I confess, I haven’t read any of Kate Collins’ books yet, though I have most of them in the old TBR mountain. I discovered them this last year and they sounded like such fun, I started a search to find the entire Flower Shop Mysteries series. After reading Kate’s interview and this excerpt, I think you’ll agree and begin your own hunt.

So without further ado, let’s get on with the excerpt. Here’s a quick look before the good stuff!

Maybe Abby Knight shouldn’t have chosen a home and garden show sponsored by Uniworld Food as the venue for her protest against the corporation’s harmful farming practices. But being bodily removed from the event won’t stop her campaign. Nor will a burning brick thrown through her flower shop’s window.

After she narrowly escapes being kidnapped three times, Abby calls in the big guns-her ex-Ranger boyfriend Marco and her friends and family. And then the stakes are raised by murder…

PROLOGUE

A man stepped from the shadows into a circle of yellow light cast by a single bulb hanging from the high ceiling. He circled the rickety desk chair, the heels of his dress shoes striking the concrete floor, echoing in the chilly chamber. A predator circling his prey.

In the chair sat a large, bulky man, beads of sweat inching down his temples as he watched the other’s every move. He jumped when the figure spoke.

“You ask me to believe this situation was caused by a florist?”

His manner was low key, his voice smooth, almost amused. Still, the sweating man knew better than to trust outward appearances. Woe to the unwary who failed to sense the danger behind those hooded eyes and that deceptively calm demeanor. “I know it sounds crazy, but you don’t understand how persistent the woman is.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m beginning to understand how incompetent you are, my friend.”

“Wait just a minute here,” the sweating man said, twisting to keep him in sight. “This isn’t my fault.”

“Ah, but it is your fault,” the predator hissed serpent-like in his ear, sending a shudder down his spine. “I put the matter in your hands, did I not? You failed me, and now you want to blame this mess on a florist, as if that removes your culpability.” Strong fingers gripped the large man’s shoulders. “I don’t believe you appreciate the ramifications of your actions, and for that I must take exception.”

The big man swallowed hard, hoping his trembling couldn’t be felt through those fingers digging into his flesh. How ironic that for once he was the one in the hot seat. “Let’s not do anything hasty, okay? We both want to make money on this, so give me time to make it right. I promise you, I’ll handle the problem.”

The predator released him. “The problem? Would that be the florist?”

“See, that’s the thing,” the large man said, this time afraid to turn, unwilling to meet that cold gaze again. “It’s not like she’s just a florist. She studied law. She worked for a public defender. Now she believes she’s some kind of crusader.”

A long stretch of silence followed, broken only by a dripping faucet. Finally, from a distance, as though he’d receded back into the shadows, he said softly, “Her name?”

“Abby Knight.”

Silence.

“Look, I swear I’ll take care of her,” the large man said, peering into the gloom. “Just give me a week. That’s all I ask. One week.”

Silence.

The man wiped sweat out of his eyes. Waiting.

“All right,” came the reply at last. “But if you fail this time, you, my friend, are finished, and I shall put the problem to rest myself. Permanently.”

CHAPTER ONE

“Free jelly beans!” I called to the people walking past my table. “Heart-shaped red jelly beans. Get them before they’re gone!”

A pair of middle-aged women veered toward my table to dip their hands in the giant glass bowl, taking a handful of the small, cellophane-wrapped packages.

“Compliments of Bloomers Flower Shop,” I said, “located on the New Chapel town square across the street from the courthouse. And if you’ll sign my petition, you’re eligible to win this beautiful arrangement of red callas, pink roses, blue delphiniums, and white carnations, one of Bloomers’ many Valentine’s Day selections.” I pivoted the vase to display it from all sides.

“Lovely,” one said.

“What’s the petition for?” the other asked right on cue, bending down to see the names on the clipboard I pushed in front of her.

“You’ve heard that Uniworld Food Corporation is going to open a giant dairy farm on the outskirts of town, haven’t you?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied, reaching for more candy.

Raising my voice to attract attention, I said, “Did you know that Uniworld’s policy is to inject cows with bovine hormones to make the poor creatures lactate nine times more than normal, and that any Uniworld dairy product you consume will be loaded with those same hormones, which can disrupt your endocrine system and have all kinds of harmful effects on your body?”

“That’s awful!” one of them declared.

I slid two glossy 8x10s toward them. “These are photos of hormone-injected cows. Take a look at those udders.”

“Oh, my!” the other said, as both women drew back in horror. “They’re dragging the ground!”  Only a woman could begin to understand the cows’ discomfort.

People were starting to gather behind the pair, so, holding up my clipboard with the yellow notebook paper on it, I continued, “This petition is to stop Uniworld from opening their dairy farm factory unless they guarantee, in writing, that they will not inject cows with hormones. Will you help by adding your name to this list?”

“We’ll think about it,” the first woman said with an apologetic smile, backing away, taking her candy and most of the crowd with her.

“What’s there to think about, except ending the poor animals’ suffering?” I called.

Before they could escape completely, I added, “Remember Bloomers when you need flowers.”

It was my first year exhibiting at New Chapel, Indiana’s Winter Home and Garden Show, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. With the exposition center’s cavernous hall filled with businesses from all over the county, where better to make people aware of the impending opening of the dairy farm as well as to drum up business for my struggling flower shop? Where else would I be guaranteed masses of people desperate to escape the winter doldrums?

Rather than handing out free flowers to draw people in, I was giving away samples of my mother’s jelly beans. Artisan candy was the latest in Mom’s long list of creative endeavors, which included her infamous, neon-hued, Dancing Naked Monkey Table, her ginormous bowling pin-shaped hat rack, and her clothing-and-accessories line made out of one-inch wooden balls that gave whole new meaning to the term “beaded jacket.”

Like past projects, my mom, an excellent kindergarten teacher, expected me to sell her designer candy at Bloomers. Luckily, she’d tested her initial batch on her family before offering it for sale, otherwise there would undoubtedly have been lawsuits involving blistered tongues and seared tonsils caused by her use of red pepper flakes for both flavor and color. She’d since switched to a recipe she promised was naturally sweet and mild.

Mom had sent her new batch with my thirteen-year-old niece,Tara, who promised I’d have amazing results. I hadn’t had a chance to sample them myself, so I took Tara’s word for it.

“We’ll sign your petition,” a young couple offered, stepping up to the table.

“It’s like I said before, Aunt Abby,” whispered Tara, sitting beside me, “aim for the young. The oldies just don’t get it.”

“Okay, first of all, I have been aiming young. I held two rallies on New Chapel U’s campus, both of which was covered by the local newspaper.” On page ten. Of the third section. Sadly, although my rallies brought out a lot of college kids who were more than willing to carry protest signs, the rallies weren’t very effective because students didn’t have a lot of buying power. I needed to reach serious shoppers.

“And second, don’t let your grandparents hear you call them oldies.” I glanced around to be sure my parents weren’t heading toward us at that very moment.

“Don’t worry. Grandma and Grandpa know they’re cool. But you’re gonna have to do better than that” –She pointed to my pathetically undersigned petition– “ if you want to stop that farm factory from opening.”

“I know that, thank you very much.”

“You need more media attention, like a video on Youtube. I can help you make one.”

Tara was the only grandchild in our family, born when I was fourteen years old, which sometimes made her feel more like a kid sister than a niece. She had shown up at the center that morning allegedly to keep me company. While I appreciated her camaraderie, I was fully aware that Tara never volunteered for anything unless there was something in it for her. I had yet to learn what that something was.

Looking bored, Tara rocked her chair back on two legs. “So when are you and Uncle Marco going to set a wedding date?”

Ah-ha! There was her hidden agenda. “Grandma sent you here to bug me about that, didn’t she?”

Tara looked offended. “Nuh-uh! It was totally my idea to help you.”

Right. “Okay, fine. I’m going to say this once, so listen close. Marco and I are still in the discussion stage. And by the way, he’s not your uncle.  Have some jelly beans.” I pushed the bowl toward her.

“Not now, thanks. And by the way, you’re lucky you didn’t have to try Grandma’s first batch. I couldn’t swallow for two days. If you ask me, she should stick to her clay sculptures, and you and Hot Pockets Salvare should set a date.”

“How about just Mr. Salvare?”

Tara made a face. “He’s way too cool for that. Hmm. Let’s see. What should I call my aunt’s boyfriend-and-possible future husband? Oh, I know. How about uncle?”

“How about no?”

Her chair came down on all four legs as she reached for the petition and added her name in balloon letters. “So when is Mr. Not-My-Uncle Salvare going to show up?”

“You’re just too cute for words, you know that? He said he’d come by this afternoon. He’s working on a private investigation this morning.”

“My friends are jealous because you’re dating him. How many boyfriends go from Army Ranger Special Ops to owner of a bar named Down the Hatch, plus being a private eye?”

“Your friends aren’t jealous because I own Bloomers?”

“They’d be totally jealous if you owned Bloomers and were married to Mr. Army Ranger-Bar-Owner-Private Eye Salvare. How about Valentine’s Day? It’s the perfect day to get married and it’s the day before my birthday. So, a year from next week on the fourteenth?”

“Tara, would you stop? We’re already getting enough pressure from our families without you adding to it.”

She grinned. “You are?”

“Your mother and your Aunt Portia send me fliers from every bridal shop in the greater Chicago area, Grandma has caterers calling me once a week, and Marco’s mom keeps tearing pages out of bridal magazines and mailing them to me. So trust me, when we make a decision, I’ll let everyone know.”

“Whatev.” She rocked back on her chair. “So, going back to my birthday–”

Now we were getting to the real agenda.

“–want to know what I want for a present?”

“I’m dying to find out.”

“You know the Barrow Boys are coming here to perform, right?”

“Who are the Barrow Boys?”

“OMG, Aunt Abby, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the BBs. They’re just the hottest new boy band to come across the ocean in, like, decades. My friend Sonya Hucks text’d me last night that tickets are available right now because they added a show on Valentine’s Day.”

“So you want a ticket to the concert for your birthday?”

“Actually,” she said, “I want you and Dreamy Eyes Salvare to take me to the concert.”

The agenda unfolds. “You want us to escort you? Why?”

“Because Mom and Dad won’t let me go unless I’m chaperoned, and you and Macho Marco are cool enough that I won’t look like the biggest nimrod ever.” Tara clasped her hands together. “Please, Aunt Abby? I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me.”

I studied her hopeful little face and felt a tug at my heartstrings. Tara was so much like me — blunt cut, shoulder-length red hair, pert nose, freckles, short stature, and already showing signs of having curves — how could I resist her? In her acid washed, skinny jeans, banded-bottom flutter-sleeve plum top over a white turtleneck, and turquoise Blowfish ankle boots, she looked like a mini-model.

“I want written permission from your parents first.”

“Awesome. I’ll text Mom right now.” Her thumbs worked her cell phone at warp speed.

Bored out of my mind, I glanced at my watch. It was ten-thirty in the morning, an hour-and-a-half into the show, and I’d gotten a meager fifteen signatures for my petition. Tara was absolutely right: I had to do better than that if I hoped to have any leverage at all when I went to court to ask for an injunction against Uniworld.

More people were coming up the aisle, so I rose to deliver my jelly bean pitch. As I stepped into the aisle, I caught sight of a lean, so-blond-he-was-almost-albino guy watching me from across the way. In his mid-thirties, he had a clean-cut Scandinavian look about him, dressed as though he’d just stepped out of an Ikea ad. A decent-looking guy, I decided, until his hostile gaze met mine. Did he have a problem with me?

I smiled, hoping to disarm him, but it didn’t work, so I turned my back on him once again and began coaxing people to sign the petition. After collecting a few more signatures, I returned to my seat beside Tara and tried to pretend I wasn’t aware that the guy was still watching.

“Spook-Face over there is weirding me out,” Tara whispered.

“Ignore him. He’ll go away sooner or later.”

“Um, Aunt Abby?” She nodded in the man’s direction.

Crap. He was heading toward us, side-stepping browsers with the easy stealth of a leopard.

“Call Special Ops Salvare,” Tara whispered frantically. “We need back-up.”

I shushed her as the man approached. He picked up a cow photo for a closer look, put it down, then bent over the clipboard, running his finger down the list of names. Tara nudged me just as the man straightened, pinning me with his ice-blue gaze.

“Good morning,” he said in a smooth voice that registered a Germanic background. “I’m curious about this petition you have here.”

My inner antennae quivered a warning. Something about him set my teeth on edge. “I’m collecting signatures to halt Uniworld’s–”

“Stop, please,” he said at once. “You misunderstand. I’m curious as to what your petition is doing here, in this hall.”

I decided to play it cool, find out who I was dealing with before I went on the defensive. “Okay, first of all, let me introduce myself. I’m Abby–”

“Yes, I know who you are, Ms Knight.”

He knew who I was? My inner antenna were vibrating like crazy now. Trying not to appear nervous, I pasted a smile on my face. “How do you know me?”

“Your name is on the sign taped to your table.”

Oh, right.

“I’m Nils Raand,” he said curtly, “the local representative of Uniworld Food Corporation.”

No wonder he was hostile. “Then I don’t need to explain my petition, because you already know about your company’s criminal treatment of their animals.”

“Excuse me, Ms Knight, but I must lodge a protest. We do nothing criminal to our animals. Everything is FDA approved. Check your facts before making false accusations.”

I jabbed a finger at one of the photos. “So you’re defending the practice of injecting cows with hormones to increase milk production, regardless of the cost to animal or human life?”

His gaze didn’t move from my face, but I could see the tensing of his jaw, even though his tone remained eerily calm. “I did not come here to debate the issue with you. I came to ask you to put away the petition.”

I folded my arms. “Well, I’m not going to do that.”

Raand stared unblinkingly, as though trying to figure me out.  “As you wish,” he said at last, “but consider yourself warned.”

“Warned? What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, as though to say, Figure it out, while his chilly gaze flashed, You don’t want me to explain. Then he turned and walked away.

“You can’t sue me,” I called. “What I’m doing is guaranteed by my First Amendment Rights.”

He didn’t look back.

I pressed my lips together and glared a hole in the back of his crisply ironed shirt. I hated bullies, and Nils Raand was nothing more than a bully in chic clothing. Too bad for Nils, bullies didn’t scare me.