A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I brought Brady up to speed and added, “Chris was intent on becoming a judge, which would require all his focus. To my surprise, I wasn’t bitter. If he hadn’t bailed on us, I might have ended up with three kids, a minivan, and a man who didn’t love me; not to mention, I might not have pursued my dream.” I closed my menu. “Want to know the best thing about not marrying him? I haven’t had to go through my adult life explaining that I was not named after Courtney Cox, the actress.”

  “Whew.” Brady chuckled. “A narrow escape.”

  We all laughed.

  “Did Chris become a judge?” Brady asked.

  “He’s on his way, last I heard. One more hurdle. Plus he did get married and has three kids.”

  After Meaghan and I ordered our tea and desserts, Brady left to inform our waitress.

  “Talk,” Meaghan said. “Mick. Dead. Spill everything. In detail. Not a quick recap like you gave Brady.”

  I told her about Fiona’s finding Mick at five a.m. and alerting me, and then I filled Meaghan in about the crime scene, the evidence, the ligature marks, and testing Mick’s pulse. The memory gave me the willies. “I don’t know why Mick came into the shop. I wouldn’t peg him for a thief. I think he hoped to meet someone.”

  “You mean like a tryst?”

  I told her about the possibility that Mick had been having an affair with Petra Pauli.

  “He was.” Brady, not our waitress, returned with our order. He set a pretty white china pot on the table, plus two cups and saucers, a pairing of cream and sugar, and a plate holding two blondies.

  “With Councilwoman Pauli?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  So much for that being a secret.

  “Mind if I join you for a moment?” Brady asked. “I could use a break, and I’d like to get the lowdown. My clientele are bound to ask questions.”

  “Be our guest,” I said. “Want to fetch another cup for tea?”

  “Nah. I’m tea’d out.”

  I poured cups of Earl Grey for Meaghan and myself and added a cube of raw sugar to each.

  Meaghan bit into a blondie and hummed her appreciation. “Just like I remember. Bless you.”

  “So, Brady,” I said, “you’re sure about the affair?” When I’d seen Mick leaving Hideaway Café yesterday and Petra Pauli exiting minutes later, I hadn’t wanted to rush to a conclusion, although Petra’s response to the police earlier this morning bolstered by Joss’s claim did seem to cement the theory.

  “They met once a week for lunch”—Brady slung an arm over the back of his chair—“and always requested the booth tucked in the corner of the bar.”

  “Whewie,” Meaghan whistled. “Can you imagine being so indiscreet about it? Meeting right across the street from where he worked?” She leaned forward. “Did his wife know?”

  “She suspected,” I said and then revised. “More than suspected. The assistant at Wizard of Paws heard Mick and Emily argue about it.”

  “Oho.” Meaghan lifted her teacup with both hands and leaned forward on her elbows. “Girlfriend, dish the dirt.”

  “That’s all I know. I don’t have a clue if the affair was serious.”

  “How did Mick break into the shop?” Brady asked.

  “He stole in through a secret entrance, which Fiona—” I balked.

  “Who’s Fiona?” Brady asked.

  Meaghan set down her cup and coyly said, “Do you believe in fairies, Brady?”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What’s the right answer?”

  “You’d like to,” Meaghan said.

  “Okay, then.” He gazed at me, clearly trying to assess whether this was a joke. “I’d like to.”

  Fiona flew to Brady and circled his head, giggling. Apparently, he wasn’t immune to her advances. He raised his chin, as if sensing her. As fast as lightning, Fiona zipped to a tree across the patio and alit on a branch. I shot her an annoyed look. She doubled over in laughter, the imp.

  If only I had a direct line to the queen fairy so I could get a clear understanding of fairy-on-probation dos and don’ts. On the other hand, the queen, being omniscient, could probably see everything at all times and would lower the boom—wand—if necessary.

  Fiona placed a hand across her heart and, intoning loudly enough for the world to hear, announced, “One day, everyone in the world will believe. We will win one heart at a time.” I’d heard her utter the saying before. It was a fairy mantra.

  Meaghan twirled a finger. “Go on about the secret entrance, Courtney.”

  “There are lots of secret entrances in Carmel,” Brady stated.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. My mother is a historical romance novelist. She knows about all the nooks and crannies in Carmel. She’s told me lots of stories.”

  “She’s an author?” Meaghan asked. “Have we heard of her?”

  “If you read that kind of thing. She’s sort of a big deal. She’s written twelve novels so far. Eudora Cash.”

  “Are you kidding?” I exclaimed. “I had no idea. I’ve read all of her books. Golly. I never put two and two together.” I liked to read across genres: mysteries, romance, and historical novels. Reading was a great way to let my mind roam free. “Back in high school, everyone called her Dory.” I turned to Meaghan. “Dory ran the PTA. She threw the best parties.” To Brady I said, “Was your mom writing then?”

  “Nope. She was a late bloomer.”

  “Your father must be proud of her success,” I said.

  “He is.”

  “Guys,” Meaghan said, “we’ll get caught up on our reading lists later. Back to the secret entrance.” She tapped a fingertip on the table. “Why did Mick go in that way and not through the front door?”

  I said, “Because he didn’t have a key.”

  “I’ll bet he was meeting Councilwoman Pauli,” Meaghan said.

  “In my shop? Why? That doesn’t make sense.” I added that Emily seemed the likelier suspect. Believing Mick was having an affair, she followed him and slipped in after him. They fought. He fell and struck his head.

  “Why strangle him?” Meaghan asked.

  “I’m not sure. Utter rage?” I wondered if vestiges of her clothing could be found on the edges of the secret doorway.

  Brady said, “Who do the police suspect?”

  “Me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Emily Watkins claims that I wanted Mick out of the way so I could take over his lease and expand my business.” I took a sip of tea. “She’s wrong. I don’t want to. But my alibi is iffy. I was home alone interacting with some people via the computer.”

  “Were you checking out online dating?” Meaghan asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  My cheeks warmed. I would never look for a date on the Internet. I didn’t judge anyone else for doing so, but that wasn’t my style. Besides, I wasn’t in the market for a relationship, no matter how hard my best friend pushed me to try, try, try again. For the past two years, she had been attempting to fix me up with someone. Anyone. She was furious that Christopher Cox had broken my heart. It didn’t matter how many times I assured her that I was happy being single.

  I said, “I was networking with fairy garden aficionados.”

  “That’s got to be verifiable,” Brady said.

  “Not necessarily, but Joss, my assistant, is a computer wizard and is looking into it.”

  “So Brady”—Meaghan curled a lock of her hair coyly—“what’s your story? Are you married?”

  “I was,” Brady said. “Not any longer.”

  Meaghan threw me a smug, Cupid-on-the-hunt look. Overhead, Fiona tittered. I ignored them both and took a bite of one of the blondies. Heaven.

  “Tell me more,” Meaghan cooed.

  “She left me for an actor. A much older and wealthier actor.” Brady cocked his head. “I understood why she did. She was born in Los Angeles and raised around the movie business. Against her will, she moved here with her mother wh
en her grandmother got sick. She’d hated every minute of it. Truthfully, I lucked out when she left. I don’t think we were ever in love.” He refreshed my tea. “You know, if you need an attorney, I’ve got the name of a good one.”

  I swallowed hard. “I sure hope I don’t.”

  Chapter 6

  Every time a seed is planted, a fairy flower is born.

  —Hans Christian Andersen

  Still unable to return to my shop until the police relinquished control—Summers and I had exchanged telephone numbers; he or one of his staff would call me—I said good-bye to Brady and Meaghan and headed off with Pixie and Fiona. My sweet fairy was determined to stay by my side. After our visit to the café, I’d given her permission to return to the shop, but she was afraid of the police. The way they’d barked orders had given her the jitters.

  When I stepped outside the café and drank in the fresh air, I realized how shallowly I’d been breathing since finding Mick.

  Fiona said, “Aren’t you curious to see where the secret entrance to your shop is?”

  I nodded. “But we can’t.”

  “Sure we can. Follow me.” Fiona flew ahead.

  Observing the margin created by the police tape that required onlookers to steer clear of the area, I trotted after her along Lincoln Street. At the corner of 8th Avenue, I halted and peered up the street. Fiona was correct. It was impossible to see the secret entrance. We moved closer. Even when I was facing it, it wasn’t obvious, either. There was no handle, and the wood slats matched the rest of the courtyard’s exterior. Mick would have needed to know the entrance existed. I didn’t see any evidence cones marking items the police might have collected from the ground. I wondered if they had decided it was fruitless, given the amount of natural debris like pine needles and leaves in the area.

  Strolling home, appreciating the waning sunlight, I wondered how Mick might have learned of the secret entrance. Had Logan told him? Had Mick asked for the floor plans for each of the courtyard buildings when he was deciding whether or not to lease? Did it matter how he’d figured it out? That was how he’d entered. Period. Had the killer been lying in wait inside Open Your Imagination for me—as Summers had suggested—or had the killer followed Mick? Who was the intended victim?

  Minutes later, when we arrived home, Pixie bounded from my arms. She was ready to explore. And why not? There were birds and bugs and critters to chase. We had them in abundance.

  “What should we do?” I asked Fiona as I made my way up the flagstone walkway and slipped into the house. “How about something to eat?”

  Fairies preferred foods that were prepared with savory spices. They also liked sweet butter and teacakes. Fiona was partial to mallow fruits and hibiscus flowers.

  “Not hungry,” she murmured. She flitted to my computer. Round and round it she traveled, disappearing at the back of it for long moments. Did she think she could magically make it provide my alibi?

  “I think I’ll have a glass of fresh-pressed orange juice,” I called out, hoping she would give up the hunt and join me.

  I moseyed across the modest foyer to the kitchen, which was one of my favorite rooms in the cottage. It always smelled good, thanks to the herbs I’d planted. Each was in an odd-lot white mug that I’d painted with the herb’s name. All were sitting on the tiered glass shelves by the window over the sink. A trio of vanilla candles as well as a vanilla diffuser adorned the teensy white table in the nook. Well-used cookbooks filled the shelves of my rustic white hutch and buffet, faux antiqued to match the kitchen cabinets.

  Fiona reappeared.

  “Where did you go?” I asked.

  “On a quest.”

  “Find anything?”

  “No.”

  “How about a taste of honey?” I asked.

  She shook her head, furrowed her forehead as if she were thinking, and then zipped out of the room. In a matter of seconds, she returned. “All clear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no one hiding anywhere.”

  I smiled, indulging her. Who did she think would invade my place? I had no valuables other than my precious plants and my computer. Then I stiffened, grasping her meaning. She was worried that the killer might have come here. Why take that risk? Would the killer, believing I knew more than I did, seeing as I had been first on the scene, want me out of the way? Or worse, was Detective Summers correct? Had I been the intended target? Would the murderer strike again?

  I shrugged off the notion. No. Uh-uh. I would not rise to the urgency of Fiona’s concern. I would not be afraid. When my mother became sick, she’d made me promise to be brave for the rest of my life, and I’d done my best to live up to that promise. However, I would not be stupid or caught off guard, either. I would be prepared. I set a baseball bat by the kitchen door and propped a shovel by the front door. Ready and armed for anything. I was pretty good at basketball, but I was a terror with a garden tool. Years as a landscaper had built up my arm, thigh, and core strength. My father would approve.

  My father. I should call him and fill him in. And I would. Tomorrow.

  “Juice,” I said. “And then something fun.” I needed to keep busy and not dwell on what ifs like the possibility of going to jail or the probability of being harmed. “I think I’ll make a new fairy garden tonight for the eastern corner of the backyard. What do you think?”

  Fiona didn’t object.

  I pulled out my professional grade press, and, using two oranges, quickly made a cup’s worth of juice, straining it a second time into a Royal Doulton Pacific Splash cup—very nouveau with blue and white colors. According to my nana, vitamin C was always good for what ailed you.

  While sipping the juice, I considered which pot I would use for my new project. Something bold and big enough to stand out.

  After washing the cup and setting it to dry in the countertop rack, I strolled to the backyard. Sunlight filtered through the cypress trees, and I reveled at my good fortune to live in Dream-by-the-Sea. When I finished creating, I would spend some time photographing the yard. I had documented every step of the front garden’s transformation; I wanted to do the same for the rear garden.

  The one large item I’d invested in for the backyard was a six-by-eight, polycarbonate walk-in greenhouse. Growing plants required steady temperatures. I kept all the tools I needed in the greenhouse: a rake for loosening soil, a trowel, a variety of spades, and an assortment of good shears. I also stowed a choice of durable aprons. My favorite was the floral one with deep pockets.

  Stepping inside, I felt instantly at home. How I enjoyed the cozy aroma of the various seedlings and plants as well as the damp wood shelving. The metal counter and sink were spotless. A messy desk indicates a messy mind, my father would say. His attention to detail and his orderly approach to creating a new site was why he’d become one of the premier landscapers in the area. He’d taught me to be as observant. And I was. On a much smaller scale.

  Pixie scampered to me, swiped my ankles with her tail, and meowed.

  “Yes,” I said. “Mama’s going to make something. I’ll use a clay pot, I think.” Filling a clay pot with soil anchored me to the earth.

  Pixie leaped onto her cat tree, made of oak with jute columns for scratching, and sprinted to the top. I’d set a duplicate tree in my bedroom. Curious by nature, my sweet kitten sat down, keen to observe my every move.

  “How about a house-themed garden?” I cooed to Pixie. She tilted her head, not understanding.

  The most important thing when creating a fairy garden was telling a story. Which pot and which fairies and environments I used mattered. I wanted this one to tell the story of my move into Dream-by-the-Sea. I lugged a large strawberry clay pot with eight pockets to the center of the greenhouse, packed it with dirt, and set a thatch-roofed house with a blue door in the center to represent my cottage. I adored the green vines trailing up the house’s cobblestoned facing. The scale of it vis-à-vis the strawberry pot was just right.

  Then
I selected the plants. I trimmed off the lower half-inch of soil and roots from a four-inch pot of cryptomeria and planted the little tree behind the house. Around the sides of the house, I inserted two-inch pots of elfin thyme and ferns, and then added clumps of baby tears for grass. I drizzled a winding trail of pea-sized gravel to the front door to represent the flagstone path leading to my house. Once I’d watered the plants and tamped down the soil, making sure there were no pockets of air beneath the plants, which could make them heat up in summer—heat could cause root damage—I collected an assortment of three-inch polymer clay fairies, both boys and girls, each with different colored hair. The figurines had broader faces and chubbier cheeks than most other figurines. I aligned them on the metal counter, out of Pixie’s immediate reach so she wouldn’t be tempted to toy with them. They weren’t fragile, but they could chip. I wanted them to look pristine until they were ready for their moment to shine in their new world.

  As I gazed at the fairies, trying to decide which one would represent me, a memory of playing with my mother flashed in my mind. When she was a girl, her grandfather had built her a three-story dollhouse—blue with white trim. She’d entertained herself daily. When I turned four, she allowed me to enjoy it with her. She and I had played for hours, using that house to create so many stories. Oh, how we’d made each other laugh using cartoonish voices and saying silly things. After each encounter, we had shared a spot of tea. Imaginary tea, of course. The dollhouse now stood in my bedroom by the window, each piece of handmade furniture perfectly arranged to my mother’s liking. I’d vowed that if I ever had a daughter, she and I would make it come alive again. I bit back a tear, the memory sharp.

  “Are you okay?” Fiona flew to my side.

  I nodded. “Fine.”

  “I miss my mother, too,” she whispered.

  I didn’t know anything about her mother other than that she dwelled in the queen fairy’s realm. Had she suffered because of her daughter’s mischievous behavior? I caressed Fiona’s wings gently. “I know you do.”