might be able to help.”
“How nice that Sandra is getting flowers. You know, I believe Sandra’s in New Chapel, too. Goodness, I haven’t heard from her in over a year. I hope she’s doing well. And that dear little boy of hers . . . what was his name? Sandra used to send him over with a plate of cookies every Friday. Bud! That was it. They were such nice neighbors, the Joneses, always willing to lend a hand. And whenever I took sick, Sandra would be right over to help. She was a nurse at one time, you know.”
“What did you think of Daisy?”
“Oh, my—of course I would love a daisy, but don’t make a special trip here just for me.”
I raised my voice. “I meant their little girl Daisy.”
“I’m not quite catching that, dear.”
“I’ll bring your daisies out tomorrow, Mrs. Welldon. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone and turned to find Seedy peering around the corner. “You can come out now. I’m done.”
She cast me a reproachful eye as she returned to her spot on the sofa.
Thursday
When I arrived at Bloomers the next morning, Rosa was already hard at work, dusting shelves in the shop, singing at the top of her lungs. She paused to call, “Good morning, Abby,” and it was only then that I heard the radio playing in the background. Her voice had drowned it out.
I slipped into the parlor for a cup of coffee with Grace and Lottie while Rosa continued her aria. Both of my assistants were smiling.
“I told you she’d liven the place up,” Lottie said.
“Her husband must be doing better,” I said.
“Actually, his condition has deteriorated from yesterday,” Grace said.
“Then why does she sound so happy?” I asked.
“Singing can be a stress-buster,” Lottie said. “Herman whistles when he’s stressed. It’s like a steam valve.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Lottie asked.
“I believe Abby means that Rosa is a suspect,” Grace said, then took a sip of her tea.
Lottie glanced at me for confirmation.
“You know Marco’s rule,” I said. “Everyone’s a suspect until we rule them out.”
We finished our morning meeting; then I headed to the workroom to get started on orders. I checked to see what had come in overnight, printed them out, then turned to find Rosa standing inside the curtain with a Cheshire cat grin on her face and her arms behind her back, as though she was holding something she didn’t want me to see.
She had on shiny black knee-high boots and dark blue jeggings with a cream-colored sweater whose neckline was hidden behind the yellow bib apron. Perfect. Hanging over the bib part of the apron was her lightning bolt pendant.
Remembering that I was supposed to be wearing my apron, I took it off my chair and slipped it over my head as I asked her what was up.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said with an impish smile. “You know those ugly eyeball pots?”
“That my mother made?”
“Those are the ones.”
I couldn’t suppress my scowl. Why did it bother me when someone else made fun of Mom’s work?
“I’m sorry, Abby. I know you love your mother, but they
are
ugly. So I was thinking, what can I do to them so that everyone will want one? I thought and thought until I was making myself crazy. ‘Ay-ay-ay, Rosa,’ I said. ‘Stop it.’ And then it hit me. Ay, ay, ay—or eye, eye, eye. It’s all about the eyes.”
She brought forward my mom’s hideous pot, now filled with a beautiful arrangement of silk flowers. “You see?” She began to point. “Here you have white irises. Get it? The iris is part of the eye. And here you have apple blossoms. The apple of your eye, you see? Then you have pink carnations for pinkeye, and ivy”—she pointed to her eye—“
eye
-vee for greenery. Now you can say that it is an eye-eye-eye pot.”
Ay caramba!
It was sheer genius. I stared at the flowers in astonishment as my mind continued to work with the theme.
“You don’t like it, do you?” she said in a
“How nice that Sandra is getting flowers. You know, I believe Sandra’s in New Chapel, too. Goodness, I haven’t heard from her in over a year. I hope she’s doing well. And that dear little boy of hers . . . what was his name? Sandra used to send him over with a plate of cookies every Friday. Bud! That was it. They were such nice neighbors, the Joneses, always willing to lend a hand. And whenever I took sick, Sandra would be right over to help. She was a nurse at one time, you know.”
“What did you think of Daisy?”
“Oh, my—of course I would love a daisy, but don’t make a special trip here just for me.”
I raised my voice. “I meant their little girl Daisy.”
“I’m not quite catching that, dear.”
“I’ll bring your daisies out tomorrow, Mrs. Welldon. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone and turned to find Seedy peering around the corner. “You can come out now. I’m done.”
She cast me a reproachful eye as she returned to her spot on the sofa.
Thursday
When I arrived at Bloomers the next morning, Rosa was already hard at work, dusting shelves in the shop, singing at the top of her lungs. She paused to call, “Good morning, Abby,” and it was only then that I heard the radio playing in the background. Her voice had drowned it out.
I slipped into the parlor for a cup of coffee with Grace and Lottie while Rosa continued her aria. Both of my assistants were smiling.
“I told you she’d liven the place up,” Lottie said.
“Her husband must be doing better,” I said.
“Actually, his condition has deteriorated from yesterday,” Grace said.
“Then why does she sound so happy?” I asked.
“Singing can be a stress-buster,” Lottie said. “Herman whistles when he’s stressed. It’s like a steam valve.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Lottie asked.
“I believe Abby means that Rosa is a suspect,” Grace said, then took a sip of her tea.
Lottie glanced at me for confirmation.
“You know Marco’s rule,” I said. “Everyone’s a suspect until we rule them out.”
We finished our morning meeting; then I headed to the workroom to get started on orders. I checked to see what had come in overnight, printed them out, then turned to find Rosa standing inside the curtain with a Cheshire cat grin on her face and her arms behind her back, as though she was holding something she didn’t want me to see.
She had on shiny black knee-high boots and dark blue jeggings with a cream-colored sweater whose neckline was hidden behind the yellow bib apron. Perfect. Hanging over the bib part of the apron was her lightning bolt pendant.
Remembering that I was supposed to be wearing my apron, I took it off my chair and slipped it over my head as I asked her what was up.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said with an impish smile. “You know those ugly eyeball pots?”
“That my mother made?”
“Those are the ones.”
I couldn’t suppress my scowl. Why did it bother me when someone else made fun of Mom’s work?
“I’m sorry, Abby. I know you love your mother, but they
are
ugly. So I was thinking, what can I do to them so that everyone will want one? I thought and thought until I was making myself crazy. ‘Ay-ay-ay, Rosa,’ I said. ‘Stop it.’ And then it hit me. Ay, ay, ay—or eye, eye, eye. It’s all about the eyes.”
She brought forward my mom’s hideous pot, now filled with a beautiful arrangement of silk flowers. “You see?” She began to point. “Here you have white irises. Get it? The iris is part of the eye. And here you have apple blossoms. The apple of your eye, you see? Then you have pink carnations for pinkeye, and ivy”—she pointed to her eye—“
eye
-vee for greenery. Now you can say that it is an eye-eye-eye pot.”
Ay caramba!
It was sheer genius. I stared at the flowers in astonishment as my mind continued to work with the theme.
“You don’t like it, do you?” she said in a
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