Free Floral Depravity by Beverly Allen

through. I just want to keep the goats and chickens and things out. I hope he’s all right.”
    I shook my head. “But may I cut through your property? I promise to avoid your plantings.”
    â€œSure, Audrey. Anytime you want.”
    Bixby cleared his throat. “And may I?”
    Larry squinted at him for a second. I half expected him to say no. It seems Bixby’s allergies had put him on strained terms with anyone connected to the floral industry. Larry grunted. “I guess it would be all right. Just avoid any freshly turned dirt. And the flowers.”
    â€œNo problem,” Bixby said.
    â€œOh, and Larry?” I eyed his hose. “How far does that hose stretch? And any chance I could bum some water from you?”
    *   *   *
    â€œI would have liked to have seen Chief Bixby’s face when the sheriff deputized you, too,” Liv said Monday morning when we were going over the orders for the week. The one small wedding on our calendar for Saturday wouldn’t require much effort—at least until Thursday or Friday.
    I yawned and leaned on the workbench. It had taken most of Sunday to recover from a sleepless Saturday night, and my internal clock was off by more than a few hours.
    â€œIt was priceless,” Amber Lee said. “I thought he was going to have a cow, especially when Foley got to the part about his buddy the mayor”—she bulged her cheeks and put on her best Sheriff Foley impression—“at whose pleasure you serve.” She picked up a completed arrangement for our self-service cooler and walked it to the front of the shop.
    Liv wiped away a tear. “Sorry I missed it. So when are you going back?”
    â€œNah . . . I did my bit. Bixby wanted the murder weapon. He has it.” I hadn’t mentioned to Liv or Amber Lee my other reason for not wanting to go back. My father had managed to avoid me for about twenty years. I hoped to honor the family tradition and avoid him for another twenty.
    â€œYou’re just going to sit this one out?” she asked.
    â€œYup. Bixby might work at the pleasure of the mayor, but I’m a florist. No law says I have to protect and serve. I looked it up on the computer before you came in.” I’d also looked up aconite poisoning, but as it would weaken my argument for not wanting to be involved in the case, I didn’t mention my research to Liv.
    â€œWell, maybe you don’t have to go back. What did you say the victim’s name was?”
    â€œI don’t recall mentioning it.”
    Liv put her hands on her hips and glared at me. It might look menacing if she weren’t five-three and cute as a proverbial button. Or as a bachelor’s button, which, thankfully, were forgotten and probably rotting in the box back at the encampment. I caved anyway. “Brooks. Barry Brooks.”
    She marched to the computer, hit three keys, and smiled. “You are such a liar.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI type in three keys, and ‘Barry Brooks’ pops up. You’ve been searching already.”
    Amber Lee came back and tossed some floral foam into the sink.
    â€œI may have Googled him,” I admitted, “just out of idle curiosity.”
    â€œAnd yet you’re telling me you have no intention of getting involved in this case,” Liv said. “Why?”
    â€œLook, I don’t have to be involved.” I drained my coffee cup while I planned my argument. “I’m sure Bixby doesn’t want me involved—”
    Amber Lee cleared her throat. “Think again.”
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œEither he had a doozy of a blowout with Mrs. Bixby and he’s thinking about buying her flowers . . .”
    â€œNever gonna happen,” Liv said. Kane Bixby’s allergies were legendary.
    â€œOr he wants to talk with one of us,” Amber Lee continued. “He’s passed the shop at least three