“Well, they’ve made a mistake this time, because I’d stake my life on Nikki’s innocence. Not so much on her intelligence, however. Do you know anything about Jonas Treat? I know he’s got money, but all he said at the speed-dating event was that he developed land.”
“You’ve probably seen his ads on billboards for that new development he’s putting up, Chateaux La-something. He’s quite a controversial figure—or was, I should say. He always managed to get the County Plan Commission’s approval even when there was public opposition, and was a cutthroat salesman—not a guy you’d want to do business with.”
“Or date, which is exactly why I told Nikki not to go out with him. I knew Jonas was trouble ten seconds after meeting him, but obviously Nikki doesn’t trust my judgment as much as she says she does. You know how close she and I are—or at least I thought we were. Is it possible to be friends with someone and not know she doesn’t trust your judgment?”
Marco put his arms around me and rested his chin on my head, letting me know there really wasn’t any need to remind him how important trust was to me. It was his lack of trust in my judgment that had caused our recent split and nearly allowed a murderer to escape. “We were out of town this weekend, don’t forget. Nikki probably didn’t want to be a pest. She knew this was an important time for us.”
“She also knew I didn’t trust Jonas. So why did she trust him and not me?”
“Because she’s lonely and vulnerable, and that makes her perfect prey.”
“She should have taken my advice,” I said, sighing miserably.
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, “I know how it feels to have someone ignore your advice. I warned you not to go with her to that speed-dating thing.”
“Hey, how about some coffee?” I said, slipping out of his arms. “I can brew a pot in five minutes.”
Marco pulled me back. “No coffee and no dodging the issue.”
Or his penetrating gaze. With a resigned sigh I said, “I’ll admit I ignored your advice that one time.”
“
One
time?”
“Going with Nikki was the only way I could get her to agree to attend the event. Otherwise she wouldn’t have—”
“Met Jonas?”
With a groan, I rested my forehead against Marco’s chest. “You’re right! It’s my fault she met Jonas. It’s my fault she’s down at the police station right now sitting in that cold, bare interrogation room. What if they arrest Nikki, Marco? What if she’s indicted for murder?”
“Dave won’t let that happen. Nikki will be cleared and back home before you know it.” Marco glanced at his watch. “It’s almost seven o’clock. We’d better skip the shower-for-two so you’re not late for work. I’ll be available by cell phone if you need me. Let me know what happens, okay?”
I gave him a hug. “Thanks, Marco. And thanks for the wonderful weekend in Key West. It was just what we needed.”
“Are we back on track now?”
“I’d have to say yes to that. How about you?”
Instead of replying, Marco reeled me in for one last, long, steamy kiss. “Want something else to think about, Fireball?” he murmured, nuzzling my ear.
Something
else
? Wait. Was I supposed to be thinking? “Bring it on, Salvare.”
“How about picking a place for our next weekend getaway ? And weren’t we talking about looking into scuba lessons, since we had such a great time snorkeling?”
Those plans would do the trick.
As I stood in the shower ten minutes later, however, my plans for a second dream weekend were all but forgotten as remorse crowded in. I tried to convince myself that Nikki’s predicament wasn’t entirely my fault—after all, she
had
chosen to ignore my advice—yet I just knew that somehow I’d failed her. What I needed was a sit-down with Lottie and Grace, my employees and mentors at the flower shop. They always had good, commonsense advice—and, on Mondays, breakfast as well.
Holding on to that thought, I stepped out of the shower, only to hear the phone ringing, so I wrapped a towel around my body and ran to answer it.
“Abby,” Dave said, “the police are coming back for the clothing Nikki wore last night. She said they’re in her laundry basket in her closet. Would you pull that basket out for them, and would you also pull out her black high-heeled ankle boots?”
“Sure, Dave. How’s Nikki doing?”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
Obviously Dave wasn’t in a position to say more, probably because the detectives were present. But just the thought of a forensic team poring over Nikki’s clothing, looking for evidence, gave me a knot in my stomach the size of a soccer ball.
I dressed hurriedly, then ran to Nikki’s room to gather everything. The same two cops came for her belongings, thanked me, and left without another word, so I brushed my teeth, made sure Simon had food and fresh water, grabbed my cell phone and purse, and took off for Bloomers.
My flower shop is located on one of four streets surrounding the courthouse in my hometown of New Chapel, Indiana. A variety of businesses populate the square—gift, clothing, and shoe shops, banks, law offices, a hardware store, a deli, a travel agency, and Marco’s Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, located two doors from Bloomers. It’s an area chock-f of old-world charm—brick sidewalks, Victorian light posts, and, unfortunately, parking spots with a two-hour limit.
I parked in a free public lot around the corner from Bloomers and hurried to my shop, always cheered by the sight of the old-fashioned redbrick building with its bright yellow frame door centered between the two big bay windows. As soon as I stepped inside, I heard Grace in the coffee-and-tea parlor preparing her special brews for the day, and Lottie in the tiny kitchen all the way at the back of the building, clattering utensils as she whipped up her famous scrambled-egg breakfast, a tradition she had started years before to make Mondays more tolerable.
Lottie Dombowski was a big, bold, brassy forty-five-year-old woman with four sons, seventeen-year-old quadruplets Jimmy, Joey, Johnny, and Karl (she’d been expecting triplets), and a husband who adored her. She’d owned Bloomers until her husband’s medical condition, combined with health insurance that stank, caused a financial setback that forced her to sell.
That was where I entered the picture. Having been booted out of law school, rejected by my fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, and at odds with my parents about where my life was going, I used the last of my grandpa’s trust money as a down payment to buy the charming but struggling little shop, and all at once my life had direction—downward, into the black hole of debt.
Desperate to draw in more customers, Lottie and I cleaned out a storage room on one side of the shop, turned it into a Victorian-inspired coffee-and-tea parlor, and staffed it with an authentic British tea maker, Grace Bingham, who had just retired as Dave Hammond’s legal secretary. The combination of flowers and hot beverages improved our bottom line, but we were still far from where I wanted to be, which was independently wealthy. In my dreams.
As I locked the yellow door behind me—we wouldn’t be open for business until nine o’clock—Grace poked her head out of the parlor, looking as elegant as ever. Today she wore a dark brown tweed wool skirt and a tan sweater set accented with silver trim and silver buttons, setting off her short, stylish silver hair.
“Good morning, dear,” Grace said in her charming British accent. “How are we today?”
“Wiped out. I could really use some—”
“Coffee? I’ll pour it right now, dear. Go tell Lottie she can serve breakfast anytime.”
I was going to say
advice
, but then I realized I was famished and on the verge of a hunger headache, so I let it go. Not only that, but we had a ritual on Mondays: Eat first, share news after. So I paused to breathe in the fresh scents of roses, orchids, eucalyptus, gourmet coffee, and freshly baked scones, and, thus fortified, headed toward the curtain at the back.
The shop, as I called our display room, started at the large bay window in the front, dressed now with silk floral arrangements for the winter. There was a counter with a cash register, a telephone, order forms, and other essential items; wall shelves; two antique hutches filled with flower arrangements and other gift items; and swags, wreaths, and sconces on the walls. A wicker settee framed by two tall potted dieffenbachia in a back corner sat beside a glass-fronted cooler stocked with colorful fresh blossoms.
Next to the cooler was a doorway hidden by a purple velvet curtain. Behind the curtain lay the true pearl in the oyster, my workroom, the place where magic happened, where I was surrounded by sweet-smelling blossoms, fragrant dried flowers, colorful pots and vases, and all the supplies we could stuff onto the shelves that lined two walls.
Following the aroma of scrambled eggs, I dropped my peacoat on the back of my desk chair, glanced at the spindle that held our orders—there looked to be at least ten slips of paper—then skirted the big worktable in the center and headed for the little kitchen. A tiny restroom was located in the back, as well as a door that led down to the basement storeroom, where we kept our larger supplies.
Standing with her back to me, Lottie was dishing eggs from her skillet onto cream-colored plates. She had on her usual winter outfit—jeans and a bright pink sweatshirt—with turquoise-colored barrettes holding back her face-framing brassy curls.
“Smells wonderful,” I said, taking a seat at the tiny strip of counter we’d nailed to a wall. Three stools were tucked beneath it, providing just enough room for us to sit and eat.
“Toast will be up in a minute, sweetie. After breakfast, you’ll have to tell us what you did over your long weekend.”
It wasn’t going to be easy to tell, not only because of Nikki’s trouble and the loss of a life, but also because Lottie and Grace didn’t know about my trip to Key West with Marco. Since we’d gone to heal our relationship, nothing more, we’d decided to keep our romantic getaway a secret. The last thing we wanted was for my parents or Marco’s big Italian family to get wind of our miniescape and start planning our nuptials.
Also, I’d been a little nervous about Lottie’s and Grace’s reactions. When it came to matters of the heart, they tended to treat me as though I were seventeen instead of twenty-seven. Nikki was the only person I’d told.
“Here’s our coffee,” Grace sang out, sweeping into the room with a tray filled with a coffeepot, three cups and saucers, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes.
Lottie handed out our plates and took a seat. “Happy Monday,” she said, then grabbed her fork and dug in.
For the next few minutes the only sounds were of utensils hitting plates and coffee cups clattering onto saucers, as we downed the fluffy eggs, crunchy toast, and aromatic coffee. At last, with cups in hand, we sat back with satisfied sighs.
“So,” Lottie said to me, “tell us about your weekend. Did you go anywhere new, see anything exciting, do anything fun?”
Just thinking about what had happened to Nikki that morning brought back a knot of distress that nearly canceled out all the good effects of my trip. “Yes to all the above, but first I need to tell you that the police took Nikki to the station an hour ago to question her about a murder, and it’s my fault she’s here.”
Their cups halted in midair. Their eyes opened wider than I thought humanly possible. Then they started firing questions, until I called, “Wait! One at a time, please.”
Lottie held up her hand to go first. “Who was murdered?”
“A guy named Jonas Treat,” I said. “Nikki went on a date with Jonas yesterday evening, and, according to the police, that made her the last one to see him alive.”
“Good heavens!” Grace said. “That poor sweet girl must be terrified. I hope you called Dave.”
“I called him immediately. He’s there with her right now.”
“Wait a minute,” Lottie said. “Are you talking about Jonas Treat the land developer?”
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“Not personally,” Lottie said, “but I know several people who do. You know who he is, Gracie. His nickname is Treat the Cheat. Remember the assistant manager over at Tom’s Green Thumb? Robin, I think her name is. Remember her telling us about her fiancé, the guy who led her on for a year, letting her make wedding plans for a date he never intended to keep? That was Jonas Treat.”
“Yes, of course,” Grace said. “Poor Robin. What a travesty that was.”
“Yep, Treat the Cheat. He also tried to skin my friends Bob and Shirl on a land deal a couple of months ago,” Lottie said. “I shouldn’t say this, but it doesn’t flabbergast me that someone went after Treat. But Nikki? Not a chance.”
“However did Nikki meet this deplorable person?” Grace asked.
“At a speed-dating event,” I said. “Jonas was all over her, trying to dazzle her with his suave act. You’ve seen his type—star-quality handsome, egotistical, a slick dresser, and stocked with so much charm you’d expect to see him dangling from a bracelet.”
“I met a man like that once,” Grace said. “A handsome devil on the outside, but inside a person whose soul was missing.”
“Remind me how that speed-dating thing works, just in case any of my boys ever want to go to one,” Lottie said, stacking plates to take them to the sink.
“The registrants are split into groups of nine guys and nine girls. Then, every nine minutes a new guy comes to the table. The two people ask each other questions, decide if they’d like to meet again, and if so, check each other’s name on their lists.”
“What happens if one of the guys puts a check by your name, but you don’t put a check by his?” Lottie asked.
“After the event,” I explained, “there’s a mixer for the attendees. Then the event organizer culls the lists for matches. Only if both people check that they want to see each other does she then give out the contact information. That way, if you don’t want the guy calling you, he doesn’t get your number. In fact, the rule is that no one is allowed to ask for personal information. Jonas broke that rule to get Nikki’s number.”