A Sprinkling of Murder (A Fairy Garden Mystery Book 1) Page 17

  Glinda patted my arm. “I’ll see you around. Let me know what you find out.” She added sotto voce, “FYI, your cat is acting a bit nuts.”

  As she left, I glanced toward the patio. Pixie was dancing on her hind legs and batting the air. Fiona was taunting her.

  “Find out about what?” Meaghan asked as she filled her mug and added a dollop of cream.

  I gazed at my pal, a gleam in my eye. “You play harp at Church of the Wayfarer, right?”

  Chapter 14

  I’ll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells, and if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I’ll weave my spells.

  —Samuel Lover, “The Four-Leaved Shamrock”

  As Joss rearranged greeting cards in the revolving rack, I explained the situation to Meaghan about Logan’s alibi. When I finished, she agreed to do recon; however, she wasn’t sure she could do it any time soon. Her day was packed. She had half a dozen appointments. Sunday was always a busy day at the gallery. And Monday wasn’t going to prove much better. But she promised she would follow through.

  “Meaghan, before you go, talk to me about Isabella Acosta. You’re not a fan. Why?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “The woman stole one of our artists.”

  “Stole?”

  “Okay, enticed her with a better split, less commission.”

  “Is that ethical?”

  “It’s not illegal, but in Carmel, most of us gallery owners have a pact to honor one another’s agreements with artists. We don’t poach.” Meaghan scrunched up her mouth before adding, “It speaks to her character.”

  “No kidding.”

  “To add insult to injury, the woman never smiles, as if she’s above us all. It’s like she lost her joie de vivre years ago.”

  I didn’t like or dislike someone who frowned, but a smile did work wonders.

  “Gotta go.” Meaghan blew me a kiss and flew out the Dutch door.

  As she exited, Detective Summers sauntered into the shop dressed in his usual white shirt and tan khakis, but his easy smile was gone and a no-nonsense scowl had taken its place. Office Rodriguez followed him, dressed like Summers, her hair secured in a silver-tooled hair clip. She didn’t look any happier than he did.

  Summers said, “Did I see you at the Equestrian Inn earlier?”

  I blanched. How I’d hoped he hadn’t spotted me.

  Fiona flew into the shop from the patio and skidded to a hover. “Uh-oh.” Her presence felt good, like I wasn’t alone and floundering.

  Raising my chin, I said cheerily, “Yes, Detective, as a matter of fact you did.”

  “What were you doing there?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “Taking a sunrise trail ride.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “I repeat, what where you doing there?”

  Joss joined us. “Everything cool?”

  “I was just telling the police that I was following a hunch. Bianca, the trail guide for my ride, led the night ride on Wednesday, the one Emily Watkins said she took.”

  Summers grunted. “I told you my people had questioned the staff.”

  “Why did you show up, then?” I countered. “Checking it out for yourself, I assume. To be certain.”

  Rodriguez stifled a snort, which ending up sounding like a sneeze. Summers cut her a harsh look. In defense, she whisked a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Allergies,” she whispered.

  I said, “Bianca didn’t remember Emily, but she said her mind didn’t work that way.”

  Summers clicked his tongue. “I know.”

  “Did you talk to anyone else?” I asked.

  “The manager as well as the assistant manager. Emily Watkins had checked into the hotel, but . . .” He worked his tongue inside his cheek.

  “But?” I said.

  “But no one could specifically say whether she left and returned.”

  I pumped my fist.

  “Don’t get cocky, Miss Kelly.”

  “Courtney,” I said firmly.

  “I’m giving you a pass on this,” Summers said. “But from now on, stay out of our way.”

  Rodriguez said, “Let’s hear about the break-in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I gestured to Joss. “Would you pour Detective Summers and Officer Rodriguez a cup of coffee?”

  “None for me,” Summers said.

  “Black,” Rodriguez said. “One sugar.”

  Joss set off to complete the request.

  “My landlord stole in last night,” I said. “Follow me.” I strode to the patio.

  Summers pulled his notebook from his pocket, removed the rubber band, and trailed me. Fiona flitted beside him, peering at him intently.

  Rodriguez kept pace. Joss caught up to the officer and handed her a mug of coffee.

  Standing near the fountain, I pointed out the foliage in front of the secret door. “He entered through there, which means he knew about it.”

  “Are you sure?” Summers asked.

  “As sure as rain. After closing, I came back because I’d forgotten to turn off the coffee pot. I didn’t switch on the lights because it was a quick trip from the door to the urn. I was in the main showroom when I heard a thud on the patio. I froze for a second and hid over there.” I motioned to the window where I’d ducked down and went on to explain how the moonlight had provided enough illumination to see Logan.

  “What did he do once he stole inside?” Rodriguez asked.

  “He scrambled to his feet and turned right and left. I’m not sure what he was looking for. Suddenly, he screamed and ran out.”

  “Ghost!” Fiona cried.

  Neither Summers nor Rodriguez seemed to detect her outburst.

  Summers studied me as if he knew I was keeping something from him. My insides grumbled. Obfuscating the truth wasn’t good for my digestion.

  “Let me guess.” Summers drew a long breath and exhaled. “He saw a fairy.”

  “It’s possible.” I didn’t add that it was a ghost fairy. If the detective didn’t believe in fairies, he certainly wouldn’t believe fairies could don costumes.

  Summers pursed his lips, pen poised over his notebook. “Did you feel threatened by Mr. Langford?”

  “At first, I didn’t know what to think. Was he the murderer, making a return visit?”

  “Why would you think that?” Rodriguez sipped her coffee.

  “Because Detective Summers suggested that I was initially the intended target, not Mick Watkins.”

  Summers nodded. “Go on.”

  “When I saw Logan Langford emerge through the foliage, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why he’d come in through the secret passageway. He’s the landlord. By right, he has a key to the front door and may enter at any time.”

  “How did he know about that entrance?” Rodriguez asked pointing at the foliage. “We haven’t leaked that information.”

  “I assume he has layout plans for each property,” I said. “A door like that could be notated somewhere.”

  Rodriguez and Summers conferred.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that he sneaked in?” I asked.

  “Perhaps he, like others we know, is trying to solve the murder,” Summers said.

  Rodriguez smirked. “Amateurs like to theorize.”

  The two of them exchanged a snide look.

  Fiona placed her hands beside her head, as if she intended to blow a raspberry and wiggle her fingers. I shot her a look. She backed off.

  Calmly, I said, “I theorize because I’m trying to clear my name. How are you doing on that front?”

  “Your attorney has been in touch,” Rodriguez said. “She’s prepared to post bail should we choose to arrest you.”

  “I’m not guilty.”

  “Miss Judge agrees with you. She has repeatedly touted the evidence about your ISP being in use at the time of the murder.”

  Good to know.

  “Your father has weighed in again, too,” Summers added. “He’d like to see notes on the case. I told him I cou
ldn’t accommodate him.”

  “Still no suspect?” I asked.

  “Oh, we have plenty of suspects.” Summers pocketed his notebook and, using his cell phone, snapped a couple of photographs of the patio. “If Langford didn’t take anything, there’s nothing more we can do.”

  “Aren’t they going to question him?” Fiona asked.

  I reiterated her question.

  “What will he say? ‘Yes, I trespassed?’” Summers scratched his chin. “Look, if I were you, I’d put in a security system.”

  “That’s expensive, and I’m not sure my landlord will let me. It would require installing wires and messing with the walls.”

  “Negotiate with him,” Rodriguez suggested.

  “And tell him what? That I want a security system because he sneaked in?”

  “No. Don’t say that.” Summers frowned. “Tell him that your shop was broken into a second time. Tell him once word gets out about the second break-in, the rest of the courtyard will become a prime target for robbers, and all of the businesses may suffer, thus hurting his bottom line.”

  Far be it from me to tell the detective that, since the first break-in and subsequent murder, business was on the rise. We’d had to order more of everything in the shop, and learning-the-craft sessions were booked for a month. Curiosity was definitely the driving force.

  Summers pocketed his cell phone. “By the way, I hear Ever Alert Security is pretty good.”

  “I’ve heard that, too,” Rodriguez said.

  Fiona flew to my shoulder. “What’s their story?”

  I had been wondering the same thing. Summers and Rodriguez seemed in sync. Were they a couple or had they been partners for so long that they dressed the same and spoke with a similar cadence?

  “If there’s nothing further...” Summers strode into the main showroom.

  Rodriguez trailed him and handed her mug to Joss.

  I followed. “Detective, did you find matches to the rope fiber on Mick’s neck?”

  He whirled around. “Here we go again.”

  Rodriguez coughed out a laugh. “What don’t you understand about the words don’t theorize, Miss Kelly? You don’t want to be arrested for obstructing justice, do you?”

  “Theorizing isn’t obstructing,” I countered. “Asking questions isn’t obstructing, either. To obstruct justice, you need to block prosecutors, investigators, or other government officials from doing their jobs, hence perverting the course of justice.” Not only had I memorized city ordinances over the years, but, growing up with a policeman as a father and then being engaged to a lawyer and future judge, I’d also soaked up inane legal jargon. “All I want to know”—I flicked a loose hair off my cheek in frustration—“is about the rope.”

  “Matching DNA or rope fibers does not happen as fast as you think,” Summers said.

  Given my knowledge of chemistry and my fascination with mysteries, I actually knew how fast technicians worked, but I kept mum.

  “Therefore”—Summers held up three fingers—“we’re going the traditional route here: motive, means, and opportunity.”

  Fiona said, “Tell them about Logan’s money issue.”

  I cleared my throat. “Logan Langford might be in debt. Supposedly, he wants all the tenants out so he can sell the place to a developer. What if Mick Watkins refused?”

  “Who else are you willing to throw under the bus?” Summers arched an eyebrow.

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “You’re spreading a rumor that Langford is in financial trouble.”

  “I’m not spreading it. I—”

  “I don’t buy it.” Summers shook his head. “The Langford wealth is ages old. Even a spendthrift couldn’t run through it. Look for some other angle. No”—he held up a hand—“hold on. Retract that last statement. I did not mean that you, specifically, should look for another angle.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up gesture. “Got it.”

  How I wished I knew more about Logan Langford. Was he in debt? To the tune of how much? Why? Was he a gambler? Was one of his children or grandchildren or a dear friend in trouble? I would go into debt for family or friends.

  Summers and Rodriguez headed to the door.

  “For now, I’d check out installing a security device. Good day, Miss—” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Courtney.”

  “Emily Watkins,” I blurted as I ran after them. I wanted them to know about the inheritance and the attorney. Out of nowhere, I flashed on Emily’s purse. If I recalled correctly, her Michael Kors tote bag had rope handles. Could she have used the handles to strangle her husband? No. Not a chance. Too short. How about the leather-and-rope belt she’d been wearing over her riding pants when she’d arrived on the scene? She could’ve unhooked it, strangled Mick, and re-hooked it in less than a minute. “Emily—”

  “You don’t quit, do you?” Rodriguez jeered. “You have to stop. You—”

  Summers silenced her with a glance. “What about Mrs. Watkins?”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “Nothing.”

  “Tell them,” Fiona urged.

  No. They wouldn’t listen to anything I said. Rodriguez had shut me down. Mine to know; yours to find out, I thought and said, “Good day.”

  As Summers and Rodriguez left, I couldn’t help thinking of my father. Summers reminded me of him. Direct. Plainspoken. When on the job, all business. I’d often felt nervous around my father, as if he’d discounted my opinion because I hadn’t had enough life experience to warrant speaking up. That ended now. One more thing to add to my ways-to-improve-myself list. I was thirty. I’d traveled to China alone. I’d hitchhiked through Europe with Meaghan without repercussions. I’d opened my own business. My voice deserved to be heard.

  Emboldened, I texted Dad and asked him to meet me for tea one day soon. I wanted to apologize for defying him about the security guard and thank him for the attorney, even if in the long run she wasn’t able to help me, although I didn’t write any of that in the text. Given the chance, my father would make a gigantic banner of my apology and hang it on the side of his house. Okay, he wouldn’t make a banner, but he’d tease me for days.

  Chapter 15

  Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, for I would ride

  with you upon the wind ...

  —William Butler Yeats, The Land of Heart’s Desire

  Joss gripped my arm and said, “Spill. What didn’t you tell the police?”

  I detailed my theory about Emily and her rope-style belt and the fact that the staff at the Equestrian Inn couldn’t corroborate her alibi. I said, “She could’ve driven back, killed Mick, and returned to the inn for the night. The trail guide wasn’t the sharpest tool in the tool kit.”

  “Ha!” Fiona said.

  “Emily could’ve duped her and made her think she was on the ride. In fact, what if Emily has taken the ride before and knows the spiel, so if she’s questioned, she could retell each aspect of it?”

  Joss said, “The police need to know this.”

  “I agree,” Fiona chimed.

  “The police told me to butt out.”

  Joss brandished a hand. “Maybe if you looped in your father—”

  “You heard the police. Dad has been off the force for years. They don’t want his opinion.”

  I hugged Joss and thanked her and Fiona for their support, and then set about business. First, I called my realtor to inquire about my lease. It turned out we could negotiate a renewal every year. However, if Logan wanted to throw me out for cause, I had no say in the matter. Next, I called my attorney to check in. It was Sunday. I didn’t expect her to return the call.

  And then, for an hour, Joss and I discussed the various ideas we’d had about new programs for the shop. I wanted to do a children’s fairy tale reading hour. We would share fairy tales and other fairy-related writing like Shakespeare’s poems. Joss suggested we offer a workshop during which customers could make fairy homes, easily accomplished by inserting battery-ope
rated twinkling lights into mason jars.

  Giddy with inspiration, I coasted through the rest of the morning. Late in the afternoon, I supervised a craft session with a pair of teenaged girls who wanted to make matching fairy gardens. They weren’t twins, they told me, giggling, but they had been joined at the hip since preschool. Over the course of our two-hour-long session, I tried to dissuade them from the notion of making identical gardens. Each fairy garden should reflect its maker, I advised. I didn’t add that teens invariably found better friends after high school, like Meaghan and I had. One girl with whom I’d gone to elementary school had turned into a major diva—aka mean girl—in high school. But my students were adamant. By the end of the session, they had built duplicate gardens and were thrilled with the result. Who was I to quibble?

  After work, Fiona accompanied Pixie and me home. Fiona and I didn’t talk much. Both of us were lost in thought. Pixie was cuddlier than ever. I was pretty certain she was concerned about me. I snuggled her to reassure her.

  I ate a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of minestrone soup, and, rather than do anything related to work, settled into a chair to read a new mystery.

  Around midnight, unable to sleep—the book was so good I could barely put it down—I fetched the aqua-blue afghan my mother had crocheted for me when I was eight, grabbed the shovel standing by the front door, and slipped onto the porch. I sat in the mission slat rocker, snuggled under the afghan, the shovel across my lap, and allowed the steady sound of the surf to lull me to sleep. Fiona joined me and circled overhead.

  Around two a.m., I awoke with a start. I’d heard a crackle. And footsteps.

  I threw off the afghan, lumbered to my feet, and readied the shovel. I peered into the darkness but couldn’t see a thing.

  “Fiona?” I whispered. She didn’t respond. “Who’s there?” I called stupidly, as if believing an intruder would answer.

  Mrs. Hopewell’s Pomeranians started yipping. They’d heard something, too.