The Florist and the Funeral: Diana Flower Floriculture Mysteries, #0

By Ruby Loren

Poison, pits, and murder… the village vegetable competition is heating up!

Merryfield's reigning vegetable-growing champion is found dead on his allotment. 

The police think it was an accident caused by the champion's advancing age.

Diana Flowers, his allotment next door neighbour, isn't convinced.

She knows someone has poisoned the dead man's prized pumpkin plant.

And if the dead man dug the pit in which he met his doom, where did he leave the spade? 

A scientist like Diana knows you should never underestimate evidence… and in this case, she thinks the evidence points to murder. 
 

Buy your copy right now and discover your next favourite British amateur sleuth!

*This is the prequel short story to the Diana Flowers Floriculture Mysteries. Look inside the book to discover how to claim your free copy!*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruby Loren
• Release date: Aug 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386430087

Book preview

1

Merryfield’s Finest

Strange vegetables were commonplace in the Merryfield village allotments. The gardeners who frequented the communal grounds used all kinds of weird and wonderful (and quite possibly hazardous) methods to encourage their crops to grow, and the results were often startlingly unusual. Mutant marrows, bulbous pumpkins, and twisted carrots were all part of the scenery.

The man in the hole was not.

One of the last few butterflies, a relic of the summer season, settled on his rosacea riddled nose, before taking flight in search of sweeter pickings. Sprawled half in-half out of the freshly dug pit, the dead man stared up at the sky with open, unseeing eyes, waiting for someone to find him.

Unfortunately, I was the person destined to be that ‘someone’.

Autumn leaves spiralled to the ground when I walked down the narrow lane that led to the village allotment. It was early and the air had a crisp bite to it this morning that whispered of the coming winter. I observed the changing seasons and brushed a strand of my auburn hair back from my face. I’d had it cut into a long bob, hoping a more efficient hairstyle would save both time and the annoyance of constant hair fiddling. I hadn’t considered that it might get even more in the way, due to it being just too short to tie back properly. It was something that irked me, but hair would grow. Maybe next time I’d shave it all off - were it not for the dramatic effect it would have on my mother.

I pulled my iPad from my coat pocket, opening it up to my planner app and checking to see which plants I needed to tend to today. The summer’s floral flurries had faded and there were only a few final flushes to worry about. They would do for the Saturday market at least. Then I’d be specialising in evergreen foliage and forced festive blooms for the next several months.

A sigh escaped my lips as I approached the wooden gate and unlocked a padlock that had always seemed pointless to me - given that the gate barely came up to my midriff. I was twenty seven and had only just got round to realising that I was in the wrong job. Most of my life had been dedicated to education and then some more education on top of that. I’d achieved my masters degree and since then, I’d worked in London. Up until eight months ago, when everything had changed (for better or worse remained to be seen). I’d transferred labs. Now I commuted to a rural chemistry research lab, not far from the village I’d grown up in.

My mother had been delighted when she’d realised that I was coming back home after all the years I’d spent away, building my education. She’d suggested I move back in with her. That had lasted all of a week before I’d rented a flat and watched my blood pressure return to normal. Speaking as a chemist, I liked to say that my mother was just fine… in small doses.

The allotment had been a spur of the moment decision that hadn’t seemed greatly important at the time. When I’d leased the flat, my landlord, Jenny, had let me know that tenants were allowed to rent one of the allotment plots (which she also owned) for a reduced rate. She’d sold it to me as an outside space I was otherwise lacking. And when that had failed to garner interest, she’d told me that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead near the village allotments. That had sealed the deal.

When I’d first visited my newly leased patch of land, it had been a barren wasteland with only a few weeds poking their brazen heads through the cracked earth. I’d surmised that the ‘amazing deal’ I’d been offered had been influenced by a clear lack of demand. My own little slice of paradise it was not. I’d been considering cancelling the deal, but a