When I swapped the thorny problems of law school for the budding business of my flower store, Bloomers, I vowed that I, Abby Knight, wouldnât be caught dead visiting that hateful campus ever again. But sometimes a girlâs got to face down her dragons....
PLANT OF ATTACK
Someone orders a black rose for Abbyâs old law school nemesis, Professor âSnapdragonâ Puffer. But her plans for a speedy delivery are foiled when he catches her putting the bloom on his desk and sends it straight into the trash. Abby flees in terror, only to run smack into Carson Reed, the professor who recently had her arrested at an animal rights protest. After a biting exchange, Abby storms out of the building. But if thereâs anything she canât stand, itâs injustice and bullies. So, even though she knows bad luck comes in threes, she ignores the advice of her sometimes boyfriend, hunk-a-licious Marco Salvare, and heads back in to retrieve her dignity and her flowerâonly to find the rose now decorating a dead professor, and herself the prime suspect....
CHAPTER ONE
I jammed both feet on the brake and brought my old yellow convertible to a screeching halt mere inches from the groin of a dragon. Okay, not a dragon in the fairy tale sense of the word. This dragon was the flesh-and-blood human variety â one Z. Archibald Puffer, a former JAG officer turned law professor who was often referred to as Puffer the Dragon. He was called that not just because of his last name, but also because of his ability to destroy the bravest law student in one fiery blast of fury.
My personal name for him was Snapdragon, because he had a habit of snapping pencils in two and hurling the eraser half at the head of the student whose answer had displeased him. He went through so many pencils that he bought them in bulk, made to his specifications -- glossy black barrels with his initials monogrammed in silver to look like bolts of lightning: ZAP.
I had been struck several times and even bore a tiny scar on my forehead from his last attack, which came with his pronouncement that I was never to step foot in his lecture hall again. That was followed in short order by my expulsion from law school, which, in turn, prompted my then fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, to break off our engagement and leave town until his humiliation over my failure had faded. His humiliation.
It had occurred to me back then that the old maxim of bad luck coming in threes was true. Now, as Puffer glared up the shiny hood of my reconditioned 1960 Corvette with his spiteful, ice blue eyes, and my heart pounded and my clammy hands clasped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt, my gut feeling was that the Rule of Three had begun again. Which meant I still had two to go.
The irony was that the only reason I had come to the law school â a place I tried my best to avoid -- was to deliver a flower that Professor Puffer had ordered. However, I didnât think now would be the best time to hand it over. He might snap it off and chuck the vase at me.
âYou red-headed fumigant,â he jeered, as college students gathered on both sides of the street, âYou nearly killed me.â
I wasnât sure what a fumigant was, but I knew it couldnât be good. âSorry,â I squeaked, slumping down as far as I could. Considering that I was short, it was pretty far.
Was it my fault he hadnât used the crosswalk? Was it my fault he was talking on his mobile phone instead of paying attention to traffic? I didnât think so. Had it been anyone else, I would have told him as much. But that steely glare brought back so many bad memories that all I could do was duck.
âHey, there is someone inside,â one curious student said, coming up for a look.
I raised my head just enough to peer over the dash. Mercifully, Snapdragon had moved on, but not before stopping at the curb to deliver a parting shot. âBe expecting a call from the police,â he sneered, working his cell phone buttons. âIâm turning you in for reckless driving.â
Great. Just what I needed to make my morning complete. ZAP.
I knew what his fury was really about. Puffer was still indignant about the night heâd spent in the slammer over three years ago on a Driving Under the Influence charge. Iâd had nothing to do with it, of course -- I was still downstate at Indiana University at the time - - but that hadnât mattered to Puffer. What had mattered was that the dragon had been publicly disgraced by a Knight -- my father, Sgt. Jeffrey Knight, then of the New Chapel police department -- and once I stepped foot in his classroom and Puffer made the connection, he never let me forget it.
So it really shouldnât have surprised me that this new trio of unpleasant events would begin with Snapdragon. In fact, my first clue should have been the strange order that had been waiting for me when I walked into my flower shop, Bloomers, this overcast Tuesday morning: one black rose suitable for funeral display, noon delivery, to Professor Z. Puffer, New Chapel University School of Law. I mean, who would order a single black flower for a funeral? Bugs Bunny?
Knowing my history with Puffer, my assistant Lottie had tried to talk me out of making the delivery. But no, Iâd decided I needed to face the dragon to conquer those irrational fears Iâd held onto way too long. After all, Puffer had no power over me now. I wasnât that frightened first year law student any more. I owned a business, or at least I owned the mortgage for a business. It took courage to run a flower shop at the age of twenty-six. It also took money, which was something I hadnât yet managed to produce in quantity. Which reminded me. I still had to deliver the flower and collect my money.
I glanced over at the dark red rose (the closest I could get to black since there was no such thing) in its slender chrome vase, the entire package wrapped in black-tinted cellophane, tied with a solemn black ribbon and wedged securely in a foam container in front of the passenger seat -- and tried to imagine Pufferâs reaction when he saw who the delivery person was. Maybe I should take Lottie up on her offer after all.
Horns honked behind me. I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a line of cars waiting to turn into the law schoolâs parking lot, so I pulled into a visitorâs space, shut off the engine, and took deep breaths to calm my nerves. What was the big deal anyway? All I had to do was put the vase on Pufferâs desk and leave a bill. If I was lucky, he might even be in the cafeteria, in which case I could just give everything to his secretary Bea, who always ate lunch at her desk.
A car pulled into the space to my right. I glanced over at the metallic green Mini Cooper and saw Professor Carson Reed at the wheel. Great. Of the hundreds of people I could have seen at the college that day, I had to find the only two on campus who held grudges against me.
From the corner of my eye I watched Reed polish off the last of a burger, crumple the wrapper, check his teeth in his rear view mirror and get out. He eyed my Vette but ignored me as he strode off, briefcase in hand.
Professor Reed was a tall, vain, handsome, single man in his late thirties with a fondness for poetry and black clothing (including a black eyepatch and cape, if he was feeling particularly dashing). He thought of himself as a modern day Lord Byron and frequently could be seen strolling the campus grounds reciting odes to the starry-eyed female students that seemed to follow him everywhere. Sad to say, Reed enjoyed the benefits of having his own fan club and had left many a broken-heart in his wake.
However much I found his behavior offensive, Professor Reed had been one of the few teachers whose lectures Iâd actually understood, even if I hadnât always passed his exams. Plus heâd written papers and often spoke on the importance of taking a stand against injustice â a subject dear to my heart. Iâd even memorized his favorite Byron quote on that subject:
âAs the Liberty lads o'er the sea,
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free . . .â
Then Reed became the legal advisor for Dermacol, a new cosmetics laboratory in town, and suddenly his poetic ideals were replaced by dollar signs, causing my respect for him to take a nose dive. Dermacol tested products on animals kept in wire cages, something I couldnât -- make that wouldnât -- tolerate. In fact, just a week ago, during a demonstration to protest Dermacolâs policies, I was arrested for obstruction. Apparently, Reed hadnât welcomed the picket line Iâd organized to block the entrance gate and had called the police.
As I was being led away in handcuffs, I told him in a voice loud enough to carry to the reporters on hand that Iâd do it again if it meant saving the lives of innocent creatures, and Iâd take on anyone who advocated torturing helpless animals -- including him. Then I called him a hypocritical snake-in-the-grass for selling out to corporate greed. The local newspaper even quoted me on that.
Needless to say, Reed was no fan of mine, especially since photos of the protest made the front page of the New Chapel News, and the accompanying article painted him in a particularly unflattering light. For a man with Reedâs arrogance, I didnât imagine it had been an easy pill to swallow and I was certain the less he saw of me the better. Then again, I wasnât in any rush to see him, either, but since his office was next to Pufferâs, the odds of it were high.
I toyed again with the idea of letting Lottie come back with the flower, but that just wasnât my style. Iâd never shied away from a challenge before -- my parents would attest to that. To hear them describe it, theyâd stumbled around in a zombie-like stupor for the better part of a decade due to their sleepless nights of worrying about me.
My cell phone rang, so I looked at the screen, flipped it open and said, âNikki, Iâm so glad you called. Youâll never believe what happened.â
I knew Iâd get lots of sympathy from Nikki. She was my best friend, confidante and roommate. We had a bond so strong that when one of us was in distress, the other felt the pain.
âI donât have time for that right now, Abby. Iâm standing here on the curb waiting for a guy from the gas station to put a spare tire on my car so I can make it to work this afternoon. And do you want to know why heâs putting on a spare tire? Because your cousin Jillian punctured my Toyotaâs good tire. Thatâs why.â
Obviously there were times when Nikkiâs distress and my distress canceled that whole share-the-pain thing. âTo be fair, Nikki, Jillian didnât puncture your tire. Something sharp punctured it.â
âWhy did it get punctured in the first place, Abby? Why?â
Two professors strolled past my car, so I whispered, âCan we discuss this later?â
âHereâs why. Because Jillian parked her car in my designated space, forcing me to leave my car on the street in front of the house thatâs being remodeled.â
For someone who didnât have time to talk, she was doing a good job of it.
âJillian has also taken over one of my shelves in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and thatâs just unacceptable.â
âAt least youâre not the one sleeping on the lumpy sofa.â
âWhose fault is that?â she snapped.
There was a protracted silence on both ends. Nikki and I had been friends since third grade -- nothing had ever come between us -- yet in the short time my cousin had squeezed herself into our lives, we were reduced to taking pot shots at each other. Truthfully, if Jillian hadnât been a blood relation -- first cousin on my fatherâs side -- I wouldnât have defended her. But having shared many sister-like experiences with her, such as first bras, bad vacations and painful sunburns, I felt duty-bound.
âShe has to move out, Abby. That apartment is not big enough for the three of us.â
âI absolutely agree with you, and she will -- soon. I promise.â
âThatâs what you said weeks ago.â
âSo now itâs even sooner. Donât hiss at me, Nik. You know Jillian is coming out of a severe depression. How many girls get jilted on their honeymoon?â
Nikki couldnât argue that. However, she could have pointed out that not many girls had jilted four men at the altar, either, which had been a hobby of my cousinâs until her recent marriage. âFine. But promise me youâll talk to her tonight about getting her own place, okay?â
âOkay. Now do you want to hear what happened?â
âMake it fast. The guy is almost done.â
As I rattled off the story I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a squad car pull up behind me. âOh, great. The cops are here. Puffer called them after all.â
âGet a hold of your dad, for Peteâs sake, and let him handle the cops.â
Iâd already thought of calling my father but somehow, being almost twenty-seven years old, I felt foolish asking him to haul me out of a scrape, especially one as silly as this. Besides, Iâd already tapped him to get me released from jail after the protest march. I didnât think heâd be too pleased to receive another call.
âWell, well. Would you look who we have here?â a droll male voice to my left said.
Resigning myself to embarrassment, I stowed my phone, got out of the Vette and turned to face my bud, Sgt. Sean Reilly, a good- looking, forty-year-old, Irish-American police officer with intelligent brown eyes and a perturbed scowl. Okay, we werenât exactly buddies, but over the past several months we had come to a point of mutual respect. . . I hoped.
âTop oâ the lunch hour to you,â I said, trying to prompt a smile. It didnât work.
âItâs not the top of my lunch hour,â he grumbled.
âIâd say not, if they have you making routine traffic stops.â
My second attempt at humor didnât work either. Reilly planted his hands on his thick black leather belt. âI donât make routine traffic stops. I heard dispatch read your license plate number and volunteered to take the call as a favor to you.â
Ouch. And Nikki had laughed when Iâd paid extra for a vanity license plate that read: PHLORIST R ME. âGee, that was really sweet of you, Reilly. Does that mean I can go?â
âNo. It means you can tell me why you tried to run down Professor Puffer.â
âLetâs clear up that misconception right now. I didnât try to run him down. He stepped out in front of me.â
âHe said you came within an inch of taking his life.â
âPfft. It was at least two.â
Reillyâs scowl deepened.
âHeâs a drama queen, Reilly. Okay, so maybe I was fiddling with my radio for a second. Thatâs beside the point. The point is, he has it in for me because my father hauled him in on a DUI once.â
âDid you, or did you not, almost hit him?â
I scratched the end of my nose, trying to think of a way around the question. Clearly, I should have paid more attention in those law classes. âYes, I almost hit him but--â
âUh-uh,â he said, wagging a finger at me. âNo buts.â
âMitigating circumstances!â I cried. Wow. I had remembered something. âPuffer walked out from between two cars blabbing away on his phone and never checked to see if anyone was coming.â
Reilly studied me for a long moment, then finally growled, âAll right. Get out of here.â
âIâm free to go?â
âOn one condition. That I donât get any more calls about your driving. Got it?â
âYou bet.â I blew him a kiss, then checked the time, saw I had five minutes to get the flower up to Pufferâs office and scrambled for the package.
#####
A knot of fear the size of Rhode Island took over my stomach as I tucked the wrapped rose in the crook of my arm and headed toward the stately, two-story brown brick building that housed New Chapel Universityâs law school. The university covered an area approximately fifteen square blocks, encompassing ten buildings, three dormitories, and a handful of Greek houses. It was a small, private college, but it had an excellent reputation, and its law school held its own with any in the country -- not that they could prove it by me.
I paused at the curb to let a white Saab pass. I recognized the car as belonging to Jocelyn Puffer, Snapdragonâs wife, a subdued woman who seemed the exact opposite of her belligerent husband. Rumor had it that Jocelyn had come from a well-to-do Connecticut family that had disowned her when she married Puffer, not that I ever trusted rumors. Jocelyn wasnât beautiful, but she knew how to dress and was always courteous whenever I met her in town, usually at the used book store where she worked. It was unusual to see her at the university. Then again, if I were her, Iâd do my best to avoid Puffer, too.
I took a breath and continued on toward the double glass doors, but as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall and saw the sights and smelled the smells that had greeted me every day for nine miserable months, I broke out in a cold sweat. Focus on the flower, Abby. Thatâa girl.
Straight ahead was the student commons -- a small area with a grouping of worn sofas, a few round table-and-chair sets, a long table against a wall that held a big coffee urn, a stack of paper cups and other coffee supplies, and a bottled water/soft drink machine. To my right was a hallway that led to the lecture halls, and to my immediate left was a wide, stone stairway that led up to the professorsâ offices -- the only access other than a private elevator farther down on the right that was strictly for the use of the three professors on that side of the building. (Apparently, before six more offices had been squeezed in, everyone had been able to access it, but not anymore.) Beyond the stairway was a law library that didnât get much use now that everything could be found on the Internet.
I trudged slowly up the steps, berating myself for letting my fear of a bully like Puffer get such a grip on me. I was making a delivery, for heavenâs sake, not taking an oral exam. At the top I entered the large, central secretarial pool that served the nine offices around it, three on a side, plus a computer lab, washrooms, and a conference room. To my right were the offices with the most prestige, having access to a private elevator through a shared vestibule in the back -- Myra Baumgartenâs, Carson Reedâs, and Pufferâs. To my relief, no light showed through the glass in Pufferâs door. In fact, the entire floor seemed to have emptied out, except for Professor Reed and the one person Iâd been hoping to find there -- Beatrice Boyd.
Known as Aunt Bea by those of us sheâd consoled after weâd limped out of Pufferâs inner sanctum emotionally bruised and verbally beaten, the fifty-something secretary worked for two of the full- time professors, Puffer and Carson Reed. Originally from Seattle, Bea was a product of the hippie generation and still dressed in long, colorful, cotton skirts and full, gauzy blouses belted at the waist by a fringed leather sash. She wore silver hoop earrings and turquoise rings, but never used make-up. Fortunately, her smooth complexion and big blue eyes were attractive enough without them. Her hairstyle was another throwback to the sixties -- a waistlong, heavy braid of gray-brown hair, usually with a yellow pencil stuck through the base like a hair pick.
Iâd always thought of Bea as the ultimate earth mother, yet sheâd never had children. I wasnât even sure sheâd ever married, although photographs of herself with a man named Zed taken on various back- packing adventures sat on her desk. Seeing her now, I remembered the last time sheâd come to my aid -- when Iâd learned that Iâd been booted out of law school. Sheâd held me when I cried, wiped my tears, bundled me into her car and shuffled me to a coffee shop, where Iâd drowned my sorrows in her favorite remedy -- hot, spiced soy chai tea.
It was Bea whoâd urged me to forget the law and search my soul for what I truly wanted out of life. Sheâd encouraged me to explore the idea of buying the floundering Bloomers, a place Iâd worked during the summers of my college years. It had been the best decision of my life and Iâd thanked her many times over for her guidance.
Unaware of my approach, she took a woven leather drawstring purse out of a file cabinet drawer and rose, a distracted look on her normally serene face. When she saw me she gave a little gasp, then covered it with a forced laugh. âAbby! You gave me a start.â
âSorry. Guess what I have? A delivery for Professor Puffer.â I held up the wrapped rose and scrunched my nose to show my displeasure.
âHeâs not in,â she said, backing toward the stairs. âJust set it on his desk and leave the bill beside it. I wish I had time to chat but I have an appointment.â
âSure, thanks. Iâll catch you later.â I watched her hurry off, hoping everything was all right -- it wasnât like her to be so agitated -- then I remembered my reason for being there and turned to gaze anxiously at Pufferâs closed office door. Okay, I could do this.
Holding the package in front of me like a shield, I walked toward the dragonâs lair, trying to ignore the knot in my gut. As I passed Professor Reedâs office I could hear him talking in a sharp, but hushed, voice. No one answered him, so I figured he was on the phone, and from the sound of it, he wasnât a happy camper.
I stopped at Pufferâs door, knocked, waited a few moments, then took a deep breath and stepped inside, extremely relieved to find that Bea was right. The dragon was gone.
His office was just as I remembered it, even down to the smell of pine disinfectant. It had a wall of shelves with the books arranged not only by color, but also by size; another wall of awards, photos, and mementos from his JAG days; a small table that held a battlefield map covered with tiny soldiers and cannons; a desk with metal legs; a high- backed swivel chair; a door at the back that led to the elevator vestibule; and, finally, the small, wooden chair upon which I had sat many times, fighting back tears while he ridiculed my papers.
The memory brought an angry flush to my face, which, on a redheadâs fair skin, was bright enough to look feverish. I plunked the flower on the desk, next to his computer monitor, propped the bill beside it, and was ready to leave -- then I spotted the can of glossy black pencils sitting on the far side of his desk and couldnât resist the temptation. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was there, then snatched one of the sleek tools and held it as if I were going to snap it in two, imagining the satisfaction of hurling the eraser end at Pufferâs head.
Suddenly, the rear door opened and in charged the dragon in all his intimidating glory -- head up, shoulders back, spine stiff and nostrils flaring, as if he were a general in the military embarking on a war campaign.
And there I stood like an enemy soldier within firing range, holding his pencil.
Release Date: April 24, 2016
Release Time: 86 minutes
Director: Bradley Walsh
Cast:
Brooke Shields as Abby Knight
Brennan Elliott as Marco Salvare
Kate Drummond as Nikki Bender
Daniel Kash as Professor Bruce Barnes
Rachael Crawford as Belinda Harper
Celeste Desjardins as Sydney Knight
Claire Rankin as Jocelyn Barnes
Melissa Bolona as Poppy Krivoy
Beau Bridges as Jeffery
Gary Carrier as Police Officer / Background
Emily Dickinson as Temp Worker
Leigh Elliott as Bloomers Selfie Customer
Ricardo Hoyos as Kenny Lipinski
Pat Mastroianni as Conner Mckay
Paulino Nunes as Detective Sean Reilly
Justin James Remeikis as Bar Patron #2
Jeff Teravainen as Professor Carson Howell
Kate Collins is the author of the best-selling Flower Shop Mystery series. Her books have made the New York Times Bestseller list, the Barnes & Noble mass market mystery best-sellersâ lists, the Independent Booksellersâ best-sellerâs lists, as well as booksellersâ lists in the U.K. and Australia. All Flower Shop Mysteries are available in paperback, hardback and large print editions. The first three books in the FSM series are now available on audiobook.
In January of 2016, Hallmark Movies & Mysteries channel aired the first Flower Shop Mystery series movie, MUM'S THE WORD, followed by SLAY IT WITH FLOWERS and DEARLY DEPOTTED later that year. The movies star Brooke Shields, Brennan Elliott, Beau Bridges and Kate Drummond.
In December of 2017, a Christmas novella featuring the whole cast from the Flower Shop Mystery series was released in e-book format. MISSING UNDER THE MISTLETOE is the first mystery to be released digitally, with plans for many more stories to come.
Kate started her career writing children's stories for magazines and eventually published historical romantic suspense novels under the pen name Linda Eberhardt and Linda O'brien.
Snipped in the Bud #4
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