KATE COLLINS

Why did you decide to write mysteries?

My muse, having been a longtime fan of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, said I had to, and what my muse dictates, I must do. Trust me, she doesn’t take no for an answer.

So, who in their right mind would ever want to become a writer and have to put up with muses?

That’s the problem. As a left-handed human, I’ve been told I’m always in my right mind. (But not by my husband.)

Have you always wanted to write books?

Are you kidding? I didn’t even like writing checks. If someone had told me (especially while I was laboring over my eighth grade writing assignments, one being, “Describe your life as an inanimate object”) that I would one day write books, I would have punched him or her out. I knew in second grade that I wanted to be a teacher, and nothing would deter me from that goal. 

What changed your mind?

It wasn’t until after I’d earned a master’s degree in education, taught elementary school for six years, had two children, and took lessons in tole painting, cross stitch needlework, crochet, embroidery, rug hooking, macrame, gardening, and sewing before I discovered I had a flair for telling stories. (It wasn’t like I didn’t already know. My mother had stood me in the corner many times for “telling stories.” She called it fibbing. Same difference.)

What is your writing schedule? Do you only write when the mood strikes?

If I had to wait for a mood to strike I’d write twice a year. What strikes most often is fear. Fear of missing a deadline, fear of having to work around the clock to make the deadline, fear of phone calls from people wanting to chat during my deadline rush, and fear of my bladder bursting from too many cups of green tea.  Actually, my routine is quite, well, routine. I’m at the computer by nine in the morning, break for lunch at noon, back to work at one o’clock, and out the door for a walk by four in the afternoon. I treat it as a job, but I love it as a passion.

You just answered my next question, which was, why do you do it?

And your point is?

Are your children following in your footsteps?

My son recently graduated with a degree in fiction writing from Columbia College. My daughter is studying set design and costume design at Loyola University. I think they may have caught some of the creative bug from me, but they are very talented people in their own right, as are my extended family of children.

And your husband?

He’s an attorney. (Some would say he tells stories, too.) I say he’s my hero. He’s witty, romantic, strong, supportive, encouraging, and has more integrity in his little finger than any man I know. I’d brag more, but he embarrasses easily. And he’s peering over my shoulder.

How did you come up with the character of Abby Knight?

Writing mystery with a humorous undertone and a dash of romance calls for a special sleuth. So I created a quick, feisty little redhead who loves to meddle and hates bullies and injustice; a fearless, female, knight-in-shining armor, (hence the last name Knight) ready to tackle the craftiest killer. Abby was originally going to be a newly graduated lawyer, but that was too dull for my plucky heroine. So instead she became a law school flunk-out who scrapes up enough money for the down payment on a little flower shop named Bloomers, where she can meddle to her heart’s content.

Are any of Abby’s family or friends based on people from your own life?

Just Abby’s father. My father was also a cop, a man who wouldn’t take bribes or play politics and was punished for it by being passed over for promotions for many years. Unlike Abby’s father, mine was paralyzed and wheelchair bound because of a stroke just after he retired. He was honored several times for his bravery and always downplayed it. Being familiar with the ways of cops, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with them for years. I admire their courage, but hate when they use their authority for the wrong purposes.

What have you written besides the Flower Shop Mystery series?

Since 1995 I’ve published seven historical romantic suspenses under the pen names of Linda O’Brien and Linda Eberhardt, (with a mystery in each and every one) and many short stories for children’s magazines.

So what did you write about for that eighth grade “describe your life as an inanimate object” assignment? 

A spoon. Enough said

DEARLY DEPOTTED
A Flower Shop Mystery
by Kate Collins
 

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Abby has her hands full at her cousin Jillian's wedding as florist, bridesmaid, and grandma-sitter-all while wearing a hideous dress. Then the groom's 90-year-old grandmother goes missing from the reception. On her search, Abby finds the corpse of guest Jack Snyder. Now she must find out who killed Jack in the pulpit.

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CHAPTER ONE

                “Red, white, and blue carnations. . .  That’s what you ordered, right?”

                “That’s what I ordered,” I assured my customer, a thirty-four-year-old, bubblegum-chewing, Barbie doll look-alike by the name of Trudee DeWitt. We were standing on the dew-coated front lawn of her sprawling house early on the Fourth of July, so early, in fact, that I was not fully awake -- otherwise I would have caught the note of concern in her voice.

                “Well, then,” she said with a nervous giggle, “oops.”

                Oops? I blinked hard as my sleepy brain scrambled into alert. “They’re not red, white, and blue carnations?”

                “Not exactly.”  Trudee motioned for me to follow, then started across the yard, wobbling unsteadily in her sequined red heels. In honor of the holiday she had donned  a pair of extremely red, extremely short shorts and a tight, spangled T-shirt that looked like an explosion of fireworks across her bosom. Her shiny, silvery blonde hair, pulled back in a loose, sexy braid tied with red, white, and blue ribbons, moved like a wiper blade across her back.

                The DeWitts had hired me to provide floral decorations for their Fourth of July barbeque bash, culminating in a giant U.S. flag spread over the grass behind their house.  It was one of two jobs I’d agreed to take on for the holiday; Bloomers was normally closed on Independence Day. The other job was an opulent, evening wedding and reception for my cousin Jillian-the-drama-queen, which was stressful enough all by itself without adding an oops to it.

                Trailing Trudee across the lawn were my helpers for the day, seventeen-year-old quadruplets, Jimmy, Joey, Johnny and Karl Dombowski, wearing unlaced Nikes, baggy jeans and extra large, button-down shirts. The quads belonged to my assistant, Lottie, who’d happily volunteered their services for the day to keep them out of trouble. I brought up the rear of our little parade, still trying to decipher what Trudee had meant by, “not exactly.” Not exactly carnations? 

                When Trudee came to a halt in front of an insulated trailer and opened the tailgate, the boys quickly formed a semi-circle around her, unable to take their eyes off the spangles bouncing in front of their noses. I broke through the ranks and stepped up to the gate. In the cool, fragrant  interior I saw three enormous bins, each filled with a different color of carnation: patriotic blue, paper white, and -- petal pink?

                “See what I mean?” Trudee asked, wrinkling her nose as if the pink flowers gave off an offensive odor.

                “Not exactly red,” I concurred.

                “You can exchange them, can’t you?”

                On a holiday? Hours before her party? Was this her first visit to Earth?

                I grabbed the arm of one of the quads -- I wasn’t sure which -- slapped money in his palm, and said in his ear, “Go to the hardware store and buy every can of fire-engine red spray paint you can find. Hurry!” Then I turned back to Trudee with a smile. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

                It had to be fine. I needed that big fat fee Trudee had promised.

                My cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my jeans pocket and read the message on the top. “Jillian calling,” it said, which could only have been worse if it had been Satan on the line.

                “Excuse me a moment. I have to take this call,” I told Trudee, opening the phone.

                “That’s okay. I need coffee. I’ll be inside.”

                As she undulated toward her house I forced a note of cheer in my voice. “Happy wedding day, Jillian.”

                “It’s off, Abby. The wedding is off. I can’t go through with it.”

                “Jillian,” I said through gritted teeth, “it’s early. You don’t get up until noon. Go back to bed for a few more hours and you’ll feel like a new woman.”

                “I’m serious, Abby. I’m going to call Claymore right now and tell him.”

                I could tell by the determination in her voice that she meant it. “Hold on,” I told her, then said to the boys, “Go mark off the flag in the backyard. The string and stakes are in my car.”

                As they shuffled off, grumpy now that Trudee and her spangles had gone, I put the phone to my ear once more. “Jillian, one crisis per morning is all I allow myself, and I’ve already had it, so pay attention. You cannot call off this wedding. Do you know how many flowers I’ve ordered . . . Jillian, are you listening?”

                She wasn’t. “Claymore is such a jerk. What did I ever see in him? Tell me!”

                What I wanted to tell her was, “I told you so.” Claymore Osborne was the younger brother of Pryce, the rat who’d dropped me because his parents couldn’t live with the shame of my flunking out of law school. For the Osbornes it was all about appearances, and I had warned Jillian of that when she first showed me her three carat diamond engagement ring. But when had she ever listened? Not when she’d gotten engaged to the Italian restaurant owner, the moody French artist, the English consulate, or the Greek plastic surgeon. In fact, not since she’d discovered boys.

                Jillian was tall, gorgeous, and twenty-five. She’d graduated from Harvard, grown up in a big house, vacationed in exotic locales, and had a father who was a stockbroker and a mother who golfed. Because of all that, Jillian fit in with the Osbornes. I never had.

                Besides not being able to cut it at law school, I was petite (the Osbornes liked statuesque women), I freckled rather than tanned, and I hated the country club scene. I’d gone to school on money from my grandfather’s trust supplemented by summer jobs; I had a father who was a retired cop, and a mother who taught kindergarten and made weird clay sculptures.

                The only reason the Osbornes hadn’t objected to me at first was because my two older brothers, Jonathan and Jordan, were doctors. That, combined with their marrying fashionable wives and joining the country club, made them acceptable. Lucky them.

                “Claymore adores you, Jillian,” I assured my weeping cousin. “He would do anything for you. Why wouldn’t you want to marry him?”

                “Because he’s an idiot. He has no taste. He hates the ascot I chose for him.”

                “Wait a minute. You’re calling off the wedding because of a tie?”

                She sighed dramatically. “It’s an ascot, Abby.”

                “That is not reason enough to call off your wedding. But this isn’t really about the ascot, is it? It’s never about the ascot. You’ve got cold feet again.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m marrying into one of the wealthiest families in New Chapel. Why would I have cold feet?”

                “Because you like being pampered and courted, and you’re afraid once you get married it will end. In other words, you don’t want to grow up.”

                “You,” she said, highly irritated, “are a snot.” And hung up.

                She’d go through with it now just to prove me wrong.

                With a quick glance at my watch, I dashed to the backyard and found that the boys had outlined the flag. As we marked off the stripes, the paint showed up, so we spread the pink carnations in the designated area and sprayed them red. I checked my watch. Half an hour lost.

                “Won’t that kill the grass?” Johnny asked me, as we stepped back to study our handiwork.

                “It’ll grow back.”

                                #

                I left the quads filling in the blue and white parts of the flag and headed for the flower shop to pick up Trudee’s indoor decorations. Because of all the street closings for the Fourth of July parade, I had to park blocks away from the town square, then weave through people who had already staked out their spots to watch the ten o’clock parade. Normally I wouldn’t have minded the hike but today I didn’t have time to spare.

                I unlocked Bloomer’s bright yellow door and walked in to the sound of my assistant, Grace, humming as she ground coffee beans in the parlor, and my other assistant, Lottie, listening to the chatter of her radio from the workshop in back. I inhaled the sweet fragrances of coffee, roses, lavender, and eucalyptus and, for a brief moment, all was right with my world.

                Then I thought of Jillian’s wedding and got a headache.

                Who held their nuptials on a Monday? Could she have chosen a Friday evening or Saturday afternoon like a normal person? Oh, no. Not Jillian. She had to have a Fourth of July spectacle. Her garden ceremony had been arranged to end just as the country club’s big, splashy fireworks display was beginning, so the sky would explode as if the heavens themselves were giving her a standing ovation. My cousin was not a normal person.

                If I were merely her florist I could have shrugged off Jillian’s eccentricities. Unfortunately, I was also one of her bridesmaids, and that meant suffering the company of my weasel of an ex-fiancé, the Best Man, (as if!) who had dumped me two months before our own nuptials. Then there was my escort, deputy prosecutor Greg Morgan -- New Chapel, Indiana’s answer to Brad Pitt -- who was so self-absorbed he couldn’t remember my being in the same high school with him.

                I didn’t even want to think about the bridesmaid’s dress. Jillian had picked out a print that looked like a watercolor painting of white lilies swaying against an aquamarine sky -- at least that’s what it looked like on the bodies of the three willowy women who comprised the rest of the team. On my height-challenged form it looked like a clown suit.

                As a final offense, there was the picky bride herself, Jillian Ophelia Knight, first cousin on my father’s side, who had jilted four men already.  If she made it through the wedding today, it would be a first. If I made it through the wedding without choking her, it would be a miracle.

                Sadly, I had no one to blame for this situation but myself. Being the new owner of a floral shop I had jumped at the chance to do the arrangements for Jillian’s wedding. I needed the exposure, not to mention the business. I had agreed to be a bridesmaid because that was what one did for one’s family. I hadn’t counted on having to deal with an ugly dress, a hateful ex-fiancé, a Fourth of July party, and a cousin who attracted trouble like a magnet.

                There was only one way to get through the wedding, and that was to look at it as a challenge. I’d never yet shied away from a challenge. Also, I’d never shied away from money, and this fee was going to be huge.

                “Good morning, dear,” Grace called from the parlor. “How are we this morning?”

                “Wishing it were Tuesday,” I answered.

                “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” she reminded me in her crisp British accent. Grace had a quote for everything. It came from working as a librarian, just one of the careers she’s held in her sixty-odd years. She was a legal secretary at a firm where I clerked during my year in law school and had retired just before I bought Bloomers, so I coaxed her to come work for me and put her in charge of the coffee and tea parlor. “Is the wedding on or off?” she asked.

                “On.” 

                “I wouldn’t place any bets on it,” Lottie said, coming through the curtain that separated the shop from the workroom. “Jillian’s track record is zero for four.”

                Lottie Dombowski was a big-boned, big-hearted, forty-five-year-old, with brassy curls, a laugh that could be heard across town, a gift for floral design, and more common sense than anyone I knew, other than Grace. Lottie had owned Bloomers for years, but then her husband’s health problems had nearly forced them into bankruptcy and she had to sell. And there I was, freshly booted out of law school and desperate to support myself. I used the remainder of my grandfather’s trust to make a down payment, and the rest was, well, hysteria.

                “How did it go at Trudee’s house, or should I be afraid to ask?” Lottie said over her shoulder as she weeded out the wilting flowers in our glass display case.

                “The supplier sent pink carnations instead of red and I had to paint them.”

                “That would explain the condition of your fingers,” Grace said, handing me a cup of coffee. I took a sip and savored the subtle touch of cinnamon that passed across my tongue. If there was one thing that always improved a situation, it was Grace’s coffee.

                “Fingernail polish remover,” Lottie said, heading back to the workroom with her bundle of old flowers. “That’ll take off the paint.”

                I parted the curtain and followed her into my favorite place in the whole world. Although our workroom was windowless, the abundance of blossoms and fragrances made it feel like a tropical garden. Pastel colored wreaths and brightly hued swags hung on one ivory latticed wall. Vases of all sizes and containers of dried flowers filled shelves above the counter on another wall. A long, slate-covered work table sat in the middle of the room. A stainless steel walk-in cooler occupied one side, and a desk holding my computer, telephone, and the normal assortment of items sat on the other side.

                I printed out my list for the party, then opened the heavy cooler and stepped inside to check on the arrangements we’d done the evening before.

                “Abby? Hello? Are you in there?”

                I turned around and there was the bride-to-be, searching the dim interior with a bewildered gaze. The cooler was such a riot of bright colors that I, with my red hair, yellow tank top and black capris, blended into the background like a gigantic Gerbera daisy.  

                Jillian was dressed in her usual chic style -- mango-colored silk tee, ivory linen skirt, and sexy sandals that emphasized her long legs. Her copper-colored hair fell in shimmering waves around her shoulders, her perfect skin glowed with dewy freshness, and her golden eyes gazed out at the world with a look of keen intelligence, belying the “space for rent” sign behind them.

                “Abs, we have a problem,” she said, spotting me at last.

                “We have a problem? If this doesn’t concern flowers, I don’t have a problem, you do.”

                Pushing out her lower lip like a wounded child, Jillian plucked a deep plum rose from a container and buried her nose in the fragrant petals. “But you always know what to do. And it’s just an itty-bitty problem.”

                She knew how to yank those guilt strings. I guided her out of the cooler and we sat on stools at the worktable. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I worked on your flowers until after midnight and I’m a little tired. Now, what’s the problem?”

                Jillian gave me a pained smile that told me this was a whole lot bigger than itty-bitty. “Greg Morgan sprained his ankle playing tennis yesterday. You don’t have an escort.”

                “If you’re telling me I have to stand alone in that dress all evening,” I managed to say through a clenched jaw, “you can find yourself another bridesmaid.”

                “I don’t know what your problem is with that dress.”

                I eyed a pot of ivy within arm’s reach, wondering if I could use one of the trailing vines to choke her. “It’s made for tall women, Jill. TALL women. Do I look at all tall to you?”

                She leaned back to study me, like it had never occurred to her that I only came up to her shoulder, then she sighed and said, “Okay.”

                “Okay? You don’t care if I’m not in your wedding?”

                “Of course I care, silly. I wouldn’t want to get married without you there.”

                “Then why did you say `okay?’”

                “Because I understand how you feel. And because I know you’ll find a replacement.”

                “Me?” I choked out.

                She shrugged. “Unless you want to walk up the aisle alone. I mean, you don’t honestly believe I have time to look, do you? And you can’t possibly think Claymore can handle it. With his nerves?”

                That trailing vine was so close . . .

                Jillian slid off the stool and gave me a hug, pressing my face into the gold coin that hung from a chain around her neck.  “I knew I could count on you.” She hurried off, calling, “I’ll have the tux sent over before noon.”

                The bell over the door jingled and she was gone. I glanced at Lottie, quietly snipping flowers, and she shook her head. “How many more fires are you going to have to put out before she says `I do?’”

                “Not a single one. Zip, zero, zilch. Not even if her head were to burst into flames.”

                The bell jingled again and seconds later Jillian swept back through the curtain. “One more thing. Claymore’s grandmother is coming, and I need you to keep an eye on her during the reception. She tends to wander off looking for water.”

                There was absolute silence in the shop. Across the table Lottie continued to work, waiting to see what I’d do, and I was fairly certain Grace was hovering on the other side of the curtain, holding her breath.

                I planted my hands on my hips and glared at my cousin. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t you think I have enough responsibilities without adding a ninety-year-old woman to my list? If something happened to her the Osbornes would roast me over live coals. Give her bottled water to keep in her purse.”

                “She won’t remember it’s there. Puh-leeze, Abby! You’re the only one Grandma trusts. She’ll be sitting with Claymore’s parents for the dinner. You’ll only have to keep an eye on her afterward, and she won’t be staying long anyway.” She folded her hands beseechingly and gave me that helpless, little girl gaze that always got to me. “Pretty please?”

                “Are you sure I’m the only one Grandma trusts?”

                “The only one. `That Abby Knight is one sharp cookie,’ she always says. `Pryce, you were an ass to let her get away.’ She likes you way more than she does Pryce or Claymore.”

                Two points in Grandma’s favor. Truthfully, once the flowers were in place I wouldn’t have all that much to do, and besides, I liked Pryce’s grandmother. She wouldn’t take guff from anyone, and she wasn’t impressed by her children’s expensive clothing, fancy cars, or country club memberships.  The first time I met her, at one of the Osborne family dinners, she whispered in my ear, “Don’t let their snobbish ways intimidate you. Pryce’s great-grandfather made his living catching rats, and Pryce’s father’s nickname at school was Boogers. You figure out why.”

                “So are we good to go?” Jillian asked.

                 “Fine. I’ll watch Grandma Osborne, but it had better be for a very short time, and even then, you’ll owe me big time.”

                Jillian gave me another hug, but this time I dodged the coin. “Thanks, Ab. I wub you.”

                I hated it when she started the baby talk. “I’ll let you know how I feel about you after the reception.”

                I glanced at Lottie, who was trying not to laugh.

                “That was the last fire,” I told her after Jillian had gone.

                Lottie’s lips twitched as she stripped the thorns from a tall red rose in one smooth glide of her knife.

                “You’re right. Who am I kidding?” I said. “I should just walk down that wedding aisle carrying a hose and wearing a hard hat.”

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