An hour ago, according to Joss who had left the shop for a breath of fresh air and a bit of eavesdropping, Rodriguez had questioned Mick’s assistant, Sonja. The minute the inquiry ended, Sonja had closed the shop and gone home ill. She was not a suspect in his murder. She had a solid alibi. She had been with her grandmother at a nursing home. Five nurses had substantiated her every moment. If only a few nurses could attest to my alibi.
Petra saw me lingering and said, “Good morning, Courtney.” She knew my name because I’d spoken up at a council meeting. A few misanthropes had wanted to end funding for the library. I’d opposed them.
“Not so good,” I replied.
The brown-muzzled dog yipped.
“Sit.” Petra tugged on both leashes. The black dog with the white muzzle sat dutifully. The peeved dog shimmied before obeying. Its hair wafted into the air. “Detective, if you will grant me a word. Wizard of Paws is closed. There’s all this police activity. What in heaven’s name is going on?”
Summers filled her in.
Petra didn’t gasp when he revealed Mick Watkins had been murdered, but she fought hard to keep herself in check, which confirmed—at least as far as I was concerned—that she’d been involved with him. Had Mick told Emily he was leaving her for the councilwoman? Being jilted would strengthen Emily’s motive and make mine look as insignificant as it was. Was Emily securing a defense attorney at this very moment to represent her?
“I demand to see where this happened,” Petra said.
Fiona appeared and fluttered next to my ear. “Why does she want to do that? So she can trail dog hair everywhere? Maybe she killed him.”
“No,” I said.
Summers eyed me.
I batted the air to hush Fiona and offered a weak smile to the detective. “I meant, no, she shouldn’t go in because you need to preserve the crime scene.”
Summers suppressed a smile. “Exactly what I was going to say.” He addressed Petra. “I’m sorry, Councilwoman, but I can’t allow that.”
“Surely you can make an exception for me. Mick was a dear friend.” Petra raised her lovely but formidable chin. “I’ll need to report the crime to the city council. If I inspect the crime scene, I’ll be able to attest to the police force’s commitment to solving the crime.”
“Oh, we’re committed. You can bet on that.” The edge in Summers’s voice was unmistakable.
“This is the first murder in how many years, Dylan?” Petra asked.
Summers didn’t respond.
“Courtney, take my dogs.” Petra thrust the dogs’ leashes at me.
Automatically, I took hold of the handles, which matched the dogs’ muzzles. The slip-style nooses pulled tight. I worked to loosen them on both dogs.
Summers shot out his arm, blocking Petra from entering the shop. “I’ll be glad to attend the council meeting and answer questions, ma’am. You may not pass.”
Petra growled under her breath.
“Officer Rodriguez,” Summers called. “Please escort the councilwoman to her car.”
Rodriguez, still dealing with the rowdy onlooker, gave Summers a thumbs-up gesture, acknowledging she’d heard him.
“I don’t need an escort, Dylan.” Petra’s aquiline nose twitched. “I’m perfectly capable of navigating the crowd.”
“I was worried about your high heels on the cobblestones,” Summers noted. “Against the law, you know.”
Petra clicked her tongue purposefully and seized the dogs’ leashes from me. She commanded her dogs to heel. Onlookers cleared a path for her as she marched to a white Mercedes that she’d parked on the opposite side of the street. She threw open the rear door and encouraged the dogs to jump inside. With a final withering glance at Summers, she climbed into the driver’s seat and sped away.
The lanky redheaded officer joined us.
Summers chuckled. “She’s a charmer, don’t you think, Red?”
“She’s a handful, sir,” he replied, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I can’t wait until she runs for mayor. Mud will sling, and heads will fly.”
“Let the fireworks begin,” Red quipped.
Summers scratched the back of his neck. “Now, what were we discussing before we were interrupted, Miss Kelly?”
“Courtney,” I stated. If he continued to use my formal name, I was going to feel as guilty as sin. And I wasn’t, darn it.
A toot of a horn made me turn. Logan Langford hailed Summers as he parked and climbed out of his Lexus. He looked like he’d recently taken a serious meeting: blue power suit, blue tie. “Dylan.”
It wasn’t surprising that Logan, like the councilwoman, was on a first-name basis with the detective. Carmel didn’t have a huge police force. People of import knew people in power.
Summers didn’t budge. He waited for my landlord to join him. As with Petra Pauli, I sensed history between them.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“His father and my father went to school together.” Summers’s jaw was ticking.
Meaning Summers and Logan were contemporaries? That surprised me. The detective looked much younger.
I said, “He owns this courtyard plus three others in Carmel, a couple of bed-and-breakfasts, and two tanning establishments.”
“I know.” Summers clucked his tongue. “In fact, I know just about everything there is to know about the Langfords.”
In the 1920s, Logan Langford’s family had settled in Pacific Grove and, thanks to real estate investments, soon became one of the wealthiest families around. Logan, his three boys, eleven grandchildren, and a couple of nephews were alive. His wife as well as his two siblings had passed away.
Given his long stride, Logan arrived in seconds. “Did I hear right, Dylan? Mick Watkins is dead? Where’s Emily? Does she need anything?” He jerked his head to the right. “Is Wizard of Paws closed?”
“For the day.”
“Man, I can’t believe it. Mick was our age, fifty-something, right?”
“Younger.”
“What did he die of? A heart attack?”
Summers studied Logan, not offering a thing.
Logan narrowed his gaze. “Is there something you’re not telling me? All the police.” He swept the air with his arm. “Was it a natural death? Or an accident? Why is your shop cordoned off, Courtney?”
I turned to Summers to supply the answer.
He broke his silence. “Mr. Watkins was murdered, Logan.”
“Murdered?” Logan’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding. Who did it?”
“Let’s be frank, sir,” Summers said, not calling Logan by his first name. “The scuttlebutt is you had a beef with him about his lease.”
Logan glanced at me.
I raised both hands, palms forward. “I didn’t tell him a thing.”
“His assistant as well as his wife were our sources,” Summers went on. “A few others have heard you exchange words with Mr. Watkins over the past month.”
“Yeah, okay, we argued. People with business arrangements argue.” Logan smoothed the collar of his jacket. “My property. My rules. Mick broke them.”
“Did you kill him?” Summers asked.
Logan glowered. “Being direct has always been your way, Dylan, but that’s not the way to negotiate and get results. Your father knew how it was done. It takes wiles and wheedling. Didn’t he teach you anything?” He snickered.
“Leave my father out of this,” Summers said.
So I was right. Their fathers had more than going-to-school-together history. Logan was implying that Summers’s father wasn’t as aboveboard as his son. What had he done? Try to outbid Langford’s father for a property? Vie for the same woman? Given as much as I knew about most of the families in Carmel, I knew nothing about this saga.
For a long minute, Summers worked his tongue inside his mouth. Then he clasped Logan’s elbow and marched him toward Wizard of Paws, away from me. I watched as Summers talked and Logan listened, his mouth fixed in a thin
, angry line. When Summers concluded, he thumped Logan on the shoulder. Logan jolted but didn’t cede ground.
“I’ll have my attorney contact you,” Logan said loudly, and extended a hand. He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Summers didn’t shake. Tersely, he said, “You do that.”
I breathed easier. Emily and I weren’t the only suspects. Good.
Chapter 5
How dreary a world would be without fairies.
—Anonymous
Jùust after noon, the police asked Joss and me to leave. Wishing we could stay but knowing we couldn’t, I gave her the rest of the day off and then, after handing a duplicate set of shop keys over to the police, packed up Pixie, grabbed my purse, and headed out. I stopped on the sidewalk and glanced wistfully over my shoulder with thoughts running roughshod through my mind in no particular order: how long would the police need to gather evidence; what would they find; would this horrible mess ruin my business?
Last but not least, I thought poor Mick.
Fiona raced after me. “What are you going to do?” she cried. She was so distraught that her wings were working up a sweat. The beads of perspiration glistened in the sunlight. “That detective thinks you’re guilty.”
“He couldn’t possibly,” I said as confidently as I could muster. All my life, I’d toed the line. Summers had to believe I was the epitome of innocence, didn’t he?
“Didn’t you hear him?” She paused midair and folded her arms. “I heard him. You need an attorney.”
“What I need is a witness who saw me at home. The lights were on. Surely someone in the neighborhood caught sight of me.” There were plenty of evening strollers and dog walkers in my neck of the woods. Like me, my neighbors enjoyed drinking in the night air, gazing at the stars, and listening to the surf crash against the sand.
“A witness.” Fiona nestled on my shoulder. “Good idea. Or we could find someone to lie for you.”
“To lie?”
“We could pay someone to say they saw you in your house.”
“No, no, no.” My father would have my head if I lied about something like that, let alone paid somebody to lie. Plus, I was pretty sure the queen fairy would banish Fiona to somewhere hot and ugly if she were to lie on my behalf.
“Courtney!” Meaghan, looking chic in a white angora cape and sweater dress, ducked past a female officer who was allowing customers to access other shops in the courtyard via a cordoned-off passageway. Meaghan grabbed me in a hug. Her cape tickled my chin. Pixie squirmed in my arms. Meaghan pulled back and scrubbed Pixie’s chin. “I can’t believe it,” she said to me. “Mick Watkins is dead? Murdered? It’s the talk of the courtyard. The talk of the town. I heard you’re a suspect.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course you didn’t. No one in his or her right mind would believe that.” She petted my arm. “How are you feeling?”
“In need of a brownie.”
“I’m fresh out, but let me take you to Hideaway Café. It’s under new ownership, did you hear? The prior owners retired to Florida. The current one has done a major renovation. I have yet to try it out. We’ll get some tea, and hopefully they’re still serving those caramel blondies they were famous for. I can’t imagine they didn’t keep those on the menu.”
Driven by nervous energy, she was speaking a mile a minute, hands circling in the air. I got it. She was worried for me. So was I.
“We’ll sit on the patio,” she said, “and you can fill me in on everything.” She jogged to the red-haired officer, said something, and waited for him to allow us to pass beyond his cordoned-off area.
Onlookers shouted questions at me as Meaghan and I strode across Lincoln Street. I didn’t respond. Upset by the din, Pixie squirreled into my arms and buried her head in my armpit. I cooed sweet nothings to her. Good girl. Sweet girl. Fiona was still on my shoulder. She didn’t say a word, but she was drumming her fingertips steadily as if preparing to audition for a rock band. Was she trying to come up with the name of someone she could find to lie for me?
Not happening.
As we neared Hideaway Café, I was struck by how lovely it had become. Like the other buildings in the Village Shops, it boasted a striking dark red wood and stone façade, but the owner had added bowers of flowers and a beautiful English garden. A half dozen small white iron tables and chairs decorated the entry patio. We stepped down the stairs into the café and waited by the hostess station. Exquisite photographs of Carmel hung on the walls. I peeked into the dining room. Warm-glowing resin candleholders decorated each white tablecloth. The strains of jazz guitar music filtered through a speaker system. The chatter of the patrons was low and comforting.
“Nice,” Meaghan said. “I like it.”
“Me too.”
“May I help you?” a gentleman asked from behind.
I turned and grinned. “Well, I’ll be. Brady Cash.”
“Courtney Kelly.”
I hadn’t seen Brady in years, but he looked the same. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. His skin was weathered in an athletic way. Back in the day, he’d played a mean game of basketball; we’d shot hoops often.
Brady petted Pixie on the head. “Hey, fella.”
“This is Pixie,” I said. “A girl.”
“My mistake.” Brady tickled Pixie’s chin. “Hi, pretty lady.”
Meaghan regarded me. “You two know each other?”
“Brady and I went to high school together. He was a senior when I was a freshman.” I used my hand to make the introduction. “Brady, this is Meaghan Brownie.”
Shamelessly, Meaghan gave him a once-over, appreciating his brawny looks. “I like the Pendleton shirt. You look like you’d be handy with an ax.” Meaghan wasn’t flirting. She was madly in love with a very talented, albeit temperamental, artist.
“I’m not bad with a saw, either, although hammers and I aren’t friends,” Brady joked. “I can’t seem to miss my thumb. I’m better in the kitchen.”
Fiona giggled.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Brady.
“After college, I became a chef.” During high school, Brady had worked at his father’s restaurant, the Cash Cow, located in Monterey, bussing tables and washing dishes. “Now, I own this joint.”
“It’s hardly a joint,” I said. “In fact, it’s enchanting.”
“We serve burgers, so it’s a joint.” When he smiled, I remembered how appealing that deep dimple in his right cheek could be. “Though I’ll admit they’re gourmet burgers.”
“I’ll try one sometime,” I said. “But right now, we’re interested in a pot of Earl Grey tea and something sweet. Any tables available on the rear patio?”
“I’ve got one with your name on it.” Brady grabbed two leather-bound menus and escorted us through the café. “You haven’t changed a bit, by the way.”
“Sure I have. I’m much, much older.”
“You’ve got the same lovely face and curious nature.” He hitched a thumb. “I saw you eyeing the photographs in the entry.”
“Are they yours?”
“Mm-hm.”
I said to Meaghan, “Brady and I were in photography club at school. That’s how we met.”
“I bet that was a pretty picture,” Meaghan said sotto voce.
We stepped through a door and entered the rear patio, which was much larger than the front patio and teeming with flowers and vines. Strings of lights arced across the expanse.
“Here we are.” Brady motioned to a white iron table with four chairs.
I sat in one and set Pixie on my lap. Birds chirping in the arbors caught her attention. She turned her head at every sound. Fiona flew to the branch of a vine. Flickers of light emanated from her. Was she practicing magic? Would the queen fairy need to rein her in? How would that work, exactly? Would the queen fairy send a minion to exact justice or would she appear herself?
“So, Brady”—Meaghan propped an elbow on the table and perched her chin on top—“if
you get a lull in the action, why don’t you join us so you and Courtney can catch up? How long has it been since you two chatted?” She wagged a finger between us.
“Years,” I said. “He went off to Cal Poly—”
“I wasn’t good enough to go to Berkeley, like Courtney,” he replied.
“How did you know I went to Cal?”
“Your father is a regular at the Cash Cow. He and my dad talk. I happen to know you own the shop across the street, and you make fairy gardens.”
“And yet you haven’t come in?” I asked.
“I’ve been busy getting this baby off the ground.” His eyes sparkled with charm. “How about I commission you to make a fairy garden for Hideaway Café?”
“Better yet,” Meaghan said, “how about she teaches you? A one-on-one lesson.”
“Sounds good.” Brady smacked his thigh. “Whoa. Wait a sec. I’m as dense as fog. Something went down at Open Your Imagination this morning, didn’t it? What’s with all the police?”
“Mick Watkins—” His name caught in my throat. “Mick owned Wizard of Paws. He died inside my shop late last night.”
“Aw, heck. What happened?”
I told him briefly.
Brady swept a thatch of hair off his forehead. “Wow. I knew Mick. Not well. He came in here a few times. With his dog. Have you met Shep? A real beauty.” He gazed at me with concern. “Do the police have any suspects? Any leads? How are you holding up?”
“I’m managing. Tea will help.”
“Whatever you want is on me.” Brady aimed a finger at my opened menu. “My favorite sweet treat is the caramel blondie.”
Meaghan thumped the table. “Hooray! You kept them. A man after my own heart. I could kiss you.”
“Ahem”—I cleared my throat—“don’t let your boyfriend hear you say that.”
“Pooh.” Meaghan swatted the air.
“Speaking of boyfriends,” Brady said, “did you and Chris get married? I don’t see a ring on your hand.”
Christopher Cox and I had met in high school right after he and his family relocated to Carmel. All four years, we were joined at the hip. When we went to college—he to Stanford and I to Berkeley—we remained faithful. After we graduated, we became engaged. And then, the day after we had a co-ed bridal shower, Chris had announced he didn’t want to be married. Ever.
A Sprinkling of Murder (A Fairy Garden Mystery Book 1) Page 6
