by Nic Saint
Fonzie switched his attention to Sam, who was following the back-and-forth with a mischievous little twinkle in his eye. “So you hunt and kill killers, Detective Sam? Your NYPD catches the bad guys and then murders them?”
“That’s exactly what we do,” said Sam flippantly, rocking back on his heels. I shot him a warning glance and he grinned. “Except the murdering part, of course,” he added. “We actually don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”
Prince Fonzie scratched his thinning mane, then patted it self-consciously. “But I want to help, Detective Sam. I want to help you catch the bad guys and string ‘em up high. Let ‘em dangle. Let ‘em twist in the howling wind while they have a good think about what they did.”
“We don’t string up the bad guys anymore, Fonzie. And we don’t let them dangle or twist in the howling wind either. Those days are long gone. We do lock them up in our prisons, though, where they can do no harm.”
This didn’t seem to fulfill the prince’s bloodlust as much as the old methods. He fingered his lower lip thoughtfully, clearly disappointed.
“What do you do in your country?” I asked. “With murderers, I mean?”
“Execution by firing squad. Teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
“Nice,” Sam muttered.
“Maybe we can learn from him,” said Skip, who seemed to have developed a taste for vengeance. Then again, watching your uncle being brutally murdered by some maniac will probably do that to a person.
“Did you see the message?” asked Sam now.
“What message?”
He took me by the elbow and steered me back to the scene of the crime, then pointed at a sentence that was written in red paint on the wall.
I read it with rising unease, then glanced back at Sam. “The killer wrote this?”
“It would appear so. In the victim’s blood, no less.”
I shivered and Sam placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
I shook my head. “No idea, Sam. I didn’t even know Skip’s uncle. Only by reputation.”
He eyed me searchingly. “And what reputation was this?”
“That he was a great baker? That he carried on the Brown tradition of creating the best bread in town? That he could bake a mean bagel?”
He nodded pensively.
“Is there something else I should know?”
“Well, it would appear that the killer thought Gus Brown was some kind of predator, and that he was doing the world a favor by ending his life. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I never actually met the guy. What did Skip say?”
“He’s got no idea what the killer was talking about.”
“Did he get a good look at him?”
“He was wearing a mask. He did mention that the killer spoke with a lisp.”
“A lisp?”
“Yeah, he had a slight speech impediment. But apart from that…” He sighed. “Looks like this is going to be one tough nut to crack.”
I gave him a commiserating smile. “Good thing you have Fonzie to help you hunt down and kill the killer, huh? Join your NYPD vigilante squad?”
“Ha ha ha,” he said. “Aren’t you the comedian?”
Chapter 9
I decided to forgo giving Fonzie the grand tour of Brooklyn. After the recent events I wasn’t in the mood. So I was back at Floret & Bloom just in time to open up the store. To my pleasant surprise Strel and Stien had beaten me to the punch and were already there. Strel was putting the flower arrangements out on the stoop while Stien was inside checking the cash register and making sure we were ready for another day of booming bloom business.
“Hey, Strel,” I said by way of greeting as I watched her hoist out the large ficus we like to put next to the entrance. “You need a hand with that?”
“That would be lovely,” she said between two gasps. The ficus is a sizable specimen, which is why we like to use it for decorative purposes.
I took a firm grip on the large pot and together we maneuvered it into position.
When we first opened Floret & Bloom we didn’t have a lot of experience, and the shop had looked a little underwhelming. There were no flowers outside to attract passersby, and the window display was a collection of things Strel liked—none of which involved flowers, which is what you want when you run a flower shop, a minor detail that had escaped our attention.
It had taken Gran’s witchy skills to turn the store into the colorful haven it was now, and business had soared the moment she applied her special touch.
Across the street, Tisha Lockyer was opening up her store, darting furtive glances in our direction from time to time. Pretty Petals had long reigned supreme in this part of Haymill, and Tisha resented the arrival of a competitor on the block.
Then again, she’d pulled the same trick on Gran. She’d started at Gran’s old store, before venturing out on her own and stealing all of Gran’s customers. So she was actually getting a taste of her own medicine now, and obviously didn’t like it.
She’d threatened to put us out of business numerous times, though until now her threats had been mere verbal posturing. Now, however, with the arrival of those weird snakes in Gran’s garden, it looked like she was ramping up the floral warfare.
“Where were you, by the way?” asked Strel as she checked our handiwork. “And what happened to breakfast? Helmut was very disappointed that he had to forgo his usual cream cheese bagel and settle for yesterday’s stale toast.”
“Yeah, and Jerome complained that he needs his strength if he’s going to take on Mega-Pharma,” Stien added, joining us on the stoop.
“Something terrible happened,” I told them. “Skip’s uncle Gus was murdered—right in front of him.” I proceeded to fill them in on what had happened after I left the house with Fonzie.
Strel clapped both hands to her face, and Stien’s jaw dropped.
“Oh, no!” Strel cried. “Poor Skip!”
“And poor Uncle Gus,” Stien added. “Why? Why would anyone murder that man?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But the killer did leave a message for us.”
“Us? You mean we’re involved in this?” asked Strel, aghast.
I told them about the message the killer had written on the alley wall, in the man’s own blood, no less. They were both beyond shocked.
“But that’s awful!” Strel cried.
“A predator?” asked Stien pensively. “Why would the killer say that Skip’s uncle is a predator?”
“Maybe because he was?” Strel suggested. “Maybe there are things about Gus Brown we don’t know about?”
“Whatever’s going on, it seems this murderer expects us to look for predators,” I said. “And if we don’t, he’s going to murder them all.”
Strel shook her head. “This is beyond terrible. A serial killer on the loose on our streets. You guys, I don’t like the sound of this at all.”
“Me neither,” said Ernestine earnestly.
I rolled my eyes. This was the understatement of the century. As if anyone would welcome the prospect of a killer running amok in their neighborhood.
And as we let this new reality sink in, suddenly Tisha Lockyer stalked across the street and came walking up to us.
“Uh-oh, you guys,” I said. “Tisha is coming.”
“Oh, crap. What does she want now?” asked Strel.
Neither one of us was a great fan of Tisha’s. Even though we’d tried to get along with her, she’d been pestering us from the moment we’d opened the store. Once she even sprayed a corrosive substance on our flowers, intending to make them wilt. Good thing Gran had drawn a protective circle around the store, and the corrosive substance had hit Tisha’s own store instead, turning it into a scene from a Mad Max movie. She hadn’t forgiven us since.
Tisha’s face was a thundercloud, and it was clear she wasn’t coming over to exchange pleasantries or have a nice little neighbor
ly chat. “I want you to know I’ve filed a complaint against you people with the Better Business Bureau and the police department,” were the first words out of her mouth.
“Is that so?” asked Stien, crossing her arms and limbering up those legal beagle muscles.
“And what’s more, I’m lawyering up!”
“So what did you complain about this time?” asked Strel. “That we’re doing better business than you and that you can’t stand it? That a little stiff competition scares the bejeezus out of you? Or that customers like us better?”
Her lips pressed together in a thin line, she snapped, “You’ve stolen my interior design.”
We all looked at each other, then burst out laughing. “What?” I finally managed. “What are you talking about?”
She gestured at the shop behind us. “You stole my interior design. And that is something I cannot tolerate.” She wagged her finger in our faces. “I’m going to expose you like the filthy thieves you really are. You and that cheating, lying, nasty grandmother of yours.”
“Tisha, for your information I’m pretty sure interior design is not something you can copyright,” said Stien as she pushed her glasses further up her nose. “And what’s more, the police nor the Better Business Bureau are going to be interested in handling such a silly and downright petty charge.”
“Yeah, and we would never steal your interior design anyway,” said Strel. “Because your store is ugly!”
Tisha’s face morphed into a disapproving frown, then she grunted, “You girls don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Oh, yes, we do,” I said. “We’re dealing with a spiteful person who keeps sending filthy snakes into our backyard.”
She gave me a penetrating look, then spat, “Prove it, Edelie Flummox.”
“We caught one just this morning. Slithering and sneaking its way onto our property. Gran destroyed it, of course. As usual. Just like she’s destroyed every single snake you’ve sent our way and just like she’ll keep destroying them.”
A hideous smile crept up the woman’s features, then she said, “Oh, this is just the beginning, Edelie. Just you wait and see. When I’m through with you, your witchcraft-wielding grandmother will finally be taught a lesson.”
And with these words, she stalked back across the street, but not before turning and yelling, “Your days are numbered! I’m going to destroy you all!”
“Ooh!” Strel shouted. “I’m so scared right now!”
“You should be scared!” Tisha shouted before disappearing into her store and slamming the door so hard I thought the glass panes would break.
Chapter 10
I had to admit I was a little shaken up after our confrontation with our petty Pretty Petals neighbor. My sisters, though, were downright furious.
Stien was ready to throw the legal book at Tisha—whatever it took to put her out of business. While Strel decided that maybe witchcraft was the better way to deal with her and suggested we turn her into a warthog, or maybe even a horny toad. That way all her flowers would wilt from the horny toad stench.
“Or, you guys!” she added, eyes wide with excitement. “We could send a bunch of snakes into her store! Give her a taste of her own medicine!”
I was shaking my head at the suggestions. “What I would like to know is how she’s managing to send these snakes into our garden. She must be getting help. And when I say help I mean she must have a witch in her corner.”
That got their attention. “A witch?” asked Stien. “What makes you say that?”
“Just think about it. How can a regular non-witchy human like Tisha Lockyer make these snakes appear and attack Gran? It’s simply not possible.”
“Why not?” asked Strel. “Anyone could get their hands on a couple of snakes from the pet store and dump them into our backyard.”
“Yeah, just pop them over the wall,” said Stien. “No witchcraft needed.”
“But that’s not what’s been happening, is it?” I insisted. “They don’t just pop over the wall. They pop up in exactly the right place and attack Gran.”
“Coincidence,” opined Strel.
“Lucky strike,” said Stien.
“Witchcraft,” I countered. “Mark my words. Tisha has engaged a witch and the two of them are waging a war of witchcraft against us.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” said Stien, always the voice of reason in our little band of three. “I’m sure that Tisha doesn’t have access to witchcraft. And furthermore, Gran is perfectly capable of dealing with a few nasty snakes.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. Gran was the most powerful witch we knew. A few little serpents weren’t going to get the better of her.
“I think we should ignore that nasty Tisha and focus on this murder business,” said Stien pensively. “Consider the challenge this murderer placed at our feet.”
“Oh, before I forget, I invited Sam, Pierre and Skip over for dinner tonight,” I said.
“Pierre is back? That’s great!” said Strel.
“Yeah, I like Pierre,” Stien agreed.
“How is he? Is he fully recovered now?”
“Of course he’s fully recovered,” said Stien. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be back on the job. Right?” she asked, giving me a questioning look.
“He looked fine,” I admitted. “A little scar on his forehead.”
Strel grinned. “Like a Harry Potter scar? A neat little lightning bolt?”
“It looks more like a banana, actually,” I said. “An odd-shaped miniature banana. Harry Potter wouldn’t be impressed. Oh, and he was asking about you, Strel.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. What did he want to know?”
“Well, to be honest I think he’s got a crush on you,” I intimated. “At least that’s what Sam suggested. He seems to think it’s funny, for some reason.”
“It’s funny because it’s not true,” said Strel, giving my nose a slight tap. “Pierre doesn’t have a crush on me. He’s got a crush on Stien.”
“Me!” cried Stien. “Oh, no, he doesn’t. He doesn’t even like me all that much.”
“Oh, yes, he does,” I said. “And frankly I think he’s got a crush on both of you.”
“Oh, that poor man,” said Strel, shaking her head. “He’s going to be so disappointed.”
“You don’t like him?” I asked.
“I like him fine. It’s just that I don’t like him that way.”
“Me neither,” said Stien. “He’s a nice enough guy, but… no. Just no.”
“I adore Pierre,” said Strel. “He’s so nice and kind and gentlemanly.”
“I don’t think that’s a word,” I interjected.
“Gentlemanly,” Strel insisted stubbornly. “But there’s no spark, you know,” she said, snapping her fingers.
“No spark whatsoever,” Stien agreed.
Strel shrugged. “He’s simply not my type.”
“Mine either. He’s more like… a favorite pet.”
Strel laughed. “That’s exactly what I was thinking! He’s like one of those cute little doggies. The ones you just want to hug and kiss and pamper and cuddle.”
“Not exactly boyfriend material,” Stien said.
“Better don’t tell him that,” I said. “It’ll break the poor guy’s heart.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Strel. “Sam was probably pulling your leg. Pierre doesn’t have a crush on me or Stien. That’s just ridiculous!”
“He never had,” Stien agreed. “This is just Sam being goofy.”
“How are you guys doing, by the way?” asked Strel. “Still going strong?”
“Yeah, we’re fine,” I said. “What about you and Dunny?”
I was referring to Dunlop Bard, the bar owner Strel had been seeing on and off for weeks now.
“Yeah, we’re still together,” she confirmed airily. “It’s fun to date a bar owner. Free drinks!”
We both turned to Stien, the only one of our trio who was still single. She rolled h
er eyes and held up a hand. “I’m not going to discuss this with you.”
“Still hung up on Spear Boodle, huh?” asked Strel knowingly.
Stien uttered an annoyed grunt. “Like I said, the topic is not open for discussion.”
Spear Boodle had been Stien’s boss when she was still working for the law firm of Boodle, Jag, Lack & Noodle. She’d had a huge crush on him then and I was pretty sure she still had a huge crush on him now. Spear had bailed us out of some sticky situations in the past, which showed me he cared about Stien.
I’d already suggested to Strel we concoct a love potion to make Spear take that final hurdle and ask Stien out on a date, but unfortunately that was before Gran stripped us of our witchy powers and confined us to performing a single spell per case we took on as Haymill’s neighborhood watch, and even then only under her strict supervision. Our witchy spells had backfired one too many times, and Gran was afraid we might do more harm than good. The only other spells she now allowed were a few minor household spells. Nothing spectacular.
And just when we were about to offer Stien some advice on how to straighten out her love life, the doorbell jangled and Skip Brown walked in.
He looked even more agitated than before, a fact which didn’t surprise me. After all, he’d just witnessed the murder of his uncle, an ordeal no nephew should ever be subjected to.
The first words out of his mouth confirmed my assessment.
“Have you caught the killer yet? Well, have you?”
Chapter 11
Skip had come bearing gifts in the form of a large bakery goodies bag, which he’d placed on the coffee table in the center of the store. We all dug in.
“You’re going to have to give us more time, Skip,” I told him.
“Yeah, we may be good, but we’re not that good,” Strel chimed in.
Skip sat down heavily on the couch that accompanied the coffee table. Upholstered with crisp linen patterned with a floral motif, the couch had been Gran’s idea. It was the one design element Floret & Bloom had in common with Pretty Petals, which also featured a couch, so customers could take a load off while they contemplated the arrangements they wanted to buy. Only her couch was black leather while ours was more fitting for a flower shop.