A Rose From the Dead by Kate Collins Page A

draws customers into the flower shop.
    Around the square is the typical assortment of family-owned shops, banks, law offices, and restaurants, including Marco’s Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, located two doors north of Bloomers. In the middle of the square is the stately courthouse, built in 1896 from Indiana limestone, that houses the county and circuit courts, plus all the government offices. 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.
    On that unhappy thought, I unlocked Bloomers’ bright yellow door and walked into the sweet fragrances of roses, lavender, and eucalyptus as I felt again the thrill of being in my very own oasis. I headed through the curtain to where my floral creations came to life. It was a paradise filled with colors, shapes, textures, and scents, with dried and silk flowers in vases on the floor, ribbon-festooned wreaths hanging from hooks on the wall, and all manner of flowerpots and containers on the shelves.
    Two stainless-steel walk-in coolers lined the right wall, and a desk holding my computer, telephone, and the normal assortment of items was on the left. In the middle was the big worktable with wooden stools tucked beneath, where Lottie and I sat for hours doing what we loved best, arranging flowers. That’s what I needed now—a few blissful moments before the race to clear Delilah’s name began. When I was creating, my mind was fully engaged and my thoughts were at their keenest.
    I checked the orders that had come in over the wire during the night, printed out one I knew I could put together quickly, and went to work. The order was for an anniversary arrangement in autumn colors. I stepped into the big cooler and glanced around for inspiration. The Red Rover mums would be a good start. Foxtail fern? Perfect. Definitely the Konfetti roses, along with several stems of hypericum, some Spanish moss, and oh, yes, thin twigs of curly willow for accent. Maybe I’d add some purple carnations for a surprising jolt of color.
    I pulled the flowers, took out the tools I’d need from the drawers built into the worktable, then stepped back to survey my supply of containers. Aha! A small ceramic pumpkin. Just right. As I affixed a base of wet foam inside the pumpkin and began to put physical shape to the arrangement I had worked out in my mind, I also began a mental list of whom I wanted to question at the convention. Appropriately, numbers one and two on my list were Thing One and Thing Two. If my hunch was right, I wouldn’t need to go any farther.
    I finished my design, wrapped it in clear cellophane, marked it for delivery, and put it in the cooler. I checked the time and saw that it was almost nine thirty, so I threw on some peach-colored lip gloss, pulled my hair back with a tortoiseshell barrette, grabbed my purse, and left.
    Marco’s car was parked in front of Down the Hatch, so I headed toward it just as he strode out of the bar. Seeing him gave me the same heady rush of pleasure that I’d had when I first laid eyes on him. Then, as now, he had on a black leather motorcycle jacket, slim, faded blue denims, and black boots. With his olive complexion, dark eyes, and cocky swagger, he was not merely sexy but dangerously so. It was one of the things that gave him an edge over every other guy I’d ever met.
    “Morning, Sunshine,” he said, flashing that devilish grin that had my heart singing. He appraised my outfit—a fitted beige jacket and bronze-colored shirt over tan jeans, finished off with knee-high brown boots—and gave me a thumbs-up. “Hot look for an amateur Sherlock.”
    Had to love those compliments. Had to love the guy who gave them, too.
    “Are you ready to track down a murderer?” he asked.
    “I think you mean murderers, ” I corrected. “Ross and Jess.”
    “It could be them, Sunshine, but we know Sybil wasn’t the most