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

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Hallo-o-o,” Joss crooned.

  “On the patio,” I shouted.

  I met her at the French doors. She hugged me with sumo wrestler-worthy strength. Oof. For a teensy person, she sure was strong.

  When she released me, I moved inside to the sales counter.

  “How are you doing?” she asked, trailing me.

  “Fine, given the circumstances.”

  “Look what I brought.” She waved a ream of paper.

  “What is it?”

  “A printout of your online chat.”

  I took hold of it. “How did you—”

  “My tech friend tracked down the conversation and transcribed it.”

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  “He can.” She grinned. “I can’t.”

  I high-fived her. “You’re a genius.”

  “I’m not sure it proves much,” she said. “We’ll have to see what Detective Summers thinks.”

  I sighed. “Supposedly his techs are reviewing everything.”

  Joss snorted. “Supposedly. That’s why we needed a hard copy. Your lawyer—”

  “If I need a lawyer.”

  “Your lawyer will want to see it. In the meantime, you need sustenance. I picked up some lemon muffins from Sweet Treats.” She unbuttoned the top button of her Jackson Pollock splatter blouse. “Is it warm in here or am I hot-flashing?”

  “It’s actually quite cool.” The temperature outside was hovering in the sixties.

  “Then I need water and a wardrobe change. Good thing I like to layer.” She removed her blouse, revealing a T-shirt that read: If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales.

  Fiona flitted to Joss, who held out a finger. Fiona alit on it. “Good morning,” Joss said.

  “May the day come up to greet you,” Fiona replied and flew off.

  At the sales counter, I fanned through the printout and reviewed the exchange. Yes, it was the right one. We’d discussed my video as well as promotional ideas. The discussion spanned the course of three hours, but there were gaps when I’d left my chair and had focused on my video script and hadn’t engaged with my online counterparts. Uh-oh.

  “What’s wrong?” Fiona appeared over my shoulder.

  “Nothing.”

  “You gulped.”

  Joss opened the Sweet Treats bag, fished out a muffin, and offered it to me. “So what do you think?”

  I set the muffin to one side. “I’m certain the printout will help.”

  “You do? Swell.” Smiling, Joss picked up a feather duster and set off across the shop. She liked to start at the far end. Routine, she said, mattered.

  “Liar,” Fiona said to me, sotto voce.

  I shot her the stink eye, knowing she was right. I had lied. Given the holes in time, I didn’t think the printout would sway a jury, let alone the police. I set the printout aside, trying to decide whether or not to give the account to the police. Maybe I wouldn’t have to. Perhaps they’d already arrested a suspect. On the other hand, Emily was free, and she was at the top of my list.

  “Did you discover anything new during your, um, investigation?” I asked Fiona.

  “Don’t make fun. I’m quite meticulous. All fairies are.”

  “And?” I asked leadingly.

  “The police picked up every scrap of pet hair and straw. The floor is spotless.”

  “Well, at least they got that done properly,” I said. “Tidying up the rest will take a wee bit of time.”

  Fiona scratched the side of her pretty face. “The straw puzzles me.”

  “Mick must have tracked it in.”

  After unhinging the upper portion of the Dutch door to let in fresh air, I stepped outside and moved the trio of wrought-iron tables and the accompanying chairs into position. Passersby using the sidewalk had no trouble navigating around the tables; they were nestled in a slight recess. We didn’t serve tea there, but we allowed customers to sit a spell and take in the view across the street of the Village Shops and the Vista Inn, which consisted of a dozen cottages.

  I noted the redwood planters in front of the shop needed tending soon. Weeds were overrunning the pansies and basil. A good first impression was vital to encouraging new customers to enter the shop. I made a mental note, and then I tested the soil’s moisture with my finger. Fine for now.

  “How are you doing?” Joss asked as I returned inside. She’d stowed the feather duster and was waving a lotus-shadowed hand fan.

  “You asked me that already.”

  “Yes, I know. Hot-flashing makes me repeat myself. But let’s talk. Frankly. The police don’t really think you’re guilty, do they? They can’t, of course. You’re you. And they allowed you back in the shop, so that’s got to count for something, right? But do they?” Her questions came in rapid succession. She didn’t allow me to reply to any of them.

  When she drew in a big slurp of air, intending to continue her cross-examination, I gripped her shoulders. “Breathe. Please. I need you to remain calm so I can be calm. No more questions. I have no answers.”

  “Okay.”

  “The police will do their duty,” I went on. “They will find the killer, who is not me, and all will be right with the world.”

  “Is that what Fiona believes?” Joss scanned the room. “Where did she go?”

  “Out there.” I pointed to the patio. Pixie was on her hind legs doing a jig. Fiona was overhead doing cartwheels. “Listen, we have a lot to do today. We’ll have to work on enhancing our public relations, given the fact that a death—a murder—occurred here. We’re bound to get some blowback. We need people to know Open Your Imagination is a safe haven. I’m thinking that instead of charging for our upcoming seminars, we should offer free ones.”

  Joss said, “We could have a raffle for one lucky winner to pick a figurine of his or her choice, too.”

  “Great idea.” I patted her on the shoulder. “Come up with more like those. Put on your thinking cap.”

  “Will do.”

  “Excuse me.” A woman called from outside.

  I turned and spied an attractive female with almond-shaped eyes and mocha-colored skin. Raven-black hair framed her face, and her exquisite silk dress hugged her lithe frame. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  “May I speak with Courtney Kelly?” she asked.

  “I’m Courtney.”

  She pushed the Dutch door open, stepped inside, and offered me her business card. “I’m Ulani Kamaka, a reporter for The Carmel Pine Cone.”

  A reporter. Uh-oh. What did she want?

  “I’d like to do a story on your business.”

  Since 1915, the newspaper had been a superb source for news. I particularly liked the reader’s picks for the best local shops, restaurants, wineries, and more.

  “We think it will be of great interest to our following,” Ms. Kamaka added.

  I narrowed my gaze, suddenly realizing where I’d seen her. “You’re the woman who was trying to get information out of the police officer yesterday.”

  Ms. Kamaka stood taller but had the decency to blush. “You’ve caught me out.”

  “He shut you down.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  I jutted a hip. “So why shouldn’t I?”

  Ms. Kamaka worked her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

  “Be honest, Ms. Kamaka—”

  “Call me Ulani.”

  I cut her off with a hand gesture. “What you’re really after is the story about the murder.”

  “No.” She hesitated. “I mean, yes, of course, but I really want to write a story about your business, too.” She peeked past me. “I heard there is a fairy living here. Is it true? A real fairy?”

  Judging by her eager gaze, she wanted to believe. I wouldn’t deny her from having that moment.

  “Follow me.” I curled a finger. “I’ve got work to do. The police left this place in disarray. We can chat while I get caught up.”

  Ulani lingered in the main sh
owroom, eyeing the tea sets and other gift items. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and snapped a few pictures. “Is it okay if I document?” she asked after the fact.

  “Be my guest.” I’d bet she was hoping to capture the image of my fairy on film. She wouldn’t be able to. Like the Cheshire Cat, Fiona morphed from view whenever a camera was around. She told me no fairies allowed photographs of themselves, although they would pose for an artist. That was why there were so many depictions of them over the ages. Fairies had a smidgen of vanity. “Joss, is the water hot for tea?” I asked.

  “Sure is, boss.”

  “Ulani, fetch yourself a cup of tea from the tea cart. We have a variety of choices in the caddy. Then have a seat at one of the tables outside.”

  As she ambled to the two-tiered cart and studied the tea selections, I strode to the patio. Dealing with the rearrangement of the plants was foremost on my list. I set the four-inch pots to the left and the two-inch seedlings to the right. Using a moist rag, I wiped up the bits of handmade potting soil—a mixture of peat, moss, bark, perlite, and not too much sand or the soil would be too porous—and dumped whatever I gathered into a trough at the far corner of the patio. Waste not, want not, my father would say. How many axioms had he recited over the years? My mother and Nana had liked spouting them, too. I’d been a sponge and recalled them all.

  Ulani joined me on the patio and set her teacup on one of the tables, but she didn’t sit. Slowly, deliberately, she perused the area. She must have gleaned from someone that Mick had died in this area. She took photographs but was careful not to take too many of the fountain lest she give herself away.

  I allowed it. There was nothing to see—no blood, no body outline. At least the police had cleaned that up completely.

  Next, I moved to the shelving holding the fairy garden environmental pieces: a variety of houses, porch swings, water features, trees, and boulders. So many choices. Was it only two days ago that young Lauren had selected her brown-haired fairy with the crown of flowers? She’d begged her mother for a porcelain mushroom and a butterfly. Her mother had drawn the line after the swing set and bunnies.

  Ulani stopped in front of the shelves featuring individual fairies. “These are beautiful. May I touch?”

  I’d hung a few signs around the garden. Most were inspirational like: Take home a garden and open your world to the unbelievable, or Imagine. Create. Believe. One sign was necessary to keep younger customers at bay: You break it; you own it. Parents understood that sign instantly.

  “Of course.” I figured she’d be careful.

  Ulani lifted a peach-colored flower fairy with cascading ebony hair, the petals of her flower turned upside down to form her skirt. “You put these in gardens?”

  “Yes. Look around the patio. You’ll see a few gardens that aren’t for sale. I made them for inspiration.”

  Ulani returned the fairy figurine to her spot on the shelf and toured the patio.

  “Some people collect the fairies and hang them like ornaments,” I said.

  “Tell me about real fairies.” Ulani’s lips parted ever so slightly. She wasn’t mocking me.

  “Fairies—real fairies—like to visit gardens. They are nurturers of the earth.”

  “Hm-mm,” Ulani murmured as she inspected other figurines. “How big are they?”

  “Fairies come in all sizes. Large and small, male and female. Sometimes they’ll surprise you and take human form.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  I grinned. “You can never be sure when a needy person might be a fairy in disguise.”

  “Ah, you mean like in the movie Beauty and the Beast, when the witch came to the castle and the prince shunned her.”

  “Yes, you understand. A beggar woman or a gypsy could be a fairy. My mother advised me to be kind to all.”

  Ulani lifted a one-inch-tall squirrel carrying a stack of books. “How cute is this.”

  “When making a fairy garden, it’s fun to include creatures that enhance the world,” I said. “For example, that particular squirrel would be good in a garden dedicated to reading.”

  She replaced the squirrel and eyed me, her mouth quirking up on one side. “What got you into this line of business?” She pressed the recording app on her cell phone. “Is it okay if I...” She jiggled her phone. Where was the fancy one she’d used on the policeman yesterday? Tucked away so as not to intimidate me?

  “It’s fine.” I sidled past her and reset the squirrel in profile, which was the best way to view the little guy. “My mother planted whimsical gardens. I liked hanging out in them.”

  “When did you see your first fairy?” She eyed me warily.

  “When I was a girl.” I felt a stir in the air and looked around. Fiona wasn’t in sight. I shook off the sensation and continued. “But then I lost the ability. Until a year ago.”

  “What changed?”

  I explained, as I had to Lauren, that I’d opened my mind to possibilities. “To see a fairy, one has to... believe.”

  Ulani clicked off the recording app and resumed touring the patio, checking out every pot and figurine. Aloud, she admired the twinkling lights in the vines and the variety of plants. She gushed over the Alice in Wonderland fairy garden pot. It consisted of three pots, one set atop the other, each looking ready to topple. The Queen of Hearts was chasing Alice down a deep furrow of baby tears.

  “‘Off with her head,’” Ulani recited and chuckled. “I loved reading about Alice.”

  “Me too.”

  Finally, Ulani alit at the table holding her teacup and took a sip. “Were you scared?”

  “To see a fairy?”

  “No, to find Mick Watkins dead. Right here.”

  And there you have it, I thought. Not many people could keep curiosity in check.

  I licked my lips. “Ulani—”

  “I get it.” She held up a hand. “You don’t want to talk about it, but the story will come out. Why not tell it in your voice?”

  “Because the police wouldn’t want me to.”

  “The police.” Ulani made an unladylike raspberry sound.

  Out of nowhere, Fiona came to a skidding halt on my shoulder. She thumped her teensy foot. “Tell her no,” she ordered. “We have to keep what we learn to ourselves. Not to mention, if I personally solve the crime, I get points with the queen fairy, and my wings”—she fluffed her baby wings—“need all the help they can get.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?” Ulani’s eyes lit up. “Does that mean you’ll tell me everything?”

  “No. I mean...” I sputtered. “That is to say, I appreciate what you need, but I can’t help. I am adamant about that. I cannot share a whit about the crime. My fairy is advising me to keep mum, and I agree with her.”

  Ulani leaped to her feet and peered into the air. “She’s here? Where?” She pivoted right and left.

  Fiona hopped off my shoulder and stuck her thumbs in her ears. She wiggled her fingers. I silently willed her to stop—the queen fairy would not be amused—but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “She’s not a true believer,” Fiona grumbled.

  I said to Ulani, “You’ll need to speak with the police if you want to learn more.”

  Ulani let out a hiss. “They’ve already shut me out. They don’t take me seriously.” She whipped her long hair over her shoulder. “If you change your mind, please contact me.”

  I nodded politely, knowing I wouldn’t... change my mind.

  “In the meantime, I will put an article in the Pine Cone about your shop. It is truly magical.”

  Relieved to be let off the hook, I ushered Ulani to the front of the shop. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Just doing my job.” She started out the door and pivoted. “One last question. Is it true? Are you a suspect in the murder?”

  I gulped. Heat scudded up my neck. My insides roiled with indignation. An impulse to shove Ulani out the door shot through me.

  Luckily Joss rac
ed to my side and grabbed one of my hands. “Courtney Kelly wouldn’t hurt a fly. How dare you blindside her like that. Please leave.”

  Chapter 8

  Buttercups in the sunshine look like little cups of gold.

  Perhaps the Faeries come to drink the raindrops that they hold.

  —Elizabeth T. Dillingham, “A Faery Song”

  I stood by the door and watched Ulani until she drove away in her two-toned Mini Cooper. As she disappeared around the corner, a sea gull squawked overhead, as if mocking my edgy mood. To work off the tension, I fetched a trowel and pruning shears and tended to the front planters, tweaking the basil and removing a few faded flowers from the pansies.

  Mid-snip, I paused because the screen door of Wizard of Paws opened and Gregory Darvell stepped out looking energized, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming. Emily followed him and closed the screen door.

  Gregory offered his hand to Emily and said something. I couldn’t catch the conversation. As if sealing a deal, they shook formally and quite firmly. Again I wondered whether Emily had really injured her hand or had lied to make herself appear weaker and, therefore, incapable of murder.

  What was the deal she was making with Gregory? Did he want to take over the business? Become a partner? Maybe a strong handshake was his way of offering condolences. They chatted for a minute or two, and then he turned and strode down the sidewalk.

  Seconds later, the screech of brakes caught my attention. A blowsy woman, wearing a loud floral dress that clashed with her orange-dyed hair, lumbered out of a black Honda Accord and marched to Wizard of Paws. “Emily Watkins,” the woman bellowed. “Stop. Right. Now.”

  Emily, who was holding the screen door open, jolted and released the handle. The door slammed with a clack. She clutched the collar of her blouse and backed up until her shoulders pressed against the screen door.

  The blowsy woman’s jowls jiggled as she approached Emily. If she’d been a cartoon character, steam would have been spewing out of her nostrils.

  “Miranda,” Emily said. “You heard.”