Free Snipped in the Bud by Kate Collins Page A

mob to get to the door, I fought my way to the counter and began to take payments and evade questions. After a solid hour of it, the shop finally quieted down, letting me get back to the workroom. Nothing busted stress like surrounding myself with fragrant blossoms.
    I finished the arrangement I’d started earlier, then pulled an order that called for an arrangement for a formal dinner party. I opened the big cooler and stepped inside, letting my thoughts drift as I absorbed the many varieties of flora, waiting for an idea to hit me. The weather would stay warm through most of September, so I decided to stick with a summer theme. And what came with summer? Lots of sun and big, fluffy white clouds. That brought to mind lazy afternoons at the Dunes, warm sand, seashells, and stones washed smooth—all shades of white. What could be more formal than that?
    The off-white lily called Sahara was cool and classy, as were the delicate lilies of the valley. I pulled some, then added stems of artemisia, salvia, echinacea, and dusty miller, and laid them all out on the worktable. I scanned the shelves above the counter for the appropriate container and spotted several possibilities—a warm beige ceramic vase, another vase that looked like it was made of pale coral, and a clean-lined, square, glass vase. I chose the glass and filled a third of it with a mixture of white sand and tiny seashells. In twenty minutes I had my creation done, and as I stood back to admire it, Lottie came through the curtain.
    “What do you think?” I asked her.
    “It’s gorgeous. And you need to leave now, through the back door.”
    “It isn’t five o’clock yet and we’ve got a bunch of orders to fill.”
    “Do you want to talk to the reporter waiting outside? I think his name is Mackay.”
    “No. Did you tell him I have no comment?”
    “It didn’t work. He parked himself on the lawn across the street and is waiting for you to leave. But he won’t be expecting you to leave early, or through the back door, and he probably doesn’t know your car or he’d be watching it.”
    “Let me just finish wrapping this first.”
    Lottie took the wrapping paper out of my hands. “I’ll do it. You just go.”
    I slung my purse over my shoulder and headed for the kitchen. “I’m having dinner with Marco at the bar, so I’ll slip in sometime afterward to finish the orders.”
    “Wait!” Lottie pulled a blue and pink cotton print scarf out of her tote bag, wrapped it around my head, tied the ends under my chin, then examined her handiwork. “Put your sunglasses on. Perfect.”
    Feeling like a spy, I peered cautiously out the back door. The alley was clear so I hurried to the end, turned the corner, and dashed to my car, parked by the American Legion Hall. I pulled up the ragtop but left the windows down for air. The old farmer who’d originally owned the Corvette hadn’t opted for frivolities such as air-conditioning.
    Congratulating myself on outwitting the reporter, I started the engine, fastened my seat belt, and adjusted my mirror, catching sudden sight of my reflection. Dear God. I looked like Nikki’s grandmother. I was about to remove the scarf when I heard someone call my name. I checked the rearview mirror again and saw one of the reporters who’d been at the law school striding across the parking lot, waving his arms and calling, “Wait!” as he headed right for me.
    Apparently, I hadn’t outwitted him.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I nstantly, I shifted into reverse, hoping to get out of the lot before he reached me, but he was moving too fast. He stopped directly behind the Vette, and since I couldn’t very well run him over—well, I could , but I was in enough hot water with Reilly as it was—I swivelled around to glare at him through the back window and motion with my hand for him to move away.
    “I’d like to talk to you,” he called. “Just give me five minutes.”
    “Vy you vant to talk to me?” I called back in a pretty fine