"Abby Knight's former fiancé will ask for her help"
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted November 24, 2012
Mystery
Abby is busy planning her wedding shower; without help from
anyone, thank you. When her cousin, Jillian, calls asking
for help finding a missing woman Abby is not inclined to
help. Especially when she learns the missing woman is her
former fiancé's new fiancée. Marco won't turn down the job
since he has plans for their honeymoon. When Melissa turns up alive, another woman is found dead in
the lake and Pryce becomes the prime suspect. Abby and
Marco will be busy finding a murderer. At the same time,
Abby has her flower shop to deal with, the shower plans are
falling apart and Jillian's pregnancy is causing her to be
even more ditzy than usual. This is a series that I love and NIGHTSHADE ON ELM STREET is
a wonderful
addition to it. Abby and Marco make a great couple and with
their disparate families there are some entertaining
moments. Ms. Collins has done a wonderful job of crafting
the mystery and keeping readers guessing about the
identity of the killer.
SUMMARY
Enjoy her wedding shower…or receive a cold dunking? In addition to running her flower shop, planning her
wedding, and juggling two mothers who both want to host an
elaborate bridal shower, Abby Knight is facing another
complication. Her ditzy cousin Jillian asks her and her
longtime beau, Marco, a private detective, to find a woman
who’s gone missing from the exclusive beach house belonging
to Jillian’s in-laws, the Osbornes. The missing woman is
also the fiancée of Pryce Osborne, a wet noodle with a big
bank account who dumped Abby just before their wedding
several years ago. Merely being anywhere near Pryce makes
Abby’s insecurities grow like kudzu…. Then a woman’s drowned body surfaces, and Pryce becomes a
prime suspect in her death. Unless Abby and Marco can get a
killer to come clean, their bridal shower will turn into a
complete washout...and Pryce will be exchanging a sunny
beach for a prison cell.
ExcerptCHAPTER ONEMonday, August 1st
Dear Euphorbia,
Half an hour until the flower shop opens, so I\'m
grabbing a minute to update you. Sorry to have been MIA,
but, hey, life is never dull here at Bloomers, even after
the chaos of the wealthy dowager\'s murder died down. So far
today ,luckily, things have been quiet. We started off with
Lottie\'s traditional Monday morning scrambled egg and toast
breakfast, and Grace\'s gourmet coffee and fresh blueberry
scones, so how bad can the rest of the day be?
Wait. What am I saying? Today is Monday – the day
Mom always brings in her latest art project for us to sell.
Last time it was a whole box of sea glass sunglasses, with
frames studded so thickly with sea glass chips that they
became instruments of torture. Still, I\'m going to remain
optimistic because I really want to have a pleasant day, so
I\'ll imagine myself loving whatever debacle Mom bequeaths
us. It\'ll be my new challenge, and you know how I love a
challenge.
On the good news front, I\'ve taken back my bridal
shower! Euphorbia, you\'ve been listening to me complain
since I began this journal three months ago, so you know
what would have happened if I\'d allowed Mom, with her
outrageous ideas, and Marco\'s mom, with her
take–no–prisoners approach to any kind of event,
to pull it off. And heaven help me had my cousin Jillian
been allowed to choose my shower outfit from one of the
haute couture boutiques she frequents.
Being 5\' 2\", with red hair, way too many freckles, and
what my mom refers to as an ample bosom, I don\'t fit into
the kind of garb Jillian\'s ultra–chic customers do,
but she never seems to get that. Well, actually, no surprise
there. For a Harvard grad, Jillian doesn\'t get much.
Luckily, Marco, my groom–to–be, the malest of
all males, the man who causes women of all ages to drool
with desire, likes the way I look, freckles and all. So why
should I spend mega–bucks on an outfit that would only
make me look like an upscale fireplug?
A voice interrupted my train of thought. My assistant,
Lottie, swept back the purple curtain that separated the
flower shop from my workroom and handed me a slip of pink
paper, which, coincidentally, coordinated with her cherry
blouse, white denims, primrose Keds, and the rose colored
barrettes in her short, brassy curls. It took courage for a
tall, big boned, middle–aged woman to pull off all
that pink.
\"Sorry to interrupt, sweetie, but I thought you\'d want
to know about this phone call.\"
I read the message –– twice. \"Pryce called
here? For me?\"
\"Disgusting, isn\'t it? He claimed it was extremely
important that he talk to you right away.\"
Determined not to let anything or anyone ruin my day, I
dropped the paper in the wastebasket beneath my desk.
\"Everything Pryce does is extremely important, Lottie,
because Pryce is extremely important. Just ask him.\"
Not that I harbored any lingering ill will toward the
heel who had jilted me two months before I was supposed to
march down the aisle with him. Now that I looked back, I\'d
dodged a bullet –– make that a hail of bullets
– although at the time, Pryce Osborne II had seemed
like the answer to my prayers. Indeed, according to Pryce,
it was a privilege to be joining one of New Chapel,
Indiana\'s dynasties. His family tree had branches that
reached back to the founding fathers of our country.
I had nothing to bring to that table. All my family tree
had were nuts.
Still, I\'d been living at home with my parents,
struggling to get through my first year of law school, and
Pryce had purchased his own condo, was about to take the bar
exam, and had a high–salaried job all lined up. What
logical–minded woman wouldn\'t go for that? Plus he had
a plan for us: after I got my law degree, we would rule the
justice system.
Only one problem. I flunked out.
With swift vengeance, Pryce\'s parents stepped in and
decreed me an Untouchable for doing the unthinkable. Pryce,
who never ever crossed his parents, quietly asked for his
ring back. My pain was unimaginable.
But as my other assistant, Grace Bingham, liked to say,
when God closed a door, he opened a window somewhere. And
that window had been humongous, because if Pryce hadn\'t
dumped me, I wouldn\'t have become the poor but happy owner
of Bloomers Flower Shop. Nor would I have met Marco Salvare,
the bravest, most sincere, loving, and, frankly, the hottest
guy in town. So merci beaucoup, Osbornes, for not ruining my
life.
\"Why don\'t you let me call Pryce for you?\" Lottie asked,
rubbing her hands together as though anticipating the chance
to tell him off. \"I\'ll let him know you\'ve got more
important things to do.\"
\"Perfect.\" I fished the message from the waste can and
gave it back to her. \"Thanks.\"
But . . . on second thought, maybe I should return
Pryce\'s call. It would be a great opportunity to let him
know I was getting married in a
month–and–a–half. Plus, I was nosy. Erase
that. I was curious as to what was so important that Pryce
would be forced to phone me. Was he writing a book on how to
crush a woman\'s self–esteem?
\"Wait, Lottie. I think I\'ll return that call after all.\"
Lottie shook her head as she handed me the pink slip.
Her view of Pryce was that he was lower than a snake\'s
belly. It was one of those sayings she\'d learned growing up
in the rolling hills of Kentucky.
I reached for the receiver, then changed my mind and put
the message aside. I didn\'t want Pryce to think I was eager
to talk to him. Picking up my pen, I wrote:
Euphorbia, I will have to tell you about my phone
conversation with Pryce later, but only if it\'s worth
memorializing. Otherwise, where was I? Oh, right, preparing
for the shower.
Okay, in keeping with my carnival theme, I\'ve purchased
plastic cups, paper napkins, and coated plates with a
colorful pinwheel design on them. I\'ve ordered carnival
masks, flower pinwheels, flower lei garlands and hibiscus
toothpicks. I want this shower to be an afternoon of flowers
and fun, not the boring cake, punch, and present opening
event everyone else does.
Marco agreed to attend only if I promised that there
wouldn\'t be any games whatsoever, so I still have to come up
with another form of entertainment. I\'m thinking of a
flower–arranging contest. Or maybe a juggling act.
Jugglers who juggle flower pots? I\'ll have to investigate
this further.
I also have plastic utensils, paper table cloths in
bright yellow – my favorite color, as you know
–– and I\'ve ordered a chocolate sheet cake that
will have candy flowers in the shape of a pinwheel on top.
Let\'s see, what have I forgotten?
\"Abby,\" Lottie said, peering in, \"Pryce is on the phone
again. Now he\'s saying it\'s exceedingly urgent.\" She
snickered. \"Maybe his manicurist moved away.\"
I held up my short, unpolished nails. \"I wouldn\'t be
much help there, but thanks, Lottie.\"
I set my journal aside, then inhaled and exhaled a few
times before picking up the phone. I didn\'t want to sound
angry when, in fact, I should want to hug him.
\"Hello, Pryce,\" I said in a cool–yet–
not– unfriendly voice.
\"Abigail, I need a favor.\"
No preamble, no warmth, and he\'d called me by my proper
name, knowing that I\'d always preferred Abby. So I didn\'t
respond.
As though he hadn\'t even noticed, he continued, \"One of
my friends is missing. I wouldn\'t bother you except she\'s
been gone for twenty hours now, and I\'m starting to fret.\"
Osbornes never worried. They fretted. It was the
superior emotion. \"Missing from where?\"
\"The lake cottage. I\'ve checked her condo and her office
repeatedly but there\'s no sign of her. I\'m at my wit\'s end.
She could be in a hospital somewhere or she might possibly
have been abducted. She does have a rather large stock
portfolio.\"
\"If you think something serious happened to her, Pryce,
I\'d recommend calling the cops.\"
He let out an impatient sigh. \"You know Mother and
Father won\'t allow me to involve the police unless I\'m one
hundred percent sure it\'s a life or death situation.\"
\"How do you know it\'s not?\"
\"Because of circumstances that I\'d rather not divulge
into over the phone. I have to keep this matter
hush–hush, Abigail. That\'s why I need to hire Marco.
Would you contact him for me?\"
\"Yes, but just so you\'ll know, it would be Marco and me
taking the case, Pryce. We work as a team.\" Rub it in,
Abby. That a girl.
\"That\'s fine,\" he said dismissively. \"I just want
Melissa found.\"
\"So her name is Melissa?\"
\"Yes, Melissa Hazelton. She owns Pisces, the interior
decorating shop on Lincoln. You know her. I introduced you
to her at one of our country club functions back when you
and I were, well, you know.\"
About to make the biggest mistake of our lives?
\"I vaguely remember a Melissa. Tall blonde with legs
like a weight lifter? Interior decorator more noted for her
enthusiasm than her talent?\"
\"Did you know I\'d planned to marry Melissa?\"
Oops. Foot–in–mouth moment. Why hadn\'t he
mentioned that at the outset? \"So I guess congratulations
are in order?\"
\"Yes, well . . .\" He let it hang there and went on, \"I\'d
like to have Marco – and you, I suppose – come
out to the cottage as soon as possible while my house guests
are still here. I\'m not sure how much longer some of them
will be able to stay.\"
\"Do you think one of your guests may have had something
to do with Melissa\'s disappearance?\"
\"I have no thoughts on the matter. I merely intuited
that you would need everyone who was here this weekend to be
present so you can interview them. Isn\'t that how it\'s
usually handled?\"
He was showing off. \"I\'ll call Marco to see if he\'s
interested in the case.\"
\"Let him know I\'m prepared to pay half again as much as
his usual fee, and I\'m positive he will be.\"
Ah! The Osborne philosophy: You can make anything happen
if you throw enough money at it. \"I\'ll fill him in and get
back to you with our decision.\"
\"Grand. I\'ll be expecting your call, say, within the
quarter hour?\"
\"All I can do is pass along the message.\" I wasn\'t
giving an inch. Let the worm squirm.
\"You\'re being awfully stilted, Abigail.\"
\"Am I?\"
\"I hope you\'re not harboring any ill will toward me.\"
In as innocent a tone as I could muster, I asked, \"For
what?\"
There was a moment of silence, after which he said,
\"I\'ll await your phone call then. Good b––Hold
on a moment. Jillian is signaling –– I believe
she\'s waving hello to you.\"
My cousin was there? Great. Now I had even less desire
to get involved. Not only was Jillian married to Pryce\'s
younger brother Claymore, but also, whenever she was around,
things got crazy.
\"Pardon me,\" Pryce said. \"My error. She\'s signaling for
you to come quickly.\"
The line went dead. I hadn\'t even had an opportunity to
slip in a mention of my engagement.
Oh, well. I could do that when I called to tell him that
there was no way we\'d take his case.
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