Praise for the Bridal Bouquet Shop Mysteries
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls
“The characters in this well-tended plot are warm and multidimensional. . . . The floral angle provides a unique scent to this fun and well-paced installment in the series.”
—Booklist
“A great read. . . . The story is a page-turner of excitement that takes readers along for a thrilling ride.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A well written and highly entertaining cozy with a clever plot and more than a few twists and turns.”
—Criminal Element
Bloom and Doom
“Captivated my attention from the very first page. With the meanings of flowers skillfully woven throughout the story, it was as delightful as a freshly cut bouquet of ranunculus (radiant charm) and tarragon (lasting interest). Beverly Allen writes wonderfully engaging characters in a lovely small-town setting. Audrey Bloom, the heroine, is quick-witted and clever as she unravels the mystery, which was a puzzler right up to the dramatic end. A thoroughly entertaining and engaging mystery! I can’t wait for the next one!”
—Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author
“It’s an engaging bouquet of mayhem and murder. What a delight for cozy readers!”
—Erika Chase, national bestselling author of the Ashton Corners Book Club Mysteries
“Allen’s upbeat series debut reads smoothly and easily with excellent dialog and an immensely likable cast . . . The flower business really stars in this cozy.”
—Library Journal
“[A] highly entertaining, fun, and snappy mystery . . . Bloom and Doom has everything to keep you engaged: a compelling murder to be solved, great humor, warm friendship, and the language of flowers. I cannot wait for more books of this series.”
—Criminal Element
“Provides readers with a fresh twist on the amateur-sleuth story.”
—Booklist
“A terrific start to a new series.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Has all the ingredients that make up a charming cozy mystery—likable characters, good mystery, and a little fun and romance thrown in.”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Beverly Allen
BLOOM AND DOOM
FOR WHOM THE BLUEBELL TOLLS
FLORAL DEPRAVITY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
FLORAL DEPRAVITY
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author.
Copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60949-1
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2015
Cover illustration by Ben Perini and Pink Rose Heart © by Titania/Shutterstock.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
In memory of my grandmother, who taught me the simple joys of whispered, early-morning conversation over mugs of instant coffee.
Acknowledgments
First, I’d like to thank the readers who have told me how much they’ve enjoyed the time spent with Audrey Bloom and her friends at the Rose in Bloom. I know I’ve cherished every moment I’ve been able to spend in the flower shop with them, or wandering the streets of Ramble, gathering clues.
I’d like to thank my friends and critique partners, who challenge me to write the best I can, and then make it better. Kathy Hurst, Debra Marvin, Aric Gaughan, Katie Murdock, and Ken Swiatek, thanks for all your input. Especially Lynne Wallace-Lee, who also shared her zany experiences in historical re-creations. Lori Melton, thanks so much for sharing your dove story with me. Fay, I wish you were still here to read the final product.
Thanks to my agent, Kim Lionetti, and my editor, Katherine Pelz, the wonderful cover artists, the copyeditors who make me look better, and all the folks at Berkley that make these books happen.
And to my family, especially Rob Early, thanks for the takeout, patience, and support.
Contents
Praise for the Bridal Bouquet Shop Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Beverly Allen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
“Let me guess, Audrey.” Liv pointed to my hand. “He loves you not?”
I glanced down. I’d only intended to remove the guard petals of the rose I was working on. Instead, I’d accumulated a pile of rose petals and one decimated stem. “Sorry. Distracted, I guess.” I set the remnants aside on my worktable—little in the floral business was ever wasted—then picked up another gorgeous red rose. Good thing we kept our cooler well stocked.
My cousin, Liv Meyer, came over and pushed a sprig of boxwood into a bare spot in the funeral flowers I was preparing for a feisty local woman. She’d passed away at the ripe old age of 103, and the red roses were ordered by her 79-year-old husband. (Did that make her a cougar?) He claimed they were her favorites and he wanted to give them to her one last time.
Although arranging funeral flowers tended to cast a pall over the shop, I still smiled when I incorporated a few unopened rosebuds. Not only would the arrangement continue to grow lovelier as they opened, but the meaning of the red rosebud, You are young and beautiful, was almost delightfully ironic. This arrangement, as it aged, would play out a slideshow of their lives together. As the roses barely began to bloom, they would represent timid love. Then as they opened, a vibrant love. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat.
“There’s still time to get out of this, you know,” Liv said. “You don’t have to go through with it.”
“What, this condolence arrangement? I’ve made hundreds like it.” Although I much preferred wedding bouquets. Even though I specialized in wedding flowers at the Rose in Bloom, the shop Liv and I co-owned, we all pitched in where needed, so I’d done my fair share of funeral arrangements.
“You know what I mean.”
“Uh-oh,” Amber Lee said. “If it’s time for that discussion, I’m going up front to check the self-servi
ce cooler.” Amber Lee, a retired schoolteacher, had come to us with little floral experience but loads of enthusiasm after she discovered that retirement didn’t suit her. She was technically my assistant and helped with all the wedding arrangements, but had proved herself capable in almost every area of the shop. She was indispensable. More than that, she was becoming family.
“I just did that an hour ago,” Liv said.
“Then . . . well, I’ll figure out something else to do,” Amber Lee said.
As she hustled out of earshot, I sighed. “We’ve been through this.”
“I know.” Liv set down her tools and stretched her back. “And I don’t want to tell you how to run your life. It’s just such a big commitment.”
“And what exactly is wrong with big commitments?” My words came out sounding a bit defensive, so I forced a more casual tone into my voice. “You’ve made a few of your own, if I’m not mistaken. A husband, a house of your own”—I pointed at her burgeoning belly—“a baby due in about fifteen minutes.”
She waved off my concern. “I’ve got weeks left, and then some. The doctor suspects the baby will be late. But don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject. We’re talking about responsibility. I’m twenty-nine years old. Why is it that you can run full-speed into adulthood, but when I take on one responsibility—”
“It’s not just . . .” Liv rubbed the top of her stomach and breathed out, a pained expression on her face.
“What is it? A contraction?” My irritation melted into concern. Liv and I squabbled on only the rarest of occasions, and I found staying angry with my cousin and best friend about as possible as man-powered flight, perpetual motion, or a box of chocolates remaining untouched in the shop all day.
“No, I’m fine. And you’re right.” She put her arm around me. “I don’t know why I’m such a mother hen at times. I’ll try to support you, even when I don’t agree with your decisions.”
“Of all people, Liv, you should understand what that cottage means to me.” Liv and I had spent many happy childhood summers there with our Grandma Mae. It was she who inspired our love for flowers.
“I do. I have fond memories there, too, remember? But we’re not talking about making a scrapbook. Some decisions you have to make with your head, not just your heart. Can’t you treasure Grandma Mae’s memory without buying her old cottage? You heard what the inspectors said.”
“That last one was more positive. The bank approved the loan.”
“He also said the sewer line to the road needs to be replaced.”
“Well, of course I know the place is going to need some work.” All of a sudden, my stomach went a little queasy. “Are sewer lines expensive?” Most of my money would be tied up in the down payment. I’d hoped to be able to do repairs and make improvements little by little.
“Eric said there is no sewer line to the road. The cottage has a septic system in the back. What if the only reason you got the loan was because they somehow inspected the wrong house?”
“What are the odds of that?”
“Better than you think. Eric and I figured out what that scrawl on page three said. Something about the bidet on the second floor leaking.”
The cottage didn’t have a bidet. Come to think of it, it didn’t have a second floor, either. “But maybe it’s Providence. Maybe I’m meant to have that house.”
“Kiddo, the good Lord would never saddle you with that place . . . unless you’ve been a lot more wicked than you’ve been letting on. Besides,” Liv said, laying a gentle hand on my forearm, “if you’re all that confident, why do you keep stripping our roses?”
I looked down at the second bare stem in my hand and tossed it onto the worktable.
“Would you like to leave early?” Liv asked. “What time do you sign the papers?”
“Not until five,” I said. “You just don’t want me ruining all the stock.”
Liv snapped her fingers. “You saw right through me.”
I shook my head. “I have a bridal appointment in a few minutes anyway.”
“Oh, new wedding? Who’s coming in?”
“Who do you think?” I rolled my eyes.
“Again?”
Amber Lee peeked her head in the back door. “Is it safe?”
“All better,” I said.
“Good.” She lugged in a large wrapped box and placed it in front of me. “This came for you a few minutes ago.”
“For me?” I looked at Liv and she shrugged. But a twinkle in her eye and the half smile tickling her lips told me she knew something about it. I pulled off the bow and ripped open the paper. Inside the box were a tool kit and a cordless drill. “I can’t say anyone has ever given me hardware before.”
“Consider them a housewarming gift from all of us at the shop. From what Eric told me about the place, you’re going to need them.”
“I suggested we add a good man to help you with the repairs,” Amber Lee said, “but we couldn’t quite fit him in the box.”
Liv sent her a look, which saved me the trouble. My love life was a bit complicated, since it involved friendly dates with Nick Maxwell, the local baker—who was unwilling to commit. And long phone conversations and regular texts with Brad Simmons, my ex-almost-fiancé—who seemed determined to erase the “ex” part.
“Oh,” Amber Lee said, “Kathleen Randolph and her daughter are here for their bridal consultation, take three.”
“Four,” I said, “but who’s counting?”
I propped a smile on my face as I mounted the steps to the wrought iron gazebo we used as our consulting nook. Kathleen Randolph, owner of the Ashbury Inn and prominent—but often long-winded—local historian, had called to say she was bringing a few reference books along to this appointment to help finalize the flowers for her daughter Andrea’s wedding. Since the wedding, planned to be held at a local medieval encampment, was now just two weeks away, I hoped they didn’t have anything too exotic in mind. But it looked like they’d brought half their library. About fifty moldering tomes were piled in front of them.
I’d like to think my smile didn’t dim, but I’m not sure I’m that good.
“We brought more reference books,” Kathleen said brightly. “Found some great stuff on the Tudors.”
“Nice,” I said. I refrained from telling her the only thing I know about the Tudors had to do with stucco and fake wood beams.
The next two hours were steeped in history, leaving me feeling much like a cold, wet teabag. But I managed to sketch out some workable flower suggestions amid their rapt discussion of the Middle Ages.
“And you must come to the ceremony,” Andrea said.
It wasn’t unusual for brides to invite me to their weddings. Ramble, Virginia, was such a small town that I likely knew the bride anyway. And it seemed to reassure them that their flowers would be there, look lovely, and if anything happened at the last minute, I could fix it.
Kathleen pulled out a sheet of folded parchment and smoothed it on the table. “I drew you a map to the encampment.”
I looked at the page. It resembled a pirate’s map. It only lacked the skull and crossbones, a sea monster, and a big X. I take that back. It had an X in a clearing surrounded by woods. “I can’t use my GPS?”
Kathleen and Andrea shared a snicker or two at my expense, before Andrea took pity and explained. “The encampment is not accessible by roads. Having a parking lot right next to a medieval encampment would make it look too much like a . . . a Renaissance fair.” I swore they both shuddered at the words.
Did I dare ask? I dared. “What’s the difference?”
“Renaissance fairs are for the . . .” Kathleen trailed off, leaving me to wonder if she was going to say “unwashed masses.”
“For people who want to play with swords and speak in dreadfully awful cockney accents,” Andrea
finished.
“Worse than Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.” This time there was no mistaking it. They both shuddered.
I happened to adore Dick Van Dyke, so it took great effort to hold my tongue.
“And eat turkey legs!” they both said in unison, with distasteful grimaces on their faces.
I quirked an eyebrow.
“Turkey is a New World bird,” Andrea said. “They wouldn’t have had it in the Middle Ages.”
“The Guardians of Chivalry Encampment is for serious-minded historians who want an authentic experience,” Kathleen said. “We camp a mile from the nearest road. No electricity. No running water. Authentic dress is required. We don’t just play at the Middle Ages. We live like we are in the Middle Ages.”
“We hunt and gather, butcher our own animals, learn the old crafts,” Andrea said.
“We have a sizable village constructed,” Kathleen said. “We first started, oh, maybe thirty years ago, with nothing more than a caravan of tents. We try to put up a new structure every year. But now we’re working on a castle, so it’s going to take longer.”
“I see,” I said.
I’d heard of the encampment, of course, and had seen the visitors on their annual autumn pilgrimages, stopping at the local restaurants on the way in and, a couple of weeks later, much grubbier looking and more foul smelling, on the way out.
“We’ve decided to go with the hand-fasting,” Andrea said. “Although the ceremony was most usually an engagement, many historians say that if the marriage was consummated at that point, the couple were considered legally wed by the church.”
“Hand-fasting?”
“We tie our hands together while we give our consent to marry,” Andrea said. “No clergy needed. Of course, to make it legal in Virginia, we’ll have an officiant. We have someone licensed coming as a friar this year.”
“A licensed friar?” I asked.
“No, not really a friar,” she said, “any more than the knights have been dubbed by a queen. But he’s licensed by the state and will be using the persona of a friar. It couldn’t be better.”
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