Moss Hysteria (28 page)

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last you create what you will.

—George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950)

When I imagined Abby Knight, I never dreamed she and her team—her beloved Marco, best friend, Nikki, her zany family, and her cherished staff at Bloomers—would gain so many fans—and then be shared with a wider audience on TV. So my first thank-you is to everyone who took Abby & Company to heart.

My second thanks goes to
my
team, who helped turn my creation into a reality: my past editor, Ellen Edwards, who was with me from the very first plot eighteen books ago and always shared my vision of what the Flower Shop Mysteries could be; editor Laura Fazio, who took Abby Knight under her capable wing; my assistant, Jason Eberhardt, whose ingenious ideas and hilarious insights give the plot greater depth and suspense; my beloved daughter Julie for assisting and supporting my creative endeavors (much like “Mad Mo” Knight is supported by Abby); my author friends the Cozy Chicks; and my personal friends for reminding me to enjoy life.

A special shout-out to Pam Kutchey at Kutchey's Flowers, Key West, Florida, for designing the winning floral arrangement in this book. Thanks, Pam. I loved hanging out with you and your staff in such a marvelous environment surrounded by the lush beauty and exotic aromas of flowers.

Abby is back in the next installment of the Flower Shop Mystery series by Kate Collins,

YEWS WITH CAUTION

Available in paperback and e-book in April 2017 wherever Penguin books are sold or at penguinrandomhouse.com. Read on for a short, but exciting, excerpt.

S
harp-needled evergreen branches whipped against my face as I fought my way through the dark forested labyrinth. Thorny limbs of overgrown barberry snagged my jeans and scratched my hands deep enough to draw blood. Sweat beaded on my forehead and soaked the T-shirt beneath my jean jacket, even in the cool of the late April afternoon.

I caught a glimpse of a building through the thicket and pushed my way in deeper only to discover what appeared to be a small wooden shack with a steeply pitched roof, its faded candy-colored shutters and fancy gingerbread trim reminding me of the fairy-tale house in “Hansel and Gretel.” Unsure of which way to go next, I turned in a circle, trying to remember the way I'd come in, but there was no trace of my path. Indeed, the massive shrubs seemed to be closing in on me, causing my claustrophobia to rear its bristly head.

I pressed my back against the little house and took deep breaths to calm my racing heart. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yelled, “Marco!” but the only sounds I heard were the birds chirping in the tall overgrown yews.

“Marco! Help me!”

That time even the birds went silent. I sank to the ground, covering my ears with my hands to block out the world.

“Abby?” I heard as though through a tunnel.

“Marco.” I jumped up. “I'm here!”

“I don't see you. Move toward my voice. I'll keep talking.”

“I don't know where your voice is coming from.”

“I'll whistle.”

He began to whistle the tune for “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It's off to work I go.” Under normal circumstances, I would've laughed at his attempt at silliness, but I was in no frame of mind for that now. I stumbled forward on trembling legs, the tall trees blotting out what little light made it through the storm clouds overhead.

The toe of one of my running shoes hit something hard and I fell forward, landing on a circle of old splintered wood, my head directly over the gaping mouth of an old well. A terrible stench arose from the well, as though some unlucky animal had fallen in and died. I scrambled to my feet and backed away, brushing splinters from my palms. Had I not tripped onto the cover, I would have fallen in, too.

“Abby? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I'm trying to find you, Marco.” I carefully sidestepped the well and continued along a narrow winding path between walls of evergreens, watching the ground so I didn't trip again. I heard the crunching of footsteps on dead leaves and the snapping of branches nearby—and then Marco stepped through two tall shrubs. I ran straight into his arms, holding him around his rib cage as my breathing slowed.

“You're trembling all over, Sunshine. What happened?”

“I'm never leaving your side again, Marco, not in a treacherous place like this.”

Marco held me by the shoulders to study me. “Abby, we're at a landscape center.”

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

New York Times
bestselling author
Kate Collins
grew up in a suburb of Hammond, Indiana, one block from the family home of author Jean Shepherd, whose humorous stories inspired Kate at an early age. After a stint as an elementary school teacher, Kate wrote children's short stories and historical romance novels before turning to her true passion, mystery. The author of the popular Flower Shop Mysteries, she lives in northwest Indiana and Key West, Florida.

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