Roots of Murder by Janis Harrison Read Free Book Online Page B

at first glance, but self-serving to both. Bottom line, they wanted Isaac’s flowers. Did Isaac’s death prompt one to call the other with this deal? Or had something been afoot before Isaac died?
    â€œYour order, please,” said the scratchy voice over the intercom.
    â€œA double cheese—” I stopped. I couldn’t say it. My toes curled in my sneakers. “Nah,” I said. “Make that a Diet Coke.”
    At the take-out window, I ignored the smells wafting out. I paid, accepted the Coke, and drove the remaining blocks to the shop. I should have been proud of my willpower. All I felt was deprived.
    During business hours I park in the alley. Today I took a spot out front. The shop windows were dark, the CLOSED sign in place. Lois hadn’t been too busy if she could lock up on time.
    The name of my business was painted above the door: THE FLOWER SHOP. Not very original, but its simplicity suits me. If I had to answer the phone thirty times a
day with something cutesy, I’d gag. I guess my inventive competitors were less prone to nausea. Besides Allison’s Pick a Posie, there were Perfect Petals, Fragrant Flowers, Buds and Blooms, and my personal favorite, Whoopsie Daisy.
    My shop is narrow but deep, the entry door squarely in the middle with a display window on each side. The window on the right had a Halloween theme. A witch rode her broom across a full amber moon made of Styrofoam and covered with shimmering satin. Polyester stuffing pulled into gossamer strands represented cobwebs. Huge black rubber spiders hid in corners, waiting patiently for their next victim.
    I moved a few steps closer and activated a sensor. The biggest spider, about the size of my hand, sprang at the glass. Its jaws opened to expose a blood red mouth. From a hidden microphone came a spine-tingling scream. Thanks to Lois’s husband, Noah, a technical genius, my windows always have something special. The kids love it. The adults remember, and I have more than my share of River City’s floral business.
    On my left was the fall display. I eyed it critically. Lois had replaced the big grapevine wreath with a smaller one. The balance was off, but it didn’t look bad. Monday would be soon enough to make something else.
    I slipped the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Like a soothing emollient, aromas rushed to greet me. Roses, cinnamon, eucalyptus. I breathed deeply and locked the door behind me. In the shadows, I closed my eyes. It had been a tough morning. I needed to regroup.

    This little piece of real estate was more familiar than any room at home. I knew every nook and cranny. I sipped my Diet Coke. It’s a sorry life I lead to receive this kind of pleasure from walking through the door. My work has always been important to me. But after Carl died, the shop became my mate, my lover, my best friend. I work hard, but I play with it, too. I can be as creative or innovative as the mood strikes. I can make changes without permission. I can buy, sell, set prices at my own discretion. In a nutshell, I can do as I damned well please. And that’s the way I like it. That kind of freedom is worth a lot to me.
    I left the lights off in the showroom but flipped the switch for the ones in my office and the workroom. All the floors had been swept and mopped. The trash had been carried out. The day’s shipment of fresh flowers had arrived, and the front cooler was filled with Lois’s arrangements. Her combination of colors and flowers sometimes shocks me, but she has customers who ask specifically for her, so I keep my opinions to myself.
    I headed for my desk. Since the call for the wreath hadn’t come in before I left yesterday, I assumed Lois had received it this morning. I pulled out the batch of invoices for Saturday and flipped through them. Zero. Hmm—cash?
    â€œNothing wrong with that,” I murmured, scanning the cash receipts.
    Second from the bottom, I found it. No