Oh, New York in the springtime, there should be a song. It just seems natural in the spring to develop a little crush on someone, and my someone was the beautiful, smiling, tall, and chiseled Officer Miles Denton. Talk about magic!

I strolled home, pausing along the way to smell the flowers at Carol's Cuttings. You would think what with me owning a plant shop that I would get my fill at home, but unlike my inventory, Carol's flowers were already cut. The poor things were on their ways toward Death's door, and someone had to take them in to enjoy them until they passed to the other side.

I bought a bouquet almost every time I passed by Carol's sweet-smelling store. Today, it was lilies, the big stargazers that fill an entire home with their fragrance. Yes, stargazers are poisonous to cats, but here's one of the very important benefits of living with a familiar, and not just a common, non-magical, pet. One verbal warning about poisonous plants and Sedona won't be bothered with them. I threw in a couple of yellow spider mums to give the bunch a good pop of color.

"Thanks, Carol," I said when I came up for air. Sometimes I just bury my face in these beauties for three or four deep breaths. It helps me focus.

Carol Jenson shows up at our Village Merchant Association meetings, but only once in a blood harvest supermoon. I keep telling her that it's not like she has a corner on the market, for heaven's sakes. Florists in New York are a dime a dozen. To make a shop profitable, you have to put some elbow grease into the social side of the business. Social media, network with other merchants, share leads, you know. Everyone does it. Everyone who's on this side of the success fence, at least.

But secretly, I think Carol's husband is funding her shop. He's some bigshot down on Wall Street and I think he just wants to keep her busy. Well, maybe I haven't been completely secret about that theory. I have a lot of trustworthy friends and we spend a lot of time talking about our neighborhood.

"Anytime, Maddie," she said, peeking around an enormous vase full of roses. "What brings you out of the shop?"

"Oh, I'm just helping the police on a case," I said casually.

She made a skeptical face. "A case?"

"Yup, robbery. Neighbor of mine, poor little thing. They got away with some pretty valuable pieces, I guess."

"Wait." Carol took her gloves off and came around the counter. "You're helping the police on the case? Like how?" She had that one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down now. I pretended not to notice.

"Well, Ms. Esther is my friend. My neighbor. My landlord. Landlady, actually. She lives in my building. I'm just lending a hand in case they need anything. Ms. Esther is old, you know. She forgets things."

"But wait," Carol said with a not really so friendly smile on her lips. "Don't you forget things all the time?"

I guess she knows me better than I'd originally thought. Or heard more things about me than I'd originally thought. I shrugged my shoulders. "You know, Carol, I'm just trying to be a good neighbor, that's all. Someday, when you need a good neighbor, and I step up to help out any way I can, you'll look back at this and say to yourself, 'Wow, that Maddie Bridges is such a valuable asset to our community.' That's what you'll say." I gave her a little grin to show her I was just funning around, but really, I wasn't. I know she's one of the mean ones.

"Ha, you're so funny," she said to me, and I know she had to force that 'ha' out of her mouth. I paid her in cash, she gave me my change, and we parted ways as quickly as we were both able.

"Hello!" I said happily to a UPS delivery woman who was wheeling her box-laden dolly across the sidewalk. She smiled at me without saying anything, but that's okay. My first real job was at The Fossil Store, a shop in Brooklyn that sold all kinds of weird trinkets like snake skeletons and sharks' teeth, and I'll never forget what the owner and my first mentor, Broderick Moore, said to me while I was in training.

"Maddie," said Broderick Moore from The Fossil Store, "some of these shoppers might not see one smile in the course of their entire day. Except for yours. You might be the brightest light or, heck, the only light in their whole week. Never assume what other people are going through."

Needless to say, I have Broderick Moore's nuggets of wisdom tucked safely under the tip of my tongue, and I refer to them regularly, which drives a lot of my friends a little crazy. Whatever, his wisdom is worth repeating. And on this particular nugget especially. It's worth it to go out of my way every single day to be the bright spot in other peoples' days. Call it a hobby.

Even while trying to be the light in strangers' days, today my conscious thinking was really all about me. Me with that tall dark and way handsome Miles Denton. And how it would feel right now to be strolling along this busy city street holding his ginormous hand, telling him funny stories so that white, white smile of his would shine down on me. Maybe he would cook me dinner in his apartment someday.

With candlelight. And roses. Mmm, I could smell a roast cooking in his oven even as I walked. Maybe another day we could even help his sister out and take little JuJu to a park or a museum or something. Maybe, late at night, he would roll over and----

My beautiful thoughts were interrupted by bird poop landing on my shoulder. All white and runny and gross, it was all I could do not to gag. I pawed through my bag to find a tissue, but all I could find was a slip of paper with an address on it: 109 Perry Street. Which is weird, because that's right next door to our building.

"Well, this is weird," I said out loud.

"You're telling me," said a beanpole of a man who had almost tripped over my huge bag.
He looked over his shoulder a few times, muttering under his breath as he walked past me. I let him get his sidewalk rage out of his system. I don't take things like this personally, believe me. It would be horribly distracting if I did.

I looked at the writing on the slip of paper that had obviously been ripped from some spiral-bound notebook. The handwriting was tiny and slanted backward, which my friend Hannah would say indicated insecurity. Or just plain old age. It looked downright cryptic. Like my Gamma's, actually.

Gamma was my great-grandmother, who had lived until her 98th birthday party, only to face plant into her birthday cake, dead. Such a shame, but also a really good story to tell new friends if I needed to get a handle on their senses of humor.

Then it dawned on me. That old lady back at the station. I must have accidentally swished her address into my carpetbag after maybe putting Venus on Officer McCartony's desk. Mrs. Peters or something. Peterson. That was it!

You can't get much past me.

I weighed my options and decided this was like kismet; I could use Mrs. Peterson's address as a solid excuse for calling the station. They would be looking for this slip of paper. I would be able to follow up on Ms. Esther's robbery.

While I was at it, I could follow up on my future boyfriend.