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

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Knowing she’d worried me, Fiona had played a trick to lighten the mood—the syrup. I’d snapped at her. She’d bolted.

  Lauren pressed her face to the top of the planter, probably hoping Fiona would return, and said, “How old were you when you saw your first fairy?” Her words reverberated in the empty pot.

  “Your age.”

  “Was it in the last week of April, like now?”

  “It was the first week in June.” I fingered the short-cropped hair at the nape of my neck as the memory came back to me full force.

  “Was it here in Carmel?”

  “Yes.” I’d lived in Carmel-by-the-Sea all my life, except when I went away to college. How I loved living here. The town was charming and magical and bursting with positive energy.

  Lauren stood up, her eyes wide. “Was it Fiona?”

  “No, sweet pea. Another fairy. Her name was Aurora.” Like my mother, Aurora had a cheery disposition and had loved the color yellow and the aroma of honey.

  “Is Aurora the one who taught you how to make fairy gardens?” Lauren asked.

  “No. I learned from a woman at the Renaissance Fair.”

  My best friend had encouraged me to step outside my comfort zone and attend a Renaissance Fair—in costume. While there, dressed as an enchantress, I had met a fairy garden designer. I was so enraptured with the whimsical creations, I begged the woman to teach me the art. As I learned to design gardens, the woman gave me tips on how to attract fairies. I remembered laughing at the notion. My childhood memories of playing with fairies were fanciful and foolish. And yet. . . how I’d wanted to believe again. Following my mentor’s advice, I had planted a garden of flowers and herbs that would attract butterflies. I set up bird feeders, filled birdbaths with water, and hung crystals from the trees. As a feeling of spiritual wellness rose within me, I had realized I needed to change my life. I gave notice to my father and with a small fund my nana had left me—she had helped my father and me cope with our loss until she passed away at eighty—I had invested in Open Your Imagination.

  Lauren’s forehead pinched with concentration. “What’s a Ren-sen Fair?”

  “Renaissance.” I adjusted the strap of my floral-print garden apron. I’d added an extra pair of pruning shears in one of the multifunctional pockets, and the extra weight was pulling it down. “It’s a fair where—”

  “All right, Lauren. Time to go.” The girl’s mother clapped her hands.

  Startled, Pixie, my creamy white Ragdoll kitten bounded from her perch on one of the wrought-iron chairs and dashed to me. She swiped me with her tail. I bent down and scratched her chin. “You’re okay.” She was nearly six months old. “Don’t be a scaredy cat.”

  Pixie sat on her haunches and squinted, which made the flame markings on her forehead meld together.

  I ran a finger across them. “You’d better get used to noise. There’s going to be a lot of it whenever children visit us. Scoot.” I nudged her, and she scurried off.

  “C’mon, little lady,” Lauren’s mother said. She waggled the white basket in which they’d stowed their fairy garden choices. “Let’s purchase the things we’ve picked out and head home.”

  At Open Your Imagination, I made fairy gardens and taught people how to build them. At the learning-the-craft corner of the patio, an area at the far right of the patio set with a modest-sized rectangular table fitted with benches, a couple of customers who had taken this morning’s instructional class were still working on theirs. In addition to fairy figurines, I sold a variety of items that customers could use to create their own environments—waterwheels, gazebos, and the like. For a bit of whimsy, I’d stocked the main showroom with items for people, too, like tea sets and an assortment of garden knickknacks, macramé hanging plant holders and wind chimes and bells—according to Fiona, fairies loved tinkling sounds. We also carried miniature plants, pots, tool sets, and aprons. Although Open Your Imagination was modest in size, we offered plenty of choices.

  Lauren grabbed my hand. “Come with us, Courtney. I’ll show you the fairy I picked out. She has my name.”

  Many of the miniature fairies, gnomes, or trolls that we sold had a name. If we didn’t stock a particular name, we could special order it. And, honestly, anyone could change a fairy’s name. They weren’t written in stone.

  “She has beautiful brown hair like mine, and a crown of flowers, and she’s sitting like this.” Lauren plopped onto the ground, crossed her legs, and rested her chin on her fist.

  “I know, sweetheart,” I said. “I helped you find her. Remember? Along with the swing set and the slide and the bunnies.” Every fairy garden should have a theme. Lauren wanted hers to be about having fun, day and night.

  Her mother bit back a smile and hoisted her daughter to her feet. “Upsy-daisy.”

  I followed them through the French doors into the shop.

  “Psst.” Joss Timberlake, my elfin clerk and bookkeeper who had a penchant for really colorful shirts, like the short-sleeved fuchsia Hawaiian one she was wearing, beckoned me to the sales counter. “He’s here.”

  “He, who?” I was five feet five inches tall, but I towered over Joss. I had to crouch to hear her.

  “Him.” Joss caressed the ridge of her pointy ear and subtly hooked a thumb toward the front door.

  Mick Watkins, who owned Wizard of Paws, the pet-grooming salon across the courtyard, was standing inside the Dutch door. There were additional businesses in the Cypress and Ivy Courtyard, including an art gallery, a bakery, a jeweler, a high-end clothing shop, and a collectibles store. If Carmel was known for one thing, it was its attractive courtyards and secret passageways. Our courtyard, which was multilevel and located between Lincoln Street and Dolores Street, with Open Your Imagination facing Lincoln, had been designed with a Cape Cod feel, its white clapboard buildings trimmed in baby blue and adorned with lots of plantings. The design was one of the main reasons I’d wanted to lease the property.

  “What do you think he wants?” I asked Joss.

  “Trouble.”

  I didn’t know what I’d do without Joss. I was so thankful that on her fiftieth birthday she’d decided to seek a simpler life and had left her Silicon Valley accounting job. She was a whiz when it came to organizing the stockroom or balancing accounts and a decent person who cared about others, although occasionally, she could make snap decisions about a personality.

  I said, “I’ve got this. Would you ring up this purchase for this sweet girl and her mom while I tend to Mick?”

  “After I finish this sale.” Joss was packing up an eight-inch pot, a small bag of soil, six two-inch containers of miniature plants, and a flute-playing, rose-colored fairy. Small-scale projects were often the first gardens that customers who were new to fairy gardening attempted.

  I tapped Lauren on her freckled nose. “Good luck, young lady. Have fun making your garden, and, when you’re done, encourage your friends to believe.”

  “I will.”

  Slapping on a winning smile, I crossed the parquet floor to greet Mick, a chunky man with a barrel chest, bulldog jowls, and thick brown hair.

  “Hey, Mick.” I jutted a hand. “Nice to see you.”

  Mick grunted, which made me bite back a smile. Over the past year, he had been vocally unhappy that I’d landed this particular lease. He’d hoped to expand across the courtyard, but our landlord had nixed the idea. One grooming establishment was enough, no matter how dog-friendly Carmel was.

  Mick rubbed his jeans as though he were itching to respond to my offer of a handshake. I saw a flicker of light beyond him. Was Fiona toying with him? Had she given up being annoyed with me? Pixie, her whiskers twitching with curiosity, lingered behind Mick, too. She adored Fiona and often played chase with her.

  “Can I help you find something, Mick?” I asked.

  “Nope.” He had a booming voice. I suspected his barrel chest had something to do with its tenor. “I came in to tell you that Logan Langford’s on the warpath. He wants to renege on
my lease.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Ha! A mute has a larger vocabulary. But watch out. Next thing you know, he’ll be coming after you.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.” I wasn’t worried. Our landlord had completely embraced the concept of the shop. He intended to create a fairy garden for each of his eleven grandchildren because he had loved the novel Peter Pan as a child. Seeing as he hadn’t started the first garden, I was pretty certain I could count on a longer lease. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all.” Mick stole to the right wing of the shop and peeked in. Was he looking for someone? Was that really why he’d come in? He checked his watch and, peeved, charged toward the exit.

  The upper half of the Dutch door was ajar, allowing a cool breeze to enter the shop. Carmel was blessed with Mediterranean-style temperatures, although intermittently fog drifted in. Not today. Mick opened the door and closed it with a thwump.

  I returned to the sales counter.

  “Whewie,” Joss said as she wiped the weathered white oak surface with a cloth. “He’s sure not the guy you’d crown Mr. Personality, and here I believed he had a chance. Yesterday when he came in, he was all smiles.”

  “He came in yesterday?”

  “With Petra Pauli.”

  “Councilwoman Pauli?”

  During college, although I’d focused primarily on my landscape architecture degree, taking urban design, site construction, computer applications, and so many chemistry classes I could have become a chemist, I’d also enrolled in a load of history classes. California history, in particular. Over the years, I’d enjoyed reading up on Carmel and knew the sagas of many of the original families. Petra Pauli’s father had been an Olympic pole-vaulter and went on to become a US congressman. Like her father, Petra had excelled at everything—cheerleading, debate team, academics. There wasn’t a blot on her record. It was obvious that she aspired to greater things than simply remaining a councilwoman. My guess? Mayor of our fine town followed by governor of the state.

  “The councilwoman is a piece of work.” Joss brushed the underside of her nose.

  “Yes, she can be a bit snooty.”

  The city council had enacted a number of quirky rules over the years. One of my favorites was not being allowed to wear high heels without a permit. To be fair, that rule was prudent because a person in heels could trip on the cobblestoned walkways in town and suffer a sprained ankle. To make her voice known, Petra had added a few eccentric rules of her own, like banning silly string—that gooey stuff kids like to shoot at one another—in public.

  “You were on an errand when they came in,” Joss went on.

  “How do they know each other?” I asked.

  “Mick grooms Miss Pauli’s collies. Hey, that rhymes. Fiona!” Joss called. “I made a rhyme.” Fairies loved rhymes and all sorts of poetry. “Where is she?”

  “Around.”

  Years ago, Joss had traveled to Ireland on a fairy tour to romp with fairies at dawn. In Kerry, she’d explored woodlands. In Killarney, she’d walked the fairy trail. And in Dublin, she’d visited the leprechaun museum. But it wasn’t until she encountered Fiona that she’d really experienced the magic.

  “Back to Mick,” I said.

  “Supposedly, he wanted to show Miss Pauli the shop.” Joss rolled her big brown eyes. Was she intimating that there was more to their relationship? “FYI, he raved about you and Open Your Imagination. He said we needed more creative thinkers in town.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned.”

  Was Fiona working her magic on Mick? Any fairy, even a young righteous fairy, could influence a person. I searched for her but didn’t see her in the main showroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Pixie on the patio dancing on her hind legs trying to bat a shimmering wisp with her forepaws—Fiona.

  A few minutes later, as I was rearranging fairy-themed greeting cards on the revolving rack, the front door opened again and in strode Mick’s wife, Emily.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “Who?” I slotted the last grouping of cards in a bracket.

  “My husband, who else? I saw him come in here.”

  Prior to today, Emily hadn’t ever spoken to me. I’d tried starting up a conversation or two, but she’d snubbed me each time. She had never deigned to enter Open Your Imagination, either. With her long mane of hair, buckteeth, and flared nostrils, she reminded me of an angry bronco. Even her voice had a nasal quality. I bit back a snicker as I caught my unintentional pun—nasal/neigh-sal. A horse’s whinny echoed in my mind. I blamed my father for my mental lack of decorum. He’d taught me how to pun. Perhaps I should add no more puns to my ways-to-improve-myself list, I mused. The list was getting long, but I could manage one or two more goals.

  Emily sidled toward the left wing of the shop, running her finger along the shelving as she went as if she were inspecting whether we dusted or not. We did. Daily.

  I strode to her, hand extended. “Emily, I’m so pleased to meet you finally. I’m Courtney.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Mick has said nice things about you.”

  “He has?” Her mouth fell open, as though she couldn’t believe it. Self-consciously, she buttoned her beige cardigan and adjusted the hem of the sweater over her tan trousers.

  “Mm-hm,” I murmured. Over the past year, in an effort to tamp down Mick’s displeasure with my scoring the lease on this location, I’d escorted a few dog-owner customers into his shop to promote his business. “On a number of occasions, I’ve heard him tell his clients how good you are with your German shepherd.”

  “Shep.”

  “Yes, Shep.”

  “Is Mick here?”

  “He was, but he left. Did you check Wizard of Paws?”

  “Of course I did. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  No, but you are a tad caustic. I forced a smile. “Do you like tea, Emily? We’re serving high tea on weekends now. Our chef is an expert with muffins and scones, and you’ve simply got to taste the Brie and strawberry tea sandwiches.”

  “I drink coffee.”

  “We serve coffee, too. A variety of blends. Have you seen the porcelain cups we sell? Coffee always tastes better in a beautiful cup, don’t you think?” I gestured to the antique white oak hutch that displayed a host of cups and saucers. The Cape Cod exterior of the building had set the standard for the interior décor. White display tables. White shelving. A stylish splash of blue and slate gray for color. “If you have grandchildren, they might like the miniature red rose set—”

  “No grandchildren. No children.” A pained look crossed her face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  An awkward moment passed between us.

  I broke the silence by saying, “Your dog Shep sure is a beauty. Mick said you’ve trained him to do agility courses. Are you considering putting him in competition?”

  “No. Not at this time. Mick is against it.”

  “Agility training is quite a challenge. You must be very talented.”

  “It’s not hard if the dog is gifted.” She folded her arms and set her jaw. Ice floes could be warmer.

  Realizing I wouldn’t be able to melt this one, I said, “Well, feel free to take a look around. If there’s something I can help you with, let me—”

  “Did he meet her here?” Emily hissed. The venom in her tone took me aback.

  “Meet who... whom?” I stammered. Was it who or whom? English hadn’t been my favorite subject.

  “His lover,” she said. “If he did, I’ll... I’ll...” Emily jammed a fist into her palm. She didn’t have to say kill him. Her eyes said it all.

  Chapter 2

  Hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing, and bless this place.

  —William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  Fiona darted into the shop and fluttered beyond Emily’s shoulder. She threw her skinny arms wide, her young wings flapping like crazy to keep her aloft, and cried, “Trouble alert. Trouble ale
rt. I told you to be worried.”

  Sparklers flashed in her wings. I knew she practiced photokinesis, doing tricks with light like humans did when aiming lasers and such. Was this sparkly-wing thing photokinesis or something new? Would the queen fairy approve or disapprove?

  “Emily Watkins is danger,” Fiona said.

  “I’m on it,” I whispered. “Don’t worry.” Emily couldn’t hear Fiona, but I didn’t want to speak at full volume and have her think I was nuts. “Emily—”

  I reached out. She recoiled. Tears sprang to her eyes. She moaned, covered her mouth, and fled through the front door. It clacked with a vengeance. Did I need to warn Mick? No, I did not. Their marriage wasn’t any of my business. Sure, I was curious to a fault, but I was not marriage counselor material.

  Apparently, Fiona thought I was. She jammed her fists on her hips and stamped her foot in the air.

  What? I mouthed.

  She whizzed to my shoulder, planted her rump down, and folded her arms, which reminded me of a gesture a childhood friend used to make to get her way. I’d invariably caved.

  Fiona sensed my weakness and smirked. “This will be on you if you don’t go after her.”

  I hurried out the door and yelled, “Emily, wait.”

  She pivoted. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “Come back and have a cup of... coffee.” We always had a pot of coffee as well as a pot of hot water at the ready for tea. “We’re serving Kona coffee. It’s delicious. Do you like cream?” I nabbed her elbow. “You’re upset. Let’s talk.” I’d listened to numerous girlfriends spill their guts about boyfriend troubles. Why had I been their go-to person? Because I’d managed to end all my relationships amicably, as friends. I’d wished each and every boy or man I’d dated to go his separate way and live a happy life.

  Okay, that was a lie. I’d cried my eyes out after each breakup, but I’d fooled my friends. After my fiancé called off our wedding, I’d resolved to never be a pushover again. I would say what was on my mind. I would put me first.