Seed No Evil

Nightshade on Elm Street

“Abby's warm and caring relationships, especially with Marco, will draw readers back as this cozy series continues to grow.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Pleasant and entertaining, just what a cozy should be. . . . Colorful characters and a bit of romance add whimsy.”

—
Romantic Times

“An engaging cozy. . . . The investigation contains entertaining red herrings and twists . . . a fun lighthearted whodunit.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“A delightful installment. . . . I can't wait to see what awaits Abby and Marco in marriage.”

—Fresh Fiction

To Catch a Leaf

“This story is multifaceted and complex and perfectly paced. There are twists and surprises along with the comfort of the characters we have all grown to love. . . . This story is a must read!”

—Dollycas's Thoughts

“Ms. Collins has a devious and creative mind when it comes to each new Flower Shop mystery. Her plots are ingenious [and] Abby and Marco's chemistry is alluring.”

—Once Upon a Romance

Night of the Living Dandelion

“Great plotting and interesting secondary characters add depth and humor. . . . Abby and Marco's relationship strengthens and sizzles.”

—
Romantic Times

“A heartwarming cozy. . . . Fans of the series will feel mesmerized by the plot.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

Dirty Rotten Tendrils

“Each book in this series contains murder, continuous mayhem, a bit of sizzle, and one justice-seeking amateur sleuth.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“Abby is an excellent heroine who finds herself in some of the most unlikely, entertaining situations.”

—The Mystery Reader

Sleeping with Anemone

“A nimble, well-crafted plot with forget-me-not characters.”

—Laura Childs, author of the Tea Shop Mysteries

“A treat not to be missed.”

—Kate Carlisle,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Bibliophile Mysteries

“Foul play fails to daunt a lively heroine who knows her flowers. A clever, fast-moving plot and distinctive characters add up to fun.”

—JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

Evil in Carnations

“Collins isn't losing steam in her eighth foray into the world of florist and part-time accidental detective Abby Knight. The fun, family, and romance are still fresh, and the mystery is tidily wrapped up, with just enough suspense to keep readers flipping pages.”

—
Romantic Times

“Ms. Collins's writing remains above par with quality and consistency: fun and breezy, intriguing and suspenseful, excitement and sizzle.”

—Once Upon a Romance

Shoots to Kill

“Colorful characters, a sharp and funny heroine, and a sexy hunk boyfriend.”

—Maggie Sefton, author of the Knitting Mysteries

“Once again Kate Collins delivers an entertaining, amusing, and deliciously suspenseful mystery.”

—Cleo Coyle, author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

A Rose from the Dead

“The latest Flower Shop Mystery is an amusing graveyard amateur sleuth that will have the audience laughing.”

—The Best Reviews

Acts of Violets

“A delightful lighthearted cozy.”

—The Best Reviews

Snipped in the Bud

“Lighthearted and fast-paced, Collins's new book is an entertaining read.”

—
Romantic Times

Dearly Depotted

“Abby is truly a hilarious heroine. . . . Don't miss this fresh-as-a-daisy read.”

—
Rendezvous

“Ms. Collins's writing style is crisp, her characters fun . . . and her stories are well thought out and engaging.”

—Fresh Fiction

Slay It with Flowers

“What a delight! Ms. Collins has a flair for engaging characters and witty dialogue.”

—Fresh Fiction

“You can't help but laugh . . . an enormously entertaining read.”

—
Rendezvous

Mum's the Word

“Abby Knight [is] rash, brash, and audacious. Move over, Stephanie Plum. Abby Knight has come to town.”

—Denise Swanson, author of the Scumble River 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 Mystery series

“As fresh as a daisy, with a bouquet of irresistible characters.”

—Elaine Viets, author of the Dead End Job Mysteries

Mum's the Word

Slay It with Flowers

Dearly Depotted

Snipped in the Bud

Acts of Violets

A Rose from the Dead

Shoots to Kill

Evil in Carnations

Sleeping with Anemone

Dirty Rotten Tendrils

Night of the Living Dandelion

To Catch a Leaf

Nightshade on Elm Street

A Flower Shop Mystery

K
ate
C
ollins

Published by the Penguin Group

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New York, New York 10014, USA

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For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Linda Tsoutsouris, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-1-101-61518-8

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.

To my son, Jason, and my daughter, Julie

“No language can express the power, and beauty, and heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It shrinks not where man cowers, and grows stronger where man faints, and over wastes of worldly fortunes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity like a star.”

—Edwin Hubbell Chapin

I would like to thank my friends Karen Monti and Renee Stanzione at City Traditions II and Fran Sackler of Frank Sackler Floral Designs for their assistance with the flowers mentioned in this book. As a “pretend” florist, I always welcome such help. I'd also like to shower appreciation on my Cozy Chick author friends, Deb Baker, Lorraine Bartlett, Julie Hyzy, Maggie Sefton, Leann Sweeney, and J. B. Stanley, for rushing in to help when a crisis hit during the writing of this book. And I couldn't close this paragraph without a ginormous thank-you to my soul sister, Barb Ferrari, who has always been there for me.

M
onday mornings are the bane of most people's existence. I, however, view them as curtains going up on a brand-new play. So when I opened the yellow frame door with its charming beveled glass center and stepped inside my personal theater—that being Bloomers Flower Shop, located in the heart of New Chapel, Indiana's cozy town square—I couldn't wait to find out what the opening scene was going to be.

I entered Bloomers stage right and feasted my eyes on the scenery—a plethora of flowers in various arrangements, a veritable artist's palette of tones, tints, shades, and hues that covered the color spectrum. And then there were the sounds—telephone ringing, bell over the door jingling, and my assistants, Lottie and Grace, coming to greet me with their cheery voices.

“Abby, sweetie,” Lottie said, her head of short brassy curls shaking a warning, “we've got a bad situation. Nine orders came in for funeral arrangements, and there's not a single lily in the cooler. I don't know what happened. I thought I ordered them on Thursday, but apparently I forgot. I put in a call to our main supplier, but the truck won't be here until later today.”

“Abby, dear,” Grace said in her lovely English cadence. “I'm sorry to add to your woes, but disaster has struck the coffee-and-tea parlor. The espresso machine gave up the ghost, and the clotted cream has curdled well beyond the pale. Also, the chap is here to install the security door in the rear of the shop but says the hinges are so rusty on the old one, it'll take him twice as long and require that the door stand open for a length of time. He charges hourly, by the way.”

Not exactly the cheerful sounds I'd expected.

“Your cousin Jillian called,” Lottie said, reading from a pink memo. “She said to tell you she'll be here tomorrow afternoon to something or other.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she mumbled so I wouldn't be able to understand her. I asked her to spell it and she said—and I quote—
I. T.
And then she snickered and hung up.”

“And your mum is in the back,” Grace added. “I believe at the moment she's supervising the door installation.”

Cue the curtain guy and dim the lights. I want a refund on my ticket.

•   •   •

As every good thespian knows, the show must go on, and so must the floral business, for many reasons, the most important of which is to pay the bills. Besides, what could be so awful that it would take away from the joy of my upcoming marriage to the man of my dreams? Another of my mom's horrific art projects that she expected me to sell at Bloomers? More of Jillian's harping about my ad hoc wedding plans? Not a chance. Nothing could mar my complete and utter happiness.

“Why is Mom here so early?” I asked.

“We'll let her go into it, shall we?” Grace suggested, getting a nod of agreement from Lottie.

Grace, a diminutive sixtysomething-year-old, was wearing a pale gray skirt and a baby blue sweater set with silver earrings and a pearl necklace, all of which set off her short, stylish gray hair. Lottie, in contrast, a big-boned fortysomething Kentuckian, had on her traditional white stretch jeans with a bright pink T-shirt and deep pink Keds. Her choice of color, she claimed, ensured she was always “in the pink,” which, as the mother of teenage quadruplet sons, wasn't an easy feat.

“Did Mom bring another art project?” I asked, hoping to mentally prepare myself.

“That's why she's here,” Lottie said. “Go talk to her. She's upset.”

I walked through the shop, stepped through the purple curtain into my workroom, and breathed in my nirvana. Although the space was windowless, the colorful blossoms and heady fragrances made the area a veritable tropical garden. Vases of all sizes and containers of dried flowers filled shelves above the counters along two walls. A large, slate-covered worktable occupied the middle of the room; two big walk-in coolers took up one side, and a desk holding my computer equipment and telephone filled the other side. Beneath the table were sacks of potting soil, green foam, and a plastic-lined trash can.

Beyond the workroom were a tiny galley kitchen and an even tinier bathroom. At the very back was the exit onto the alley, guarded by a big, rusty iron door that had needed to be replaced since probably sometime around 1970. That was where I found my mother, watching a man from the door store struggling with the hinge pins.

“Abigail!” Mom called, brightening. She stepped around the installer and came toward me, drawing me into a motherly hug, the kind she ended by leaning back to inspect me. “Did you have breakfast today? You look pale.”

By pale, she meant my freckles were showing more than usual. Along with being a mere five feet two inches tall and having fiery red hair, I was also blessed—or cursed, depending upon my mood—with freckles, part of my Irish heritage. Erin Go Braugh.

“Lottie makes breakfast for us on Mondays, so I haven't eaten yet,” I said. “Why aren't you in school? What's up?”

“I skipped the in-service meeting this morning. Can we sit down?”

Uh-oh. That was a bad sign.

My mother, Maureen “Mad Mo” Knight, had been a kindergarten teacher for almost twenty years and always said that after working with five-year-olds for that long, nothing could ruffle her feathers. Her caramel brown hair was always in a neat chin-length bob, her big brown eyes were a sea of cocoa calm, and her peaches-and-cream complexion glowed with good health. The worry lines in her forehead, however, were new.

I led her back into the workroom 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 ten, 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 light finally went on in my attic. “Now I get it.”

“But not until I explained it. 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 the 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 farm factory. The megacompany behind it had a reputation for pumping its herds with bovine hormones to make the cows produce more milk. Unfortunately, it caused men who drank their milk to grow breasts. With my help, PAR had 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 flustered and 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. But you know who they are. I don't need to explain them.”

Everyone in New Chapel knew who Dayton Blaine was. Her family owned Blaine Manufacturing, a company started by her great-grandfather, which gave her a lot of clout in town. Bev Powers was a town councilwoman who was 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 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 why 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?”