groan as he strode into the precinct, hoping Vicky didn’t notice he had a woody at half-mast. But she had her dark blond head bent over a book, as she usually did during non-crime-spree times—which was pretty much always. To add a bit of color to her dispatcher’s uniform of white shirt and brown pants, she regularly added a sweater in a different color. Today’s was red. It matched the scrap of fabric she’d used to pull her curly hair back into a stubby ponytail.
“Any calls?” Sam asked as he hurried past her desk, trying to keep his back to her and his woody to himself.
“Only one for you specifically,” she told him. She turned in her chair to look at him as he seated himself at his desk. “From Ed Dinwiddie at campus security. Again.”
“The usual?” Sam asked.
“The usual,” Vicky confirmed. “He’s still sure there’s someone selling drugs at Northaven College, and he wants to coordinate with you on an investigation and possible stakeout.”
Sam didn’t bother to hide his groan this time, since it was one of regular frustration, and not the sexual kind. Ed Dinwiddie, the chief of security at Northaven College, had been sure someone was peddling drugs on campus since before Sam’s arrival in town. At first, Sam had taken the other man’s suspicions seriously, because he hadn’t had any reason not to. But a brief investigation had produced nothing but Ed’s overactive imagination to support the existence of anything narcotic going on at Northaven—save a lot of caffeine abuse and OD’ing on Green Day around midterm and finals time. Then, when Bruno and Dalton, Sam’s two full-time deputies, had assured Sam there was nothing out of the ordinary going on because they’d investigated it themselves a time or two, Sam had let the matter drop.
Ed, however, hadn’t.
He sent monthly reports to Sam describing in detail his suspicions and everything that made him suspicious. The problem was that Ed Dinwiddie found suspicious anything from what he considered incriminating dialogue between students—which consisted largely of slang words for coffee and oral sex—to what he was sure was drug paraphernalia—even though the last bit of “paraphernalia” Ed had found turned out to be a popcorn popper. He also made regular monthly calls to Sam to “coordinate” an investigation. Sam had tried to be polite, but he’d never been known for his patience, and what little he had was beginning to wear thin.
“Does Ed have any additional evidence this time to support his suspicions?” Sam asked Vicky wearily, already sure of the answer.
“It’s more paraphernalia this month,” she said.
“Though what he described to me sounds a lot like the rhinestone- and stud-setter I got for my twelfth birthday thirty years ago.”
Sam grunted in resignation. “Yeah, I hear those things are making a comeback.”
“There was one thing Ed had this time, though, that was a little out of the ordinary,” Vicky added, voicing the revelation with clear glee. Her green eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. “Something he’s for sure never mentioned having before.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked with much disinterest, reaching for the small stack of mail perched near the edge of his desk.
“Well, I don’t know where or how he came by the information,” Vicky said, “but this time, Ed told me he’s got himself a bona fide suspect who he’s absolutely positive is selling drugs to the Northaven students.” When Sam glanced up, she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows in way that was far more playful than it was concerned. “And, Sam, this time, Ed even gave me a name.”
“ROSIE, YOU HAVE TO help me. You have what he needs. And if he doesn’t get it soon, he’s going to die. And if he dies, I’ll die. I need for him to be at his best. And he can’t be at his best without it.”
Behind the counter of her flower shop, Rosie rolled her eyes at the young woman and sighed. College girls. Such drama. Such pathos. Everybody was always going to die over something. Shannon Eckert was no different. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty on the other side of the counter was relentlessly thin, her cropped purple sweater riding high above her low-slung blue jeans to reveal a dangling rhinestone palm tree that winked from her navel. Her hair was tucked behind ears that boasted another half-dozen piercings, and a wreath of roses was tattooed around one wrist.
Rosie’s own appearance paled by comparison—and not just because of her fairer features, either. The only body parts that were pierced on her own person these days were her eardrums—thanks in large part to Shannon’s shrieking just now—and she’d had the circled A tattoo above her ankle—the symbol for anarchy—surgically buffed away years ago. Her attire consisted of a crinkly emerald skirt shot through with threads of silver, and a loose-fitting white tunic she’d cinched with a macramé belt.
Had someone told her fifteen years ago that she would be dressing like a gypsy and selling flowers for a living, Rosie would have laughed in that person’s face. Back then, she’d worn all black, all the time, right down to the heavy kohl around her eyes and the polish on her fingernails. She’d even dyed her hair black. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d gone back to her natural color a few years ago that she’d realized she’d gone from the carrot orange of her childhood to a more sophisticated dark auburn.
She’d been one crazy, mixed-up kid when she was a teenager, no two ways about it. Mixed-up to a point that had earned her more trouble than any teenager deserved—or could handle. She’d come a long way since South Beach. And she never, ever, wanted to go back. Not even if it wouldn’t put her life in danger to do so.
“I’m serious,” Shannon continued, tugging Rosie back to the present, where she would much rather be. “He’s getting shaky, he’s gone so long without it.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Rosie said without concern. Somehow, she suspected Shannon was actually the shaky one. “And just how long has it been, Shannon? A day? Two?”
“Three!” the girl fairly screamed. “It’s been three days! You’ve got to help! You’ve got to give me more of that stuff!”
Rosie shook her head. “Three days, huh? Wow. Must be hell.”
“It is!” Shannon cried.
“Fine,” Rosie said, finally capitulating.
She went to the back of her shop and opened the cabinet where she kept her special orders. From the middle shelf, she withdrew an oversize basket that held an assortment of small fabric pouches. Each was filled with a substance that had become extremely popular among the upper classmen at little Northaven College, to the point where they had even developed a slang name for it—Rapture. Many even swore they were hooked on it for life. To Rosie, such monikers and claims were a little over-the-top. What the pouches held was simply a sideline to her business, one she was keeping under wraps for two reasons.
Number one, she honestly wasn’t sure what the reaction and reception to her products would be outside her clientele list. Aphrodisiacs weren’t exactly a commonplace commercial product, and anything that was even remotely sexual in nature was often viewed in a less than positive light. At best, her products might be snickered at if Rosie advertised them, and at worst, they might fall under suspicion. The citizens of Northaven—at least the ones who purchased her special orders—were surprisingly open-minded about the herbal aphrodisiac teas she blended for them. But it was still a small town in New England, with its Puritan sensibilities, and Rosie preferred to err on the side of caution.
Her
