A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  It was located in a peaked-roof building on Monte Verde Street. The city council met the first Monday and Tuesday of each month at half past four in the council chambers. All meetings were live-streamed and open to the public.

  By the time I arrived, roll call and the pledge of allegiance had concluded. The public appearances portion of the agenda was in progress. I squeezed in at the back of the packed room, with many of the attendees accompanied by their dogs, and turned my attention to Tish Waterman, who was standing at the lectern at the front of the room, addressing the crowd.

  The council consisted of the mayor and four councilmem-bers. Usually the mayor presided, but Petra Pauli appeared to be in charge. She was sitting in the lead seat, holding a gavel. Beside her sat Oriana Gray. Unlike Petra, there was nothing soft about Oriana. She had hard-edged cheekbones, stick-straight hair, and wore boxy black glasses. I’d bet dollars to donuts she thought they were chic.

  “Open Your Imagination is a nuisance, I’m telling you.” Tish was dressed in black, her narrow, scarred face twisted in a snarl. Add a pointy hat and she could easily be cast as a wicked witch.

  Poor thing whisked through my mind. I shoved the notion aside. She wasn’t poor. She was spiteful. So much for thinking we’d had a decent exchange at the post office, however one-sided it might have been.

  “How long has she been speaking?” I asked the woman next to me, not realizing until I turned my head that it was Hedda Hopewell.

  “Too long.” She handed me an agenda. “Look at all we have to get through.”

  I studied the agenda. Most items were dealing with zoning or use permits.

  “Get the hook,” Hedda whispered.

  “All this fantasy,” Tish continued, her voice rising in hysterical pitch. “All this hoo-ha about fairies. It lures riffraff to our town. People hopeful for a sighting. If Miss Kelly purported to have Big Foot living in the shop, at least we’d be able to see him.”

  The crowd tittered. I spotted Isabella Acosta among the throng. Actually, I saw the back of her Mohawk hairstyle. She was sitting in an aisle chair. Her poodle, Cocoa, was on the floor beside her. As if she felt me staring at her, she swiveled. Her eyes narrowed. On a whim, I smiled and waved. She snapped her attention back to the front of the room. She and I needed to clear the air, too, but if she was anything like Tish, that might be impossible.

  “And did I mention there was a murder in the shop? A murder. Of one of our own. We have not had a murder in Carmel in years. It’s appalling.” Tish thumped the lectern with her palm. “Courtney Kelly is ruining the neighborhood, I’m telling you.”

  Unwilling to let her go on, eager to defend my business, I raised a hand to offer a counterargument, but before Petra Pauli could acknowledge me, a man in the first row stood.

  “Mrs. Waterman.” Detective Summers turned slightly so that those behind him could see his face. I was surprised he was there. Usually the chief of police attended the meetings. “Can you describe how this has hurt your business?”

  I gulped. The detective was willing to take a bullet for me? Heart be still.

  “Foot traffic is down,” Tish carped.

  Officer Rodriguez, who was sitting next to Summers, rose to her feet, hand raised. She was dressed in a stylish green dress, her hair cascading down her back. “Actually, foot traffic is up, Mrs. Waterman. All over town.” She waved a piece of paper and grinned at Summers. “We’ve done studies.” Again I wondered if they were an item. They looked good together.

  “Well, my foot traffic is down,” Tish complained. She must have realized that stamping her foot would have been over the top, or no doubt she would have added the physical exclamation point.

  “Perhaps your business needs a makeover, Mrs. Waterman,” Rodriguez replied.

  That earned a few more laughs from the crowd. Tish’s spa, A Peaceful Solution, promised a total makeover if necessary. I didn’t know what that entailed. Shock therapy following a facial?

  Rodriguez tapped her watch. Summers nodded, and the two of them eased along the row and out of the meeting. I noticed their fingertips brushed, but they didn’t out-and-out hold hands.

  “It’s your fault.” Tish pointed at someone in the audience.

  I saw her target. My landlord, Logan Langford. Sitting beside him was my other landlord, Holly Hopewell.

  Tish wagged her fist. “You allowed her to open the business at Cypress and Ivy, Logan. She believes in fairies.”

  Logan bolted to his feet, his face bright red. “I have no right to deny a lease based on a person’s beliefs or line of business.”

  I stifled a snort. Honestly? Hadn’t he been ready to kick Mick Watkins out because the grooming business was too loud? Hedda muttered something that sounded like poppycock.

  “You’re spouting sour grapes, Tish,” Logan went on, “because I didn’t lease to you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Sure it is. You were a day late and a dollar short. Paperwork has to be submitted in a timely manner. If you’d had your act together—”

  “You Langfords, using your money like a sword,” Tish spat. “You think Carmel is yours to run any darned way you’d like, and—”

  “That’s it. You will not take my family’s name in vain.” Logan’s voice swelled to a fevered pitch. “My family has devoted itself to enhancing Carmel and making it a beautiful place for all who visit here. We are stewards—” He scrambled across the row, excusing himself for inconveniencing people.

  “Logan, stop.” Petra Pauli leaped off her chair and nudged Tish to one side. She pounded a gavel on the lectern. “Don’t move, sir.”

  Logan halted. Tish’s face had turned ash white.

  “No more outbursts,” Petra bellowed. “No slurs. Anyone.” She smoothed the front of her white linen suit.

  Tish didn’t listen. She flailed her hands. “It’s all because of your son, Logan.”

  “It is not my son’s fault,” he shouted.

  “Yes, it is. He is a wayward man with the devil’s silver tongue.”

  “Tish, calm down.” Petra put a hand on Tish’s shoulder. “And wrap it up. Stay on point. You’re not here to battle the Langford family. You came here to discuss the fairy garden store.” Petra stepped aside but did not resume her seat.

  Tish scanned the crowd. Her gaze landed on me. “You.” She aimed a finger. “Courtney Kelly. Fairy believer.”

  Fairy whisperer, I mentally corrected.

  “I want you gone. I want this nonsense to stop. I—” Tish sobbed with emotion. The sobs turned into hiccups. “I want—”

  “Time’s up, Tish.” Petra Pauli signaled Oriana, who deftly guided Tish away from the lectern to the far wall. Oriana remained beside Tish, standing like a sentry, as Petra moved behind the lectern. “Start a petition, Tish. That’s the proper way to handle these things.”

  I shivered. If Tish gathered enough signatures, could she really oust Open Your Imagination from Carmel? No way. I’d fight her tooth and nail. I’d start my own petition and charge her with harassment.

  “FYI, Tish,” the councilwoman continued, “if you open your mind to new horizons, with a modicum of business savvy I’d bet you could pick up a few clients from the fairy garden shop.”

  “What do you mean?” Tish wrapped her arms around her torso. Her face was tear-stained. She looked like she’d had the stuffing knocked out of her, what little stuffing there was.

  “Why don’t you solicit the fairy garden shop’s clientele?”

  “Are you kidding? Solicit people who see and hear things that don’t exist?” Tish twirled her finger beside her head. “I don’t want any woo-woo clients.”

  Hedda whispered to me, “That’s because her daughter is woo-woo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her daughter joined a cult twenty years ago. Logan Langford’s eldest son introduced her to it, though he didn’t get sucked down the rabbit hole himself. Since that day, Tish has spouted realism above all else. Between you and me,” H
edda continued, “I bet Tish wishes she could rescue her daughter, except she doesn’t know where she is. She’s gone. Vanished. Within a year, the cult relocated to Colorado, but no one has a clue of the location. Some say they zoomed off in a spaceship. As if.” Chuckling, Hedda squeezed my arm and said, “Don’t let her rile you. That would give her the upper hand.”

  My father would have said the same.

  Hedda scooted past me and sat in a chair another attendee had vacated.

  I stared at Tish as a notion occurred to me. What if Fiona could locate Tish’s daughter? Would finding the young woman change Tish’s mind about me and my business? There must be some kind of fairy network out there. Would the queen fairy allow Fiona to utilize it while on probation? As if drawn to make peace, I moved toward Tish. I stopped short when I spied Emily Watkins approaching the lectern.

  She wriggled the hem of her brown sweater over the waist of her trousers, hiked the rope handles of her Michael Kors tote bag higher on her shoulder, and cleared her throat. “I want to speak, Councilwoman,” Emily said formally.

  Petra gawped. “You?”

  “Yes, me.”

  Emily peered over her shoulder at Gregory Darvell, who was holding on to Shep not far from where Oriana and Tish were standing. Gregory’s mouth twitched at the corners, like he was trying hard not to smile. He twirled a finger encouraging Emily to continue. What was up?

  Emily closed in on Petra. “The microphone please.”

  Petra Pauli blanched, but as required during the public appearances, ceded the spot to Emily. “Proceed, Mrs. Watkins.”

  “Good afternoon, everyone. Give me a sec,” Emily said to the crowd. She rummaged in her tote bag. “I’ve got it.” With a tug, she pulled out a large, sealed baggie stuffed with something hot pink. “Here, Petra, for you, as requested.” Emily shoved the package in the councilwoman’s direction. “I believe this teddy is yours.”

  I bit back a giggle. Emily had brought Petra’s lingerie to the meeting? Talk about gall. It was a shaming to beat any I’d ever witnessed.

  “Wh-what?” Petra faltered. “Why you—”

  “What better place to return your dainties?” Emily gloated. “You took me on in front of others. I decided to return the favor.”

  “Why you—” Petra charged Emily, who dodged her and raced to Gregory and the dog.

  Gregory stood, a smug smile on his face.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Emily rasped.

  Petra squared her shoulders and stared at the crowd. All were watching her with rapt attention. She smoothed her hair, softened her brow, and offered a confident smile. A true professional. But I could tell Emily had rattled her. Even from the back of the room, I could see Petra’s cheek was ticking with tension.

  Ooh, how I wished Detective Summers had stayed around to see that exchange. Was another murder on the horizon? Bad Courtney. Don’t make light of the situation.

  Quickly, Petra adjourned the public appearances portion of the meeting and suggested a ten-minute recess. People started to rise.

  “Courtney, dear.” Holly Hopewell eased along the aisle, her navy blue artist’s smock brushing against the dogs she skirted. When she reached me, she said, “Tish made a vicious attack against you. She had no right.” She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks to your sister.”

  Hedda, who was gathering her purse and sweater, waved to Holly. She mimed getting something to drink. Holly nodded.

  “Mrs. Hopewell,” I said, moving closer to avoid the hubbub of the crowd, “have you found any witnesses who saw me in my house yet?”

  “No, dear. I’m still working the issue. And it’s high time you call me Holly like your mother did.”

  I nodded. “Holly, what can you tell me about Isabella Acosta? I heard you have a couple of art pieces hanging in her gallery. Joss said they’re gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is Isabella good to you?”

  “To me, yes. Placement on the walls is premium, but I’m new to her. She aims to impress. Between you and me, I’ve seen her interact with other artists, and she can be”—Holly tapped her chin—“prickly. No smile. No warmth. As far as I know, she has no personal life. She’s not married. She has a friend or two.”

  “How is she as a businesswoman?” I asked.

  “She pays on time and gets top dollar. Our split is fair. I can’t fault her there.”

  “Did she poach you from another gallery?”

  “No, dear. All my works in other galleries have sold. I have no outstanding agreements. Why are you interested?”

  “Thanks to Isabella Acosta, I’m a suspect in Mick Watkins’s murder. She said she saw me arguing with him. She lied.”

  Chapter 17

  In the midst of our lives, we must find the magic that

  makes our souls soar.

  —Anonymous

  As Holly joined her sister, I wended through the crowd toward Tish Waterman, but a number of her friends had rallied around her. Had she seen me approaching? Were fairies as protective of their queen? Tomorrow, I would reach out to Tish via telephone and invite her to tea. Not at my shop, of course. She wouldn’t step foot in there. The Tuck Box, a gingerbread-style tearoom, the house originally constructed by designer-builder Hugh Comstock in 1927, could be neutral territory.

  Keyed up from the meeting, I hurried to Open Your Imagination. When I entered, Pixie scampered to me, thrilled that I hadn’t forgotten her. Joss had gone home but had left the lights on. She had left me a note regarding security company quotes. Both were the same, and we could discuss tomorrow. In addition, she wrote a note that she had contacted the bank and had fixed our credit issue. She’d figured out it wasn’t a loan covenant breach but a glitch with an auto-pay thingie—the technical term, I presumed—and was not something nefariously engineered by Logan or anyone else. Relieved, I would call the nursery in the morning and ask the company to follow through with our order.

  With Pixie in my arms, I strode onto the patio and called out to Fiona.

  She swooped to me, her eyes wide. “You’re okay. I was worried. Joss told me not to be, but I was. So what happened?”

  “Calm down.”

  “I’m calm.” She sat on a wrought-iron table cross-legged, her elbows propped on her knees.

  Quickly, I explained the situation with Tish Waterman—her fury at Logan and her distress with me. I explained that she might start a petition to get rid of the shop. I shared my idea that if we could find Tish’s missing daughter, we might be able to mend fences. “Do you think you can do anything to help?”

  Fiona hummed for a long moment. Finally she said, “I’m not sure, but I’ll suggest the mission to my mentor.”

  Once again, I wasn’t sure of fairy protocol. How did it work? Did the mentor report directly to the queen fairy, or was there another level to the hierarchy?

  Fiona scrambled to her feet and soared into the air. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” I called, but she was gone.

  Feeling slightly adrift, I turned off the lights, double-checked all the locks on the windows, made a mental note to add a bolt lock to the secret door, and went home. Dinner held no appeal. Talking online to my friends didn’t, either. I wrote my father a text to let him know Joss had fixed my financial problem and assured him that the matter with Tish Waterman was under control. It wasn’t, yet, but why worry him?

  He replied instantly: Good to hear. Sleep well.

  Unable to sleep well, if at all, I retreated to the greenhouse. For a long time, I worked on a new fairy garden. I chose two clay pots, one large and one small. I filled the larger with soil, and then, after cracking the smaller in half, I wedged one half into the dirt of the larger planter, which created a path along the right side. I interspersed baby tears and small wooden steps to create a staircase. At the top of the planter, I scattered small stones and nestled a boulder at the center. It looked dreary and cold. Beside the bould
er, I placed a blond fairy that was reaching for the sky, as if beckoning for help. At the base of the staircase, I set a dark-haired fairy, ready to climb. In my mind, she represented Tish on the hunt for her daughter. Along the staircase, I inserted teensy lights, representing Fiona and her fairy world. Again I wondered if she might be able to help Tish reunite with her daughter and whether the queen fairy would or would not allow such a quest. Only time would tell.

  I didn’t go to bed until after midnight.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning arrived with a riot of noises: birds chirping, mowers mowing, doors slamming.

  Groggily, I clambered out of bed and peeked out the window. A neighbor was moving out of her house across the street, which explained the slamming doors. I washed up while rehashing my last dream, which included Tish running up a grassy knoll, Logan juggling a flurry of dollar bills, and Shep playing tug-of-war with Gregory. Surprisingly, neither Emily nor Petra had made an appearance in the dream. Did that mean I thought they were innocent of Mick’s murder?

  After feeding Pixie and downing an easy breakfast consisting of hard-boiled egg mashed with mayonnaise, dill, and mustard on whole wheat toast, I threw on a blue-striped poplin jumpsuit, a cardigan to ward off the morning chill, and suede loafers.

  I didn’t race to work. I strolled. Even on a crush-rush kind of day, I enjoyed drinking in the soothing scent of salt-sea air and gazing at the many flowers planted along the walkways.

  Joss had beaten me to the shop and had started a pot of coffee. The aroma caught my attention. My mouth started to water.

  I chanted, “Coffee, coffee,” like Meaghan had yesterday.

  Joss patted my shoulder. “Ready and hot. By the way, Yvanna dropped off cookies. Double chocolate chip, if you’re ready for sugar.”

  “Am I ever!” I liked to eat healthy, but I was always in the mood for a sweet treat when having a cup of coffee. I nabbed a cookie and bit into it. Delicious. I set Pixie on the ground and gave her a nudge. She tore onto the patio looking for her fairy pal. “Nice top, Joss. Is it new?”