“But Courtney’s here,” Emily snapped.
“She discovered the body, and it’s her shop.”
Emily’s eyes fluttered. With stress or apprehension? I eyed the bandage on her arm. Yesterday, she’d been worried that her husband was having an affair. Had she followed Mick into my shop last night, shoved him, and then strangled him? In the struggle, had she injured herself?
Honestly, Courtney, your first instinct is to suspect the spouse? I had watched too many CSI episodes. On the other hand, I recalled how furious Emily had been with Mick.
“Mrs. Watkins,” Summers said. “I’ll speak with you outside. Officer Rodriguez, if you please.”
Reluctantly, Emily shuffled toward Rodriguez, who was waiting to escort her out.
I glanced back at Mick. Why had he come into Open Your Imagination? How had he known about the secret entrance?
“Miss Kelly.” Summers snapped fingers in front of my face. “I’m talking to you.”
Fiona snickered. I shot her a dirty look. I was pretty sure Summers couldn’t see her; otherwise, he would have mentioned her, right?
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
I was pondering Emily’s injured hand and arm and wondering whether she would have had the strength to strangle her husband, but I didn’t voice my thoughts. Summers didn’t want to hear my opinion.
I cleared my throat. “Why don’t my assistant and I make coffee and tea? Perhaps Mrs. Watkins would like a cup of something warm.”
“That would be nice.”
“Do you need to question me further?”
“Yes. Don’t go far.”
I picked up Pixie and traipsed into the main showroom. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted to me. Joss had beaten me to the punch. I was surprised Officer Rodriguez hadn’t shooed her outside along with Emily, but Joss had a way with words. She must have convinced Rodriguez that she and her colleagues would be craving coffee in a bit. I asked Joss to go to the kitchen and see if we had any cookies or tarts lying around. The police were bound to be hungry, too.
After setting Pixie on the floor and pouring a stiff cup of coffee into a Villeroy & Boch Mariefleur mug, I went in search of Emily. I found her lingering outside the front door, rocking from foot to foot and stroking her long hair rhythmically.
The fog had lifted, and the sun was rising. Swirls of peach and orange clouds decorated the morning sky. On any other day, I’d have considered it a gorgeous sight.
“Coffee,” I said, and offered Emily the mug. “I can add cream or sugar if you’d like.”
She accepted it but didn’t take a sip. “What a pretty pink flower,” she said absently, admiring the china. After a long moment, she said, “Please tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for the police to determine that.” Like a model citizen, I was taking my cues from Summers.
“I can’t believe it.” Emily sucked back a sob. “Mick’s dead. Just like that. Right when he was excited about writing again. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Mick was a writer?”
She nodded. “He had dreams. He put his career on hold to start the business and support me. He was selfless that way. And then life...” She sighed. “He didn’t dream of writing again until recently. He planned to write a thriller. He’d written notes to get started. An outline of sorts.” Wistfully she added, “He’d hoped it would become a New York Times bestseller.”
I studied her, trying to determine if she was lying about how much she admired him. She certainly hadn’t felt this lovey-dovey about him yesterday.
“He got the bug to write as a kid when he realized how many fabulous authors had lived in Carmel,” Emily went on. “Did you know the town became a haven for them after the 1906 earthquake hit San Francisco?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It became a refuge for artists, too.”
“Of course. That’s why there are so many art galleries here.” Emily smelled the coffee, but still didn’t drink. “Mick was a realist. He knew writing didn’t pay a lot, so he got a small business loan and invested in Wizard of Paws. He loved animals, and they loved him. The rest, as they say, is history.” She finally took a sip of coffee and peered at me over the rim of the cup. “Who killed him, Courtney? Did you do it?”
My insides jolted. “What? Of course not. Why would you even think that?” Why had Summers asked me the same thing? Did I look guilty? What did a murderer look like?
“The nerve!” Fiona fluttered to my side. Anger was flowing from her in hot waves. My defender. My righteous fairy.
“Logan Langford wants to end our lease,” Emily said. “With Mick out of the way, Logan probably expects you to expand your shop. That’s a pretty good motive.”
No, it wasn’t. It was as weak as water.
“I don’t want to expand.” My voice cracked. “I’m perfectly fine with the size business I have.”
“That’s not what Isabella Acosta says.”
“Who?”
“Isabella Acosta. She’s one of our clients. She owns a miniature poodle.”
“I don’t care what she owns,” I squawked.
“She told me she saw you arguing with Mick yesterday. Isabella can be a bit of a gossip. She asked me what the argument was about.”
“She’s lying. Through her teeth. I did not argue with Mick. Not yesterday. Not ever.”
Undaunted, Emily handed back the cup of coffee and stared daggers at me. “Where were you when he died?”
“I don’t even know what time it happened.”
“Let’s see.” Emily tapped a finger on her chin. “I talked to him on the phone at ten last night, so sometime between then and now.”
“That’s a wide window.”
“Even so”—Summers strode through the Dutch door into the courtyard, his notebook in hand—“give me a rundown of your whereabouts from the moment you left work until now, Miss Kelly.”
My mouth went dry. Perspiration broke out on my upper lip, but I didn’t wipe it off for fear of looking guilty. “I went h-home,” I stammered. “I ate. Then I wrote a script for a how-to video I want to make. After that, I networked with an online group until nearly two a.m.”
“Which group?”
“Fairy Garden Girls Dig It.”
Summers wrote something in his notebook. I took a peek. Isabella Acosta, not the online group I’d mentioned. He’d overheard Emily mention the Acosta woman. Shoot. Who was she? Would Summers take her word over mine? Did he really believe I’d argued with Mick? Did he believe I had committed murder? Of course, he would question the Acosta woman. Any lead had to be followed up. But I was the one who’d called the police. Would a killer do that? Not to mention that my clothes were clean—not a drop of blood on them—and what would I have done with the rope?
I caught sight of a macramé plant holder with a potted succulent hanging inside the front door of my shop and gulped. The killer hadn’t used one of the holders to strangle Mick, had he... she? If so, was it still on the premises, left there to frame me?
Fiona whizzed around Summers’s head, stamping the air with frustration and uttering words in some ancient fairy language I’d never grasp. Righteous and furious. Not a good combination.
“Miss Kelly?” Summers said. “One more time. Your schedule last night.”
I drew in a deep breath and recapped my evening, play by play: eating dinner, writing the script for the video, chatting online with fellow fairy garden builders.
“So you were alone,” Emily cut in.
“I was online with friends until two a.m.”
“That can’t be proved,” she muttered.
I shot her a look. “Where were you?” The words sounded venomous, but I’d never been accused of murder before. My pulse was pounding, and my cheeks were flaming with indignation.
“At an equestrian getaway.”
“A what?”
Summers said, “I think she means a dude ranch.”
“No, sir, I don’t
,” Emily stated. “It’s called the Equestrian Inn. It’s new. Located in Carmel Valley, about twenty minutes from here. They offer plush accommodations and trail rides. There’s nothing like a trail ride in the dark to help a person think. I’ve been into riding lately. It helps me problem solve.”
“Problem solve what?” Summers asked. “Were you and your husband struggling?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Emily shook her head. “He... he—”
“Was having an affair.” Joss crossed the threshold carrying a tray of floral paper cups of coffee along with a plate of sugar cookies.
“No,” Emily squealed.
“Yes.” Joss took Emily’s cup from me and set it on the tray. “You had an argument with him about it, Emily. Sonja told me.” Sonja Schmidt was the assistant at Wizard of Paws.
Emily blanched. Her cheek started to twitch. Her mouth began to move, but no words came out. Fiona swirled above her head and dashed her with fairy dust. The dust, she’d told me months ago, couldn’t make anyone tell the truth; it just pacified them.
In an instant, Emily became calm. “Isabella Acosta saw me leave with my suitcase.” She thrust an arm toward Wizard of Paws. “She came into the shop to pick up her poodle. Sonja had left for the night. Mick stayed late to personally see to Isabella’s dog. Isabella can vouch for me.”
“How did you hurt your hand, Emily?” I asked.
Summers shot me a look. I ignored it. I wasn’t theorizing.
“I... stumbled getting onto the horse and wrenched my wrist.”
Summers took a cup of coffee from the tray Joss was holding. “Thank you, Miss Timberlake. Much appreciated.”
Joss nodded and returned inside.
“Miss Kelly,” Summers said. “Give Mrs. Watkins and me some space, please.”
“Yes, of course.” I bobbed my head, acquiescent to the nth degree. Whatever the police asked me to do, I would comply. I was a model citizen. Not a murderer. I trudged into Open Your Imagination and asked Fiona if she could sense whether Emily was guilty of murder.
“Ha! When and if I ever get that good at my righteous duty, I’ll become the queen fairy.” Fiona was teasing, of course. The queen fairy was chosen through lineage. “Ahem.” She aimed a finger at me. “I know you’re fishing. You’re trying to find out if we studied telepathy at last night’s seminar.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, and no, we did not. But if you ask me, Emily is guilty of something.”
Chapter 4
I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift would be curiosity.
—Eleanor Roosevelt
Hoping I could listen in on the detective and Emily, I remained close to the Dutch door and tweaked a display, but I couldn’t hear them. Summers was being very discreet.
Joss swooped to me, still carrying the tray of coffees, and whispered, “How are you holding up?”
“My nerves are frayed.”
“Finding Mick had to be harrowing.”
“It was.” I wrapped my arms around my torso but couldn’t get warm. A chill had seeped into my bones.
“Take a coffee.”
I hated drinking coffee out of a paper cup, but I grabbed one anyway and took a sip. The warmth streamed through me.
Joss took the tray to the coffee station and returned with a tin of her homemade oatmeal chocolate chip protein cookies. “Just for you, not the cops.” She opened the lid. “Nibble on one. For strength.”
“Sugar doesn’t provide strength.”
“The protein will. The sugar is an added bonus. Remember what Mary Poppins said? ‘A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.’ Eat.”
I bit into a cookie and heard my stomach grumble a thank-you. I was starved. Hearing the worry in Fiona’s voice, I’d run right over. No breakfast. No protein bar. No smoothie. My stomach was in knots, but I was coping far better than I thought I’d be. A suspect? A murderer? No way! Nobody in his right mind would believe that of me. I didn’t even kill spiders. Granted, I might have whacked a few roaches in my lifetime, but who hadn’t?
“You know the macramé plant holders we sell?” I asked softly between bites. I didn’t want the detective to overhear us. Unlike me, I’d bet he had batlike supersonic hearing.
“What about them?” Joss asked.
“They’re made of rope. Mick was strangled”—I swallowed hard—“with rope.”
Joss’s eyes widened. “All but the ones hanging in here are under lock and key in the cabinet with the soil.” We kept our soil in a cupboard so it wouldn’t dry out. We stored soil enhancers in there, as well, because we didn’t want children to get their hands on them; hence, the lock.
Fiona alit on my shoulder. “What do you want me to do?”
I caught Summers looking in our direction. Had he heard her? Perhaps he’d seen me tilt my head to listen to her.
Instead of responding to my fairy, I said through the doorway, “Detective, is it all right for Joss—Miss Timberlake—and me to do our books? Or maybe straighten the shop? Or catch up on a few preorders? Or—” I was babbling. I clamped my lips together.
“You’re fine as long as you keep away from the patio.” It had already been cordoned off.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Moments later, after Summers released Emily, he ordered the shop closed for the rest of the day. His team would require a lot of hours to do what it needed to do: take photographs, dust for prints, and inventory evidence. No doubt they would find the macramé holders. I had to hope and pray they were all accounted for and free of Mick’s blood.
* * *
After the Monterey County coroner removed the body and an outline was drawn where Mick had lain, a CPD officer set tiny numbered cones on the patio beside the hair, straw, and business cards. Summers oversaw each step of the investigation. Rodriguez had retreated outside, probably to help the redheaded officer manage the crowds. I could see people gathering on the sidewalk and across the street, lookie-loos eager for the scoop.
I put Pixie in the office—she was more than happy to sleep on her cushy pillow—and Joss and I lingered by the sales counter, reviewing yesterday’s receipts and such. We peeked at the patio occasionally to see what the police were up to, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the status. Fiona, on the other hand, was a flurry of energy. She remained on the patio, winging from container to trellis to fountain while the police conducted their business. A flicker of light and a smattering of fairy dust let me know where she was at any given time. Once, I glimpsed a tech flapping his hand, as if feeling Fiona’s wing vibrations, but none of his colleagues seemed to sense or see her.
Late morning, Summers strode into the main showroom. “Miss Kelly, a word.”
“Please, call me Courtney.”
He smiled, and I could see why all available women over forty might ogle him. Like my father, Summers possessed a forthrightness mixed with a hint of danger. “Do you know if Mr. Watkins had any enemies?”
“You mean other than me?” I quipped. My go-to response when pressed against a wall was sarcasm or humor.
“Other than you.”
“No. Mick and I weren’t close. We didn’t share our personal stories.”
“Okay.” Summers flipped open his notebook.
I was beginning to despise the way he logged everything. “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked, a bite to my tone.
“It might be a good idea.”
“Really?” My insides snagged. Had they found a macramé plant hanger with blood on it after all? Testing the waters, voice quavering, I said, “Simply because of the lease issue?”
Summers consulted his notes. “It’s going to be difficult to corroborate your alibi.”
I breathed easier. No macramé. No smoking gun. Yet. What a relief. I said, “The people I chatted with online know I was at home.”
“Do they?” Summers raised an eyebrow. “Anyone could have been sitti
ng in for you and typing those keystrokes. For all I know, you could have been here, working via this computer or your cell phone.”
“But I wasn’t. I was home. And in bed by two. What time did Mick die?”
“The coroner hasn’t determined that yet.”
“Will you tell me when he does?”
Joss drew near. “Detective Summers, the ISP address will confirm Courtney’s home location.” Given Joss’s history in the tech industry, she knew more about computers than I did.
Summers swiveled to meet her gaze. “I suppose it could.”
That made me feel a tad better, but only a tad.
“Great,” Joss added. “I’ll pin that down for you.”
“Boss,” Rodriguez called from beyond the Dutch door. “You have a visitor. Councilwoman Pauli.”
Summers growled, unable to hide his distaste. Were he and the councilwoman foes? Was there some history I needed to know? To me, he said, “Excuse me.”
If Petra Pauli and Mick had been having an affair, as Joss claimed, this could be an impassioned exchange. I followed him.
The Dutch door was wide open. Summers stepped across the threshold. So did I. Even more people were clogging the street. A few were using their cell phones to record the event. I noticed an exotic, raven-haired woman trying to interview Red and getting nowhere. She held out a fancy recording device. The officer glowered at her and pushed the device aside. Rodriguez had returned to the street to handle a rowdy onlooker.
“Detective Summers.” Petra Pauli strode toward him and forced a smile.
“Councilwoman.”
Man, he could be icicle cool.
Petra was holding the leashes of two black-and-white collies, one with a white muzzle and the other with a brown muzzle. “What’s going on?” With her big blue eyes, luscious lips, sweeping blond curls, and body-hugging black sheath, one might have thought the forty-year-old Swedish bombshell was primed for the runway or a cocktail party. “Why is the grooming shop closed?” she asked, her voice commanding. I’d heard her use the same tone at council meetings. She wanted everyone to believe she was a force to be reckoned with. “I had bath appointments for my dogs.”
A Sprinkling of Murder Page 5
