Shoots to Kill.

A Flower Shop Mystery.

Kate Collins.

To my great big, wonderful, extended and cojoined family, and dear friends, without whom my life would have little meaning.

acknowledgments.

The idea for this book originated in the creative mind of one of my offspring, who thought a story on identity theft to the max would be a horrible situation for Abby to be in, but a terrific mystery for her to solve. You were right, Jason. Thank you so much for inspiring the story and helping me come up with its unusual twists.

The accuracy of the procedural and legal matters can be attributed to (or blamed on) my husband, Jim, who has amazingly vast quantities of information, advice, and wisdom to share, and who never complained about having to read the same scene over until I got it right.

The critiquing fell to my sister, Nancy, who was willing to brainstorm with me whenever I needed her, and who spent hours poring over my chapters, offering her perspective on the unusual situations in which Abby finds herself.

The integrity of the characters and plot stayed on course under the guidance of my editor, Ellen Edwards, whose opinion I trust and value.

The encouragement and support came from my family and dear friends, near and far, as always. You are the true jewels in my life.

The grunt work I did all by myself.

A big thanks to Pam and Emaly Leak, of Autumn Hill Llamas (www.autumnhillllamas.com), the actual owners of Catastrophe. Pam and Emaly were kind enough to give me a lesson on the care and feeding of these sweet, gentle animals. It didn't take long for me to understand why the Leaks are so fond of them.

PROLOGUE.

*s far as I knew, being a five-foot-two-inch green- eyed redhead wasn't a crime.

"Matron? Can you hear me? There's been a mistake."

Yet there I was, jailed for being a five-foot-two-inch green-eyed redhead. At least that was what the state trooper had told me when he yanked me out of my beloved old Corvette, slapped handcuffs on my wrists, and stuffed me into the backseat of his squad car.

"Hello? Is anyone out there?" I pressed my ear between the steel bars, listening for a reply. With all that clanging metal and cacophony of female voices ping-ponging against cement-block walls, it was a little hard to hear.

"I need to talk to you," I shouted up the hallway. At least a dozen women responded with comments that weren't helpful, but were pretty colorful.

"Baby, you're wastin' your breath," came an easy voice from behind me. "You got to wait till breakfast is over. They eatin' now."

"Someone has to be up there," I muttered. "They wouldn't leave the post unattended."

"Post?" Hearty laughter followed. "Baby, this ain't no army base. This is lockup."

Lockup. I clasped my fingers around the bars and held on as a shudder shook me. I'd seen the lockup once before, but from the other side, during one of my dad's "educational outings," designed to scare the bejeepers out of my brothers and me. It was part of my father's ongoing effort to keep us on the straight and narrow. He'd been a cop in the police department of New Chapel, Indiana, at the time. It had worked well. None of us had ever been on the inside-until now.

"Hey!" I called up the hallway again. "I need to speak to Sergeant Sean Reilly. Tell him Abby needs to see him right away. He's a good friend of mine. Seriously. He'll want to talk to me."

"Will you shut up?" someone behind me snarled. "You're making my head pound."

"Matron, please?" I called softly. I waited another few minutes, then leaned my aching forehead against one cold, thick bar. Damn it, where was Dave? I'd used my only phone call on my former boss-now my soon-to-be attorney-and had gotten his voice mail. Didn't he check his messages?

Then I remembered that Dave had gone out of town last week for a legal conference and wasn't due home until later today. And Marco, my hunky knight in shining black leather jacket, the guy who was always there for me...wasn't there anymore. He and I were history. Finito. My eyes filled with tears. The shock of losing him was so new and raw that I hadn't fully absorbed it.

Quickly I blinked back the tears so my cell mates wouldn't think I was some wimpy little girl. I couldn't think about Marco now. I had much bigger problems on my plate. I glanced around at my dismal surroundings- the long, narrow room, the stainless steel sink in the corner with the short partition beside it that hid the stinky toilet, the high, barred window on the back wall, the six bunks on a side wall, stacked two high, jutting from the cement blocks, the single lightbulb overhead....I was actually incarcerated. Me, a harmless florist.

I glanced down at the putrid orange prison jumpsuit I had been forced to put on, then shut my eyes as the walls began to close in on me. Sweat broke out on my forehead and my hands grew clammy as my claustrophobia clawed its way to the surface. My only hope was that word of my arrest would quickly reach Sergeant Reilly's ears, because if I didn't get out of there soon, I was going to have a serious meltdown.

"Baby, those bars ain't gonna bend. You might as well stop pullin' on 'em and have a seat. 'Sides, they ain't gonna let you out until you been arraigned."

"I know how it works," I muttered weakly. "I went to law school."

"You did? You a lawyer then? Well, that's a whole 'nother situation. You hear that, girls? We got ourselves a bona fide-"

"I'm not a lawyer," I said, cutting off the sudden excited chatter. "I didn't make it."

"You run outta money, or what?"

"Brains." Like I needed to be reminded of that particular failure now. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not go into it."

"So, what are you in for?"

Her questions weren't helping my glum mood. "No one would tell me. All I know is that I didn't do anything wrong."

"Sugar, that's what everyone says."

"I don't care what everyone says," I snapped. "I'm innocent."

"Well, someone's got herself some attitude."

There were snickers at her comment.

"And someone's got herself too many nosy questions," I retorted.

Silence.

Ticking off an inmate probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, considering I had nowhere to hide, so I loosened my grip on the bars and turned to apologize. There were five women in with me, each on her own bunk. One was a pasty-skinned, emaciated middle-aged white woman who was so blotto that her eyes kept crossing. She was lying on a second-tier bunk, one arm hanging limply off the side. On another bunk was a young Latina with long, dark hair, who looked like she was barely in high school.

On a lower bunk was a woman who desperately needed a good bath and possibly a delousing. Beyond her lay a woman displaying multihued tattoos on her arms and neck. One bunk farther was an attractive black woman sporting an ugly purple bruise on her jaw and another around one eye. She was giving me a scowl. Clearly, this was the woman I'd offended.

"Sorry," I said to the scowler. "I'm getting some major claustrophobia here and it makes me extremely edgy."

Her expression softened. "Yep, this place'll surely do that to you."

"I tried to explain my condition to the state trooper, but he didn't care."

"Did you think he would?"

Well, actually, I had, but I didn't want to admit it now for fear of showing my naivete. I'd even pulled out my ace in the hole, telling the trooper that my dad was a twenty-year veteran of the New Chapel police force, but he'd just ignored me. He'd laughed out loud when I said I hadn't done anything wrong. The only thing he seemed to give a rip about was whether I understood my Miranda rights. I told him what he could do with those rights. It hadn't improved my situation.

"You'd better sit down, honey," the woman called. "Come on over here. I won't bite."

I peered up the hallway again, but it was still empty. Taking a deep breath, I made it across the narrow room in three strides and plunked down on the edge of her bunk, resting my head against the chilly cement wall behind me. I hoped the bunk would hold both our weights. My cell mate was a good-sized woman and I wasn't exactly anorexic myself.

The woman stuck out a beautifully manicured hand, where each nail had its own personality. "Lavender Beals."

"Abby Knight." I shook her hand, then gave a start at a loud clang, hoping it meant someone had heard my calls for help. But no one appeared, so I sank back against the wall. "Will the matron come by when she's done eating?"

"You never been here before, have you?"

"Once, when I was ten, on a field trip."

"I was eighteen my first time, but it wasn't for no field trip. This is my third visit, all told, and each time it's been because of that bastard I married. I got rid of him this time, though-for good. He done slugged me for the last time."

I eyed her warily. "You got rid of him?"

"I didn't kill him, baby, just kicked his booty right out."

"If he hit you, why are you in jail?"

"I took a baseball bat to his windshield, just to show him I meant business. Now I get to cool my heels here until Thursday."

"For hitting his windshield? Why so long?"

" 'Cause I don't have the money to hire a lawyer, so the court appointed me one, and now I got to wait until the next hearing date, and that's Thursday."

"Can't you get someone to post bail money for you?"

"Baby, what you been sniffing? Nobody I know's got that kind of money."

"How long have you been in here?"

"Six days now."

"Six days, plus another three . . ." I could feel my indignation rising. "Do you realize that you'll probably get less jail time than that for smashing the windshield?"

" 'Course I realize it. What am I gonna do about it?" Lavender nudged the underside of one of the bunks above us. "This here's Maria. She's sixteen-shouldn't even be in here-but she was with two boys who TP'd and egged her neighbor's house."

"What?" I stood up so I could see the girl. My claustrophobia was receding as fast as my outrage was growing. "You're in the adult lockup for throwing toilet paper and eggs?"

Maria shook her head, her eyes huge in a tiny face. "I didn't throw the eggs. I just tossed rolls of paper into the trees."

"And you were jailed for that?"

"See, sugar, it's all about having political connections," Lavender explained. "That fatheaded neighbor of hers wasn't about to let some little punks get away with pranking him, so he raised a stink with a councilman he knows and got the kids waived to adult court to prove how important he is. If he gets his way, Maria will have a criminal record. Ruin her life in the process. Won't that make him feel important?"

"How long have you been here?" I asked Maria.

"Four days."

"And you have to wait until Thursday, too?"

She nodded and started to cry. "I'll flunk my classes. I just want to go home."

Boy, was my blood boiling. "Even if you had damaged his property, Maria, you should have been taken to the juvenile-detention center, not here. And then you probably wouldn't get any jail time, only probation. What they've done to you is outrageous and totally unfair."

"You tell her, girlfriend," a woman in the cell across the hallway called. I glanced around and saw a dozen women in two cells standing at the bars, listening avidly.

Lavender snorted. "It's the system, baby. Money talks. Nothin' fair about it." She pointed to another woman. "That there is Cherry. She's bipolar and can't afford her meds, let alone a lawyer. She's been here seven days."

"Sitting in here isn't going to help her get better," I said, pointing out the obvious.

Lavender shrugged. "Does anyone care?"

"I care. Someone else has to care, too."

"Hey, Abby," a woman across the aisle shouted. "I been here five days. They got me on a public intox charge."

Having clerked in Dave Hammond's law office, I knew a public intoxication charge would probably merit her a weekend in jail. She'd done more than enough time already.

"I been here a week," one of her cell mates called.

"Where's the justice in that?" I asked. "What happened to a person's right to a speedy trial? There has to be some way to stop this insanity."

Lavender laughed.

I stood up and began to pace, which meant going a few feet in either direction. No way could I let this pass. I hated injustice. "We have to raise public awareness of the problem."

Women in the other two holding cells were starting to discuss their own situations and the injustices therein, their voices growing louder and more irate.

"Okay, here's what I'm going to do," I said to Lavender. Instantly, the others stopped chatting. "I'm going to contact a reporter at the New Chapel News to talk him into doing a piece on this. Maybe if people are aware of the problem, they'll demand a solution."

"Yeah!" a woman across the hall responded. "We want a solution!"

"We can get our families to picket in front of the courthouse," someone else called. "Justice for all, not just for the rich!"

Another voice repeated the phrase, and then the call moved through the entire cellblock. Within moments the halls echoed with their cries. Someone else began to shout, "Abby! Abby!" and they all took that up, but somehow it changed to, "Attica! Attica!" and then they began to run metal cups along the bars and stamp their feet, until the noise was deafening.