Page 14 of Spring Fling

When Marlene returned, she spoke in a rush. “All right, sorry. Benton was calling from the festival. Apparently, something major came up. He asked that you head to the main event coordinator’s tent immediately. It’s about what happened to Daisy Parker’s arrangement the other day.”

My chest tightened. “I thought that was an accident.”

“Benton says the coordinators found evidence of sabotage. He’s calling a meeting and wants you there right away. The mayor is involved. Whatever happened, it’s serious.”

I pressed the phone closer to my ear, tension prickling at my scalp. “All right. I’ll head over. Did he give you any details?”

“None,” Marlene replied. “But I hope you’ll fill me in. And listen… I might have miscalculated. My job was to push you, but if it means making you miserable, maybe it’s not the right strategy. I’ll talk to your publisher, tell them your work can stand on its own.”

Her admission surprised me. “That means a lot,” I managed.

“I need to run. Good luck, Hayden.” She hung up.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and exhaled. My hands felt clammy. If someone truly sabotaged Daisy, it meant she had been deliberately targeted. Anger flickered. Daisy had worked so hard. The idea of someone intentionally ruining her biggest opportunity was infuriating.

I grabbed my jacket from the bed and headed into the hallway. The gentle scent of lavender sachets and polished wood greeted me again. Rory bustled by with a clipboard, giving me a quick hello, but I could only offer a distracted nod. Outside, the morning sun bathed the Inn’s Victorian porch in soft light. With no paparazzi lurking, I felt a measure of relief. I strode to my car and started the short drive to the festival grounds, half my mind consumed by the question:who would want to sabotage Daisy?

I arrived to find the parking lot already crowded. Families and couples wandered among the booths, the atmosphere festive. Everyone was eager for the final day of judging and the award ceremony. I barely noticed the cheerful music or the rows of vivid flower displays as I hurried toward the large management tent near the back, where Benton had told Marlene to send me.

I ducked inside the tent flap and stopped short. Tension filled the air like static. Benton stood near a long folding table with a few chairs. Daisy was seated to his left, looking anxious, hands folded tightly in her lap. Ariana hovered on the opposite side, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the ground. Next to Ariana stood a younger woman I recognized only vaguely—her assistant, maybe. A stern-looking man in a casual suit stood to one side, exuding authority. Another man tinkered with a setof TV screens on a table at the back. Two women with badges lingered nearby, exchanging concerned looks.

Benton spotted me. “Hayden, good. You’re here.” He sounded tense. “Let’s make this quick. We have Theodore Snowcroft, the mayor of Wintervale,” he indicated the stern man, “and Greta Nordin, the show’s main executive coordinator.” He pointed to one of the badged women. “Jim Stern handles our security system.” The man by the screens gave a curt nod. “And finally, Isobel Samuelson, Ariana’s assistant.”

Everyone murmured greetings except Ariana, who glanced at me, then turned away. I noticed she was fidgeting, tapping her nails on her arm and picking at her cuticles. Isobel stared at her shoes, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. Daisy offered me a relieved half-smile when I reached her side. I dropped into the seat next to hers and gently took her hand. It felt tense and cold.

“What’s happening?” I whispered.

She shook her head. “No one’s explained anything yet.”

Greta Nordin cleared her throat, her sharp gaze scanning the room. “All right, we’re all here. Let’s keep it brief so we can return to the festival schedule. Jim, could you please play the footage?”

Jim stepped forward, tapping a keyboard. The largest monitor lit up, showing a timestamp from two days ago, the day Daisy’s arrangement had been destroyed. The view was overhead, black-and-white security footage of the festival booths. While people milled around, a single figure in a plain jacket and jeans appeared, pushing a large potted plant on a rolling stand. The figure glanced around furtively, then maneuvered close to Daisy’s display. With a swift motion, the pot knocked the central vase off the stand, sending the precious arrangement crashing to the ground. Water, flowers, and shardsof glass scattered. The figure paused, then hurried away with the potted plant, merging back into the crowd.

Greta folded her arms. “As you can see, this wasn’t an accident. And the person who committed this act is Ms. Isobel Samuelson.” She turned a steely gaze on the assistant. “Isobel, care to explain?”

Gasps rippled through the tent. Daisy stiffened, gripping my hand tighter. Ariana’s jaw dropped, her expression flashing with surprise—or alarm. Meanwhile, Isobel shot to her feet, eyes bulging with panic. “It was Ariana’s idea!” she yelled. “She told me to sabotage Daisy’s booth because Daisy was getting too much attention. Ariana said, ‘Handle it, Isobel,’ and I did. That’s what she meant!”

Ariana leapt up in horror. “That’s not true! You’re lying! I told you we needed to stand out—that’s all. I never said to knock over her arrangement.” She pivoted to the rest of us, voice rising. “I would never do something so… so disgusting. She’s lying!”

Isobel’s whole face was flushed, tears brimming. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were asking for. You told me to make sure Daisy’s booth didn’t upstage us. ‘Handle it, Isobel, or you’re finished,’ remember?”

Mayor Snowcroft stepped forward and raised a hand, phone clutched in the other. “All right, that’s enough. This is a serious matter. I’m calling the chief of police.” He stepped aside to place a call. “We’ll let the authorities investigate whether Ms. St. James is complicit. There’s no doubt Ms. Samuelson committed the act, though.”

Ariana’s cheeks lost all color. She started to stammer, “But I’m— I’m America’s Floral Sweetheart—” but the mayor only frowned as he lifted the phone to his ear. Isobel clamped a hand over her mouth, trembling. I glanced at Daisy, seeing bothshock and relief flicker in her eyes. At least she now knew what happened.

Benton’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Ariana, the sponsor wants no further affiliation with you—or your assistant,” he said, his voice clipped. “No matter who’s lying, it ends here. This is beyond unprofessional.”

Ariana sputtered, searching for words but finding none. She glared at Isobel, who glared right back.

Then Benton turned to me, letting out a long breath. “Hayden, I’m sorry this fiasco affected you. If you’re still interested in some form of network show, we’d be happy to explore a new angle without Ariana—”

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested in faking anything for cameras. I want to focus on horticulture, not performance.”

Benton nodded, resigned. The mayor was still on the phone, speaking tersely. Ariana and Isobel had descended into hushed bickering while Greta and Jim exchanged uncertain glances. The tension in the tent felt suffocating.

I stood, guiding Daisy to her feet. She looked up at me, expression weary yet relieved. Without giving Ariana or Isobel another glance, we stepped out of the tent. Fresh air greeted us, the festival’s cheerful hum contrasting with the tension we left behind.

Daisy released a shaky breath. “I can’t believe it was Isobel,” she murmured. “I guess Ariana might’ve implied something, but to go that far?”

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