Night of the Living Dandelion Read Online Free PDF

message, then put it back in his pocket. “I’ve got to get back to the station. There’s a situation.” He shrugged, as though he couldn’t say anything more.
    Sara scooted out of the booth. “It’s been fun almost having dinner with you.”
    “Hold on,” Marco said. “I’ll have your food wrapped so you can take it with you.”
    Reilly waited until Marco was on his way to the kitchen, then said to me, “Do me a favor. Make sure Marco actually did that background check on his friend Vlad. Something tells me there’s more to that guy than meets the eye.”
     
    Rumors about Vlad continued to spread all week. By Thursday, every person who walked through Bloomers’ door seemed to be buzzing with speculation about him. Since it was assumed I would have answers because of my connection with Marco, I was inundated with questions, until I finally decided to stay in the back room and work on orders while my assistants waited on customers.
    I instructed them to assure people that Vlad was a regular guy who simply happened to be of Romanian extraction and to remind them that human vampires were merely folklore.
    Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to make any difference. The women who came into Bloomers were thrilled at the prospect of having a real-life Count Dracula in town. The men either dismissed the rumors as nonsense or made angry comments about what nerve the vampire had to show up in their peaceful burg.
    During a brief midafternoon lull, I ventured out of my inner sanctum to grab a cup of hot tea and bask in the delights of my shop. I wheeled to the cheerful yellow frame door, with its old-fashioned beveled-glass center and brass bell over the top, and then turned around to take in the scene.
    Bloomers occupies the ground floor of an old three-story redbrick building, which still has its original tin ceiling and wood floor, both refinished. The retail side of Bloomers has a cash counter near the front door, a glass-fronted display case on the back wall, various shelves and tables, and an armoire for gift items. A wide doorway in the side wall opens into the coffee-and-tea parlor, a Victorian-inspired room featuring white wrought-iron ice-cream tables and chairs, rosepatterned china, and a coffee counter at the back for the various machines.
    Both rooms have big bay windows filled with lush plants and silk arrangements, and views of the courthouse square. The window in the parlor is a favorite with customers who like to drink coffee and watch the happenings on the square.
    A curtained doorway at the back divides the shop from the workroom, my personal paradise, redolent with all the colors and sweet scents of greenery and blossoms. It holds containers in every shape and size, silk flowers in big buckets, drawers filled with florist’s tools, my desk and computer station, and the two giant walk-in coolers where our fragile flowers are kept.
    Beyond the workroom are a tiny bathroom, a kitchenette, and a fire exit that opens onto the alley. A staircase by the rear exit leads to the basement, where we keep large bags of potting soil, giant clay pots, and supplies too bulky for the workroom cabinets.
    Filling myself with good karma, I wheeled to the parlor, where Grace was straightening chairs.
    “Did you need some tea, love?” she asked.
    “A cup of mint tea, please.”
    “Coming right up.” She paused to glance out the window. “A group of ladies is headed this way. Shall I bring the tea to the workroom, do you think, so you can avoid more questions?”
    “Good idea.” I turned the wheelchair around and banged the footrest against the doorframe, nicking the white paint. I backed up and knocked over a chair.
    “Perhaps you could just send Lottie to get your tea next time,” Grace said.
     
    Back in the workroom, I plucked an order from the spindle on my desk and studied it. The client wanted a fragrant arrangement done entirely in shades of peach, so I wheeled myself to the second cooler to see what was