As I was passing the storybook house, I paused, captivated by the silhouette of a woman dancing freely around what I presumed to be the living room. Sheer curtains prevented a more distinct view. I’d seen enough Dancing with the Stars to know the rise and fall of a waltz, although I didn’t hear music.
Two blocks away surf boomed on the beach, waking me from my reverie.
“Whew!” Fiona zipped in front of me. “There you are. I thought I’d lost you.”
“How could you? I’m on my way home.”
“I didn’t know which way you’d gone.” Her wings were flapping double time. “You do like to roam.”
She was right. I took different routes each night, sometimes turning down 7th Avenue, sometimes turning down 8th, and often walking along Lincoln before turning toward the ocean on 11th. Occasionally, I made a loop of a section packed with stores so I could window-shop.
“Where did you go this afternoon?” I asked. “I expected you to whiz in at any time and ask whether I’d talked to the detective about Tish Waterman, but you didn’t.”
“I was busy.”
“Doing?”
“Lessons.”
“For . . . ?”
“For when the queen fairy will allow me to own a fairy horse.” She mimicked hopping astride a steed and tearing off. Making a U-turn midair, she flitted to me. “They’re not easy to ride, but my mentor says I’m almost ready. I had to ride behind her on her horse, my arms wrapped around her waist, and she’s sort of thick, so it made it hard to see where we were going.”
Flying on a fairy horse would explain why her gossamer hair was disheveled.
“So... ?” she asked leadingly. “Did you speak to the detective about Tish?”
“No, but I left him a message. He hasn’t returned my call. Tell me more about your lesson.”
Fiona waxed rhapsodic about learning every detail about a fairy horse. It was incredible, magical, extraordinary. Their wings were beautiful and packed with enchanting energy. At times, their tails worked like sails on a boat.
While Fiona chattered on, I thought of Emily and her love of horses, and I wondered whether she had lied about going to the Equestrian Inn. Detective Summers claimed sources had confirmed her alibi. Why had she gone on a vacation so near to Carmel? Why not travel to another state? Had she visited the inn so the drive to town would be short, giving her ample time to kill her husband and return to the inn to establish her alibi? Though I’d pressed him, Summers hadn’t revealed whether he’d personally talked to those sources.
As I was musing about whether I should take a mini vacation at the Equestrian Inn or at the very least a trail ride to get the skinny myself, Fiona cried, “Stop!”
I halted at the corner of Carmelo and 11th Avenue.
“It’s her!” Fiona pointed.
My breath caught in my chest as I spied Tish Waterman, a whip-thin woman with carbon-black hair, passing the teensy congregational church two doors up. She was heading my way with her identical black Shih Tzus. Tish and both of the dogs were wearing matching argyle vests. If Tish weren’t so bitter and if Petra hadn’t planted the seed that Tish might have killed Mick to sabotage my business, I’d have found the owner-looking-like-its-dog thing sort of charming.
There were other people on the street, so I drew in a deep breath and kept walking. I was not in danger.
As Tish neared, I said, “Nice night, isn’t it?” The weather was balmy for springtime. No fog. No drizzle. I hadn’t needed to don my sweater over my romper.
Tish lasered me with a look. Was it murderous or merely contemptuous? I couldn’t tell.
“Enjoy the evening,” I crooned.
She sniffed. If I hadn’t felt sorry for her because of the scar down her cheek, I might have snubbed her, too. My mother taught me bad behavior did not warrant reciprocal bad behavior, but there were times Tish simply pushed me to the limit. What had I done to her? Was it the notion that I could see fairies? If that were the case, she needed to get over herself. It wasn’t as if I was asserting the existence of evil witches or bloodsucking vampires. Sheesh. If she didn’t believe in fairies, so be it. Let it go.
Fiona said, “She walks stiffly.”
“I’m not sure if that’s her demeanor or because of the accident.”
“She’s very sad. She never goes into her garden, and it’s so beautiful. There are twelve hybrid tea roses, all perfectly suited to the climate and beautifully tended by her gardener.”
Suddenly, I felt a tinge of sorrow for Tish. She never went into her garden? She didn’t enjoy the flowers and the aromas? What horrible fate had turned her so sour? I didn’t honestly believe she was a murderer, but she might be dead inside.
“Hello, Courtney dear.” Mrs. Hopewell, my next-door neighbor, the woman who owned Dream-by-the-Sea, rose from behind her white picket fence, a sunhat taming her gray-streaked curly brown hair, the hem of her smock dress stained with dirt. Her house, which hadn’t been dubbed with a clever name like mine, was another I enjoyed. It was a white gem with peaked roofs and dormer windows and a wraparound porch. She was trying to come up with a name for it, but as yet hadn’t landed on one that she adored. “I’m weeding.” She waved a handful of them.
“I can see that.”
Her cream-colored Pomeranians started chasing each other through the overgrowth and barking.
“Hush, you two,” Mrs. Hopewell said.
I drew near and noticed her sleek black cat sleeping on a nearby stone bench, oblivious to the yipping dogs. “You have a ways to go.”
“Tell me about it.” She chuckled. Her garden needed a lot of love, which always surprised me because she was so talented with a paintbrush. She captured elegant gardens in nearly all her work. “How I wish I could make my plants grow. I seem to kill them no matter what I try.” Her smile made her aging eyes sparkle. “Perhaps a fairy garden would bring good luck. My older sister swears by them. She thinks they’re magical.” Mrs. Hopewell had two sisters. The older was a regular at Open Your Imagination.
“It’s worth a try. My mother said wherever plants thrived, fairies thrived, and where fairies thrived, good luck was sure to follow.”
“Why don’t I commission you to create a fairy garden for me?” Mrs. Hopewell said.
“I’d love to make you one, but you don’t have to pay me. Consider it my way to give back to you after all you’ve done for me. I love my home. I wouldn’t have it without your goodwill.”
“Oh, no, dear, I couldn’t accept one of your creations for free. If I gave away my art, I’d be broke. We artists must stick together and charge what we’re worth.”
I smiled. “Wasn’t one of the founding principles of Carmel that artists came from far and wide to promote fellowship between artists and the public?”
“Yes, of course, but not for free. Artists need to eat.”
“Amen,” Fiona said.
Mrs. Hopewell’s cat lifted its head and looked to where Fiona was flying and, unimpressed, went back to sleep. At the same time, Mrs. Hopewell peered upward. Had she heard Fiona or simply picked up that her cat had sensed something? Fiona teased her, darting right and left. Mrs. Hopewell blinked repeatedly, as if detecting some kind of activity. A fairy garden might be just the ticket for her.
Out of nowhere, Mrs. Hopewell hiccupped as if startled. “Oh, dear, I’m an insensitive fool.” She tossed her weeds into a nearby basket. “Mick Watkins. I heard all about it. I meant to stop by yesterday to console you, but my son and his adorable boy showed up. They just left. My grandson was teaching me about new emojis I could use while texting.”
“You text?”
“Texting is the way I connect with all my grandchildren.”
“You have more than one?” It pained me to think I knew so little about my landlord. I added being more interested to my ways-to-improve-myself list.
“Three. All boys.” She beamed with pride. “The fourteen-year-old is the best at texting. He has his own phone. The other two have to beg their
parents for the chance. A simple sassy word will lose them privileges for a week. Anyway, please forgive me. My son can be quite needy.” I hadn’t met her son, so I didn’t know what she meant by needy, but I didn’t pry. “How are you?”
“Coping.”
“I have some stew warming on the stove if you’re hungry.”
“No thank you.” My stomach was too raw. Eating didn’t appeal to me.
“Did Mick deserve it?” Mrs. Hopewell asked.
The question drew me up short. Did anyone deserve to be murdered? What sins might fall into that category, and wouldn’t an old-fashioned stoning have been enough punishment? I bit my tongue. What a horrid thought.
Fiona wiggled her fingers in front of my face. “Yoo-hoo. Are you wondering if the detective is going to arrest you?”
“No,” I blurted.
“No what, dear?” Mrs. Hopewell asked.
I flicked the air to make Fiona back off. “No... he didn’t deserve it,” I said, answering Mrs. Hopewell’s question. “No one does. Ever.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean...” She placed a hand on her chest. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“No, ma’am, you didn’t. I’m on edge because I’m a suspect.”
“You? Nonsense. You wouldn’t hurt a fairy.” She giggled at her turn of phrase.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” If only Detective Summers would agree with us on that point. “In the meantime,” I went on, “I need to canvass the neighborhood and see if anyone saw me sitting at my desk Wednesday night. Mick died between eleven p.m. and two a.m.”
“What were you doing at your desk at that late hour, an online chat?”
“How did you—”
“I’ve seen you there on many occasions, fingers flying across the keyboard. You young people spend so much time on social media.” She fanned the air. “Me? I prefer a good book.”
“So do I, but sometimes work comes first. Did you happen to see me there that night?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry. I’d had a long day. Another gallery asked to hang my work. I was spent. After I walked the pups, I retired at ten.”
Chapter 11
For what is a fairy whisperer? She speaks to the fairies,
and then listens.
—Daryl Wood Gerber
Even though I had no appetite, I threw together a small salad of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, and goat cheese, and added fresh basil and parsley to spruce it up. Then I moved to my computer and ate while I visited the Fairy Garden Girls Dig It chat room. Some of the same handle names from last Wednesday’s exchange cropped up: Peter Pan’s Girlfriend, Green Angel, and Fly by Night. My handle was Fairy Whisperer.
I typed in: You won’t believe it. A man was murdered in my shop and I’m a suspect.
I added the sad-faced emoji and paused. My father hated emojis and chastised me whenever I used one in a text. He also loathed when I used text shorthand like BTW, IMHO, and THX. Sometimes I did it on purpose to irk him.
Peter Pan’s Girlfriend responded: Oh, no. How awful.
I continued my entry: Some of u saw me here, but the police say that’s not enuf. Sigh. I added a goggle-eyed emoji.
Fiona sat on the upper rim of the computer, her elbow perched on one leg. She wasn’t glowing. She was glowering. At me.
“What?” I asked her.
“You’re not taking care of yourself. You need to eat more.”
“Don’t mother me.”
“If I don’t, who will?”
I blew a raspberry at her. She blew one back. Hers sounded cuter than mine, more like a bee buzzing.
“Don’t torture yourself by doing this.” She jutted her hand at the computer screen. “They can’t solve the problem.”
“They can commiserate.”
“You don’t want their pity. You have to work through the clues yourself.”
“What clues?” I hissed. “We don’t have any clues.”
“Don’t snap at me.” She flew out of the room.
I stewed, then realized she was right. I typed to my friends: C U and switched off the computer. I lurched to my feet, took my plate to the sink, and walked to the backyard.
When mulling things through, my mother liked to bake. I, on the other hand, needed to get my hands dirty. Rather than make another fairy garden for the rear yard, I decided to build the one I’d promised Mrs. Hopewell. I fetched a round sixteen-inch clay pot and a lantern and went to the greenhouse.
“What’re you doing?” Fiona flew beside me.
“I’m making Mrs. Hopewell’s fairy garden. I’m thinking of creating something that looks like Monet’s Water Lilies. Mrs. Hopewell’s artistic style is like Monet’s.”
“Excellent.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
After filling the pot with soil, I fetched an arched bridge and painted it green. Every fairy garden should have a focal point, something that drew one’s eye. Often, it was the largest part of the scene, but not always. In Monet’s Water Lilies, the observer was drawn to the bridge, but the water lilies themselves were the real focal point. I sealed the bridge with a coat of lacquer and set it aside to dry. At the rear of the pot, I added a miniature fake willow tree and bolstered it with live ferns to establish the backdrop of Monet’s famous painting.
Next, I dug a trench to create the pond and filled it with white gravel. When creating the image of water with chips of blue glass, I liked to start with a base below the glass so the soil wouldn’t seep up and mar the watery expanse. After fashioning the pond, I installed smatterings of green moss interspersed with yellow lichen on top, which gave the effect of lily pads.
Fiona settled onto the rim of the pot and began to hum a fairy song I’d heard her hum before. I didn’t know the name of it. It reminded me of a melody from my youth, one Aurora had sung. The tune comforted me, so I hummed with her.
An hour later, after centering the bridge atop the water and adding a sweet bronze fairy who was reaching toward the water while balancing on a mushroom next to the pond, I watered the garden well and stood back to drink in my creation. It looked just right. Mrs. Hopewell wanted good luck for her garden. This one might do the trick, representing the bond between fairies and nature in all its glory.
“Feeling better?” Fiona asked.
“Yes. I’m ready to take on the world. After a good night’s sleep.”
“Me too.” She yawned and stretched and zoomed out of the greenhouse. “See you tomorrow,” she trilled, vanishing into the night.
I took a few photographs of the new garden and headed to bed.
* * *
Saturday morning arrived in a flash. While sipping a cup of honey lavender stress relief tea and nibbling on a poppy seed muffin slathered in butter, I quickly flipped through the mystery we would be discussing at the book club. I’d finished it weeks ago and had reviewed the reading guide the author shared on her website. Making mental notes about the victims and the suspects’ motives helped cement the story in my mind. I wasn’t going to lead the book club, but I wanted to have my facts straight in the event the book club moderator asked me a question.
Before heading to work, I carried the fairy garden I’d made, along with instructions for how to tend it, to Mrs. Hopewell’s house. She didn’t answer her doorbell, so I left the garden on the porch. Then I sent her a text message.
When I arrived at the shop with Pixie, the Dutch door was open, and the aroma of coffee wafted to me.
“You’re early,” I said to Joss as I strode past the display tables and into the office. I set Pixie on her pillow, stowed my purse in the lower drawer of the desk, hung my denim jacket on the oak coat rack, and returned to the main showroom.
“You know the old saying,” Joss said. “The early bird gets the worm. The eager beaver builds the dam. Idle minds are the devil’s workshop.” She chortled. “All the clichés work today. I couldn’t sleep, so here I am. We have twenty people coming to the tea. I have a list of attendees. Want to see?”
“No. You’ve got this.”
She brandished a hand. “Nice coveralls.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t very good at throwing out clothes. If I really liked something and it brought me joy, I hung on to it. I’d purchased the stonewashed coveralls I was wearing in college. I particularly liked the bouquet of flowers embroidered on the left thigh. I’d donned a red T-shirt under them. Wearing red made me feel stronger and more confident.
“Have you seen Fiona?” I asked.
“Not yet. She’s not with you?”
I shook my head, wondering where she might have gone last night. I hoped she wasn’t doing something that would upset the queen fairy.
Joss and I spent the next hour dusting and reorganizing shelves. I was amazed by how quickly things could get out of order: a teacup turned so the handle was facing forward instead of sideways; a fairy figurine rotated so its back was the first thing a patron would view instead of its face. Customers might not care about these minor details, but I did.
Around noon, I took a breather to sit outside and caught sight of Detective Summers and Officer Rodriguez roving through the courtyard. Summers had his cell phone out. Was he taking evidentiary photos? Wouldn’t the area be tainted by now, seeing as throngs of people had passed through since the murder? It dawned on me that maybe they were planning to stop in and discuss my call to the detective about Tish Waterman. On the other hand, they weren’t walking in my direction.
A Sprinkling of Murder (A Fairy Garden Mystery Book 1) Page 12
