A Sprinkling of Murder (A Fairy Garden Mystery Book 1) Page 20

  “A Goodwill discovery. Three dollars and fifty cents.” She pulled the hem of the red-and-green-checked shirt wide and did a twirl. “Hard to find one in such mint condition. You know me and bargains.”

  “A penny saved...”

  “Is a penny to be spent elsewhere.”

  “There’s something going on with you.” I twirled a finger in front of her face. “Did you have a date last night?”

  “Moi? Get out of here.”

  “You’re glowing.”

  “That’s because I signed up for a cruise at the end of summer.”

  “And you’re going with...” I dragged out with.

  “Nobody.”

  “Liar.” I didn’t know much about Joss’s personal life, but I knew she wasn’t celibate.

  “Okay, I’m going with a man I met on a speed date.”

  I cracked up.

  “Don’t laugh.” She swatted me. “It was fun. I meet lots of interesting guys. You should try it.”

  I shook my head. I’d never go on one of those. Lots of people enjoyed them. Me? I’d get tongue-tied and dry-mouthed. Not pretty. “I’d rather walk over hot coals.”

  “We’ve been dating a month. He’s really nice.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  For the next few minutes, we discussed the security company quotes. As Joss had said in her note, both were identical, so I told her it came down to which salesman she had liked best. The one from Ever Alert Security had reminded her of her father, so I agreed to use him.

  “Don’t forget we have the garden club coming in a half hour,” she said. “And the bonsai shaping event is this afternoon. Busy, busy.”

  The telephone jangled. “Get that please,” I said, having taken another bite of cookie.

  Joss answered and held the receiver out to me. “It’s Detective Summers.”

  I licked a crumb off my lower lip and answered. “Good morning, Detective. I saw you and Officer Rodriguez at the city council meeting yesterday. You left rather quickly.”

  “We stopped in for a moment. I like to see who’s attending.”

  “Thank you for standing up to Tish Waterman.”

  “That woman can carp,” he said. “She needs a bit of reining in.”

  “Ha! You don’t know the half of it. You left before the fireworks began.” I told him about the blowup between Logan and Tish and how Logan had displayed quite a temper. I concluded with the news about Tish’s missing daughter. “I heard Logan Langford’s son had something to do with the girl’s joining a cult.”

  Summers grunted. “That’s not entirely true. When he and Tish’s daughter were dating, they went to one meeting. A month after that, they broke up, and the girl hooked up with the cult.”

  “And hasn’t been seen since.”

  Summers sighed. “We can’t save them all. Now, as for you—”

  My insides lurched. “What about me? Are you saving me?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m afraid we can’t pinpoint your whereabouts on the night Mr. Watkins was murdered, although, as you’ve already shown and your attorney has tried to peddle as evidence, the ISP address does prove that someone was using your computer for three hours.”

  “Yes. Me.” I moaned. “Look, Detective, I have no motive. I did not argue with Mick. I do not want to lease his space. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “If I believed everyone who claimed to be innocent, I’d never lock anyone up. But don’t worry. I’m still working the issue.” Summers ended the call.

  An annoying knot took up residence in my stomach. How could I not be worried? How I wished Holly Hopewell would dredge up a witness to verify my whereabouts. If only the detective could see Fiona. She could vouch for me.

  Joss put her arm around me. “Cheer up. Meaghan left a message on the machine saying she’s working an angle.”

  “About Logan and the Church of the Wayfarer choir?”

  “No. She said, ‘Something else.’ You know how vague she can be. She draws outside the lines.” Joss released me and said, “Let’s focus on our garden club event, okay?”

  I nodded.

  Thirty minutes later, Hattie Hopewell led the Happy Diggers garden group into the shop. Each of the nine was wearing a floral scarf. Harriet’s featured a field of poppies. I was surprised to see Miss Reade, the librarian, among the group.

  “This way, girls,” Hattie chimed. For weeks, she had been dying to show her plant-loving friends the beauty of making and owning a fairy garden. “Hello-o-o, Courtney. Hello-o-o, Joss.” Years ago, Hattie had performed as a singer in a band. Words trilled off her tongue. She sauntered through the shop, pointing out the wind chimes and various teapots and accessories. I couldn’t have asked for a better ambassador. At the door leading to the patio, she said, “Look around, ladies, and then take a seat on one of the benches by the learning-the-craft area. I see we have treats.”

  On a nearby table, I’d put out vanilla bean scones as well as pots of tea, a tea caddy, and teacups.

  The women streamed through the doorway and oohed and aahed.

  Miss Reade said to me, “I hope your fairy is well, Courtney.”

  “She’s thriving.”

  She joined her friends to admire the array of fairy figurines. One in the group stopped beside the fountain and called to a friend to inspect it with her. An image of Mick lying dead at the foot of the fountain sprang to mind; an image of me going to jail followed.

  “Excuse me.” The last of the Happy Diggers, a cherub-faced beauty, stopped beside me. She was carrying a toddler with the most gorgeous blond ringlets. “Our sitter got sick,” she said. “Hope it’s okay.”

  “Children are always welcome. Is your daughter allergic to cats?” I asked, even though Ragdoll cats were more or less hypoallergenic. They didn’t have an undercoat, although I’d heard dried saliva could cause allergies, too. And every cat had that.

  “She adores cats.”

  When I pointed out Pixie, she set the child on her feet and said, “Go play.”

  The little girl dashed off, chasing after Pixie, who ducked beneath tables and chairs. When the girl neared the fountain, she reached overhead. “Ooh, Mommy, look.”

  Her mother peered in the direction her daughter was pointing. “What do you see?”

  “A fairy.”

  “That’s lovely, sweetheart. Play with the fairy.” The mother gave me a wink.

  I winked back. Fiona was having a blast doing cartwheels in the air. Showoff, I mused.

  After the garden club ladies settled on the benches with their treats, I began the demonstration. As I gave my spiel about why a fairy garden was a good addition to anyone’s home, I chose a sixteen-inch round pot, already filled with dirt. I set a ten-inch, red-and-white house on top. “In order to draw the focus to your location, place it in the middle, but somewhat back of center. Think of it like a 3-D image.”

  “I have that same house,” Hattie said.

  “Next, let’s talk about scale,” I continued. “I like to use a bonsai cypress when featuring houses because they appear to be the perfect size. The ratio for this particular design should be twelve to one. One inch equals one foot in real life. Therefore, a child of four feet would be four inches. A ten-foot tall house would be ten inches. Make sense?”

  The garden ladies bobbed their heads, thoroughly understanding.

  For an hour, I took them through the steps. With their input, we decided the red-and-white house was a schoolhouse. We added a set of swings and a volleyball net, as a playful touch, and finished it off with three fairy figurines. Hattie suggested adding a red-haired boy fairy figurine with a baseball and mitt.

  An hour later, five of the club, including Miss Reade, had outfitted themselves with take-home assemblies.

  The cherub-faced beauty gathered her daughter into her arms and approached me. “I’ve never seen her so occupied. Your cat is magical.”

  “So is the fairy,” the girl said.

  Her mother giggled. I laughed, too.


  “I’ll come back when the sitter is better,” the mother added. “I can’t wait to get started.”

  As the Happy Diggers streamed out, Hattie lingered by the Dutch door. “Dearest Courtney, have they cleared you of Mick’s murder yet?

  “No.”

  She swatted the air. “Why, it’s nonsense of course. We all know that. Whatever you do, do not let the police bully you. Trust in the truth.”

  I followed her outside and drew in a deep breath. Across the way, Emily was shaking hands with her attorney. As he left, she caught sight of me and waved.

  She strode toward me while retying the belt of her leather jacket. “I saw you at the city council meeting.”

  “I think everyone in town saw you.”

  She flipped her long mane over her shoulder. “Petra deserved it.”

  And she’d never forget it. I hitched my chin in Wright Youngman’s direction. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I’m going to keep the grooming business up and running. Clients are ecstatic.”

  “What about the lease?”

  “Logan has no legal ground to boot us out. As it turns out, we have a ten-year unbreakable lease.”

  “Ten years? Whew!”

  “Mick was very good at making deals. Wright—Mr. Youngman—will sue Logan if he tries any funny stuff. I am, by right, the lessee. I’m entitled to continue on, under the law.”

  If Logan had known he couldn’t force Mick or Mick’s heirs out any time soon, then he had no apparent reason to kill him.

  “Sonja is going to stay on, too,” Emily continued. “She does all the work anyway. Mick didn’t. He was the face.” She whisked her hand beneath her chin like a television model and smiled. “I can be the face. Pretty doesn’t matter in the pet world. A welcoming smile does. I’ll have to hire a bookkeeper. I’m not a numbers person. Would your assistant like a second job?”

  “I think Joss is as busy as she’d like to be.”

  Emily tugged the hem of her jacket around her hips. “No matter. Wright is going to help me find someone.” Suddenly, tears sprang into her eyes. She blinked in an attempt to stem the flow. “I don’t know what I would do without him. After losing Mick—” She placed her fingertips on her lips.

  “How’s it going with your dog?” I asked. “I saw Gregory tending to him at the city council meeting.”

  “Gregory has been a dream. Between you and me, I think he might be in love with my dog.” She tittered. “You can’t believe all the dog toys he’s bought for him. Shep is in lust with the crocodile that squeaks.”

  I smiled indulgently.

  “Gregory is taking him for playtime at the park. Isn’t that sweet? He thinks Shep would be great in competition, but I’m not sure I want Shep to be a show dog. Mick was... against it. He didn’t want Shep to become a spoiled brat.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away. “I miss him, Courtney.” If she was acting, she was doing a good job. “Mick said...” She shook her head. “He said I shouldn’t...” She let out a deep sigh and studied the pavement near the toe of her shoe.

  When she met my gaze, I felt she wanted to offer something more. About Mick? About what he thought she should or shouldn’t do?

  “Go on,” I said gently. “I’m listening.”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” Deliberately, she glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  Chapter 18

  Any man can lose his hat in a fairy wind.

  —Irish saying

  Emily was a conundrum, often brusque and at other times vulnerable. I still couldn’t get over how she’d brazenly brought lingerie to the council meeting to shame Petra Pauli. That required a killer instinct. Was Emily a killer?

  I returned inside Open Your Imagination, deciding it was time to deal with the other brusque woman in my life—Tish. I settled in the office and called A Peaceful Solution. A receptionist with a sultry voice answered. I asked to speak to Tish. The guardian at the gate asked what I was calling about. I spelled out who I was. Not recognizing my name, she informed me that Tish didn’t have any open appointments for a month. So much for my business spoiling hers—foot traffic or no foot traffic. I pressed on, admitting that I wasn’t interested in an appointment. I wanted to take Tish to tea at the Tuck Box. When the woman asked why, I told her I wanted to talk with Tish. I didn’t need to elaborate.

  “I’ll relay the message,” the receptionist replied.

  I got the feeling she wouldn’t, but thanked her anyway and ended the call. Then I dialed Meaghan. She answered after one ring.

  “ESP,” she said. Over the years, she and I had often reached out to each other at the exact same moment.

  “Joss said you have an angle that might help prove my innocence.”

  “I do, but I can’t talk now.” She sounded rushed. “How about this afternoon?”

  “At three,” I said. “After the bonsai-shaping class.”

  “Deal. We’ll go to tea. Chin up.”

  I set my cell phone down and scrambled to my feet, too antsy to sit. I needed to take a walk. Macro photography would be good therapy, I decided. I grabbed my Nikon Coolpix and 105mm f/2.8G lens from the office, told Joss where I was headed—she handed me an energy bar so I wouldn’t forget to eat—and, with Fiona riding on my shoulder, sauntered up 8th Avenue to Mission Street and made a left.

  “Where are we off to?” Fiona asked.

  “To take pictures of flowers and bugs.”

  “Bugs?”

  “Closeup nature photography helps me concentrate and set the world’s problems aside.”

  My mother had enjoyed long walks and taking photos. I’d learned the art from her. I remembered her guiding my gaze to the exact thing she was going to capture. A grasshopper on a leaf, a bee sniffing a flower, a dragonfly circling a rose. One of my favorite photos that she’d taken was of a frog hiding beneath a lily pad. Nature’s camouflage at its best. I recalled her telling me how focusing on the minutest detail could open her mind so she could deal with life’s ups and downs. I didn’t know at the time that she’d been ill.

  Devendorf Park, which was located between Junipero and Mission Street at Ocean Avenue, was home to the Carmel Art Festival. In a few weeks, the festival would take over the area. On Thursday and Friday, artists would paint in the park as well as many other locations throughout Carmel and Monterey. On the weekend, there would be Sculpture in the Park as well as live music and awards. The festival was a joy to attend.

  Today, however, the park was fairly quiet. A dog owner was checking out the gigantic oak and its canopy. Across the way, near the fountain, I spotted Gregory Darvell with Shep. Against regulations, Shep was off leash. Gregory was using a ball tethered to a rope to teach the dog to fetch and catch.

  “Shep!” Fiona cried. She sailed off my shoulder and hovered near him.

  He spotted her, but Gregory depressed the clicker hanging on a red lanyard around his neck, which quickly drew the dog’s gaze back to the matter at hand. Shep sat at attention waiting for a command.

  Seeing the ball on the rope made me flash on Mick and the rope burn around his neck. Could the tethered toy have made the mark? No. It looked too thick and cumbersome. What about the red lanyard? It was flat, but was it textured? I removed the closeup lens from the camera and took a long-distance picture, and then replaced the lens.

  Fiona flew back to me. “What are they doing?”

  “Learning tricks,” I said.

  Shep didn’t look like he was suffering an ounce of PTSD. He was reveling in the fun. Gregory clicked again, threw the ball, and Shep retrieved it. When Shep brought the ball back, Gregory fetched something from the leather pouch attached to his belt. A treat, no doubt.

  “Aren’t they wonderful together?” a woman behind me asked.

  I turned and moaned. Ulani Kamaka, the reporter for the Pine Cone, smiled at me. She looked ready for an interview, dressed in a silk blouse, linen trousers, and espadrilles.

  “Are you spying on me?” I asked
. How long had she been standing there? I hadn’t heard her approach.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ulani said. “I like to walk on my lunch hour, too.”

  In espadrilles? Give me a break.

  “You see?” She waved a hand between us. “We have something in common.”

  “Your offices are miles away in Pacific Grove.”

  “But I write about Carmel.” She brandished a hand. “So here I am. Actually, I’m doing an article about shopping trends, citing which are the most popular stores in town and why. Yours happens to be one, by the way, which reminds me, your article will be coming out in a week. I’ll drop off a copy. I say favorable things.” She eyed Gregory and Shep. “Speaking of spying, are you spying on them?”

  “What? No.” I tapped the camera hanging on its strap. “I’m doing some macro photography. It helps me relax.”

  “And yet you’ve only taken one photograph, sans closeup lens.”

  She had been observing me. Why? Thinking I’d trip up somehow and prove myself guilty? Maybe she hoped to scoop my story so she could become an ace reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle.

  I removed the lens cap from my camera and shot ten photos in succession. Of the oak tree. Its leaves. Of the grass.

  Fiona stomped her foot on my shoulder. “I do not like her. Why is she staring at you?”

  Quickly, I took a photograph of Ulani.

  She covered her face. “Please don’t.”

  “Why not? Hiding something?”

  She blinked rapidly and glanced over her shoulder. No one was near us. She turned back. “Yes,” she whispered. “My parents do not know where I am.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not your concern. Let’s just say, I’d like my whereabouts to remain a secret. I write under a pseudonym, so they won’t find me that way, but a photo online or elsewhere could ruin everything.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “As I said, not your concern. Please honor my request. Thank you.” She tucked her head and strode away.