A Rose From the Dead (2 page)

“O
kay, guys, great joke. Phone booth in a coffin. Ha-ha.

Now, let me out. The door is stuck.”

I waited a moment, then pressed my ear against the smooth pine finish, listening for snickers coming from the other side, but all I heard was silence. I pushed against the wood, but it didn’t budge. “Ross? Jess? Are you leaning against the door? Come on. It isn’t funny anymore. I’m claustrophobic.”

When the booth still didn’t open, I pounded on it. “Let me out of here!”

More silence. I pictured them pinching their lips shut so they wouldn’t guffaw.

And the reason you trusted a pair of twenty-three-year-old males in the first place was…?

I ignored that smug little voice of rationality. Right now, my only concern was breathing, because the air in the two feet of space I occupied had suddenly become unbearably stuffy.

Sweat beads gathered at my temples, plastering my hair to my skin. Why wasn’t this phone booth air-conditioned? Was a little vent in the ceiling too much to ask for? I gave the door one last smack with the heel of my hand, then rested my forehead against it. “You guys are in major trouble now because I’m phoning the police.”

The silence roared in my ears. Or was that my shallow breathing?

I ignored the ebony receiver behind me, a replica of the old coin-operated phone of my mother’s generation. I didn’t have any money with me, anyway.

Luckily, I never went anywhere without my cell phone. I pulled out the sleek stainless-steel case, flipped it open, and thumbed in 911. “Hello, yes, I’d like to report being locked in a coffin. Wait. Don’t hang up. This isn’t a joke. My name is Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop, and I’m at the morticians’ convention in—yes, my father is Sgt. Jeffrey Knight, formerly of the New Chapel PD. Anyway, could you send someone over to—yes, he
is
doing well, considering his injury. Sure, I’d be happy to pass along your best wishes—if you’d send someone over to get me
out of here
!”

At once the door to my jail opened, flooding the space with bright light. I blinked several times, holding up a hand to shade my eyes until the blurry male shape before me came into focus. To my relief, it wasn’t either of the two pranksters who had imprisoned me. It was Marco Salvare, the Hunk of the Midwest, the man who could make me breathe shallowly—and
like
it—just by sauntering into a room.

“Never mind,” I said to the dispatcher. I slipped my mobile phone back into my pocket. “Marco, thank God you came. I was starting to hyperventilate.”

“What were you doing in there?” he asked as I emerged fanning my face.

What, indeed?

There I was, a bright young florist of some note—okay, maybe half a note (I had owned Bloomers for a mere six months), and maybe only bright because of my red hair. But there I was, nevertheless, in the middle of a morticians’ convention, trying to drum up business, only to find myself wedged in a phone booth as if I were some ditzy female who couldn’t find her way out of a—well, phone booth.

That it resembled an antique coffin straight out of a vampire movie only made my humiliation worse. What person of even
average
intelligence would be gullible enough to walk into an upended coffin? Talk about the height of embarrassment.

On the plus side, Marco had proven once again to be my go-to guy. He was not only an ex-cop and new bar owner but also a former Army Ranger, a tough, savvy, modern-day warrior whose group motto said it all: “Rangers lead the way.” And if anyone had found a way into my heart, it was Marco.

He was all man—hard jawed, firm mouthed, straight backed, and taut bellied—with nut brown eyes that knew how to cut through pretense and a strong, masculine nose that was slightly askew. His wavy dark mop drooped casually onto the left side of his forehead and ruffled onto the nape of his neck but never reached farther than his collar. He was sexy, sincere, and thoughtful, the kind of guy girls like me dream of snagging. Yet he remained something of a mystery.

At this moment, however, there was nothing mystifying about what he was thinking. His most captivating feature, aside from his penetrating gaze and that hint of five o’clock shadow, was his expressive mouth—straight, firm lips that curved up at the corners when he was amused and slanted down when he was bemused. Judging by what I saw now, he was perplexed.

“How did you get locked in?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Just wait till I get my hands on those two idiots.” Huffing angrily, I started to charge past him, but he caught my arm.

“What two idiots?”

“Ross and Jess Urban—or, as I now prefer to think of them, Thing One and Thing Two. We met them early this morning while we were setting up our display, remember? Dark blond hair with light blond tips, large teeth, big dimples in their chins, very tan? One of them looked like a model for
GQ
—he had on Ferragamo loafers and a Tag Heuer watch—and the other one looked like a homeless skateboarder. They manage a chain of funeral parlors for their father.”

“You still haven’t told me how you got locked in.”

“After you left earlier, they came to our exhibit and said I had a phone call and brought me here. So I stepped inside, and the door—lid, whatever—latched behind me.”

Marco examined the latch in question. “Abby, this slide bolt isn’t automatic. They locked you in.”

“I had a feeling they might be trouble, but I ignored it because they’re
funeral
directors. What if I had passed out from a lack of oxygen—or even worse, died in this coffin? I don’t even want to think about the irony.”

“Take a look back here,” Marco called. “This isn’t even a working phone.”

I went around to the back of the tall booth. There on the ground lay a disconnected phone cord—and not a phone jack in sight. Obviously the coffin–phone booth was just for display, but how was I to know? I’d never been to a funeral directors’ convention before.

Displaying my floral wares at the Midwestern Funeral Directors’ Association’s regional convention was actually the brainchild of my friends Max and Delilah Dove, owners of the Happy Dreams Funeral Home, located around the corner from Bloomers and just off the town square in New Chapel, Indiana. Max and Delilah had suggested I rent a booth alongside the other businesses that supplied products and services to morticians, as a way to generate more income for my shop, a small business struggling to hold its own against the giant chain competitors. The convention was being held at the Woodland Hotel and Conference Center, on Lake Michigan, about twenty-five miles north of New Chapel.

Since the $1,500 rental fee was a little too steep for my budget, Max and Delilah had generously offered to split the cost and share booth space. Even at the bargain rate of $750 I’d still hesitated to commit the money, until I learned that I’d get to attend the Saturday night banquet with a guest of my choice. The banquet, Delilah had promised, was an event not to be missed, with food provided by an excellent caterer and entertainment afterward.

I’d signed up immediately. I was all about free food. But I was not about looking like an ignoramus.

“Boy, are those two Urban jokers in trouble. How dare they lock me in a phone booth and put my life in jeopardy. And for what? A laugh? Well, I’m going to have the last laugh because…Marco, are you listening?”

He was staring up the long, brightly lit corridor toward the exhibition hall at the end, his jaw hard and his eyes narrowed to slits of steel-edged fury.

Uh-oh. I knew that look. My twin tormentors were toast.

“M
arco, wait,” I said, and dashed after him, catching up just as he stepped into the big warehouselike room where hundreds of people were browsing the wide, carpeted aisles of display booths. “Ross and Jess did this to
me
. If anyone is going to teach them a lesson, it should be me.”

Both corners of Marco’s mouth curved down, a clear sign that he strongly disagreed, but since that had never deterred me before, I paid no attention. I pulled the convention brochure from my purse and turned to the index. “Where would two young guys hang out? The extreme-marketing seminar?”

That snapped him out of his funk. “Whoa. Hold it. Before you put on your brass knuckles, Sunshine, you’d better think this through.”

“You’re right. They’re probably at the computer software booth.”

“That’s not what I mean. You’re here on business. You don’t want to cause a scene that might jeopardize your chances of picking up new clients for Bloomers.”

I blinked as his words sank in.
Rats.
He was right again. How professional would I look if I walked around punching out morticians, even young ones who thought they were crafty stud muffins?

“Fine. I’ll let them go for now, but if they pull anything else, they’re going to find out Abby Knight is a force to be reckoned with. I may be small, but I’m mighty.” I flexed a bicep, which, I might add, was looking pretty hot. Chalk that up to toting heavy bags of potting soil from the depths of Bloomers’s basement to the first-floor workroom.

Ignoring my demonstration, Marco made a visual sweep of my five-foot-two body, as if to remind me that I wouldn’t be much of a threat to two full-grown, testosterone-charged young males. “Don’t worry about the Urbans. I’ll take care of them.”

It was my turn to grab his arm. “Not so fast, Rambo. Legally, you’re here as my agent. What you do affects my liability. So, touché. You can’t do anything, either.”

“Agent? Is that a new term for pack mule?”

“Pack mule. Ha. All you did is carry in three floral arrangements and help Max and Delilah put together the portable walls of our booth. Stop complaining.”

He finally relaxed, put an arm around my shoulders, and bent his head close to my ear to murmur in his husky low voice, “You’re foxy when you’re stubborn.”

All it took was the brush of his lips against my earlobe to send flutters of excitement all the way to my toes. “Want to come to my den this evening?” I murmured back.

“You have a banquet this evening.”

Double rats.
In the heat of the moment, I’d forgotten. “Actually,
we
have a banquet. You’re my date, don’t forget. And don’t roll your eyes. I know you hate to put on a jacket and tie, but Delilah said the food is fantastic. It’ll be over by eight o’clock anyway.”

“Have you ever known a banquet to be over in an hour?”

“No. But honestly, Marco, take a look at the people around us. What do you see? Morticians. Is there any group deadly duller than a bunch of morticians?”

“Deadly duller? Were you trying to make a pun?”

“I was trying to say that I can’t imagine there being any fun and games with this crowd. Think about it. They work with dead people. On the whole, they’re a serious bunch—except for Thing One and Thing Two, who are aberrations.”

Marco turned me around to see a man wearing a big sandwich board that read,
CASKET RACES
,
SUNDAY
, 2:00
P.M
.
EAST PARKING LOT
. Beneath the print was a picture of a long pine box on wheels, with racing stripes down the sides. A morticians’ soapbox derby?

The man turned to display the back of his board:
POST-BANQUET VAMPIRE VIP PARTY TONIGHT
.
DRACULA DRESS REQUIRED
.
BLOODY MARYS AT MIDNIGHT
.

“What were you saying about a serious bunch?” Marco drawled.

“I take it all back. But you’ll still come with me to the banquet, won’t you?”

He scratched behind his ear. “There’s a hitch.”

I groaned.

“Gina wants me to have dinner with her and Mom tonight to decide on her baby shower plans.”

“Why didn’t you tell me a month ago, when I accepted Max and Delilah’s invitation?”

“She called me this morning.”

“I asked before she did.”

“You can eat with Max and Delilah.”

“And Gina can eat with your mom, her husband, and your nephew. That’s three to two in her favor.”

“It’s a tie. Gina’s husband is away on business.”

“I don’t get it. Your mother has already decided on the menu for the shower. I’m providing the flowers, my mother made the favors, and you donated the use of your bar. There’s nothing left to plan.”

“She needs me to run interference. You remember how it is with those two.”

Fat chance. I’d been with the two Salvare women exactly once, when Marco’s mom invited me for her lasagna dinner and kept refilling my wineglass until I couldn’t remember my own telephone number. Marco had later explained that she’d been testing my alcohol tolerance. The higher the tolerance, the less she’d like me. It had been one of the few examinations I’d passed with flying colors. I was blotto after two and a half glasses.

So it was a standoff: Gina or me. Considering what a close-knit family the Salvares were, and that Marco’s younger sister had him on a short leash, I was bound to lose this contest. After all, Marco and I weren’t engaged, pre-engaged, or thinking about considering being pre-engaged. We’d known each other for five months, had dated for four, and were nowhere near being ready for the picket fence–diaper routine. So what chance did I have against his sister? Unless…

“Okay. I understand. Family comes first.”

He studied me apprehensively. “You’re fine with me not going tonight?”

“Hey, it’s no big deal.”

“So, you’re not angry?”

“No, but if you keep asking me if I’m angry,
that
will make me angry. Forget about it, okay? I don’t mind if you miss the banquet. Have a great time with your family.”

“All right, Sunshine. What’s going on?”

“Marco, what don’t you understand about the phrase
I don’t mind
?”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’ll go to the banquet. What time should I pick you up?”

“Six o’clock.”

It was an old strategy, but it had always worked with my father. “I saw a Starbucks at the food court. Let’s get some coffee.”

He checked his watch. “I really need to get back to Down the Hatch.”

“
Pfft.
It’s early yet. Besides, we’ve got one more load of flowers coming, and we need a pack mule.” My attention was drawn to a glassblower creating beautiful vases at a nearby booth. The sign above the booth read:
FROM ASHES TO ART
—
THE ULTIMATE BURIAL EXPERIENCE
.

“Is she using what I think she’s using to make those vases?” I asked Marco as he escorted me around a group of curious people who had gathered to watch her shape the glass.

“I need to get out of here,” he muttered. “This convention gives me the creeps.”

“It’s just business, Marco.”

He pointed out two mannequins on display—a male in a gray pinstripe suit and a female in a navy blue dress. On a folding screen behind them were enlarged photos of the outfits in different colors. “See? That’s what I mean. Who would buy their clothes here?”

“That’s burial clothing. Funeral homes sometimes offer a selection in case the deceased has nothing appropriate to wear.”

“Nothing appropriate? So did the person walk around in a bath towel? And then there’s the angel music. Is that really necessary?”

“Angel music?” I paused to listen. “Oh, that’s harp music. Remember the girl setting up the harp at the booth across from ours—that new age-y–type place?”

“The chalk-faced chick in a black lace nightgown?”

“It was a black dress, but yes, that’s the one. I think her business is called Music of the Soul.”

“She gave me the creeps, too. And what the hell is this booth about? A souvenir shop? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

We stopped to inspect a glass jewelry case where hearse-shaped tie clasps, coffin cuff links, and tombstone paperweights were on display. Okay, that
was
creepy. I saw a rack filled with T-shirts and picked one up, laughing. It read
GOT FORMALDEHYDE
?

“Look, Marco. Like the advertisement ‘Got Milk?’!”

He didn’t seem to find it as amusing as I did, so I tried another one. “Okay, this one will definitely make you laugh.” I showed him a shirt that read
YOUR HEARSE OR MINE
?

But Marco had found something more to his liking: a whoopee cushion. “This would ratchet up a funeral service a few notches.”

I took it out of his hands and put it back. Some things were just not funny.

“Now, that’s more my style,” Marco said happily, and veered toward another booth where a big-screen TV was playing a video that had lots of loud engines revving. Then he realized the video was about hearses and limousines, not Jeeps and motorcycles, and he veered back, scowling. “How long until that load of flowers gets here?”

I was about to answer when I spotted something that alarmed me. “Marco, isn’t my booth at the end of this aisle?”

“Why?”

“Because something’s happening down there, and it doesn’t look good.”