Kick the Bouquet


 
 
 Kick the Bouquet
 A Flower Shop Mystery
 
 Kate Collins
 
 
 
 Follow Kate Collins Online
 
 
 katecollinsbooks.com
 
 
 Facebook
 
 
 Instagram
 
 
 Book cover design by Arash Jahani
 
 
 “When solving problems, dig at the roots instead of just hacking at the leaves.”
 Anthony J. D’Angelo
 
 
 
 PROLOGUE
 
 
 Wednesday, November 16th
 
 Attorney Dave Hammond cleared his throat and began to read, “I, Arthur McMahon, of Port County, Indiana, declare this to be my Last Will, revoking all previous Wills and Codicils.”
 The attorney glanced around at the faces in the room before continuing. Arthur McMahon’s oldest son, Rowell, wearing an unbuttoned navy suit jacket and a crisp white dress shirt that fit too snugly over his bulging belly, sat forward in his chair with an eager gleam in his eye. His brown hair was short but curly on top. His once stubbled double chin had been freshly shaven, and Dave could still see the angry, red razor burns.
 In the corner behind Rowell sat his younger brother, Birch, dressed in a ragged-looking tan blazer, a brown t-shirt, and jeans with holes in the knees. This was the first time Dave had seen Arthur McMahon’s youngest son. He had long dirty-blond hair tucked behind his ears making him look more like a rock star than a mechanic. With a nervous twitch in his left eye, Birch focused not on Dave, but on each of his siblings. There was also a noticeable smell of body odor and motor oil coming from the corner where Birch sat. Dave wrinkled his nose and looked down at the papers in his hand.
 “Can we hurry this along, please? I have an appointment across town in fifteen minutes.”
 Dave looked over at McMahon’s only daughter, who tapped her diamond-encrusted wristwatch. A woman in her early thirties, Crystal looked the most put together of the group, with an off-the-shoulder red top and tight black skirt. She had large brown eyes layered in mascara, with exceedingly long eyelashes. She was rail thin yet remarkably voluptuous, leaving Dave to wonder whether her curves were as fake as her lashes.
 Behind them stood Grant Starling, McMahon’s business partner, a tall, older gentleman with bright blue eyes and thick gray hair who was well known around town for his winning personality and charity work. He made a show of checking his watch as well, and once he had Dave’s attention, he recrossed his arms and nodded his head, encouraging Dave to proceed.
 Attorney Hammond cleared his throat. Everyone was listening with rapt attention, all waiting to hear what they had received. He read through the standard language of Item I, directing that all bills be paid first, and then paused again. “Any questions so far?”
 Head shakes all around except for Birch, who seemed unsure of what was going on.
 “Item two,” the attorney continued. “At the time of signing this, my Last Will and Testament, I have attached hereto and made a part hereof, a specific listing of certain items of personal and household effects and designating to whom those items are to be distributed. I incorporate by reference this listing and direct that my Personal Representative will distribute those items to the person or persons so designated to receive them.”
 Each person sat forward expectantly, waiting to see who the personal representative would be. No one seemed the least bit aggrieved by the sudden, tragic loss of this man. Not that Dave could blame them. Arthur McMahon had been a real piece of work, a loud, self-centered sociopath, but a genius when it came to making money. Dave wondered what kind of father Arthur had been. Or business partner, for that matter.
 “Item three,” the attorney read. “I constitute and appoint my son Rowell to act as my Personal Representative of this Will.”
 Crystal pouted. Grant Starling didn’t seem surprised. Birch’s clueless expression remained the same.
 “Item four,” the attorney read. “To my son Rowell, I leave the downtown building known as Five Franklin Street, my real estate properties, and one third of my estate.”
 Rowell folded his hands across his expansive belly, looking pleased.
 “To my son Birch, I leave my Lamborghini and one third of my estate.”
 Birch sat back, his eyes widening.
 “To my daughter Crystal, I leave the house and one third of my estate.”
 Crystal smiled, studying her long polished fingernails.
 “To my business partner Grant Starling, I leave the business known as McMahon and Starling Realty together with all office equipment and furniture.”
 Starling didn’t bat an eye.
 Fifteen minutes later, the attorney put down the document and removed his reading glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. It was done and everyone looked content. But then McMahon had been exceptionally generous, more generous than he should’ve been by the stories McMahon had told him.
 That thought made the attorney pause. The hungry looks in the eyes before him made Dave feel uncomfortable, as if they were a pack of jackals waiting to pick the carcass of the freshly deceased.
 Before Dave could say anything further, however, Rowell stood and wiped the sweat from his wide brow. “Thank you, Mr. Hammond. That will be all.” He strode to the door and turned to say, “We won’t be needing your services anymore. Have the paperwork sent to my father’s office” -he cast a good-humored, if not somewhat sardonic, glance at McMahon’s business partner- “or should I say, Grant’s office.”
 At that, Crystal stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt before following Rowell through the door. Grant Starling followed behind, leaving Birch still sitting by himself in the corner. He raised his hand, as if out of habit, then put it down and asked, “When do I get the car?”
 Dave answered his question and waited until Birch had gone before closing the file. Had McMahon really been killed by an intruder, Dave wondered, or had the true murderer