A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery by Kate Collins Page B

eating that morning.”
    “How do they know what Sergio ate that morning?” She tossed the tissue in the trash can under the table and sat back down. “The doctors can tell you what he ate. They would know what was in his stomach. It was the same thing he eats every morning. Huevos rancheros. He refuses to eat anything else. Believe me, Abby, there was nothing wrong with him Monday morning. He slept well—this I know because his snoring kept me awake—and woke up as hungry as a horse.”
    “Was he diabetic?”
    “No. He took no medicine, Abby—nothing, not even for high blood pressure. There was no reason for him to pass out. Someone pushed him backward, and I’m telling you: It was Adrian Prada, and those other men know it. They just don’t want to get in trouble with Adrian because he will be foreman next.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Everyone knows he is next in line. He will not only be boss but he will make a much bigger salary, too. Do you see why he wants Sergio dead? Money and power.”
    More like money, power, and lusting after Rosa.
    “Did Sergio ever get into a fistfight with any of the men?”
    She shrugged. “He never told me about anything like that.”
    “Then you never saw any cuts or bruises?”
    “I saw cuts all the time—it was the rough nature of the job—but bruises from fights? Not that I am aware.”
    “Then you don’t know about a fight between Sam and Sergio?”
    “If it happened, Sergio didn’t tell me.”
    I finished writing it down. “That should take care of it. Thanks for understanding.”
    She put her arm around my shoulders. “That’s okay, Abby. You’re doing your job. Now I have to do mine.” She pinched her nose and pretended to wave away dust motes. “Some of those armoire shelves have not been cleaned in a long time. But I will take care of them from now on. Don’t worry about a thing.” She paused at the curtain to say, “I hope my singing isn’t bothering you. I promise I will stop when the shop opens.”
    “That’s fine. And I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask how your husband is today.”
    “Not good,” she said with a sad sigh. “Worse than yesterday.”
    And yet she sang happy songs. So maybe I did have one more little bomb—why she seemed so cheerful when her husband’s health was failing.
    “Rosa—”
    “If I think about Sergio,” she continued, “I will cry, and believe me, I cry loud, and that will scare away the customers. So instead I sing something that makes everyone smile. Then I smile back and feel a little better. I’m sorry. What were you going to say?”
    I grabbed the eye pot. “Would you find a good spot for this?”
    *   *   *
    Over my lunch hour, I made the thirty-minute trip to Maraville to see Mrs. Welldon, using my GPS to navigate the streets of the big, sprawling urban city. I pulled intoa visitor’s spot in the parking lot in front of the five-story apartment building, one of a dozen identical buildings in the complex, and entered a small vestibule where the mailboxes were located. Tenants’ names were posted on each box with a buzzer below. I found the Welldon name, pressed the buzzer, and waited.
    “Yes?” I heard the warbling voice say.
    “This is Abby Knight from Bloomers Flower Shop. I have flowers for you.”
    “Well, aren’t you sweet? Come right up.”
    She buzzed me in and I headed for the elevator. The building was old and in need of new carpeting and paint but otherwise seemed solidly built. I exited on the fifth floor and located Mrs. Welldon’s unit at the far end of the hallway.
    “Come in, dear,” she said, swinging her door wide. She was a diminutive white-haired woman with an elfin face that was as wrinkled as a prune. She had on a purple jogging suit with pink stripes down the legs and fuzzy white slippers that seemed too big for her petite frame.
    “Here you go,” I said, holding out the bouquet of daisies. “Compliments of Bloomers Flower Shop.”
    “Oh, my! Look how many