"Two weeks until the wedding and Abby's mother is a suspect in a murder."
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted August 11, 2013
Mystery Woman Sleuth
Abby's wedding is only two weeks away. It's a simple plan
this time so everything is under control. That is until
Abby's cooler in the flower shop needs repair. Abby's neck
begins to swell and no one knows what is causing it. Then
the director of the local animal shelter is killed with only
Abby's mother in the building. Abby and Marco have to get
involved. They can't let the her mother be arrested.
Bev Powers was the force behind the animal shelter. Even
though she wanted to change the no kill policy, she was
acting like the idea was the brain child of someone else.
Abby and Marco learn more about the power that Bev held and
and how many people had reason to resent her. Suspects
become more plentiful, the more they investigate.
Abby's beloved niece, Tara, wants to adopt a mother and
puppy from the shelter. First, she wheedles Abby into
getting permission for her to work there. Then, it's the
puppy she wants. Her parent remain firm on the their stance
of one dog and one dog only. The puppy is cute and cuddly,
but the mother, Seedy, is the ugliest dog anyone has ever
seen. Abby takes Tara to the shelter and Seedy locks onto
Abby with all the love she has. What is a woman to do?
As the investigation winds down, disaster strikes. Marco
keeps turning down Abby's invitations to go out and the
gazebo that Abby has her heart set on getting married in, is
destroyed.
Ms. Collins has added a new title to her Flower Shop
series.
SEED NO EVIL is great fun. Abby's life is never on an even
keel and the reader can't wait to see what can go wrong
next. The relationship between Abby and Marco is one of the
big draws in this series, as well as the interesting twists
and turns of each investigation.
SUMMARY
Abby Knight's wedding is in less than two weeks, and
everything is going wrong. The cooler in her flower shop is
leaking, her neck has swollen to unnatural proportions, her
groom is acting distant, and she still doesn't know where
she's actually getting married!
But things go from bad to worse when the director of her
favorite charity, Protecting Animal Rights, is murdered,
and Abby's mother becomes the main suspect. Abby's wedding
worries will have to wait until she—along with her
fiancé, Marco, and an adorable mutt named Seedy—can
nose out who wanted the animal activist put to sleep. But
they'll have to sort through the long list of suspects
quickly, or her mom may be tossed in the slammer before
Abby tosses the bouquet....
ExcerptCHAPTER ONE
Monday 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
sixty–something–year–old, was wearing a
pale gray skirt and 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,
forty–something 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
teenaged 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 was 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, putting her arms
around me in 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 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 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 state–wide 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. 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 Manufacturing, a company started by
her great–grandfather, which gave her a lot of clout
in town. Bev Powers was a 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 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?"
"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 over a year ago had centered around
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.
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