Abby Knight is a passionate gal. Already busy as the owner
of Bloomers, a delightful flower shop/tea room, Abby is
also determined to try and stop big conglomerate Uniworld
Food from bringing their harmful farming practices into her
hometown of New Chapel, Indiana. But while she is busy
battling the corporate giants, Abby doesn't realize that
she is being targeted by sinister floral forces that could
not only threaten her business, but her life as well.
Meanwhile Abby's family is still nudging and niggling her
about getting married, and her cousin Jillian is still
trying to one-up her at every turn. The girl's got her
hands full, and it's Valentine's Week to boot!
But Abby manages to keep her flower orders up, find out why
her mom's questionably artsy pins keep disappearing, and
solve a murder or two while she's at it. Now, if she can
just find those anemones she's lost...
In SLEEPING WITH ANEMONE, the eighth book in her Flower
Shop Mystery series, author Kate Collins once again brings
her readers a rollercoaster ride of a mystery with the
feisty Irish lass Abby Knight at the helm. With a cast of
lively characters, including Abby's hunk of a boyfriend,
Marco Salvare, her adorable niece Tara, and the rest of the
kooky Knight family, Collins manages to give enough
background of this energetic storyline to let new readers
in on the fun, and more than enough new adventures to
satisfy her loyal legion of fans.
This fast-paced, zany series featuring feisty, fiery-
haired florist Abby Knight, a twenty-something, law school
flunk-out who fights injustice and finds murderers with the
help of, her hot boyfriend/ex-Army Ranger Marco and her
zany assistants at Bloomers Flower Shop.
I, Abby Knight, home-town florist, refuse to be “cowed”
into giving up my stance against the unfair treatment of
dairy animals. But why does gathering signatures for a
petition suddenly make me a target for kidnapping…and
murder?
Milking it for all it’s worth
Okay, maybe Abby shouldn’t have chosen a home and garden
show sponsored by Uniworld Food as the venue for her
protest against the corporation’s harmful farming
practices. But being forced to leave the event won’t stop
her campaign. Nor will a brick wrapped in burning paper
being thrown through her flower shop’s window. After she
narrowly escapes being kidnapped not once, but three times,
Abby calls in the big guns—her ex-Army Ranger boyfriend,
Marco, and her entire posse of friends and family. And then
the stakes are raised by murder.
Having Marco around 24/7 to protect Abby sheds new light on
their relationship and gives her lots to ponder. Add to
that pressure from both families for her and Marco to get
hitched, and the possibility that the murder investigation
may be on the wrong track, and Abby starts to think she’ll
soon be sleeping with anemones instead of arranging them.
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
A man stepped from the shadows into a circle of
yellow light cast by a single bulb hanging from the high
ceiling. He circled the rickety desk chair, the heels of
his dress shoes striking the concrete floor, echoing in the
chilly chamber. A predator circling his prey.
In the chair sat a large, bulky man, beads of sweat
inching down his temples as he watched the other’s every
move. He jumped when the figure spoke.
“You ask me to believe this situation was caused by a
florist?”
His manner was low key, his voice smooth, almost
amused. Still, the sweating man knew better than to trust
outward appearances. Woe to the unwary who failed to sense
the danger behind those hooded eyes and that deceptively
calm demeanor. “I know it sounds crazy, but you don’t
understand how persistent the woman is.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m beginning to understand how
incompetent you are, my friend.”
“Wait just a minute here,” the sweating man said,
twisting to keep him in sight. “This isn’t my fault.”
“Ah, but it is your fault,” the predator hissed
serpent-like in his ear, sending a shudder down his
spine. “I put the matter in your hands, did I not? You
failed me, and now you want to blame this mess on a
florist, as if that removes your culpability.” Strong
fingers gripped the large man’s shoulders. “I don’t believe
you appreciate the ramifications of your actions, and for
that I must take exception.”
The big man swallowed hard, hoping his trembling
couldn’t be felt through those fingers digging into his
flesh. How ironic that for once he was the one in the hot
seat. “Let’s not do anything hasty, okay? We both want to
make money on this, so give me time to make it right. I
promise you, I’ll handle the problem.”
The predator released him. “The problem? Would that
be the florist?”
“See, that’s the thing,” the large man said, this
time afraid to turn, unwilling to meet that cold gaze
again. “It’s not like she’s just a florist. She studied
law. She worked for a public defender. Now she believes
she’s some kind of crusader.”
A long stretch of silence followed, broken only by a
dripping faucet. Finally, from a distance, as though he’d
receded back into the shadows, he said softly, “Her name?”
“Abby Knight.”
Silence.
“Look, I swear I’ll take care of her,” the large man
said, peering into the gloom. “Just give me a week. That’s
all I ask. One week.”
Silence.
The man wiped sweat out of his eyes. Waiting.
“All right,” came the reply at last. “But if you fail
this time, you, my friend, are finished, and I shall put
the problem to rest myself. Permanently.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Free jelly beans!” I called to the people walking
past my table. “Heart-shaped red jelly beans. Get them
before they’re gone!”
A pair of middle-aged women veered toward my table to
dip their hands in the giant glass bowl, taking a handful
of the small, cellophane-wrapped packages.
“Compliments of Bloomers Flower Shop,” I
said, “located on the New Chapel town square across the
street from the courthouse. And if you’ll sign my petition,
you’re eligible to win this beautiful arrangement of red
callas, pink roses, blue delphiniums, and white carnations,
one of Bloomers’ many Valentine’s Day selections.” I
pivoted the vase to display it from all sides.
“Lovely,” one said.
“What’s the petition for?” the other asked right on
cue, bending down to see the names on the clipboard I
pushed in front of her.
“You’ve heard that Uniworld Food Corporation is going
to open a giant dairy farm on the outskirts of town,
haven’t you?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied, reaching for more candy.
Raising my voice to attract attention, I said, “Did
you know that Uniworld’s policy is to inject cows with
bovine hormones to make the poor creatures lactate nine
times more than normal, and that any Uniworld dairy product
you consume will be loaded with those same hormones, which
can disrupt your endocrine system and have all kinds of
harmful effects on your body?”
“That’s awful!” one of them declared.
I slid two glossy 8x10s toward them. “These are
photos of hormone-injected cows. Take a look at those
udders.”
“Oh, my!” the other said, as both women drew back in
horror. “They’re dragging the ground!” Only a woman could
begin to understand the cows’ discomfort.
People were starting to gather behind the pair, so,
holding up my clipboard with the yellow notebook paper on
it, I continued, “This petition is to stop Uniworld from
opening their dairy farm factory unless they guarantee, in
writing, that they will not inject cows with hormones. Will
you help by adding your name to this list?”
“We’ll think about it,” the first woman said with an
apologetic smile, backing away, taking her candy and most
of the crowd with her.
“What’s there to think about, except ending the poor
animals’ suffering?” I called.
Before they could escape completely, I added, “Remember
Bloomers when you need flowers.”
It was my first year exhibiting at New Chapel,
Indiana’s Winter Home and Garden Show, and it couldn’t have
come at a better time. With the exposition center’s
cavernous hall filled with businesses from all over the
county, where better to make people aware of the impending
opening of the dairy farm as well as to drum up business
for my struggling flower shop? Where else would I be
guaranteed masses of people desperate to escape the winter
doldrums?
Rather than handing out free flowers to draw people
in, I was giving away samples of my mother’s jelly beans.
Artisan candy was the latest in Mom’s long list of creative
endeavors, which included her infamous, neon-hued, Dancing
Naked Monkey Table, her ginormous bowling pin-shaped hat
rack, and her clothing-and-accessories line made out of one-
inch wooden balls that gave whole new meaning to the
term “beaded jacket.”
Like past projects, my mom, an excellent kindergarten
teacher, expected me to sell her designer candy at
Bloomers. Luckily, she’d tested her initial batch on her
family before offering it for sale, otherwise there would
undoubtedly have been lawsuits involving blistered tongues
and seared tonsils caused by her use of red pepper flakes
for both flavor and color. She’d since switched to a recipe
she promised was naturally sweet and mild.
Mom had sent her new batch with my thirteen-year-old
niece,Tara, who promised I’d have amazing results. I hadn’t
had a chance to sample them myself, so I took Tara’s word
for it.
“We’ll sign your petition,” a young couple offered,
stepping up to the table.
“It’s like I said before, Aunt Abby,” whispered Tara,
sitting beside me, “aim for the young. The oldies just
don’t get it.”
“Okay, first of all, I have been aiming young. I held
two rallies on New Chapel U’s campus, both of which was
covered by the local newspaper.” On page ten. Of the third
section. Sadly, although my rallies brought out a lot of
college kids who were more than willing to carry protest
signs, the rallies weren’t very effective because students
didn’t have a lot of buying power. I needed to reach
serious shoppers.
“And second, don’t let your grandparents hear you
call them oldies.” I glanced around to be sure my parents
weren’t heading toward us at that very moment.
“Don’t worry. Grandma and Grandpa know they’re cool.
But you’re gonna have to do better than that” --She pointed
to my pathetically undersigned petition– “ if you want to
stop that farm factory from opening.”
“I know that, thank you very much.”
“You need more media attention, like a video on
Youtube. I can help you make one.”
Tara was the only grandchild in our family, born when
I was fourteen years old, which sometimes made her feel
more like a kid sister than a niece. She had shown up at
the center that morning allegedly to keep me company. While
I appreciated her camaraderie, I was fully aware that Tara
never volunteered for anything unless there was something
in it for her. I had yet to learn what that something was.
Looking bored, Tara rocked her chair back on two
legs. “So when are you and Uncle Marco going to set a
wedding date?”
Ah-ha! There was her hidden agenda. “Grandma sent you
here to bug me about that, didn’t she?”
Tara looked offended. “Nuh-uh! It was totally my idea
to help you.”
Right. “Okay, fine. I’m going to say this once, so
listen close. Marco and I are still in the discussion
stage. And by the way, he’s not your uncle. Have some
jelly beans.” I pushed the bowl toward her.
“Not now, thanks. And by the way, you’re lucky you
didn’t have to try Grandma’s first batch. I couldn’t
swallow for two days. If you ask me, she should stick to
her clay sculptures, and you and Hot Pockets Salvare should
set a date.”
“How about just Mr. Salvare?”
Tara made a face. “He’s way too cool for that. Hmm.
Let’s see. What should I call my aunt’s boyfriend-and-
possible future husband? Oh, I know. How about uncle?”
“How about no?”
Her chair came down on all four legs as she reached
for the petition and added her name in balloon letters. “So
when is Mr. Not-My-Uncle Salvare going to show up?”
“You’re just too cute for words, you know that? He
said he’d come by this afternoon. He’s working on a private
investigation this morning.”
“My friends are jealous because you’re dating him.
How many boyfriends go from Army Ranger Special Ops to
owner of a bar named Down the Hatch, plus being a private
eye?”
“Your friends aren’t jealous because I own Bloomers?”
“They’d be totally jealous if you owned Bloomers and
were married to Mr. Army Ranger-Bar-Owner-Private Eye
Salvare. How about Valentine’s Day? It’s the perfect day to
get married and it’s the day before my birthday. So, a year
from next week on the fourteenth?”
“Tara, would you stop? We’re already getting enough
pressure from our families without you adding to it.”
She grinned. “You are?”
“Your mother and your Aunt Portia send me fliers from
every bridal shop in the greater Chicago area, Grandma has
caterers calling me once a week, and Marco’s mom keeps
tearing pages out of bridal magazines and mailing them to
me. So trust me, when we make a decision, I’ll let everyone
know.”
“Whatev.” She rocked back on her chair. “So, going
back to my birthday--”
Now we were getting to the real agenda.
“–want to know what I want for a present?”
“I’m dying to find out.”
“You know the Barrow Boys are coming here to perform,
right?”
“Who are the Barrow Boys?”
“OMG, Aunt Abby, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of
the BBs. They’re just the hottest new boy band to come
across the ocean in, like, decades. My friend Sonya Hucks
text’d me last night that tickets are available right now
because they added a show on Valentine’s Day.”
“So you want a ticket to the concert for your
birthday?”
“Actually,” she said, “I want you and Dreamy Eyes
Salvare to take me to the concert.”
The agenda unfolds. “You want us to escort you? Why?”
“Because Mom and Dad won’t let me go unless I’m
chaperoned, and you and Macho Marco are cool enough that I
won’t look like the biggest nimrod ever.” Tara clasped her
hands together. “Please, Aunt Abby? I can’t tell you how
much it would mean to me.”
I studied her hopeful little face and felt a tug at
my heartstrings. Tara was so much like me -- blunt cut,
shoulder-length red hair, pert nose, freckles, short
stature, and already showing signs of having curves -- how
could I resist her? In her acid washed, skinny jeans,
banded-bottom flutter-sleeve plum top over a white
turtleneck, and turquoise Blowfish ankle boots, she looked
like a mini-model.
“I want written permission from your parents first.”
“Awesome. I’ll text Mom right now.” Her thumbs worked
her cell phone at warp speed.
Bored out of my mind, I glanced at my watch. It was
ten-thirty in the morning, an hour-and-a-half into the
show, and I’d gotten a meager fifteen signatures for my
petition. Tara was absolutely right: I had to do better
than that if I hoped to have any leverage at all when I
went to court to ask for an injunction against Uniworld.
More people were coming up the aisle, so I rose to
deliver my jelly bean pitch. As I stepped into the aisle, I
caught sight of a lean, so-blond-he-was-almost-albino guy
watching me from across the way. In his mid-thirties, he
had a clean-cut Scandinavian look about him, dressed as
though he’d just stepped out of an Ikea ad. A decent-
looking guy, I decided, until his hostile gaze met mine.
Did he have a problem with me?
I smiled, hoping to disarm him, but it didn’t work,
so I turned my back on him once again and began coaxing
people to sign the petition. After collecting a few more
signatures, I returned to my seat beside Tara and tried to
pretend I wasn’t aware that the guy was still watching.
“Spook-Face over there is weirding me out,” Tara
whispered.
“Ignore him. He’ll go away sooner or later.”
“Um, Aunt Abby?” She nodded in the man’s direction.
Crap. He was heading toward us, side-stepping
browsers with the easy stealth of a leopard.
“Call Special Ops Salvare,” Tara whispered
frantically. “We need back-up.”
I shushed her as the man approached. He picked up a
cow photo for a closer look, put it down, then bent over
the clipboard, running his finger down the list of names.
Tara nudged me just as the man straightened, pinning me
with his ice-blue gaze.
“Good morning,” he said in a smooth voice that
registered a Germanic background. “I’m curious about this
petition you have here.”
My inner antennae quivered a warning. Something about
him set my teeth on edge. “I’m collecting signatures to
halt Uniworld’s--”
“Stop, please,” he said at once. “You misunderstand.
I’m curious as to what your petition is doing here, in this
hall.”
I decided to play it cool, find out who I was dealing
with before I went on the defensive. “Okay, first of all,
let me introduce myself. I’m Abby--”
“Yes, I know who you are, Ms Knight.”
He knew who I was? My inner antenna were vibrating
like crazy now. Trying not to appear nervous, I pasted a
smile on my face. “How do you know me?”
“Your name is on the sign taped to your table.”
Oh, right.
“I’m Nils Raand,” he said curtly, “the local
representative of Uniworld Food Corporation.”
No wonder he was hostile. “Then I don’t need to
explain my petition, because you already know about your
company’s criminal treatment of their animals.”
“Excuse me, Ms Knight, but I must lodge a protest. We
do nothing criminal to our animals. Everything is FDA
approved. Check your facts before making false accusations.”
I jabbed a finger at one of the photos. “So you’re
defending the practice of injecting cows with hormones to
increase milk production, regardless of the cost to animal
or human life?”
His gaze didn’t move from my face, but I could see
the tensing of his jaw, even though his tone remained
eerily calm. “I did not come here to debate the issue with
you. I came to ask you to put away the petition.”
I folded my arms. “Well, I’m not going to do that.”
Raand stared unblinkingly, as though trying to figure
me out. “As you wish,” he said at last, “but consider
yourself warned.”
“Warned? What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, as though to say, Figure it out, while
his chilly gaze flashed, You don’t want me to explain. Then
he turned and walked away.
“You can’t sue me,” I called. “What I’m doing is
guaranteed by my First Amendment Rights.”
He didn’t look back.
I pressed my lips together and glared a hole in the
back of his crisply ironed shirt. I hated bullies, and Nils
Raand was nothing more than a bully in chic clothing. Too
bad for Nils, bullies didn’t scare me.
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