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

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Come on, Emily. Please.”

  “No.” She jerked free. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.” She hugged her cardigan and scurried away.

  At the same time, our landlord Logan Langford swung his long legs out of his Lexus SUV. As he was getting out, he ducked, luckily missing the upper rim of the doorframe. It could have scraped skin from beneath his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He stood to his full height and, with his chest puffed and chin jutting forward, marched toward me. Dressed in his usual tight black T-shirt and black jeans, he reminded me of a fighter eager for a brawl. I’d often wondered whether he’d been a boxer back in the day. His nose was slightly crooked.

  Recalling what Mick had said about Logan’s being on the warpath, I cringed. Did he truly want to renege on my lease? He didn’t have any legal ground. Could he do so anyway? I couldn’t afford to pick up and move. Finding another space this size in Carmel would be nearly impossible. If I had to, I would make sure he knew of Fiona’s existence to drive home his love of Peter Pan.

  “Where’s Mick Watkins?” Logan growled.

  Phew. He wasn’t after me. On the other hand, I felt obligated to defend my fellow tenant. “Beats me, but you’d better get in line. You’re not the only one looking for him. His wife has first dibs. What’s the problem?”

  Logan arched a bushy eyebrow. “I’m throwing him out. Lock, stock, and barrel. Too many complaints. Too much noise. ”

  I’d never heard more than a few barks coming from inside Wizard of Paws. Everything was indoors, including the air-conditioned doggie play yard.

  “Do you want to take over his lease?” Logan asked. “You could expand your business.”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine with the size of the business right now.”

  I would never admit to him—or to my father—that at times I felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. I was paying bills and wasn’t in debt, but being a storeowner wasn’t for the faint of heart. Dealing with customers. Balancing books. Arguing with suppliers. Thinking of my father made me wonder how he was doing. He had been upset when I’d gone out on my own... to make fairy gardens, no less. Fanciful, he’d said. Impractical. We talked often, but rarely at length, and not in the past few weeks.

  A car honked. Mick and his gorgeous German shepherd, who were crossing the street, reared back and let a two-door coupe pass. Then they jaywalked toward us. Mick was carrying a to-go cup of something from Hideaway Café, the sole restaurant in the Village Shops across the street.

  I waved. “Hey, Mick, Emily’s looking for you. She came into my shop to find you, but you’d gone. She went that way.” I pointed to the far end of the courtyard.

  “I’ll call her. Thanks.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Petra Pauli, the councilwoman, leaving Hideaway Café. Coincidence? Or had she and Mick met for a tryst, as Joss had hinted? Was Emily right to be concerned that her husband was having an affair?

  Not your business, I reminded myself.

  Logan strode toward Mick, cutting him off before he could enter Wizard of Paws. “We need to talk.”

  “Why?” Mick gave Shep a hand cue. The dog sat straight, with his body over his hips.

  “You’re a nuisance.”

  “Says who?”

  “The place is shabby.”

  What was Logan talking about? Mick had recently painted Wizard of Paws inside and out. There wasn’t a nick or a scratch to be found. Even the front door with its etched glass panel was pristine. Not one smudge mark.

  Logan wrinkled his nose. “The plants look withered.”

  “I do my best,” Mick countered. “I change them out every six months.”

  Mick was telling the truth. He’d set out artificial turf pads so owners could curb their dogs before harming the plants. Some owners simply wouldn’t comply. Even so, the Pretty in Pink azaleas were young shrubs and the flowers that were in bloom looked wonderful against the building.

  A gaunt middle-aged woman, talking on a cell phone, strutted out of Wizard of Paws and cut around Mick. The screen door closed with a bang. “Out of my way,” she demanded.

  “Sure thing.” Mick edged to the right and rolled his eyes. I understood the gesture. The woman wasn’t his favorite patron.

  Passing me, the woman raised her nose haughtily as if I smelled. Why? What had I done? She paraded across the street and turned back. I shuddered. If looks could kill.

  “Neighbors are complaining.” Logan continued his rant. “There’s dog hair everywhere. I hate dog hair.”

  “Which neighbors?” Mick glowered at me. “You?”

  “Uh-uh.” I swatted the air. “Not me.” I hadn’t carped about anything. “I like animals. All animals.”

  “Not her. Other neighbors,” Logan said. Until now, I’d never noticed what a grating voice he had. “I want you out, Mick.”

  “Listen up, Logan, you got a complaint”—Mick aimed a finger at him—“talk to my lawyer. My lease is ironclad.” He gave a tug to the leash, and Shep obediently followed him.

  With a huff, Logan turned on his heel and stomped away.

  In a moment of comically bad timing, as Mick reached for the screen door of his shop, the main door swung inward. The dark-haired man who was leaving pushed the screen door, which bumped into Mick. Shep scuttled backward and barked.

  The man—Gregory Darvell, a renowned dog trainer—hurried outside and knelt on one knee. He put his hand under Shep’s chin to let him sniff and then gently shifted his hand to the back of Shep’s ears and started to pet him. “It’s okay, fella. I didn’t mean to spook you.” Gregory said to Mick, “Sorry, man. You okay?”

  “I’m fine, but you’ve got to slow down. You’re always in a hurry.”

  Gregory chuckled and rubbed his neck. “Got to stay on schedule.” He was a charmer with cobalt-blue eyes, thick dark eyelashes, and a dazzling smile. As a younger man, he’d probably broken a few hearts.

  “No wonder you haven’t won awards in a while,” Mick said. “Your dogs are probably picking up on your tension. Chill.”

  Gregory bridled. “I am chill.” But he wasn’t. Even from this distance, I could see his cheek twitching. During his thirties, he’d won every dog contest in which he’d shown a dog. In his forties, he’d continued to dominate. I didn’t know how he was doing in his fifties. I’d been too busy to watch the most recently televised dog show. Maybe the gild was off the lily.

  He rose to his feet, standing a good six inches taller than Mick, and loosened his neck muscles with a quick rotation. “I dropped off Holly Hopewell’s poms.” Pomeranians. I understood the shorthand. Plus, Mrs. Hopewell owned the house I was leasing. Gregory showed the youngest Pomeranian in competitions. “Be good to them,” he added icily.

  “Always.” Mick offered a wink and disappeared inside.

  Feeling a bit tense, I strode into Open Your Imagination and retreated to the office. I needed a moment to chill, too. Angry energy seemed to be everywhere. Was a storm brewing? I thought of Fiona’s warning and shivered.

  As I was sifting through papers on my desk, Fiona appeared and hovered over my shoulder.

  “Well?” she asked. “How did it go with Emily?”

  I sighed and plopped onto the cream and blue Luisa settee, a piece of furniture I’d inherited from Nana. I rested my head against the wood rim. “She left in a tizzy. Seconds later our landlord showed up and had a row with Mick.”

  “I know. I watched you through the window. Why was Logan so upset?” she asked.

  I gave her the details, adding that Mick had then argued with the dog trainer, and a woman I didn’t even know had nearly accosted me. “But don’t worry. Everything’s copacetic.” Copacetic had been one of my mother’s favorite words, meaning everything was in order—no worries.

  “Why don’t I believe you?” Fiona asked.

  The door to the office swung open.

  “Hello, girlfriend,” Meaghan Brownie crooned as she swept inside. Meaghan, my best friend and the ha
rpist who played at our teas, was the person who had suggested I attend the Renaissance Fair. When I decided to start my own business, she was also the one who had alerted me to this shop’s space being available for lease. She knew because, in addition to being a harpist, she was half-owner of Flair Gallery, located at the Dolores Street entrance to the courtyard.

  “I need to discuss the song list for the book club tea,” she said. “Is now a good time?” She sashayed behind the settee and kissed me on the top of my head, towering over me the way I towered over Joss. Her curly brown tresses graced her shoulders in stark contrast to the flowing white lace dress she was wearing. She didn’t like anything clinging to her body. She said it interfered with her chakras. “I thought I’d start with—” She waggled a finger at my face. “Hmm. Now is not a good time. What is crinkling that pretty forehead of yours?”

  “First Emily, then Logan and Mick, and...” I moaned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’re all hopped up and angry at one another. They’re radiating bad energy.” I laid a hand on my stomach. “It’s got me wound as tightly as a top.”

  “Breathe.” Meaghan perched on the settee’s arm and inhaled deeply, encouraging me to do the same. We’d met in our sophomore year in college when we’d lived next door to each other in the dormitory. She had been drawn to spirituality and mythology; I had been interested in horticulture and facts. Opposites attracted. When she visited me one summer in Carmel, she fell in love with the place, gave up her pursuit of becoming a professor, and decided to devote herself to art and beauty. “Breathe,” she repeated.

  I obeyed. In a minute, I felt calmer.

  “Is Fiona here?” Meaghan scanned the room. To my surprise, as spiritually attuned as my pal was, she had yet to see my fairy.

  My mother would say it was one thing not to believe in fairies when you’re in the city, and the lights and bustle take you away from believing, but when you’re near the ocean, you can feel and hear them. You need to have the innocent heart of a child to believe. I wasn’t sure what was holding Meaghan back.

  “Yes, Fiona’s here,” I said, “and she’s giving me guff.”

  “Good. Someone needs to keep you in line.”

  Fiona tittered.

  Swell. Two against one.

  “What is she giving you guff about?”

  “She’s worried about me. She has a feeling.”

  “I might not be able to see her, but I agree with her. I’ve been getting some weird vibes lately. Let’s chat over a brownie.” Meaghan reached into her snow-white crocheted backpack and pulled out a plate wrapped in foil. Given her surname, Brownie, she had felt compelled to learn how to make good brownies. Over the years, I’d tasted several dozen varieties: coffee brownies, chocolate brownies, mint brownies. Today she had brought peanut butter brownies—my favorite.

  “Eat. Savor. Then talk to me.” She unwrapped the goodies, set the plate on the oval glass table in front of the settee, and, after taking a brownie for herself, sat in the royal-blue Queen Anne chair facing me.

  The light cutting through the window cast a glow on her face. Not the heavenly kind that might calm me. Something quite sinister.

  Worry slithered down my spine. I scrambled to my feet and fetched a cup of tea. I always kept a pot of Earl Grey at the ready on a warming tray. I took a sip, but it didn’t calm me. I told Meaghan about Fiona’s prediction. “What if she’s right? Could something dire be about to happen?”

  “If so, you face it head on.” Meaghan knew how to rebound after a challenge. “Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. I think Nelson Mandela said that.”

  “I’ll cross-stitch that on a pillow,” I quipped.

  “You should.”

  “If I knew how to cross-stitch.”

  I put aside my worry and concentrated on the song list. We settled on a few favorites including “Clair de Lune,” “The Fairy Lullaby,” and “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” Meaghan wanted to try out a few Celtic tunes, as well, and of course “Greensleeves” was a given. How could I say no? She would play for forty-five minutes, and then the book club discussion would begin.

  “Okay.” Meaghan jumped to her feet. “Mission accomplished. I’m out of here. Feeling better?”

  “At peace.”

  “Good.” She blew me a kiss. “Share the brownies with your customers and then go home and get a decent sleep.” She turned in a circle. “And tell Fiona, if she’s real, not to do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Aha. The truth will out. My pal was a nonbeliever. One had to believe in fairies to see them.

  Later, as I was closing up shop, Fiona announced that she was going to a seminar. When I questioned her, asking whether attending a seminar might violate the guidelines of her probation, she said that although she was barred from socializing with other fairies, she was allowed to learn from a fairy mentor in an off-the-record setting.

  “So you can see other fairies,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  She added that fairies with different abilities often attended tutorials to learn how their counterparts operated. While all fairies could work with light, like Fiona, and most could manipulate chlorokinesis—making plants grow—some possessed the talent for telepathy, and a few had the ability to illusion cast, meaning they could make things seem more beautiful.

  When I asked Fiona what she would be studying, she held a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret.”

  “Nothing that will make the queen fairy mad, I hope.”

  “It involves books. She’s in favor of books. All fairies are.”

  Just before six p.m., I nabbed Pixie and headed home. Joss would close up. I didn’t need to drive to work. Carmel was a small community. A twenty-minute stroll was all it took to get to the one-bedroom cottage named Dream-by-the-Sea that I rented on Carmelo Street. Many of the homes in Carmel had been given names; it was a quaint tradition. A student of Ansel Adams’s had built mine. He had loved the way sunlight graced the property.

  I’d lucked out landing the place. Mrs. Hopewell owned five houses in Carmel, her own plus four others. A talented artist, she had taught my mother how to paint. During that time, she had grown quite fond of my mother and me. When Mrs. Hopewell was laid up with pneumonia a few years ago, I’d visited her often. She had mentioned Dream-by-the-Sea and said she had let it go to seed. She had described it in great detail. The English garden was overgrown, the flagstone walkways were covered with moss, and the clematis vines were climbing up the white-stone walls and choking the triple-edged moldings. No one wanted to rent it and deal with the mold and mildew. Would I like to take care of it? Would I? Yes. I promised her that I would fix it up to become the jewel it was intended to be. She rented it to me for a song.

  As a gardener, I understood the property’s potential. As an amateur photographer, I adored the light streaming through the trees. As a Carmelian... or was it Carmelite? Hmm. The latter was a religious order or type of nun. What did we call ourselves? It didn’t matter. As a native of Carmel, I appreciated the history of this particular cottage. Ansel Adams was one of my heroes; his student had been nearly as talented.

  When I first moved in, I tackled the front garden, trimming the geraniums and lavender to within an inch of their lives. The larkspur had been tricky, but it had grown back after a decent thinning. The catmint, although a dry weather plant, was rampant. How I loved the aroma. In addition, I planted more delphiniums and blue-themed plants to go with the cottage’s periwinkle blue front door. I also decorated the front porch with a verdigris plant stand set with a variety of herbs, and I hung a few wind chimes—like fairies, I loved the sound of chimes and bells—plus I added a weather-resistant mission slat rocking chair. On occasion, I sat in it and watched neighbors pass by. I hadn’t tackled the backyard yet, though I had trimmed all of the plants that were touching the patio and had cleaned away the moss and algae. It was a work in progress. So far, I’d set out three fairy gardens. I wanted to
place one in every nook and cranny to create places where Fiona and her friends, when the queen fairy allowed her to have some, could gather. Not all fairies lived in gardens. Some built their nesting spots in trees and vines.

  Tonight, however, I wasn’t in the mood to tinker with the front or rear garden, not with the fog creeping in and not with all I had to do. Neither was I in the mood to blog about fairy gardens, which I did at least twice a week. Instead, I focused on the series of how-to videos that I intended to air on YouTube. I believed that if I could virally engage a larger audience, I might grow the business. At some point, I could even offer online workshops. But I had yet to make my first video.

  After feeding Pixie and eating a cup of homemade minestrone—I’d made a pot a few days ago that would last me a week—I sauntered into the living room to flesh out my ideas for the first video. I wanted to demonstrate, step-by-step, how to make a modest fairy garden.

  I moved around the room reciting what I wanted to say and imagining the items I would need: soil, succulents, ferns, maybe a miniature white gazebo and picket fence. I would add one of my favorite fairies, the kneeling girl with pink-painted wings and an angelic face. I didn’t want the presentation to be difficult beyond belief, but I wanted the fairy gardener to feel challenged.

  Pixie, intrigued by the fact that I wasn’t lazing in the reading chair drinking in one of the many books in my to-be-read pile, leaped from footstool to footstool to take in my spiel.

  Rounding the ocean-blue love seat, I pondered whether I would need to hire a professional photographer when I was ready to go. A steady video camera wouldn’t allow me to do close-ups, which my viewers would probably appreciate.

  Making a mental note to explore that option, I settled at the antique desk beside the window and jotted down my script and a video setup to-do list, after which I networked on my laptop computer with a few other fairy garden builders in the Fairy Garden Girls Dig It chat room. We were a welcoming community and often discussed our designs.

  Around two a.m., realizing I’d lost track of time, I exited the chat, slogged to the bathroom, did my ablutions, and wriggled into my footed cat-themed pajamas. Carmel could get cold at night.