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

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I fetched Pixie, locked up the shop, and headed home. Fiona kept pace.

  “So, where did you go earlier when I was cleaning up?” I asked. “More studying?”

  “No, I went to take a nap. I’ve been tired lately.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...” Beaming, she turned sideways to me and lifted her young wings. Teensy corners of new silver wings budded beneath.

  “Are those the beginnings of your adult wings?” I asked.

  “Yes!” She clapped her hands gleefully. “My first set. With all that’s been going on, I hadn’t noticed, but by helping you solve a crime, my sleuthing skills are being utilized, and because they’re being utilized—”

  “I’m not solving a crime.”

  “Of course you are. You’re trying to prove yourself innocent while at the same time figuring out who did kill Mick, and I, being your assistant, am growing my wings.”

  “Don’t you think it has something to do with your staying within boundaries, as the queen fairy ordered?”

  “Whatever is causing it is great. I’m making progress. Wahoo.” She threw her arms wide and did a loop-de-loop in the air. “Thank you.”

  “Uh, sure, anytime. I’ll do my best to stumble across more crimes so you get more opportunities.”

  The cheerful sound of her giggles tickled me.

  * * *

  Even though the scary moment with Logan was over, the near encounter made it hard to sleep. I brewed myself a cup of chamomile tea and tried writing in my diary—a task I’d started after opening the shop to give me a record of how far I’d come—but the effort was fruitless. Guilty, guilty, guilty was ringing out in my head and making my notations nearly illegible. Reading was futile, too. It didn’t matter which book I picked up; I couldn’t absorb one word. My nana would have been appalled. To her, reading soothed the soul.

  But my soul could not be soothed. Had Logan learned that I’d met with Hedda Hopewell outside the bank and, fearing I’d uncovered his secret, come to the shop to harm me? Would he try again? Maybe I was overreacting to his intrusion. If he didn’t kill Mick to set his finances straight, who did?

  Emily had the most to gain. Summers said his people had confirmed her alibi, yet he’d stalemated me when I’d asked if he personally had seen to the questioning. If my father were on the case, he’d have wanted to be personally sure.

  Taking the horse by the reins, I sat at my computer and pulled up the website for the Equestrian Inn in Carmel Valley. I was blown away by the scope of the place. Built in Mediterranean style, it boasted one hundred and eighty hotel rooms and suites. The prices of the rooms were steep, but, with each room, one guest was offered a chance to enjoy a trail ride or take jumping or rodeo stunt lessons. Boarding was offered for guests who brought their own horses. In addition, according to the inn’s rave reviews, food was a draw. Twenty of the inn’s acres were dedicated to organically farmed and fresh-picked heirloom vegetables, which enhanced the inn’s four-star Forbes rating.

  As I browsed the various drop-down menus, I landed on how I might entice an inn employee to talk to me. I didn’t have to be at the shop until eleven on Sunday, and, as it just so happened, the Equestrian Inn offered sunrise rides to guests as well as non-guests—the inn’s way of enticing new customers.

  As my fingers tripped across the keys to set my reservation, Fiona flitted to my side. “What are you doing?”

  “Sleuthing.”

  * * *

  At five a.m., I ate a quick bite and fed Pixie. At five thirty, Fiona and I arrived at the Equestrian Inn. Its staff was perky and accommodating. The trail guide, a pretty young woman named Bianca, complimented my riding outfit, a thrown-together mash-up of jeans, T-shirt, asymmetric sheepskin jacket, straw cowboy hat, and my favorite Western-style boots made of full-quill ostrich. I hoped they wouldn’t get ruined. The itinerary didn’t mention whether we’d have to get off the horses and walk through any grassy areas.

  “How many of us are there?” I asked, matching Bianca’s perkiness.

  “Six.” She swapped out my sunhat with a helmet. “For protection,” she said, and then fitted me with a pinto horse named Paint.

  “Paint is a good boy,” Bianca said. “He won’t give you any trouble. You’re a newbie, right?”

  My boot selection must have given me away. “I’ve done some riding,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I had. As a girl. At a stable. Around a rink. Within a month, I was bored with doing circles, so I quit.

  Using a mounting block, I climbed onto Paint and slotted my boots into the stirrups. He snorted and crooked his head to peer at me. I patted his neck, assuring him I’d follow his lead. Fiona fluttered in front of his eyes and blew him a kiss. Paint raised his chin in greeting.

  “Do you lead the night rides?” I asked Bianca.

  “Some of them,” she said.

  “How about last Wednesday?”

  “Yep. That was my gig.”

  “Then you met my friend Emily Watkins.”

  Bianca pursed her lips. “Possibly.”

  “You don’t remember? She’s about yea high.” I held up a hand. “Long hair.” I almost blurted that she had prominent buckteeth but stopped. That wouldn’t sound nice. “Toothy smile.”

  “Sounds familiar, but I can’t be sure. We had over twenty on that ride, and honestly I don’t memorize the names and faces of all my riders.” Bianca tapped the side of her head. “I’m not a facts and figures gal. I don’t keep much unneeded data in here. It interferes with my ability to recall what’s on the trails and keep the horses in line. Okay, let’s go.” She took hold of Paint’s reins and led me to where other riders were already seated on their horses. She climbed onto a beautiful black steed and, for a brief while, gave us a refresher course on stopping and steering our horses.

  Minutes later, we were off. Bianca kicked her horse to get started. The other horses followed.

  A few yards ahead, Bianca twisted on her saddle. “The trail ride will last an hour and a half. During that time, I’ll give you all sorts of details about the flora and fauna of the area, and I’ll answer questions.”

  We rode for a few minutes longer, and Bianca twisted on her saddle again. “If you’re new to the area, you might not know this, but Carmel Valley and the surrounding areas are not known for sunrises. We’re known for our sunsets.”

  As we rode, I drank in the sounds of the sea gulls and caught the fresh scent of morning. Incredible. Fiona was having the time of her life riding on top of a real live horse. Occasionally she reminded me that she would have a better time on a fairy horse because it would move faster. I chuckled and bent over to whisper. “I’ll promise you a fast ride on a horse at a future date.” When I was a girl, although I hadn’t enjoyed riding in the rink, whenever we had broken into a cantor or a gallop, I had laughed gleefully, the same kind of laugh I’d let out when I’d taken a ride in a souped-up Corvette around Laguna Seca, a nearby speedway. I liked to go fast.

  For a half hour, Bianca told us about the history of Carmel Valley, which had been shaped by the Esselen tribe and fostered and nurtured by the Spaniards, particularly Father Junípero Serra. He had been interested in planting a reliable vegetable garden to supply goods to ships. Because vegetation required proper irrigation, work on a dam had begun around the Carmel River in the late 1700s.

  Over the course of the morning, I didn’t get another chance to talk to Bianca one-on-one. She was in the lead. My horse and I were two back, directly behind a chatty middle-aged woman with pigtails who kept Bianca answering question after question. If only I’d nailed that spot maybe I would have been able to jog Bianca’s memory about Emily. On the other hand, perhaps she hadn’t remembered Emily because Emily had lied about having taken the ride.

  My favorite part of the ride was the last leg along the coast. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the ocean was roiling from the tide. Huge foamy sprays crashed the seawall. Heaven. However, by the time the ride ended, my rump was sore, and I was frustrated b
ecause I hadn’t learned a thing.

  When we were wiping down our horses—guests had to do a few chores—I looked for Bianca again, but she was across the yard talking to a man in a dark sedan. Detective Summers.

  In a flash, I swapped out the helmet for my straw hat, pulled it down over my forehead, and ducked out of sight.

  * * *

  I hurried home, showered, and changed into a peach-colored sundress and matching sweater as well as gold sandals and a gold cross-body purse. On Sundays I liked to dress up for work.

  As Pixie, Fiona, and I passed Church of the Wayfarer on Lincoln Street, the oldest Protestant church in Carmel-by-the-Sea, chimes rang out.

  “Listen.” Fiona danced in the air like a bell swinging to and fro.

  I smiled. Like her, I loved the sound of bells.

  Dozens of patrons were filing into the simple white building with its pitched, green-tile roof for Sunday’s earliest service. I enjoyed meandering through the church’s Master’s Garden, which featured plants that were described in the Bible. It was so peaceful and a favorite for weddings.

  Pixie wriggled in the front-of-the-chest pet carrier I’d strapped on. This morning she’d been so skittish for some reason that I was afraid she would dash out of my arms if I carried her, never to be seen again. I cooed to calm her and then retrieved my cell phone and tapped in the phone number Summers had given me.

  “Who are you calling?” Fiona asked.

  “The detective, to tell him about the break-in.”

  Around three a.m. this morning, I had awoken and decided I should loop in the detective after all, convinced that my sneaky landlord wouldn’t bring up the ghost sighting.

  The call went to voice mail. I left a brief message about the event.

  Drinking in the morning air, I took the long route to the store so I could window shop. I didn’t need any clothes, and I didn’t need items for the cottage, but there was something about looking at window displays and dreaming of what I might want that fed my soul. New candles? New art? A piece of jewelry? I thought of Meaghan. She and I needed a girls’ night out. Maybe we could do a bit of shopping therapy.

  By the time I arrived at the shop, I’d blown my imaginary wad on a unique coffee table, a landscape of Carmel, and a slinky blue dress. I set Pixie on the floor and performed all the usual tasks. I tallied the register, plugged in the water for tea, made an urn of coffee, and opened windows to let in fresh air.

  When I was done, I returned to the main showroom and pirouetted in the middle of the floor. How lucky was I to have my own business? I was in the middle of the second spin when I remembered that I was a person of interest in a murder. Talk about a blow to the solar plexus. So far, my attorney must have been successful at pleading my innocence because I wasn’t locked up. When would she give me an update?

  I glared at my cell phone. Would Summers call me back? Would he consider my landlord a suspect in the murder because he’d trespassed using the secret door? Did Summers have Gregory Darvell or Petra Pauli in his sights? Despite sources corroborating Emily Watkins’s alibi, was she still a suspect? If not, why had Summers shown up at the Equestrian Inn earlier? To me, Emily’s motive was the strongest: kill her husband, inherit his money, and then train her dog to be a fabulous, blue-ribbon-winning show dog—something her husband had refused to let happen.

  My stomach grumbled. A piece of fruit for breakfast hadn’t done the trick. I ambled to the kitchen beyond the office hoping to score a savory scone left over from yesterday’s tea. There were two. A minute later, after a quick reheat in the microwave on low, voilà, I had a snack. I went to the patio to enjoy them, but seeing the fountain where Mick died squelched my appetite. Shoot. I tried not to think about all the book club attendees who must have been curious. Had Petra told the dog-friendly table where the murder had happened?

  “Halloo-o-o.” Glinda Gill, owner of Glitz, the jewelry store in the Cypress and Ivy Courtyard, popped into the shop. Glinda always popped or bounced. She was a tennis buff and light on her feet. I heard she particularly liked playing the net. She primped her bobbed blond hair. “How’re things?”

  “Things are good.” My voice cracked.

  “Methinks ye are a liar,” Glinda said, employing language I’d often heard her use. She claimed her ancestors had been pirates who had terrorized the California coast. She even maintained that a pirate had built our courtyard. Was that why a secret passage had been constructed in my building, so pirates could come and go with their loot and not alert their enemies? Like Glinda, I could concoct farfetched histories.

  “Fess up,” Glinda said. “Spill the beans. Talk to me.” Like a pirate wench, Glinda liked to dress flashily. She wore a formfitting red dress and an armful of bracelets. When I’d first met her, the lyrics from a Grateful Dead song had cycled through my mind: “Rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes.”

  “Truly, things are good,” I repeated. “I took a trail ride on the beach this morning, which was awesome. And we had an amazing book club tea yesterday. Sorry you couldn’t make it.”

  “Me too.” Glinda poured herself a cup of coffee. “By the by, I heard through the grapevine that our landlord slipped in here last night.”

  “Which grapevine?”

  “You know.”

  No, I didn’t, but Glinda didn’t elaborate. Had Summers or someone from the precinct clued her in?

  She raised her coffee cup in a cheers position before taking a sip. “So... did Logan trespass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then you ought to know”—she crooked a finger to beckon me—“good old Logan wished Mick gone.”

  I gaped. “He said that to you out loud?”

  “Not to me. To his attorney.”

  “Wright Youngman?”

  “I don’t know who that is. I’m talking about the attorney who negotiates all of Logan’s leases on his properties. He’s my current beau.” Glinda tucked a hair behind her ear. “We’ve been dating about three weeks.”

  I swallowed hard. “Are you saying that Logan’s attorney confided to you—”

  “My beau confided to me.”

  “That Logan wanted to kill Mick?”

  “Heavens, no. Logan said Mick was impossible and noisy and a pain in the neck, by which I inferred he wanted him gone. Not dead.” Glinda let loose with a snort-like laugh. “Would anyone actually admit they wanted someone dead?” She picked up an Open Your Imagination business card and perused it front and back. “Nicely done. Did you design these yourself?”

  “Joss did.” The card featured ivy and a pretty blue fairy in the upper right corner, as well as a photo of a finished fairy garden in the lower left corner.

  “May I?” she asked, and without waiting for a response slipped a card into the pocket of her dress. “One more thing. I also learned Logan wants to sell the courtyard. To a developer.”

  “I heard. Yvanna said she’s worried that all the tenants’ leases might be at issue.”

  “That’s what I think, too.”

  “She believes Logan is in debt.”

  “Can you imagine what being in debt might do to the family name? ‘Langfords don’t quit. Langfords don’t fail,’” she intoned while miming quotation marks. “That’s their motto, you know. Langfords have a long history around these parts. Lo-ong.” She dragged out the word. “If Logan knows what’s good for him, he had better not besmirch the name.” Glinda took another sip of her coffee. “Gee, this is good. What kind is it?”

  “Kona coffee.”

  “Love it. So mellow.”

  I couldn’t help thinking about Logan Langford and what he’d been up to last night. What if he’d broken into the shop to sabotage it, hoping that destruction of property would frighten me enough to quit my lease?

  Glinda clicked her fingernails on the counter. “Listen up. I saw that cute police detective questioning Logan.”

  “Which cute police detective?”

  “Summers.”

  “He’s not—�
�� I paused.

  Yes, she would find him attractive. They were about the same age.

  “He and Logan were standing by the fountain in the courtyard,” Glinda went on.

  The fountain, featuring a floating bronze sphere atop a twisted bronze base, was located directly between Glitz and Sweet Treats. One of Flair’s artists had created it. People regularly strolled through the courtyard to view it.

  “Detective Summers point-blank asked for Logan’s alibi,” Glinda said.

  Hallelujah. The police and I were on the same track. Granted, if my landlord was a murderer, that could put a crimp in my lease situation, but I’d address that matter if it arose.

  “Logan said he was at Church of the Wayfarer singing in the choir,” Glinda added. “That has to rule him out as a suspect, I suppose. Choir members will vouch for him, and they wouldn’t lie.”

  I sighed. There went that theory.

  Joss hustled into the shop and threw her oversized tote bag behind the counter. “Sorry I’m late. My mom...” She sighed. “Now, who were you saying wouldn’t lie?”

  “Members of the choir,” Glinda chimed.

  “Ha! I’ve known a few pious liars in my day.” Joss removed her sweater coat and smoothed the front of her neon aqua blouse. Fiona whizzed past Joss’s face, making Joss gasp. Joss signaled to me. “Go on. Who wouldn’t lie about what?”

  I told her about Logan’s stealing into the shop last night through the hidden door. Joss couldn’t believe it. She asked if I was okay. I assured her I was.

  “As for the lie,” I said, “supposedly he was at choir rehearsal at the time of the murder. He has an alibi.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Joss said curtly. “Choir practice does not last until two a.m.” She poured herself a cup of hot water and dunked a bag of chamomile tea into it.

  “Maybe he went out with choir members afterward,” Glinda suggested. “I might have missed hearing that part of his account.”

  “I’m sure Summers will follow up,” I said.

  The door flew open. “Coffee! Must. Have. Coffee.” Meaghan rushed in, the ends of her ocean-themed scarf fluttering. “Our machine quit. I’m in desperate need.” She held out an empty mug with Picasso art on it. “Please. I’ll promise you my firstborn child.”