Read Online Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery by Kate Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Collins
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shorthanded, but after things settled down, I wasn’t able to convince her to stay away. I didn’t mind Lottie in the workroom with me, but three was definitely a crowd. I just didn’t have the heart to tell Francesca.
What had consoled me in the past was knowing that she was going back to her home in Ohio. But had she gone? Nope. She had opted to stay in New Chapel instead,
purportedly
to babysit for her grandchildren. I knew it was really to oversee my bridal shower and wedding preparations as well as Marco’s life. She hadn’t exactly hidden her feelings on either subject.
Francesca currently resided with Marco’s sister Gina, who had a toddler and a newborn, and a guest suite in her basement that was neither too hot nor too cold but just right for Mama Bear. That had been a relief for Marco, because his mom had been staying at his apartment. He still had the occasional nightmare about those weeks.
“Abby,
bella
!” Francesca cried upon seeing me enter the shop. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to her and enfolded me in a hug. Then she gripped my arms so she could lean back and size me up. “Have you eaten lunch today? You look washed-out. Your freckles are jumping off your face. Come, I brought a pan of mostaccioli Bolognese fresh from the oven. It will make everything better.”
Taking my hand, she led me through the purple curtain, through the workroom, and into the tiny galley kitchen in back, where she sat me on a tall wooden stool at the narrow bar along the wall and opened our small refrigerator, pulling out a baking dish covered with aluminum foil. “Do you have a serving spoon?”
“It’s in the drawer. I’ll find it for you.”
I started to hop down, but she wasn’t having it. “Sit, sit! You’ve had a busy morning.”
So I sat as she dug through our cluttered kitchen drawer.
Francesca was in her mid-fifties but had the vibrancy, hourglass shape, and smooth skin of a woman much younger. Her eyes were dark brown and crinkled at the corners like Marco’s, with dark brown arched brows and thick black lashes. Her gloriously full-bodied dark hair waved around her face and onto the tops of her shoulders. Her white silk shirt, paired with multiple silver chains and flowy black slacks, was impossibly clean for her having just made a dish with red sauce in it.
“So,” she said, picking through an odd assortment of utensils, “I hear you and my son have a new case.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Aha! Here it is.” She knocked the drawer shut with her hip. “This job is for your former fiancé?” She plopped a large spoonful of pasta smothered in a red meat sauceloaded with onions, garlic, oregano, basil, and—I sniffed the air; was that a hint of cinnamon?—onto a plate and set it in front of me.
“Yes, it is.”
“The man who broke your engagement and your heart? And now comes to you for help? And you have agreed to this?”
Amazing how her voice rose with each question. It was the inquisition all over again. “I—sort of had to.”
“You
had
to?” She dropped her voice. “Is this slime boy blackmailing you?”
Before I could answer, she leaned so close we were practically eyeball to eyeball. “You didn’t
pose
for him for one of those
sext
messages, did you?”
My jaw dropped so fast I heard two pops near my ears. “No! I—
ew
!”
“Because I will have Marco break the slime boy’s knees if he demanded that of you.”
In the first place, Pryce didn’t know what a sext message was. In the second, Marco would never break anyone’s knees unless it was to save a life. In the third place, Pryce was as far away from something slimy as an überfastidious man could be. And in the fourth, did she really see me as someone who would pose without clothes? If so, double
ew
!
“I truly wish I could tell you why I felt compelled to take the case, Francesca, but I promised someone I wouldn’t.”
She rose back up, her eyebrows lifting. “I see.”
Translation:
You don’t
What had consoled me in the past was knowing that she was going back to her home in Ohio. But had she gone? Nope. She had opted to stay in New Chapel instead,
purportedly
to babysit for her grandchildren. I knew it was really to oversee my bridal shower and wedding preparations as well as Marco’s life. She hadn’t exactly hidden her feelings on either subject.
Francesca currently resided with Marco’s sister Gina, who had a toddler and a newborn, and a guest suite in her basement that was neither too hot nor too cold but just right for Mama Bear. That had been a relief for Marco, because his mom had been staying at his apartment. He still had the occasional nightmare about those weeks.
“Abby,
bella
!” Francesca cried upon seeing me enter the shop. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to her and enfolded me in a hug. Then she gripped my arms so she could lean back and size me up. “Have you eaten lunch today? You look washed-out. Your freckles are jumping off your face. Come, I brought a pan of mostaccioli Bolognese fresh from the oven. It will make everything better.”
Taking my hand, she led me through the purple curtain, through the workroom, and into the tiny galley kitchen in back, where she sat me on a tall wooden stool at the narrow bar along the wall and opened our small refrigerator, pulling out a baking dish covered with aluminum foil. “Do you have a serving spoon?”
“It’s in the drawer. I’ll find it for you.”
I started to hop down, but she wasn’t having it. “Sit, sit! You’ve had a busy morning.”
So I sat as she dug through our cluttered kitchen drawer.
Francesca was in her mid-fifties but had the vibrancy, hourglass shape, and smooth skin of a woman much younger. Her eyes were dark brown and crinkled at the corners like Marco’s, with dark brown arched brows and thick black lashes. Her gloriously full-bodied dark hair waved around her face and onto the tops of her shoulders. Her white silk shirt, paired with multiple silver chains and flowy black slacks, was impossibly clean for her having just made a dish with red sauce in it.
“So,” she said, picking through an odd assortment of utensils, “I hear you and my son have a new case.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Aha! Here it is.” She knocked the drawer shut with her hip. “This job is for your former fiancé?” She plopped a large spoonful of pasta smothered in a red meat sauceloaded with onions, garlic, oregano, basil, and—I sniffed the air; was that a hint of cinnamon?—onto a plate and set it in front of me.
“Yes, it is.”
“The man who broke your engagement and your heart? And now comes to you for help? And you have agreed to this?”
Amazing how her voice rose with each question. It was the inquisition all over again. “I—sort of had to.”
“You
had
to?” She dropped her voice. “Is this slime boy blackmailing you?”
Before I could answer, she leaned so close we were practically eyeball to eyeball. “You didn’t
pose
for him for one of those
sext
messages, did you?”
My jaw dropped so fast I heard two pops near my ears. “No! I—
ew
!”
“Because I will have Marco break the slime boy’s knees if he demanded that of you.”
In the first place, Pryce didn’t know what a sext message was. In the second, Marco would never break anyone’s knees unless it was to save a life. In the third place, Pryce was as far away from something slimy as an überfastidious man could be. And in the fourth, did she really see me as someone who would pose without clothes? If so, double
ew
!
“I truly wish I could tell you why I felt compelled to take the case, Francesca, but I promised someone I wouldn’t.”
She rose back up, her eyebrows lifting. “I see.”
Translation:
You don’t
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