A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Needing air, I took Joss’s suggestion and went for a walk. I would pick up my mail at the post office while I was out.

  None of the homes in Carmel had mailboxes. It was a city ordinance. Within the post office, there were a number of rooms filled with keyed boxes of varying sizes. My box was located in the second room. As I was removing mostly mailer advertisements from it, Tish Waterman and her two Shih Tzus traipsed into the room. I’d never realized Tish’s post office box was in the same grouping as mine. Once again the trio was dressed alike: her dogs in striped sweater vests and Tish in a black-striped dress that made her look licorice-thin.

  “Good morning,” I said, using a friendly tone.

  Tish startled. The dogs yipped. She shushed them.

  “How’s your day going?” I asked.

  Tish didn’t respond.

  “I love our quaint post office, don’t you?” I continued, not acknowledging her silent snub.

  She grunted.

  “Look, Tish, I don’t know what I did to deserve your wrath, but if you’d explain what I have done wrong, maybe we could bury the hatchet.”

  “Bury the...” She stammered. “There’s no hatchet to be buried.”

  “You’re mad at me. Please tell me why. To my face.”

  She clicked her tongue.

  “I passed by your spa yesterday, and it was filled to the max,” I said. “Congrats on owning such a thriving business.”

  “It’s not thriving, but it should be.”

  Okay, perhaps I didn’t understand the difference between doing well and thriving. Apples and oranges.

  Tish strode past me and opened her box, withdrew a slug of envelopes, and closed it.

  “Why do you hate me?” I asked.

  “I don’t—”

  “You do.”

  “Quiet.” She wasn’t talking to the dogs.

  I refused to back down. “I hear your garden is beautiful.”

  She frowned and fiddled with the top button on her spring coat. “How would you know about my garden?”

  “My fai—” I jammed my lips together.

  “Did your fairy tell you?” She dragged the word fairy out, making it sound dirty.

  I forced a smile. “I hear you have at least a dozen hybrid tea roses. Maybe I could photograph them sometime, and we could go to tea afterward and get to know each other better. Sound good?”

  Tish’s cheeks tinged pink, but she didn’t say anything.

  Insincerely convincing myself that we had taken a step forward in our relationship, I said, “Okay then.” I closed my mailbox and locked it and stuffed my mail into my purse. “Good talk.”

  When I reached the sidewalk, my heart was pounding, but in a fun, excited way. I noticed Carmel Bank was just down the street. Was it Kismet or had I unconsciously steered myself to turn in that direction so I could ask my loan officer about Logan’s finances? I gave in and headed to it.

  As I reached the front door, I realized my folly. The bank was closed. Of course it would be; it was late Saturday afternoon. I turned to head home and heard a woman call my name.

  “Courtney.” Hedda Hopewell, Holly and Hattie’s younger sister, was walking toward me carrying a to-go cup from Percolate. I knew the café well. Ever since Hedda had set up the loan for my business, we had gotten together for the occasional latte. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” She raised her cup and tapped the paperback peeking out of her tote bag. “After the day I had, I deserved some me time with a double espresso.” Hedda was nothing like her sisters. While Holly enjoyed painting and donning arty clothing and Hattie liked to garden and dye her hair red, Hedda preferred numbers and tailored attire. Her one fashion statement was her glasses. She had numerous pairs in a variety of colors. Today’s were aqua-green. “How are you—” She clapped a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. How insensitive of me. I was going to ask how you were doing, but not good, I presume. Finding Mick Watkins. Dead in your shop. Want to talk? Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Are you? Really?”

  My heart did a jig. Was now the time to ask if she would reveal Logan’s financial status to me?

  “Courtney?” Hedda tilted her head.

  “The truth, Hedda? I’m a suspect.”

  “Heavens. Not possible.” She patted my shoulder. “You’re as innocent as the day is long.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “By the way, I heard you made a fairy garden for Holly. She adores it. She should have made it herself, of course, but she’s not good with growing things.”

  “When will you make one?” I asked, my heart returning to a normal rhythm.

  “Soon. Thanks to Hattie, I’ve visited your shop’s website numerous times. I’m quite partial to the Alice in Wonderland garden you made. Alice was my favorite book as a child.”

  “We have a number of upcoming events. Why don’t you sign up for one?”

  “I will. I promise.” Lowering her voice, she said, “Between you and me, I’m a tad nervous about making one. I know you think I’m buttoned-down, but I treasure a moment of whimsy. I do want to meet a fairy. However, I’m afraid if I mess up my garden, I’ll squelch any possibility.”

  I smiled. She wasn’t the only customer who felt this way. “Maybe you should make something with an Alice in Wonderland theme,” I suggested. “Tuning into a childhood memory might open your heart.”

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser!’” she said, quoting Alice. “All right, I will. And you, listen up. Come to me if you need anything, even a loan for attorney’s fees.”

  “What?” I squawked. “No. I’m good. Thanks.” I could cover any fees it might take for my attorney to exonerate me. Exonerate. Oof. I let out a sigh. “However, I was hoping to ask you...” I paused. Okay, I had one more thing to add to my ways-to-improve-myself list. Be forthright. Don’t beat around the darned bush. “I was wondering...” I shifted feet.

  Nope. I couldn’t do it. I could not ask her to reveal whether Logan Langford was in debt. I would not put her in that awkward position. I flashed both palms. “I was hoping you might spread the word about my business.” I pulled some business cards from my purse and handed them to her. “Would you do that? People trust you.”

  “Of course.”

  Heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  Hedda clasped my hand. “Courtney, you need to find peace.”

  “Exonerating myself of murder will do that.”

  “I’m talking about finding inner peace, dear.” She kept hold of my hand and pointed to my heart. “Realize what is missing, and you might discover a whole new world.” She smiled. “Don’t gape at me like that. I might be a numbers person, but I’m also quite philosophical.”

  As she strode toward San Carlos Street, a man called out, “Courtney, hold up.”

  Brady jogged toward me, a leather satchel over his shoulder, an envelope in hand.

  “Were you just at the post office?” I asked.

  “How’d you guess?” He sighed. “How I wish we could get mail delivered.”

  “I like the exercise.”

  “You would,” he joked. “Hey, everything okay?” He gazed at me warmly.

  If everyone was asking me the same question, perhaps I needed to take a look in the mirror. Did I look frazzled? Off my game? An emotional wreck? “Everything’s fine. I’m heading back to work.”

  “Let’s walk together.” He offered me his elbow.

  We turned onto Dolores Street and strolled at a leisurely pace, taking in the various paintings in the gallery windows.

  Brady laughed at one point and said, “How can so many art galleries sustain themselves, especially given their odd hours?”

  Some galleries were open mornings while others were open weekends only.

  “Tourism,” I chimed. “It’s the heart and soul of our fair town.”

  “Speaking of art, how’s your photography coming?” he asked.

>   “I’m not doing as much as I’d like.”

  “Me either. Remember that exhibition we had in high school? The one to raise money for art programs? I’d never seen you so nervous.”

  “It was the first time my father had ever taken an interest.”

  “That’s right. I remember now. You’d kept your hobby a secret for years.”

  Fifty students had participated. The auditorium had been packed with viewers. When my father had appeared, I’d been shocked. He eyed my photograph of Pebble Beach at sunset, but didn’t say a word. Later that night, he came into my room and said he thought I had talent, but he never wanted me to break the law again. I went to sleep smiling. Sneaking illegally onto the famous golf course had been worth the risk.

  To this day, as much as I loved my father, I feared his judgment regarding my talent. He and I had finally found equal footing when I’d joined his landscaping staff. I understood how things grew, and I excelled at large-scale plans for houses and hotels. If only he’d accept that I had an eye for small-scale gardens, as well.

  “You won first place that night,” Brady said.

  “And you came in second.”

  “I always hated you for that.” He bumped my shoulder. “Not hate hate. I never stopped liking you.”

  He smiled, his dimple deep. I remembered Fiona crooning about how cute Brady was, but he was more than cute; he was downright handsome. The admission made heat rush up my neck and into my cheeks. If Brady noticed, he didn’t mention it.

  We cut down 7th Avenue and stopped at the corner of Lincoln Street.

  I released his elbow and smiled. “Here we are.”

  “Maybe we could get together and talk shop sometime,” he said.

  “If I don’t go to jail—”

  He put a finger to my lips. “Don’t even think it. You’re innocent. Keep focusing on that.”

  Chapter 13

  Wind chimes in your yard will serenade garden creatures—

  squirrels, fairies, and angels.

  —Anonymous

  At a quarter past five, as Joss and I were straightening shelves in the main showroom, Meaghan raced in to retrieve her harp.

  “I can’t stick around,” she said, sliding the harp into its travel bag. “My client who bought two seascapes asked me to dinner.”

  I rolled my eyes and asked if he was cute.

  Meaghan thwacked me. “I already have a boyfriend, goofball. Plus this he is a she, and she’s very wealthy. She wants to buy more art, and I have a business to run. Rent isn’t free.” She bussed my cheek, wheeled her harp to the exit, and was gone in a flash.

  Moments after she left, I moaned. “Shoot. I was going to ask her about Isabella Acosta. When I brought up Isabella’s name at the book club tea, Meaghan wasn’t enthralled with her, but she didn’t have time to discuss. There’s something about that woman I don’t trust. Not just because she pointed a finger at me.”

  “She’s different,” Joss said judiciously.

  “You said Holly Hopewell’s art is hanging in Acosta Artworks.”

  “Yep. Two beautiful pieces, both eight-foot-square seascapes. Holly must have had to stand on a ladder to complete them.”

  Maybe I’d ask Mrs. Hopewell about Isabella. Perhaps she could shed light on why the woman had borne false testimony against me.

  Fifteen minutes later, when I was ready to tackle organizing items on the patio, Joss asked if she could head out a tad early. She wanted to see her aging mother, a former organist at the Presbyterian Church who was suffering from dementia.

  “Of course.” I never refused Joss time with her mom. How I wished I’d had more with my own.

  “We had one of our best sales days ever,” Joss added as she shrugged on her overcoat. “We should come up with more themed Saturdays to promote business.”

  “Love it. Tomorrow, let’s put a plan together.”

  After Joss left and the last customer departed, I turned over the Closed sign and strode to the patio. Yvanna and her sister had tidied up. Every vestige of tea and treats was gone. However, the shelves, as I’d expected, were in disarray.

  Pixie joined me and nudged my ankle with her nose.

  I knelt and scratched her chin. “A few more minutes. That’s all. Promise. Why don’t you play with Fiona?”

  Pixie meowed and swished the air with her tail, signaling Fiona still hadn’t returned. I did my best not to worry. As long as she was keeping her nose to the grindstone and not pranking someone or socializing with other fairies, the queen fairy would be happy and let Fiona associate with me, right?

  I said, “Fiona will catch up to us later.”

  For the next few minutes, I moved from shelf to shelf reorienting the figurines to face front. Then I reorganized the larger decorative items, including the water wheels, gazebos, slides, and silos, moving them to the lower shelves and repositioning the smaller items, like fencing, lighting, and ladders, to the shelves above. Customers needed clarity when viewing these items. The tendency for many eager newbies was to buy everything, but using too many big items could overpower a garden and using too many small ones created clutter.

  Next, I tackled the learning-the-craft corner and potting supplies. First, I wiped down the table and benches, and then I folded the clean towels and tossed the dirty ones into a laundry bin that resembled a miniature log cabin. I checked the seals on the opened bags of soil and moss. If air seeped into them, they would dry out. After freeing the hose of kinks and coiling it into its embossed steel hose pot, I stood with my fists planted on my hips and surveyed the scene.

  Satisfied that my work was done, I scooped my Ragdoll kitten into my arms, fetched my purse and denim jacket, locked the front door, and said, “All set. Let’s go.”

  As we were walking past Wizard of Paws, it dawned on me that I hadn’t turned off the coffee urn in the shop. I’d forgotten because when Joss left and I went to the patio, I’d lost track of my routine.

  Grumbling, I made a U-turn and hurried back. I didn’t switch on the lights as I slipped inside. Waning sunlight offered enough illumination so I wouldn’t trip. I skirted around two center display tables and eased my way to the coffee and tea service. I paused when I heard a thud on the patio.

  Fiona didn’t make thud-like sounds.

  In a flash, my sweet fairy materialized and flew to my shoulder. “Psst. Did you hear that?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Focus. Someone’s sneaking in through the secret door.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m dead serious.” She flapped her wings hard to keep herself hovering in one place.

  Pulse racing, I peered through the interior shop window toward the corner of the patio where the secret door had been discovered, but I couldn’t make out much. The twinkling lights were set to switch on at eight a.m. and off at six p.m. “I don’t see—”

  I heard a squeak and then something scraping and the faint sound of leaves fluttering.

  “Aha!” Fiona cried. “It’s our landlord.”

  Enough light filtered through the pyramid skylight that I could make out a head with thinning salt-and-pepper hair emerging through the foliage. It was, indeed, Logan Langford. How did he learn about the hidden entry? I supposed he could have known if he had master plans to every rental space in the courtyard.

  Fiona tickled my ear. “Want to have some fun?”

  “No, pranks. I want to alert the police.”

  “It’s not a prank. Watch.” Using magic, she raised a small set of wind chimes fitted with a graceful green-winged fairy on its handle. With great effort, she transported it to me. “When you see me sprinkle fairy dust, clang this.”

  Before I could respond, she darted through a vent and reappeared over the patio. She glimpsed right and left and swooped to the learning-the-craft corner. What was she up to? She hefted one of the towels I’d folded and whizzed to Logan, who had finished wriggling onto the patio and was lumbering to his feet. As he brushed off his knees, s
he showered him with gold fairy dust.

  Even though my nerves were jangling, I clanged the wind chimes on cue.

  Fiona tossed the towel in the air, flew beneath it, and started moaning so loudly I could hear her in the shop.

  Logan caught sight of her and shrieked. “Ghost!” he cried. Crazed, he threw his hands into the air and raced toward the main showroom.

  So he wouldn’t spot me, I ducked down and peeked out the lower corner of the window. He whipped open the French door, sprinted through the shop to the Dutch door, and flew out the exit.

  Fiona dumped her towel disguise and sped to me. Her laughter had turned to hiccups. Mine, too.

  When I caught my breath, I said, “That was a prank.”

  “Wrong. It was subterfuge.”

  “He heard you because you sprinkled him with fairy dust, right?”

  “Yep.” She floated midair and smirked.

  “Did you learn to do that at fairy school?”

  “No. My mother taught me. It’s sort of like transmogrification, but not.”

  She rarely mentioned her mother and then only briefly.

  “Why do you think he was here?” she asked.

  “Maybe, like Mick, he’d hoped to encounter a fairy when no other humans were around. Or he wanted to get an idea of which items to use to make his first fairy garden without the typical store distractions.”

  “Get real,” Fiona said like a sassy teenager.

  “Yeah, you’re right. If I believe that, I have some swampland in Arizona to sell myself.” I chuckled.

  “What if he killed Mick and wanted to gloat?”

  Her words gave me pause. What if Logan had hoped to kill me the first time and had come back for a second shot? I shuddered at the notion. No, I was not the target.

  As I took the white towel that had served as our resident ghost back to the craft corner, I considered contacting Detective Summers about the break-in, but decided calling him when nothing untoward had happened seemed unnecessary. And how would I explain the ghost sighting to him if he confronted Logan and Logan admitted to having seen one?