Shoots to Kill

Table of Contents

 

 

“The tale is wrapped around the wonderful hallmarks of this series: a spirited heroine surrounded by zany characters, humor, and irreverence.” —
Romantic Times

“Abby’s sharp observations bring laughs while the intriguing, tightly plotted mystery keeps you guessing.”

—
Romantic Times

“A delightful, lighthearted cozy.” —The Best Reviews

“Lighthearted and fast-paced, Collins’s new book is an entertaining read.” —
Romantic Times

“Abby is truly a hilarious heroine. . . . Don’t miss this fresh-as-a-daisy read.” —
Rendezvous

“Ms. Collins’s writing style is crisp, her characters fun . . . and her stories are well thought-out and engaging.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Upbeat, jocular . . . an uplifting, amusing, and feel-good amateur sleuth tale.” —The Best Reviews

“What a delight! Ms. Collins has a flair for engaging characters and witty dialogue.” —Fresh Fiction

“You can’t help but laugh . . . an enormously entertaining read.” —
Rendezvous

“Collins has created a delightful amateur sleuth.”

—
Romantic Times

“Kate Collins plants all the right seeds to grow a fertile garden of mystery. . . . Abby Knight is an Indiana florist who cannot keep her nose out of other people’s business. She’s rash, brash, and audacious. Move over, Stephanie Plum. Abby Knight has come to town.”

—Denise Swanson, author of the Scumble River Mysteries

“An engaging debut planted with a spirited sleuth, quirky sidekicks, and page-turning action . . . delightfully addictive . . . a charming addition to the cozy subgenre. Here’s hoping we see more of intrepid florist Abby Knight and sexy restaurateur Marco Salvare.”

—Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day Mysteries

“A bountiful bouquet of clues, colorful characters, and tantalizing twists . . . Kate Collins carefully cultivates clues, plants surprising suspects, and harvests a killer in this fresh and frolicsome new Flower Shop Mystery.”

—Ellen Byerrum, author of A Crime of Fashion Mystery series

“As fresh as a daisy, with a bouquet of irresistible characters.”

—Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job Mysteries

“This engaging read has a list of crazy characters that step off the pages to the delight of the reader. Don’t miss this wannabe sleuth’s adventures.” —
Rendezvous

“This story was cute and funny, had a good plotline [that] entwined a lot of interesting threads . . . an enjoyable read and a fine debut for this new mystery series.”

—Dangerously Curvy Novels

“A charming debut.” —The Best Reviews

“This amusing new author has devised an excellent cast of characters and thrown them into a cleverly tumultuous plot . . . a terrific debut!” —
Romantic Times

Other Flower Shop Mysteries

OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, August 2008

Copyright © Linda Tsoutsouris, 2008

All rights reserved

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To my great big, wonderful, extended and cojoined
family, and dear friends, without whom my life
would have little meaning.

The idea for this book originated in the creative mind of one of my offspring, who thought a story on identity theft to the max would be a horrible situation for Abby to be in, but a terrific mystery for her to solve. You were right, Jason. Thank you so much for inspiring the story and helping me come up with its unusual twists.

The accuracy of the procedural and legal matters can be attributed to (or blamed on) my husband, Jim, who has amazingly vast quantities of information, advice, and wisdom to share, and who never complained about having to read the same scene over until I got it right.

The critiquing fell to my sister, Nancy, who was willing to brainstorm with me whenever I needed her, and who spent hours poring over my chapters, offering her perspective on the unusual situations in which Abby finds herself.

The integrity of the characters and plot stayed on course under the guidance of my editor, Ellen Edwards, whose opinion I trust and value.

The encouragement and support came from my family and dear friends, near and far, as always. You are the true jewels in my life.

The grunt work I did all by myself.

A big thanks to Pam and Emaly Leak, of Autumn Hill Llamas (
www.autumnhillllamas.com
), the actual owners of Catastrophe. Pam and Emaly were kind enough to give me a lesson on the care and feeding of these sweet, gentle animals. It didn’t take long for me to understand why the Leaks are so fond of them.

PROLOGUE

As far as I knew, being a five-foot-two-inch green-eyed redhead wasn’t a crime.

“Matron? Can you hear me? There’s been a mistake.”

Yet there I was, jailed for being a five-foot-two-inch green-eyed redhead. At least that was what the state trooper had told me when he yanked me out of my beloved old Corvette, slapped handcuffs on my wrists, and stuffed me into the backseat of his squad car.

“Hello? Is anyone out there?” I pressed my ear between the steel bars, listening for a reply. With all that clanging metal and cacophony of female voices ping-ponging against cement-block walls, it was a little hard to hear.

“I need to talk to you,” I shouted up the hallway. At least a dozen women responded with comments that weren’t helpful, but
were
pretty colorful.

“Baby, you’re wastin’ your breath,” came an easy voice from behind me. “You got to wait till breakfast is over. They eatin’ now.”

“Someone has to be up there,” I muttered. “They wouldn’t leave the post unattended.”

“Post?” Hearty laughter followed. “Baby, this ain’t no army base. This is lockup.”

Lockup.
I clasped my fingers around the bars and held on as a shudder shook me. I’d seen the lockup once before, but from the other side, during one of my dad’s “educational outings,” designed to scare the bejeepers out of my brothers and me. It was part of my father’s ongoing effort to keep us on the straight and narrow. He’d been a cop in the police department of New Chapel, Indiana, at the time. It had worked well. None of us had ever been on the inside—until now.

“Hey!” I called up the hallway again. “I need to speak to Sergeant Sean Reilly. Tell him Abby needs to see him right away. He’s a good friend of mine. Seriously. He’ll want to talk to me.”

“Will you shut up?” someone behind me snarled. “You’re making my head pound.”

“Matron, please?” I called softly. I waited another few minutes, then leaned my aching forehead against one cold, thick bar. Damn it, where was Dave? I’d used my only phone call on my former boss—now my soon-to-be attorney—and had gotten his voice mail. Didn’t he check his messages?

Then I remembered that Dave had gone out of town last week for a legal conference and wasn’t due home until later today. And Marco, my hunky knight in shining black leather jacket, the guy who was always there for me . . . wasn’t there anymore. He and I were history.
Finito
. My eyes filled with tears. The shock of losing him was so new and raw that I hadn’t fully absorbed it.

Quickly I blinked back the tears so my cell mates wouldn’t think I was some wimpy little girl. I couldn’t think about Marco now. I had much bigger problems on my plate. I glanced around at my dismal surroundings— the long, narrow room, the stainless steel sink in the corner with the short partition beside it that hid the stinky toilet, the high, barred window on the back wall, the six bunks on a side wall, stacked two high, jutting from the cement blocks, the single lightbulb overhead. . . . I was actually
incarcerated
. Me, a harmless florist.

I glanced down at the putrid orange prison jumpsuit I had been forced to put on, then shut my eyes as the walls began to close in on me. Sweat broke out on my forehead and my hands grew clammy as my claustrophobia clawed its way to the surface. My only hope was that word of my arrest would quickly reach Sergeant Reilly’s ears, because if I didn’t get out of there soon, I was going to have a serious meltdown.