Roses Are Dead, Violets Are Blue

By Kate Collins

Roses are Red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet . . . unless murder’s involved.
Valentine's Day is just around the corner, and Abby Knight Salvare and her crew at Bloomers Flower Shop are hard at work preparing for the busiest day of the year. But after Abby attends a play at the town's theater, and the director, Richard Rose, is found dead, she's convinced that Rose's death is no accident and sets out to uncover the truth. Rumors of a curse surrounding the theater run rampant in Abby’s hometown of New Chapel, Indiana, but she refuses to believe a curse was the cause of Richard’s death.
As Abby digs deeper, she unearths a tangled web of secrets and lies that threaten to close the theater forever. With the help of her husband Marco Salvare, the hunky ex-Army Ranger who owns the local bar, Abby races against time to solve the mystery before the killer strikes again.
As the temperature drops and the threat of a major snowstorm looms, Abby and Marco must navigate their own relationship while untangling the threads of the case. Can they catch the killer and put the curse to rest? Or will the town of New Chapel be forever haunted by the ghosts of its past? Find out in "Roses Are Dead, Violets Are Blue," the latest Flower Shop Mystery from New York Times best-selling author Kate Collins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Collins
• Release date: Feb 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224810741

Kate Collins

Kate Collins is a writer of long-form and short fiction. From West Cork, Ireland, she now lives and works in Oxfordshire. A Good House for Children is her debut novel.

Book preview

Roses are Dead,

Violets are Blue

A Flower Shop Mystery

Kate Collins

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Book cover design by Arash Jahani

ROSES ARE DEAD, VIOLETS ARE BLUE

A Flower Shop Mystery

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2024 Linda Tsoutsouris

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Poem

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

Flower Shop Mysteries

Preview – A Vase in the Window

About the Author

Roses are dead,

Violets are blue,

Life simply isn’t,

the same without you.

If only I’d listened

Then all would be fine.

I would be yours,

And you would be mine.

Alas, now my heart is

Unwell and unruly.

Love,

Forever,

And ever,

Yours Truly

PROLOGUE

♥︎♥︎♥︎

February 2nd

Saturday Evening

Grace Bingham, my assistant at Bloomers Flower Shop, walked out of the shadows covered in blood. I gasped at the sight of her. I’d known the slender, sixty-something widow for almost four years, and I’d never expected this. I couldn’t believe my eyes - or my ears for that matter. She had no remnant of her British accent, and her once proper posture had been replaced with a crooked, hunched spine. Her eyes were layered in thick mascara that ran down her cheeks as though she’d been crying for hours. And as she stepped further into the light, I could see that she was holding a knife.

I knew Grace had been keeping a secret, but I never could’ve imagined this. For a few months, I’d suspected something was wrong with her. She’d been slipping out of work early during the week and asking for weekends off. She’d also been fixated on her smart phone more frequently during work, always checking for messages and responding immediately. Then there were the suspicious new guests who would come into the tearoom and chat quietly with her. I knew she had to have been hiding something.

Lottie, my mentor, and former owner of Bloomers hadn’t believed me. As usual, she’d blamed my curiosity on my ardent need to solve mysteries, an insatiable urge to fix problems, even when there were none. But now, as I looked over at Lottie, with her short, brassy curls and hot pink sweater, who sat with her jaw hung low, her eyes intensely focused on Grace – the woman of whom she’d assured me had no more secrets than anyone else – now I knew she was a true believer.

Grace’s manner was so unlike the woman I’d come to know that I shivered. All I could do was watch as she came up behind the detective and raised the six-inch blade above his head. I held my breath, frozen in place.

Look out, Detective! An attractive older woman in a striking, form-fitting, red evening gown approached the detective with her arms out shouting, Behind you!

Marco was seated to my left. He yawned conspicuously. I nudged his arm and whispered, Stop it.

The handsome young detective spun around just in time, deflecting the blow from the knife. A Police officer rushed out and grabbed Grace’s arms, pulling them behind her and snapping cuffs on her wrists.

Marco yawned again, and before I could stop myself, the urge struck me, too. I covered my mouth and tried to stifle the yawn as my eyes filled with water. Marco, I whispered again, you’ve got to stop doing that.

Sorry, he replied quietly. It’s a long play.

♥︎♥︎♥︎

The tall, handsome actor playing the detective’s role stood in the center of the wide stage, dressed in a three-piece brown tweed suit and shiny brown shoes, puffing on a pipe. If only I’d taken your advice, I might’ve been able to prevent these senseless tragedies. Thanks to your bravery, Mrs. Wells, we will now be able to charge this gruesome fiend with five counts of murder.

The actress who played Mrs. Wells, a petite, attractive, blond, fifty-something, gave a gracious nod of her head. I told you from the start, Detective, you were looking in the wrong place. And may that be a lesson for you all. Never underestimate a woman’s intuition.

The lights went dark. The curtain closed swiftly. And the audience roared with applause.

Amidst the clapping, the curtains were drawn open and the whole cast returned to the stage to take their bows. Marco and I rose; Marco whistled. My assistant, Lottie, jumped to her feet, clapping hard. Grace shielded her eyes from the lights and found us in the audience. She smiled wider than I’d seen in a long time. It was the opening night of the murder mystery, Death in the Night, at the Rose Playhouse in my hometown of New Chapel, Indiana, and we’d come out to support our colleague.

I considered the Rose Playhouse to be an elegant theater, although it was somewhat timeworn. Its gold patterned walls were faded, the heavy red curtains a bit frayed on the edges, the red upholstered seats shiny with wear. Still, it was a magical place to me. I’d been to several plays there when I was a child, and still remembered the first one I’d seen, Annie, for my tenth birthday.

I’d known about the Rose Playhouse fundraising project in which Grace had been involved for several months. I’d also known that she’d put a tremendous amount of effort into getting the community’s support, but what I hadn’t known, what Grace had so cleverly kept from us, was that she’d landed a major role in the very first production of the theater’s reopening. It wasn’t until she’d surprised us with center row seats that I’d found out.

I clapped harder as Grace stepped forward to take her bow. What a transformation she’d made for the role! And more than that, what a wonderful performance she’d given on stage. She had effortless, natural talent, and I was beyond proud of her.

As the clapping died down, the actors moved off into the wings and the director, Richard Rose, walked to the center of the stage and began to speak. Thank you for coming tonight. I hope you enjoyed the production. I’d like to thank my brother Collin for his patience and financial expertise in helping produce the show. I’d also like to thank the cast for their excellent performances. As the audience clapped in response, he turned toward the actors in the wings and said, Good job, everyone.

He turned back to the audience. As many of you know, our beloved playhouse has been in grave disrepair for many years. But thanks to your kindness and the generosity of many more in our wonderful community, the old girl has a new lease on life.

The audience clapped and cheered.

The director continued. The Rose Playhouse has a long and venerable history here in New Chapel, beginning its life at the end of the Great Depression, where it cheered its beleaguered citizens with uplifting productions. Over the years, my family has hosted many, many plays, musicals and even some operas. I’m happy and proud to continue with that tradition. Again, thank you and –

Before the director could finish, a long, heavy light fixture crashed down onto the stage in front of him. The glass shattered as the can lights attached to the fixture bounced off the stage and broke apart. Richard Rose staggered backward, lost his balance, and landed on his rear as the audience gasped in horror. One of the actors, the detective, hurried over to make sure he was okay.

There were murmurs in the crowd around us, a low rumble of tense conversation as most of the audience stood to see what had happened. The young man playing the detective helped Richard to his feet. The audience continued their surprised chatter, and some stood and began to file out of the rows of seats as though the theater was on fire.

It’s the curse, a woman whispered to her husband in the row behind me.

As another couple passed by, I heard the man say, The curse has come back.

I turned around in my seat in time to hear the woman respond, I’m sure it’s never left.

What’s this about a curse? I asked the couple, but neither seemed to hear me.

Beside me, Lottie said under her breath, Nonsense.

People, please, Richard Rose said in a shaky voice. Holding his hand to his heart, Rose took a deep breath to collect himself, then stepped around the long light fixture, crunching shards of glass as he walked to the front of the stage. Dear guests, please don’t worry. It was just an accident. Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight.

As the rest of the audience filed out, I looked at Lottie and she looked at me. I know what you’re thinking, she said.

I can’t help it, Lottie.

Sweetie, take off your detective hat. It’s probably just what it appears to be – an accident.

I agree, Marco chimed in.

I glanced at him. Oh, were you awake for that part?

He raised his shoulders in a shrug. It was a long play. I said I’m sorry.

As we left our seats, I glanced back to see that more of the actors had returned to the stage and were staring up into the overhead curtains, pointing at something above them. What were they seeing? Something suspicious? Could there be foul play at work?

Are you coming? Marco asked me.

Just a second.

I’ll go get the bouquet of roses from my car and meet you by will call, Lottie told us.

My mind was still on the accident as we waited in the lobby. That light bar must’ve weighed hundreds of pounds with all those lights on it, I said to Marco.

The director is lucky to be alive, he replied.

What if the lights had fallen during the play? A lot of the actors could’ve been injured.

It’s a freak accident, he said.

It was no accident, came a frail voice from behind me.

I turned to see an elderly woman holding the arm of her husband. What do you mean? I asked.

She held her finger to her lips and whispered, It’s the Rose Playhouse curse.

What is that? I asked her.

Before the woman could answer, her husband ushered her along, saying, I apologize for my wife. It’s nothing, really. Just an old rumor.

The Rose Playhouse curse? I asked Marco. Have you ever heard of it?

He shrugged. Maybe Grace would know more.

Speaking of Grace . . . I looked around the lobby. None of the cast had come to meet and greet with the audience.

Lottie walked in the front door with a large, beautiful bouquet of roses and baby’s breath. Where is the cast?

Nobody’s come out yet, I answered, and it looks like most of the audience is leaving anyway.

Well, I can’t stay much longer, Lottie informed. I told Herman I’d be home by ten-thirty. He worries if I stay out too late.

Lottie, I asked, have you heard of the Rose Playhouse curse?

Oh, brother, Marco sighed. Here we go.

I ignored him and said to Lottie, I just had the most ominous warning from a woman who said there was a curse.

The only curse on this place, Lottie said with a roll of her eyes, is that no one ever cared enough to keep it operational. Here she is now.

I turned to see Grace walking toward us still wearing her thick stage makeup and wig. She looked harried. Are you okay? I asked.

It’s just a madhouse back there. Thank goodness no one was injured.

Lottie held out the bouquet. These are for you, Gracie.

How incredibly thoughtful, she said and gave all three of us hugs. Thank you.

Grace, I asked, what’s this I’m hearing about a playhouse curse?

It’s absolutely nothing to worry about, love. Accidents happen is all.

Just like I said, Lottie added.

Now, I don’t mean to rush off, Grace told us, But we’re gathering for a cast picture in ten and I must hurry to remove this horrid stage makeup. Thank you again for coming out tonight.

As we said our goodbyes, I had to stifle another yawn.

Marco smiled and rubbed my back. See. I told you it was a long play.

CHAPTER ONE

♥︎♥︎♥︎

Monday, February 4th

I loved Mondays. They were like opening a much-anticipated book, turning to the first page, eager for the story to unfold; or watching a sunrise, those first shiny rays peeking over the horizon, bringing a glorious golden shimmer to start the day. I took a sip of my morning coffee, smiling to myself as my handsome hubby Marco came into the kitchen from the basement, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead from his workout.

I could be biased when I say that Marco Salvare was the most attractive man in town, with his thick, dark brown hair that waved down over one eyebrow, olive-colored skin, dark eyes framed by darker eyebrows, and a stance that - to those who didn’t know him - made him look dangerous. Why he ever fell in love with a short, busty, redhead with a ferocious Irish temper, I’d never understood. He’d been an Army Ranger before attending Indiana University on the GI bill. He’d then joined the New Chapel police force, only to abruptly quit a year later. After completing his military service, Marco had grown tired of taking orders.

How was your workout? I asked.

Intense. He wiped his face with a baby blue towel hanging around his neck. Ready for work?

All set. I’ll walk down to the bar at noon so we can have lunch together.

The bar was Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, a local tavern that my husband had bought at the same time that I’d become the brand-new owner of Bloomers Flower Shop, both on Franklin Street, both on the town square. We’d met on the street in front of my shop when my car had been involved in a hit-and-run accident. Marco had come down to see what had happened; we’d learned that the driver was a possible suspect in a homicide; and our curiosity had led us to investigate the case, which, to our amazement, had resulted in the driver being charged with murder. We’d been a team ever since.

I gave Marco a kiss, patted my little dog Seedy and ruffled the fur of my big Russian Blue cat Smoke, put my purse strap over my shoulder, grabbed my car keys, and stepped out the door into the garage, where my banana baby awaited. That baby was a vintage 1960 Corvette convertible that had been found in a barn, stored there for decades. The ‘Vette was in bad shape when Lottie’s nephew, an auto mechanic, discovered it. I’d bought it for a song, had the cracked leather seats refurbished and the car painted in my favorite color, yellow, and now it was beautiful.

Although it was a sunny day, it was February, so I couldn’t put the black ragtop down. But I did crank up the music and sing along to a Billy Joel song as I drove from our little house on the west side of town to the town square. I parked in the public parking lot a block away from Franklin and shuffled through the snow over to Bloomers. I paused in front of the three-story redbrick building to gaze up at the sign hanging above the yellow frame door: Bloomers Flower Shop, Abby Knight, Prop.

I’d yet to have the sign repainted to include my married name. It was Abby Knight Salvare now.

Bloomers Flower Shop occupied the first floor of the building, with the display room up front, a coffee-and-tea parlor off to one side, my workroom in the middle, and a small bathroom and kitchen across the back. A heavy fireproof door opened onto the alley and a steep staircase near the back door led to the basement. We kept larger supplies and huge flowerpots down there, along with pieces of my mom’s art that we were too embarrassed to display in the shop. I tried not to go to the basement very often. It was a scary place.

I opened the door and stepped inside, triggering the bell above. No matter how many times I entered, the thrill of owning Bloomers never faded. Well, technically, it belonged to the bank until the mortgage was paid off – like that was ever going to happen. Nevertheless, seeing my name on the sign above the door still filled me with pride. Little ol’ me, the law school flunk-out, had my very own business.

I took a moment to gaze around the interior, inhaling the sweetly perfumed air. The flower shop had an old-world charm, with original wood floors, a high tin ceiling, and brick walls that dated back to the early 1900s. I’d worked hard to keep the same feel with the décor, using a heavy round oak table with claw feet in the center of the room to display silk arrangements, an open antique armoire against one side wall, a wicker settee in the back corner shaded by a leafy Ficus tree, and an oak sideboard on the opposite wall.

There were also large potted plants on the floor around the perimeter of the room, wreaths, sconces, and decorative mirrors on the walls, silk floral arrangements in the big bay window, and assorted gift items on shelves. The only modern touches were a glass-fronted refrigerated display case on the back wall and the cash counter to the left of the door.

Through the wide doorway on the right, I could see women seated at the white wrought iron ice cream tables in the parlor. I’d emptied a storage room and added the parlor to draw in more customers, and it had worked better than I’d ever expected. Most of its success I attributed to the woman who ran it for me, my assistant Grace Bingham, who not only brewed the best tea and gourmet coffee in town, but also baked scones every morning to sell in the shop. The flavor of the day depended on what was in season.

The purple curtain at the back of the shop parted and Lottie came through carrying an armful of red roses. Morning, sweetie, she called as she opened the glass display case. As usual, she was wearing pink, which clashed terribly with her hair. She was a redhead, like me, except hers was shorter and naturally curly. Today she had on a pink and gray plaid shirt with gray jeans and pink tennis shoes.

Lottie Dombowski was a Kentucky born, forty-seven-year-old mother of teenaged sons – four teenage sons, four nineteen-year-old quadruplets, to be exact. I got a twitch in my eye just thinking about that childbirth experience. Lottie had owned Bloomers until she’d had to file bankruptcy because of her husband’s massive medical bills. Since I’d worked there a few summers during college and found out that I actually had a talent for something, I used the last of my skimpy college trust funds for the down payment and hired Lottie to be my assistant.

Did you see the newspaper this morning? she asked as she passed by. Interesting article about the accident at the playhouse.

What did it say?

The rope that controlled the light fixture had not been secured properly. The police have determined it to be accident. She gave me a pointed look. Just like I said.

That was an awfully quick determination, I told her.

At least that’ll put the curse rumor to rest, she said as she arranged the single stems inside the display case.

Grace came out of the coffee and tea parlor carrying a cup of coffee for me. Here you go, love.

Thanks, Grace. I took a sip of her gourmet brew and smiled. Delicious.

Grace Bingham was a widow with short, stylish gray hair. Physically fit, she climbed stairs without breaking a sweat, maintained her calm in any crisis, and bowled no less than two hundred twenty. Prior to working at Bloomers, Grace had been a legal secretary for Dave Hammond, the lawyer for whom I had clerked while in law school. Before that, the active Brit had been a nurse, school librarian, horse walker and tattoo artist. Now she did a little of everything, but her main duty was to run the coffee and tea parlor. Grace worked because she enjoyed it, not because she needed the money, which suited me just fine. She’d starve on what I could afford to pay.

Are we discussing the accident at the playhouse? Grace asked.

We are, I said. There’s an article in the newspaper this morning. Have you heard anything about what happened Saturday night?

I don’t know how the lights fell, Grace answered. All I know is that the production has been shut down until they’re fixed. Who knows how long that will be. And now these dreadful rumors are spreading across town. I’m afraid by the time the theater reopens, no one will want to come back.

That’s ridiculous, I said. Will people actually believe the theater is cursed?

Grace took hold of the edges of her gray cardigan, her typical lecture pose. As Oliver Wendell Holmes said, ‘You cannot educate a man wholly out of superstitious fears which were implanted in his imagination, no matter how utterly his reason may reject them.’

Lottie and I clapped, as we always did when Grace astounded us with her incredible memory. She was an amazing repository of quotations. No wonder she was so good at memorizing her lines for the play.

So, you don’t believe in the curse? I asked Grace.

I didn’t say that.

You do believe in it?

I didn’t say that either. The theater has a long history of superstitions. One may be wise to wonder why.

Well said, Lottie praised.

I don’t know what that means, I told them.

Grace paused as she considered her reply. When one believes such a thing as a curse holds power, one may assign power where there is none.

That makes sense, Lottie said.

But did it? I had the feeling that Grace was talking in circles to avoid the question of whether she was superstitious, and Lottie was just going along to quell my growing interest in the accident. Too bad for them, it wasn’t working.

"Hola, Rosa called as she came in through the front door. Sorry I’m late. I had to change clothing. I will never get used to this horrible cold weather."

Even after changing into a heavy winter coat, she still somehow managed to show off her curves. Rosa Marisol Katarina Marin was my newest assistant, a voluptuous, thirty-something Colombian beauty with long legs, wavy dark brown hair – today held back on either side by large silver barrettes - smooth, olive skin, full lips, and expressive dark brown eyes. She removed the puffy black coat and black scarf, revealing a green V-neck sweater that hugged her bosom, a silver pendant in the shape of a lightning bolt that she was never without, large hoop earrings, and tight black jeans with high-heeled black ankle boots.

We’d met Rosa during a murder investigation, after her husband was killed in what at first appeared to be an accident. Rosa had become a regular visitor at Bloomers, where I discovered she had a natural talent for floral design. Now she was a full-time employee and added a lot of sparkle to my little flower shop. Not to mention that sales increased whenever Rosa was working the sales floor. She had natural charm and immediate chemistry with almost everyone she met.

There is a delivery out back, she said cheerfully. I will get it. I’m still bundled.

I’ll help, Lottie said.

I grabbed my coffee and followed Lottie and Rosa through the shop to the purple curtain which separated the sales floor from the work room. Beyond the work room was the rear entrance, which we opened to find a truck parked in the alley. A cold wind forced itself inside as the delivery man unloaded our order. We then carried the big boxes inside and began to move the flowers into one of the big coolers. It wasn’t a huge order. That would come later, as Valentine’s Day was over a week away. It was one of our busiest holidays and I always looked forward to it.

We finished unloading, then I sat down at the computer in the workroom and began to print out the orders that had come in online.

Although our workroom was windowless, the abundance of blossoms and fragrances made it feel like a tropical garden. Pastel colored wreaths and brightly hued swags hung on one ivory latticed wall. Vases of all sizes and containers of dried flowers filled shelves above the counter on another wall. A long, slate-covered worktable sat in the middle of the room. Two stainless-steel walk-in coolers occupied one side, and a desk holding my computer, telephone, and the normal assortment of items sat on the other side.

How many orders? Lottie asked, stopping to look over my shoulder.

"Quite