CHAPTER ONE 
   

      Just for the record, I am not, in the true definition of the word, a meddler.

      According to my dictionary, a meddler is one who involves herself in a matter without right or invitation. Phfffft. Isn’t me at all.  I am a naturally curious, caring individual strongly opposed to two things: tyranny and injustice. That strong sense of right has been with me as far back as third grade, when I first strode the halls of Morton Elementary School with my “Hall Monitor” sash strapped across my chest.

      I inherited these traits from my father, Jeffrey Knight, who was a sergeant on the New Chapel, Indiana, police force until a felon’s bullet put him in a wheelchair. He firmly believed that his badge stood for honesty and right, and because of that he refused to play politics, which took a lot of courage but cost him many promotions. He has always been my hero.

      But after the previous week -- when my beloved 1960 yellow Corvette and I were run off the road; my flower shop was burgled; and a homicidal garden center owner decided to put a stop to my breathing capabilities -- even my father had determined that I’d put my safety in jeopardy once too often.

      As my assistant Grace, who has a quote for everything, was fond of saying, “If we don’t learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it.” Grace was usually right.

      That week was behind me now. The bullies had been caught, the innocent cleared, and I had sworn off what my friends termed my “meddling,” a vow they did not have to twist my arm to get me to make.

      This particular Monday started at the customary time of eight o’clock in the morning -- or ten minutes past four by the clock on the courthouse spire. The clock had stopped running in either 1997 or 1897, but none of our elected officials was willing to take a stand on the matter -- or find someone to fix it. When asked, their usual response was, “What clock?”

      I pulled the Vette into a space two doors down from my floral shop, landing it directly in front of the town’s local watering hole, the Down The Hatch Bar and Grill, owned by the sexiest man who has ever worn a uniform, Marco Salvare, a former cop turned bar owner who dabbled in PI work on the side. Out front, Jingles the window washer was already hard at work with his trusty squeegee. Jingles was a friendly retiree whose goal in life appeared to be to keep every window and door on the square squeaky clean. His nickname came from his habit of jingling coins in his pocket. I wasn’t sure if anyone actually knew his real name.

      I gave Jingles a wave, then continued down the block, stopping on the sidewalk outside the old brick building that housed my shop to gaze up at the hand-lettered sign that proudly proclaimed my ownership. Even after two months, I was still in awe. Me, Abby Knight, a business woman. All grown up and in debt up to my eyebrows.

      I traced a finger across my left eyebrow. The ring was gone. I had truly crossed the threshold into adulthood.

      Bloomers is the second shop from the corner on Franklin Street, one of the four streets that surround the courthouse square. The store occupies the first floor and basement of the three story building, and has two bay windows with a yellow framed door in between. The left side of the shop houses our flowers and the right side is our coffee and tea parlor, where customers sit at white wrought iron tables and watched the happenings on the square.

      The courthouse, built in 1896 from Indiana limestone, houses the county and circuit courts, plus all the government offices. Around the square are the typical assortment of family-owned shops, banks, law offices and restaurants. Five blocks east of the square marks the western edge of the campus of New Chapel University, a small, private college where I would have graduated from law school if I hadn’t flunked out.

      Because I had flunked out, I’d had to rethink my career plans to find something I could do successfully. It had been a very short list. Then I’d learned that the quaint little flower shop where I’d once worked part time was for sale -- a stroke of luck for me because I loved flowers and actually had a talent for growing things.  So I used the rest of my grandfather’s college trust as a down payment and had an instant career, which mollified my stunned parents. It also saved the owner, Lottie Dombowski, from bankruptcy caused by her husband’s massive medical bills.  Now Lottie works for me doing what she loves best, and I work for the bank, trying to make the mortgage payments.

      Inside the shop, my assistant Grace Bingham was preparing her coffee machines for the day. As soon as I stepped inside and shut the door, she sang out in her crisp British accent,  “Good morning, dear. How are we today?”

      Grace spent years working as a nurse and sometimes still spoke in first person plural. I met her the summer I law clerked for Dave Hammond, a lawyer with a one-man office on the square. Grace was his legal secretary at the time. After she retired and found herself with too much time on her hands I persuaded her to work for me at Bloomers. It was a perfect fit.

      “We are in a good mood,” I called back. “The sun is shining, the temperature is just right, and it’s Monday. The only way it could get better is if twenty orders came in overnight.” I peered into the parlor. “They didn’t, did they?”

      “No, dear, only five.”

      Grace handled as many tasks as I cared to load on her. Since she was an expert tea steeper, coffee brewer, and scone baker, her main job was to run the parlor. It was one of our many efforts to lure in more customers. We were in dire need of more customers, especially now that a gigantic floral and hobby shop had opened on the main highway.

      At that moment Lottie came bustling through the curtain from the workroom in back, a bundle of white roses in her ample arms, her usual pink satin bow pinned into the short, brassy curls above her right ear. It was a daring look for a forty-five year old mother of a highly embarrassable seventeen-year-old boy. Even more daring considering that she had four highly

embarrassable seventeen-year-old boys. Lottie’s opinion on that was simple: Suck it up.

      “Oh, good, you made it before Jillian did,” she said to me as she stocked a container in the glass display cooler.

      The gray clouds were moving in. I almost expected to hear ominous music in the background.  “Jillian is coming? Now? Something dreadful must have happened to get her up before noon.”

      Lottie rolled her eyes. “She’s got another bee in her bonnet about her wedding plans.”

      Grace handed me a rose-patterned china cup filled with her gourmet coffee, fixed just the way I liked it with a good shot of half and half. “Drink up, dear. You’ll need the fortification. You know how tiring your cousin can be.”

       Grace phrased it so politely. My term would have been “pain-in-the-ass,” which Jillian has been since she hit puberty and discovered that boys adored her. Jillian Knight was twenty-five, tall, gorgeous, and one year younger than me. She was also the only other girl in the family, which was about it for what we had in common.

      My father was a retired cop. Jillian’s was a stock broker. My mother was a kindergarten teacher. Jillian’s mother wielded a five iron at the New Chapel Country Club. I paid the mortgage on a floral shop. Jillian got paid to shop for other people’s wardrobes. As children, my brothers Jonathan, Jordan and I worked for our allowances. Jillian allowed their maid to work for hers.

      The only justice in our separate worlds was that my two brothers became successful surgeons, while Jillian’s brother waited tables in a Chicago diner.  For years, our families spent all holidays together, and that has given Jillian and me a sibling-like relationship: we loved each other but didn’t get along.

      “I’m telling you, Abby, don’t pay for that bridesmaid dress,” Lottie warned.

      I waved away her concern. “Jillian won’t call off this wedding. She wouldn’t dare.”

      “Ha! Look at her track record.”

      Lottie had a good point. Jillian got engaged once a year -- it seemed to be a hobby of hers. Her list of ex-fiances read like a travel brochure: an Italian restaurant owner from Chicago’s Little Italy; a moody Parisian artist named Jean Luc; an English consulate Sir Something-Or-Other; and a Greek plastic surgeon with an unpronounceable name. This was the first time she’d ever made it to the actual choosing-of-the-flowers stage.

      Jillian’s latest groom-to-be was Claymore Osborne, who, coincidentally, was the younger brother of my former fiance, Pryce Osborne the Second. Claymore was every bit as boorish and snooty as Pryce was, but that didn’t matter to Jillian. What mattered was that Claymore stood to inherit half the Osborne fortune. Jillian always did go after money.

      The wedding was set for the Fourth of July, three weeks away. At first Jillian wanted to hold it in a field of daisies, but having none in the area suitable for a wedding ceremony, she settled for a hotel ballroom in Chicago that she believed had daisies in the carpet. Somewhere.

      On top of choosing me as a bridesmaid, Jillian had also asked me to do her wedding flowers. I had agreed because Jillian’s wedding would most certainly be lavish, and that meant expensive flowers, which translated into money to pay my bills. I really needed to pay my bills.

      “Here are your messages, dear,” Grace said, handing me a small pile of memos. “Lottie has breakfast ready in the kitchen.”

      Monday breakfast was a tradition at Bloomers, and I was already drooling in anticipation. There were four messages: three from my mother and one from a client named Trudee DeWitt, or “Double EE Double TT,” as she called herself, who needed to know when I was coming over to consult with her on decorations for her party.

      The three messages from my mother all said the same thing: “Call me. Urgent.” Nearly all her messages claimed urgency. One of these days, I’ve told her, it really will be urgent and then won’t she be sorry? The Mother Who Cried Wolf.

      I took the memos and the coffee and headed for the workroom, a garden-like haven where I’ve spent some of my happiest moments. As soon as I stepped through the curtain I had to stop to inhale the aromas –   rose, lily, eucalyptus, buttered toast, scrambled eggs. It didn’t get any better than that.

      I dropped the messages on my desk -- a messy affair littered with a computer, printer, phone, a pencil cup shaped like a grinning cat, a few framed photos, and assorted office items -- and went to the kitchen to grab a plate of food. While I ate Lottie and I went over the orders and discussed the coming week so we could make a list and call our suppliers. After washing my plate in the tiny kitchen sink, I tacked the orders on the cork board and sat at my desk to call Trudee.

      I had just punched in her number when I heard the bell over the front door jingle, and a moment later the curtain parted and the bride-to-be swept in, pausing to look around the room in confusion. I could understand her bewilderment. The workroom was a riot of color and shape and texture and scents. Dried and silk flowers sat in tall containers, ribbon festooned wreaths adorned the walls, and brightly hued foil and painted pots lined the shelves. A small person like me, even with my red hair, could blend right in. A female Waldo.

      “Abby!” she cried dramatically when she spotted me, brushing a silken strand of copper hair off her face. Jillian never did anything without drama. “Thank goodness you’re here!” She threw her long, tanned arms around my shoulders and sobbed hideously, ignoring the phone pressed to my ear.

      “Trudee? This is Abby Knight. You called?”

      “It’s horrible, Abby. I just can’t bear it,” Jillian wept. She lifted her head from my shoulder to stare me in the face, and since she’s taller than I am – everyone is taller than I am –  it required her to bend her knees to put us at an even eye level. She cupped my head with her hands. “Abby, you have to help me.”

      “Wednesday at four o’clock?” I said into the phone, giving my cousin a hard glare while trying to maintain a smile in my voice. “It’s on my calendar. I’ll see you then.”

      Jillian took the phone from my hand and put it in the cradle. “Are you listening to me?”

      “No, I am not listening to you. I’m seething with fury and that tends to make the blood pound in my ears. Did you happen to notice I was on the phone?” I turned to write Wednesday’s meeting on the calendar hanging on the cork board.

      “Irate customer?” Jillian asked, settling herself on a stool at the worktable. When I looked around at her to see if she were serious or just really stupid, she had crossed one linen-clad leg over the other and was gazing at me expectantly, her tears magically gone.

      I saw Lottie hovering outside the curtain and knew she was waiting to get on the computer. “Let’s go to the parlor and talk.”

      We settled at a table in front of the bay window in the cozy, Victorian-style parlor. Once Grace had brought coffee for Jill and refreshed my cup I said, “What’s the problem?”

      “Claymore. He’s being completely unreasonable. He insists that Punch be his best man even though Punch dumped Onora and now she refuses to walk up the aisle with him. And please don’t tell me to switch my maid of honor. I simply must have Onora as my maid of honor. I mean, look at her name, for heaven’s sake. Abby, what are you staring at? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

      I dragged my gaze from the scene across the street, where sheriff’s deputies were moving prisoners from a van to the courthouse for hearings.  “Sorry. You lost me after you said Punch. Who’s Punch?”

       “Claymore’s best man, former fraternity brother. You met him.”

      We paused as three middle-aged women came into the parlor and took seats at a table nearby. Grace immediately breezed over to take their orders. “I haven’t met any of the bridal party,” I said to my cousin.

      “Right. Okay, Punch, Flip, Bertie, and Pryce are the groomsmen. They were in the same fraternity at Harvard, except that Pryce graduated two years earlier.”

      “With names like those I would have guessed the Ringling Brothers School for Acrobats.”

      “The Ringling what?”

      “The Ringling Brothers. . . Barnum and Bailey. . . A circus, Jill. Did you grow up in Azkaban? Never mind. Hand me the pitcher of cream. And the bridesmaids?”

      “Onora, Ursula, Sabina, and --” She paused to count them on her fingers. “There’s one more.”

      “Me. The one without the a at the end of her name.”

      “Of course it’s you, silly.”

      “Your sorority sisters, I assume?”

      “Yes. Well, except for you.”

      I was so glad she pointed that out. “So getting back to Punch,” I prompted, liberally lacing my coffee with swirls of creamy calories, which helped subdue the urge to choke her.

      “His real name is Paulin Chumley, so they call him Punch. Everyone went by a nickname in the frat house.”

      “He’s lucky they didn’t call him Chump.”

      Jillian didn’t get my joke. She wasn’t real swift on the uptake. “Punch fits him better. He’s a brute who likes to use his fists and thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

      “The kind of guy I love to hate.”

      “Exactly. In college he drove a genuine army Hummer. Now he owns a swanky sports bar. You know the type. He always has to prove he has the Y chromosome. He even wears a solid gold punching bag earring. He says it’s his logo.”

      “Kind of carries that theme thing a bit too far, don’t you think? Just out of curiosity, what’s Claymore’s nickname?”

      “Clay.”

      “That’s original. Can’t Punch be a plain old groomsman instead of the best man?”

      Jillian heaved a big sigh. “That’s what I keep telling Claymore! Onora would be fine with that arrangement as long as she doesn’t have to stand anywhere near Punch. She detests him. I mean, she really, really detests him. And to tell you the truth, I can barely tolerate him myself – he’s such a chauvinist. But Claymore says he can’t drop Punch’s rank because that would show a lack of moral fiber, whatever that means.”

      It would have been pointless to try to explain it to her. The only fiber she understood was  listed on the labels sewn into her clothing. And I was the one who had flunked out of school. I rested my chin on one hand and gave her a glazed look. “Just what exactly do you want me to do?”

      “Talk to Pryce. Claymore looks up to Pryce. If Pryce tells him to switch men, Claymore will listen. Pryce should be the best man anyway. I mean, he’s his brother, for pity sake.”

      “I have two questions. First, what would make you believe that Pryce would listen to me? He dumped me, remember? Two months before the wedding? When I failed to meet the Osborne standard of excellence? And second, if you can’t come to some resolution with Claymore now, what does that bode for your future?”

      “You obviously don’t know anything about marriage.”

      “Neither do you. Hand me the cream.”

      “I know this much,” she said, pushing the little ceramic pitcher toward me, “Claymore hates making decisions, so once we’re married I will make the decisions for both of us. See? Problem solved.”

      Poor Claymore would never know what hit him.

      “Besides, Pryce still carries a torch for you, so of course he’ll listen. He’ll hang on your every word.”

      I glanced over at the three ladies, who had stopped talking and were now quietly stirring their lattes so they could hear more about this so-called torch.

      I leaned across the table to whisper, “If Pryce is carrying a torch it’s so he can tie me to a stake and set fire to my feet. His parents will provide the kindling.” They were still trying to live down the ignominy of my having been booted out of law school while engaged to their son.

      “Silly! All you’d have to do is crook your little finger and Pryce would take you back just like that.” She snapped her fingers and all three women gave a start. “Besides, you love to help people. So help me.” She grasped my hand. “Pu-leez, Abby. I’m desperate!”

      “Fine. I’ll talk to Pryce.” Anything to get her off that topic so the ladies next to us could resume their own conversation. There was nothing like a juicy bit of gossip to start tongues wagging around this town. “Can we discuss your flowers now?”

      Jillian held up a hand to catch Grace’s eye. “More coffee, please,” she mouthed.

      “Picture this,” I said. “You’re floating down an aisle strewn with rose petals. In your arms--”

      “Am I beautiful?”

      “In your arms,” I continued, giving her a scowl, “are long, luscious, creamy peach callas, their lovely dark green leaves splashed with flecks of white, all tied together with a luxurious white satin bow.”

      “Calla lilies?”

      “Callas. Not lilies. Callas.”

      “Katherine Hepburn called them Calla lilies.”

      “Katherine Hepburn was not a florist. Callas are from the zantedeschia family, whereas lillies --” Noticing that Jillian’s attention was fixed on a point somewhere beyond my left shoulder, I turned to look.

      Coming up the sidewalk toward my shop was Marco Salvare, moving with a sexy swagger most women -- and I include myself in that group -- found terribly exciting.

      “Who is that?” Jillian said in awe, and I could almost see the drool forming on her lower lip. The three women next to us craned their necks for a look, too.

      “That’s the new owner of the Down the Hatch.”

      Five of us watched him pull open the door. The bell jingled to announce his arrival and suddenly tiny bottles sprang from the purses behind us, and hair spray, perfume and breath freshener filled the air. I waved away the cloud, coughing, as Marco strode into the parlor, grabbed a chair from another table, pulled it up beside me and straddled it.

      “Hey, sunshine. How’s it going?” The mist settled and Jillian came into view. He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Marco.”

      She wrapped her long, graceful fingers around his. “I’m Jillian Knight. Very pleased to meet you, Marco.”

      “Would you care for coffee?” Grace asked coolly, placing a cup and saucer in front of him. Grace was the only woman I knew who seemed impervious to Marco’s charisma. He was impervious to her imperviousness, so it didn’t really matter.

      “No. Thanks anyway.” Marco looked from Jillian to me. “You’re not sisters, so you must be cousins.”

      “How did you know we were related?” Jillian asked, prompting Marco to shoot me a look that said, “Is she clueless?”

      “The last name was a dead giveaway, Jill,” I said.

      She nodded sagely. “That’s true.”

      Our surname was the only thing we shared, a fact that was both a blessing and a curse. On the curse side, Jillian was a head taller, had a well-proportioned body rather than a top-heavy one, and had long, shimmery, copper colored hair, as opposed to my shorter, fiery red, blunt-edged bob. On the blessing side, I was smart -- regardless of what my law professors thought.

      “Jillian is getting married July fourth,” I said, just in case Marco had any ideas about dating her. “I’m doing her flowers.”

      He eased his hand from Jillian’s hot little paw. “Congratulations.”

      Jillian lifted one shoulder in an effortless shrug. “Maybe I’m getting married. If Abby helps me.” She rose and put the strap of her Ferragamo purse over her shoulder. “I have to run. Let me know what Pryce says.” Her voice dropped to a sexy purr. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Marco.”

      As soon as Jillian had gone, Marco turned a highly skeptical brown-eyed gaze on me and topped it off by raising one dark eyebrow. “If you help her?”

      “She wants me to talk to my former fiance to convince him to convince the groom to – well, it’s a long, complicated story that will only bore you. The bottom line is that if I want to salvage the van load of callas I ordered for this wedding I have to make sure there is a wedding.” I took my cup over to the coffee counter for a refill, where Grace was also giving me that doubtful look. “I’m not meddling,” I assured them both.

      “That’s good,” Marco said, when I returned to the table, “because less than forty-eight hours ago you swore off meddling.”

      “Did you come to harass me, or did you have some other goal in mind?”

      “Harass you.” He picked up my coffee and sniffed it, obviously trying to decide if I had poisoned it with artificial sweetener. “Did you put that dead bolt on your apartment door?”

      “Oh, right. I meant to do that.”

      Wrong answer. Counting on his fingers, Marco began to list why I should have a dead bolt, most of which came from the unfortunate events of the past week. I had to tune him out, though, when my ears picked up the threads of a much more interesting conversation the three ladies were having behind me.

      “If it’s a massage parlor, why don’t they advertise? And why do they cover their windows with butcher paper?”

      “I heard that a woman tried to get in and was told it was for men only.”

      “Well, look at their sign, for goodness sake. Emperor’s Spa. What does that tell you?”

      “It’s open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. Would a legitimate business do that?”

      I grabbed Marco’s wrist. “Did you hear that?”

      “Hear what? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be listening for.”

      I leaned closer to whisper, “What the ladies behind me are talking about. Remember those five Oriental women in their skin tight Mandarin dresses who came into your bar Saturday night? Remember we heard that they work at the Emperor’s Spa, and give a whole lot more than massages? Remember me suggesting that we investigate? That’s what they’re talking about.”

      “Remember your promise not to meddle?”

      I should never make promises for something I’m inherently unable to do. “Come on, Marco. New Chapel is a very conservative, very clean college town. We don’t want prostitution going on here. As concerned citizens, it would behoove us to expose it.”

      “As a former law school student, it would behoove you not to jump to a conclusion without having all the facts.”

      “But it all adds up. They don’t advertise. Female customers aren’t allowed in. The windows are covered with paper. . . I know there’s something fishy going on. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

      One corner of Marco’s mouth quirked, like he had a secret.

      “You found out something about that spa, didn’t you?”

      “I figured you’d try to snoop, so I did a pre-emptive investigation.”

      My eyes got very wide, then narrowed suspiciously. “You went in that place?”

      “Yes, Miss Marple, I did, and I got a very thorough back massage.”

      “By one of the Oriental women?” I fairly seethed.

      “By a large European woman with hairy arms and a moustache. I didn’t see any women from the Far East.”

      “That’s because they smelled cop.”

      He gave me a look that said, “Yeah, right.” Marco had left the force because he didn’t fit the police mold. It had been a mutually acceptable decision. “I think you should know,” he said loud enough for the eavesdroppers to hear,  “a new restaurant called The China Cabinet had their grand opening this past weekend. The waitresses wore Chinese costumes for it. I’m guessing they were the ones who came into the bar Saturday night.”

      At that, the three ladies behind us gathered their purses and shopping bags and left, obviously in a rush to broadcast the new bit of gossip. I watched them through the bay window as they met briefly on the sidewalk outside, then headed off in three separate directions like a trio of female Paul Reveres. “The China Cabinet has opened! The China Cabinet has opened!”

      “Let’s see if I have this right,” I said, turning my attention back to Marco. “Those five women at your bar Saturday night are waitresses, not masseuses, and the Emperor’s Spa is a legitimate business?”

      Marco sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, ready to declare a victory. “That’s what I’m saying.”

      “Then what do you call that?”

      He followed my pointing index finger to a police van that had pulled up across the street, where, at that moment, two cops were dislodging five hissing, spitting, handcuffed Asian women wearing ankle-length, form-fitting, brightly hued Mandarin dresses and four-inch spike heels.

      Must have been difficult to serve food in that get-up.