s reputation, not to mention all the good work our organization has done for this community.”

PAR, which stood for Protecting Animal Rights, was a statewide organization with a large chapter that drew members from New Chapel and the surrounding towns. A few months back, I had helped PAR lead a protest
against a proposed dairy factory. The megacompany behind it had a reputation for pumping its herds with bovine hormones so the cows would produce more milk. Unfortunately, that caused the men who drank the milk to grow breasts. With my help, PAR stopped the dairy factory in its tracks.

Because my mom grew up on a farm and loved animals, she’d been happy to step into my role at PAR when I got too busy helping Marco, my hunky husband-to-be, with his private investigation business. She’d led a few protest movements and had seemed delighted to be working with a charitable organization that could make such a difference in animal rights.

“Have you heard why the board would want to change the policy?” I asked.

“No, and I don’t even know for certain whether the rumor is true. But if so, your father says it has to be about money. I know it’s more expensive to run a no-kill shelter, but if this change happens, I can guarantee that our members will be outraged and our chapter may fold. Who’ll raise funds to support the animal shelter then? It’s in enough financial trouble as it is. Who’ll protect the rights of all the innocent creatures that live within our boundaries? What if another megafarm wants to plant roots in New Chapel?

“Abigail, this situation is distracting me to such a degree that I can’t create. And when I can’t create, I get harried. And when I get harried, your father gets cranky, and we argue all the time. And that distracts me even more. Do you understand why I need you to investigate?”

“I’m not sure how to go about investigating a nonprofit organization, Mom. Marco is the private eye.”

“I was hoping he’d help, too. The reason I wanted to come by Bloomers on this particular morning is that the
monthly PAR meeting is tonight. The meeting starts at seven o’clock and lasts about an hour…or longer if they’re arguing, which they seem to be doing a lot of these days.

“There’s a social gathering afterward, which would be the perfect opportunity for you to talk with the board members, especially our chairwoman, Dayton Blaine, as well as Bev Powers, our executive director. Wait. What am I saying? You know who they are. I don’t need to explain them to you.”

Everyone in New Chapel knew who Dayton Blaine was. Her family owned Blaine Industries, a company started by her great-grandfather, which gave her a lot of clout in town. Bev Powers was the town councilwoman, in the newspapers constantly because she was always suing someone.

“Please say you’ll help, honey. I need to know the animals will be safely taken care of so I can get back my creative edge.”

How could I refuse when she looked at me with those large, imploring eyes? “Will that take away the worry line between your eyebrows?”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be a fixture until I see you and Marco happily married.”

Seeing
us married wasn’t something Marco and I had planned to have happen. Dealing with my mom and Marco’s mom, not to mention my high-maintenance fashion plate cousin Jillian, all of whom had decided how our wedding should proceed, had pushed Marco and me to the point of planning an elopement. This was especially true after our parents had gotten together and chosen a wedding destination cruise to Cozumel for the entire bridal party and guests, with our tickets as their wedding gift. Our honeymoon, as they saw it, would take place on the return trip. Imagine a honeymoon with an
entire family present—make that our
crazy
families present. I was still having nightmares.

Fortunately, I had talked to my father in time to stage an intervention and the cruise tickets were never purchased. Whew. We had compromised by planning an intimate wedding for immediate family only, followed by a private honeymoon, followed by a gigantic reception for all the relatives and friends who would be left out of the wedding ceremony.

“Mom, you don’t need to worry about the wedding. My dress is ordered, invitations sent out, flowers chosen, and reservations made for the wedding dinner. That’s the beauty of having such a small affair. Two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, and thirty people are super easy to plan for.”

“I hope you won’t regret having such a small ceremony, honey, but I am abundantly happy that you aren’t eloping. It would have broken my heart if I couldn’t see you and Marco exchange vows. You might be an adult, but you’ll always be my little girl.”

The fear of breaking hearts was the main reason we’d changed our minds about eloping. Our moms and my dad would have been crushed, and we just couldn’t do that to them.

Back to the subject at hand. “I’ll talk to Marco during my lunch hour and see if he’s free to go with me to the meeting. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Thanks for asking, but on Mondays at five o’clock I volunteer at the animal shelter, and sometimes I’m there two hours, so I’ll just meet you instead.”

“It sounds like a plan, Mom.”

“I’ll feel so much better with you and Marco looking into this,” Mom said, giving me a hug.

“We’ll do our best to find out what’s going on.”

On the minus side, what we would do with that
knowledge was beyond me. Every case Marco and I had worked on since we’d teamed up a year ago had centered on a murder investigation. But being creative was important to my mom and she was important to me, so we’d figure it out.

On the plus side, with my wedding coming up soon it was a
huge
relief to be working on an investigation that had absolutely nothing—nada, zero, zip—to do with murder.