The Florist

by Charlie Hughes

About the Author: I am a 38 year old Londoner who started writing short fiction in 2015. Since then my work has appeared in the 'Crooked Holster' crime anthology, the 'Bookers Corner' anthology, 'Abstract Jam' Magazine, 'Schlock! Bi-Monthly Magazine' and online at 'The Cro Magnon', 'Near To The Knuckle' and ' SFReader.com'. I write suspense, mystery, crime and horror stories.

Excerpt

She moved into the flat next door three months ago, then the killing started.

I’d been enjoying my morning immensely, pinning a couple of new beauties and preparing the display cases. I heard voices downstairs, so I crept out onto the landing and peered over the bannister. I could only see her shoes. Petite, pretty, brown little things with a silver broach on the toes. With each exclamation she shifted her weight from one side to the other, like a tiny boxer sizing up an opponent.

She was talking to Mr Chopra, just inside the big door.

“Is it strictly necessary to pay the full month’s deposit up front?” she asked.

It was for me, young lady, I thought. I don’t recall that miserly cad ever offering me any credit.

“I’m sure we can work something out.” he said. I could see Chopra more clearly. He was standing with his legs spread apart and one hand shoved in his pocket, a big satisfied grin on his greasy brown face. Ginny walked out of the open door behind me and mewed for food. I saw Chopra turn so I quickly ducked back into my flat and triple locked the door.

Mr Chopra hadn’t been at all happy with me since the bother with Seamus. The former tenant in flat three was the kind of slob who thought leaving his rubbish bags on the landing all night was somehow acceptable. I never once saw him tend to his window box and the cooking smells coming from his door made me gag. On top of all that, he spoke to me in that familiar Irish tone, as if we were drinking buddies down the pub.

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