A Sprinkling of Murder (A Fairy Garden Mystery Book 1) Page 8

  When unsure about a fairy garden’s story, I always started by positioning two figurines facing each other. Conversations didn’t happen when one was turned away. I decided on a fairy with her arms wide open to represent me. She was welcoming and full of hope. I inserted a posing wire up her spine and positioned her beside the front door.

  Meaghan and her boyfriend had been the first to visit my house. She’d brought a zither as a housewarming gift; I couldn’t play a harp, but I could strum a zither. I didn’t see a brown-haired fairy in my choices, so until I could find exactly the right fairy at the shop to represent Meaghan, as a placeholder, I selected a white-haired fairy with cheery cheeks, who was holding a guitar. I set her on the gravel path facing the fairy with outstretched arms. Then I stood a green-haired boy fairy opposite her—green, because Meaghan’s artist boyfriend could act a tad jealous.

  Fiona settled atop the girl’s white hair and crossed her arms and legs. “This one reminds me of the councilwoman.”

  “She does not.”

  “Does, too.”

  “How so?” I lifted a blue-haired boy fairy from the shelf and wiggled him as if he were asking the questions. “Is it the hair?” I said in a low-pitched voice.

  “She’s too certain of herself. She’s . . .” Fiona flicked her fingers, searching for the word. “Smug.”

  “Imperious.”

  “Bossy. Why did she demand to see the crime scene?” Fiona jammed a fist against her hip. “Tell me that.”

  I winked. “You’re full of pluck tonight.”

  “You’re too closed off.”

  Ha! She didn’t have a clue how much my insides were churning. I was doing my best not to let all of my emotions burst out of me.

  Fiona leaped off her perch and rammed into the green-haired fairy. He toppled.

  I glowered at her. “What did you do that for?”

  “He’s pompous. He reminds me of Mick Watkins. And I knocked him over because Mick is dead.”

  Whoa. That wasn’t the story I was going for.

  “We need to find out who killed him and clear your name.” Fiona lingered over the green-haired fairy.

  I set the green-haired fairy on his feet opposite the white-haired fairy and wiggled him. Using a booming voice like Mick’s, I said, “The police will find my killer.”

  Fiona crossed her arms. “If the councilwoman was having an affair with Mick, she might have killed him.”

  I picked up the white-haired fairy and, imitating Petra’s commanding voice, said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d kill Emily before I’d ever touch a hair on my beloved’s head.” I set her down and addressed the blue-haired boy fairy. “Don’t you agree?” On his behalf, I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ooh.” Fiona met him at eye level and batted her eyelashes. “Does the blue one represent the handsome detective?”

  I frowned. “Summers isn’t handsome.”

  “He’s not?” Fiona’s mouth screwed into a knot. “He looks like the actors on the covers of those magazines you skim at the grocery store.”

  I laughed. “Okay, he is easy on the eyes, but he’s nearly as old as my father.”

  “Brady looks like those actors, too,” she crooned in a singsong voice. “He’s cute. Do you like him?”

  I felt my cheeks warm. Seeing Brady had brought back so many lovely memories. Basketball one-on-ones. Photography class. Developing photos in the lab late at night. The day we met, I had acquired a crazy wild crush on him, but I was a realist and knew nothing would come of it because he was a senior and I was a freshman. And then a week later I had met Christopher, and, poof, all thoughts of Brady had flown out the window.

  Christopher. What a waste of time. How had I missed the signs?

  I returned the blue-haired fairy to the metal counter and lifted a long-limbed boy fairy with silver hair. I whisked him along the path toward the green-haired fairy and said, “You are bad. I want you out. No more lease.” I made him jump up and down. “Do you hear me? Out, out, out!”

  I paused when I realized that, yes, I was ad-libbing the argument between Logan Langford and Mick Watkins. I lifted the long-limbed fairy and twisted him to face me. I peered sternly at him. “Did you kill Mick?”

  “Is ending a lease that important?” Fiona asked, picking up on my line of questioning.

  “I’m not sure.” I returned the long-limbed fairy to the scene.

  “What if Emily wants to keep the lease?”

  I grinned. “You’re asking good questions.”

  Fiona planted her fists on her hips. “A righteous fairy has to be a thinker. So... ?”

  “Emily doesn’t work at Wizard of Paws, so I doubt she wants the lease, although she probably owns the business now.”

  “And she loves Shep.”

  “Of course she likes Shep,” I said. “He’s her dog. What owner doesn’t cherish his or her own dog?”

  Fiona adored Shep, too. Often, she darted outside when he was around. She appreciated his grace and warm nature. Emily couldn’t see Fiona, but Shep certainly could. Whenever Fiona made an appearance, he barked merrily.

  “Does Emily like the other dogs?” I asked. “That’s the real question.”

  Scanning the figurines on the shelves, I selected a fairy to represent Emily—a six-inch tall, Schleich fairy; Schleich made a variety of gorgeous fairies and elves, this one with long hair and golden wings. She was riding horseback. Granted, she was out of scale to the other fairies, but she looked fearsome, so, for the moment, she was perfect. I wiggled the Emily fairy and cried, “I love to ride.” I jiggled the silver-haired fairy in response and, mimicking Logan, said, “I hate dog hair.”

  Fiona froze midair and started humming. I knew why.

  “Dog hair,” I murmured.

  Loose pet hair had been on the floor at the crime scene. I’d wondered earlier whether pet hair from Mick’s work had piggybacked on him into my shop. What if Emily had transported Shep’s hair inside? Had fur literally flown when she killed Mick? Had the police diligently processed the crime scene?

  My doorbell rang.

  I peered at the Ring app on my cell phone and spied my father standing on the front porch. He didn’t look pleased, which meant he’d heard about the murder. Oops. I should have called him sooner rather than later.

  Quickly, I raced from the backyard and through the house, raking my hair with my fingertips. Before touching the doorknob, I worked a kink out of my neck and slapped on a smile. Here goes nothing.

  Swinging open the door, I said, “Dad, what a nice surprise. I’m going to eat dinner soon. Want to join me? Salmon with dill sauce, your favorite.”

  “You can drop the phony welcome, young lady.” He marched into the foyer. “A client told me what happened to Mick Watkins.”

  My father and I looked nothing alike. He had cocoa-brown eyes. Mine were green. He had dark, gray-streaked hair. I was a summer blonde. Sunblock and sunhats had helped me protect my pale Irish skin. Dad had refused. He was tan and rugged, like a man who worked the land all day should be. And his scowl? I couldn’t scowl like that if I tried. He’d learned how when he was a cop.

  He shot a hand at me. “Why didn’t you call me? Or send a text message? Something.”

  “It was a busy day.”

  He continued to scowl. “I want you to move home.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not safe here.”

  “What you do mean? Mick was killed at my shop. Not here.”

  “You haven’t been trained to defend yourself. What if—”

  “I have been trained. By you.”

  Working in the outdoors was good for my father, but after ending his career as a policeman, to keep his mind mentally sharp, he’d spent every free moment teaching me the tricks of the trade. I was quite good at martial arts and not bad at a firing range.

  He eyed the shovel by the door. “Plan to go digging?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “You’re not safe here,” he said. “Alone.”


  “I’m fine, Dad.” I tried not to think about Fiona’s first instinct to search for an intruder when we’d arrived home.

  “What if the killer was after you and not Mick?” my father asked.

  I inhaled sharply. Had he spoken to Summers? They must have met while on the force. Had Summers put that notion in my father’s head? Sure, the murder had happened in my shop. On my patio. But I wasn’t the intended victim. No way. No freaking way. I paid all my bills on time. I followed through on promises. I had ended all of my relationships amicably. Okay, I was not a Girl Scout, but as I had said to the police, I did not have enemies. As far as I knew.

  “Dad, I’m a suspect.”

  “Because the police think Mick was the target, but what if he wasn’t?”

  “Then the killer is dumber than a rock,” I said. “I’m never in the shop past closing.”

  “Do you leave so your fairy can have playtime?” he chided.

  I glowered at him. He didn’t believe in fairies. I wished he would. An ounce of belief might soften the edges.

  “If the killer wanted to get me,” I said, “he or she should have come here.”

  “That’s my point! They very well might,” my father warned. “I’ve spoken with Detective Summers.”

  As I’d suspected. “Did you work together when—”

  “No. He joined after I left. But we’ve played golf on occasion. Good man. Dedicated cop. I’ll get him to back off.”

  Swell. Don’t worry, sweetie. Daddy will handle this.

  “If you come home with me, I can protect you,” my father went on, not reading my body language.

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Until you come to your senses, I’ll have my guy act as your bodyguard.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” His guy, also a former cop, was now the security guard who oversaw the property where my father stored hundreds of thousands of dollars of landscaping equipment. My father petted my cheek. “You’re looking thin.”

  I recoiled. “Dad. Stop. I’m not a little girl.”

  “You’re my little girl.”

  I made a pfft sound.

  He lasered me with a steely gaze. “I’m telling you, this business is trouble.”

  “This business meaning murder?”

  “This business you’re in. The nonsense about seeing fairies. It’s fanciful. Not based in reality. There are people in town who don’t like it one bit. You and your mother—”

  “Stop.” I shot a finger at him. “Do not bring Mom into this. She was the best mother in the world. She was creative. Colorful. She made me four cakes for my birthday every year so I’d have a choice. She”—I battled tears—“believed. She saw. She knew. Why don’t you?”

  “Now, listen, Courtney—”

  “I’m done. I am not going to argue with you.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” He held out a hand, prepared for me to grab it.

  “No, I mean, I’m not going to argue with you, period, Kipling Kelly.”

  He bridled. He hated when I used his full name, the one given to him because Nana—his mother—had loved reading the classics. Like I did. Like he did. We had a few things in common.

  “Fairies are real,” I continued. “My business is not fanciful. And I can handle myself. Alone. I’m staying put. I do not need your security guy, got me? End of discussion.”

  “Stubborn.”

  I grinned. “Darned tootin’.”

  Stubbornness. Now, that was the one thing I had inherited from him.

  Chapter 7

  Oh! Where do fairies hide their heads, when snow lies on the hills, when frost has spoiled their mossy beds, and crystallized their rills?

  —Thomas Haynes Bayly

  To shake off my father’s visit, I took refuge in the greenhouse and finished making my house-themed fairy garden. I added a porcelain kitten, a welcome sign, and a miniature mailbox into which I inserted a light to represent Fiona. Pleased with the result, other than the stand-in fairy for Meaghan, I set my garden in the far eastern corner and spent a half hour taking photographs.

  Around nine p.m., my stomach grumbled. I retreated inside and threw together a simple omelet made with avocados, cheddar cheese, and fresh chives. I’d lied about the salmon to my father; I knew he wouldn’t stay.

  While eating, I reviewed the photos on my cell phone. Overshooting the first in the batch, I caught sight of the evidence photos I’d taken at the crime scene. I paused. Why had Mick carried so many business cards? Why had he come into my shop? Where had the killer found the rope used to strangle him?

  Unable to answer any of the questions, I washed my dishes and crashed into bed.

  * * *

  I slept fitfully and woke Friday morning with a worry headache. I’d suffered them before, but this was worse than the others. The pain felt like a steel band was squeezing my head. Quickly, I chowed down two halves of a homemade English muffin slathered with blueberry jam; for some reason, against all known dietary facts, sugar helped me get rid of these kinds of headaches.

  As I was washing dishes, Officer Rodriguez called and said I was free to open my business. I asked her if I needed official clearance from Detective Summers. She assured me I didn’t. I wanted to ask if I was still a person of interest but refrained. To stave off the lingering worry headache, it was better to assume that I wasn’t a suspect. Hope sprang eternal. Officer Rodriguez said one of her colleagues would drop off the extra set of keys and added that she hoped they hadn’t made too much of a mess. I didn’t care if they had. I was eager to resume my life.

  Before ending the conversation, I asked Rodriguez the one question that had been plaguing me. Had the coroner established a time of death? She hemmed and hawed and finally admitted that Mr. Watkins had died between eleven p.m. and two a.m. Why was it so hard for her to tell me that? Did she think that if I could prove I was online during that time, I was off the hook? Did she hope I was guilty?

  Don’t be silly, Courtney. Rodriguez had no skin in the game. She wanted whoever was guilty to be brought to justice.

  I thanked her and, to shake off the noxious sensation swirling in my stomach, dressed in a buttercup-yellow floral romper, a lightweight yellow sweater, and my favorite clogs. Then I fetched Pixie and headed to work. Fiona caught up to us at the front door and nested on my shoulder. She yawned and stretched.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” I said.

  “Good morning to you. Happy May Day.”

  I stepped outside. “Happy first day of May to—eek!”

  A husky man in jeans and a heavy overcoat was sitting on the rocking chair on my porch, a hat covering his face. He was sound asleep and snoring.

  “Hey!” I stamped my foot.

  The man startled. When the hat slipped off his face, I breathed easier. “Gus!”

  “You know him?” Fiona asked.

  I nodded. Gus was my father’s security guy. Dad had followed through with his threat and sent Gus to protect me. I exhaled with frustration. Honestly?

  “On your feet,” I ordered.

  Gus lumbered to a stand and ducked out of habit. He was enormously tall, so tall that he might have hit his head on the porch ceiling had I not warned him. “Sorry I scared you, Courtney.”

  “No worries, Gus, but you don’t need to be here. I’m fine.”

  “Your father said—”

  “Tell him I’m over twenty-one. I get to make my own decisions.”

  Gus snorted out a laugh. “Uh-uh. You tell him.”

  “For a big man, you sure are a chicken.”

  He cackled like a hen, waggled the shaka sign at me, and hustled down the path to the street.

  As I walked to work with Fiona doing ballerina-style twirls overhead and birds chirping merrily as if they didn’t have a care in the world, I wondered what I was going to do about my father. Ever since I’d left his employ, he’d worried about me. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been concerned when Christopher had dumped me, and h
e’d fretted about me after my mother died because I’d cocooned myself in my bedroom for three months, only coming out for food and school. I needed to cut him some slack. He was a good man. He loved me, and I loved him.

  I called Joss and informed her we were open for business. She hooted with glee and promised to appear before ten.

  As I strolled up to Open Your Imagination, I noticed Emily Watkins standing outside of Wizard of Paws, wagging her finger at Sonja, the shop’s assistant. Emily’s pale skin was washed out next to the beige blouse and neutral trousers and shoes she was wearing. Even her tan Michael Kors tote looked drab. I noticed her hand and forearm were no longer bandaged. Had she made a miraculous recovery, or had the injury been a ruse to make her look incapable of murder?

  “Yes, yes,” Sonja said, bobbing her head. She was a round-faced Danish woman with warm eyes, shaggy hair, and the patience of Job. Often I’d seen her walking a passel of dogs without ever letting an unruly one get the better of her, and I’d seen her handle rude clients without losing her temper. She didn’t need my help managing Emily, whatever the source of their problem.

  I strode into my shop and surveyed the situation. The police had done their best to straighten up, but things were out of order. In the main showroom, all of the display tables that had blocked the path from the patio to the front door had been shoved to one side or the other. On the patio, everything had been rearranged: pots, figurines, and plantings. No stone unturned, I mused. What could they possibly have been looking for amongst the four-inch pots of flowers, seedlings, and succulents? Rope, I concluded. The murder weapon.

  Glancing at the fountain where Mick had lain made my stomach do a flip-flop. I tried to push the memory from my mind, but it was difficult with Fiona zipping from vine to fountain to individual fairy gardens. When I asked what she was doing, she said she was investigating.

  I let her do her thing and toured the rest of the patio. The Yale lock on the cabinet containing soil and macramé plant hangers was loose. I whisked the cabinet open and peeked inside. Everything looked in order. I counted a dozen hangers—the same number as we’d had the day before yesterday. I breathed easier. One hadn’t been used as a murder weapon.