Acts of Violets by Kate Collins Page A

mint tea.” She placed it on the work table, folded her hands in front of her waist, and smiled. She was waiting for something. Usually that meant I owed her an apology, but I couldn’t think of anything I’d done.
    “Okay, Grace. What am I supposed to be telling you?”
    “You shouldn’t suppose anything, dear. It causes all sorts of misunderstandings. But perhaps you’d like to share what it was that Marco needed from you?”
    Aha! It was an apology in disguise. She wanted to gloat because her prediction had been right. But why make it easy for her? “Marco asked me to investigate Dennis Ryson’s death.”
    “That’s certainly a serious matter. And?”
    “And . . . I agreed to help.”
    She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for the rest.
    “You and Lottie were right after all.”
    “Thank you, dear. When Lottie returns perhaps you’ll share the whole story with us.”
    As she breezed out of the workroom I couldn’t help but laugh. Because of her regal bearing and London accent, no one ever suspected that Grace could be devious, but that was one of the reasons I liked her so much.
    I took a sip of mint tea, then started on the second order, the ever-popular dozen long-stemmed red roses—we received at least one of these requests a day—which I was able to knock out in fifteen minutes. Before I could pull the third order, the bell over the door chimed and I heard, “Yoo-hoo. Anyone here?”
    Oh, no! My mother had arrived—probably accompanied by whatever feathered sombreros hadn’t sold at the festival. I tiptoed to the curtain and peeked through. Yikes! It was even worse than I had imagined. Mom had wheeled in a dolly on which were stacked four cardboard boxes. Obviously, not much had sold at the festival.
    I was contemplating slipping out the back door when I heard Grace say, “Maureen, how nice to see you. Aren’t you teaching today?”
    Rats. I couldn’t leave Grace to face the feathers alone.
    “Half day,” Mom replied. “So here I am. Did Abigail tell you about my new art project?”
    I hadn’t! She’d be wounded. “Mom,” I called cheerfully, entering through the curtain, “you brought your hats. Isn’t that wonderful, Grace? Now you’ll get to see them close-up.”
    “Marvelous. I can’t wait.” No matter what Grace said, she always sounded dignified, so there was no way to tell whether she was being sarcastic or not.
    Mom began to unpack the boxes, pulling out big-brimmed downy numbers in a rainbow of hues. “These will be a big draw. You know how women love hats.”
    Obviously not enough to buy them at the craft fair, even when they were standing in the direct rays of the sun. That should have told her something.
    The last two boxes contained an assortment of feathered fans that looked as though the poor birds had been tie-dyed before being plucked, and furry picture frames in all sizes and mixes of colors. I tried to imagine a photo of Grace’s classically shaped face surrounded by tufts of teal and purple feathers, but somehow it wasn’t working for me.
    “Striking,” Grace said with a straight face, although I saw her nose twitch. However, that could have been due to the feather motes in the air.
    Mom glanced around the shop. “Now then, where shall we put the hats?” She eyed the wreaths hanging on one wall and headed straight for them. I glanced at Grace, but she merely put her finger against her lips, signaling me not to say anything, so I watched mutely as five wreaths came down and five hats went up. The rest of her projects went anywhere she could squeeze them in, against ceramic figurines, brass candlesticks, and silk flower arrangements in the armoire and on the display tables and shelves.
    When she was done, the shop looked like a chicken coop that had been attacked by a fox wielding Magic Markers. Lottie chose that moment to return from lunch and had to bat her way through the floating down to get to us.
    Knowing the first words out of her mouth would be, What the