A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Gregory caught sight of me and beckoned me to him. As I drew near, he pressed the clicker and ordered Shep to sit. The dog obeyed on cue.

  “Looks like you’re having fun,” I said.

  “We are. Shep is a natural.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be suffering trauma as far as I can see.” I dangled my hand by Shep’s nose to let him catch my scent. He smelled and allowed me to scratch an ear. Fiona nestled on his other one.

  “He’s responding quite well,” Gregory said. “Like humans, dogs need to be kept busy, otherwise they, like us, can mope. It’s a dark and dirty world down the rabbit hole of depression. Believe me, I know.”

  I recalled the women at the tea talking about Gregory’s having lost his dog-show trainer mojo. Losing a number of competitions in a row had to be disheartening. Would managing a dog like Shep—a natural—help rebuild Gregory’s reputation and return him to glory? That could be a powerful motive to want Mick dead. Mick had blocked Gregory from gaining access to the German shepherd.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmured. “Having lots of dogs to train must help you through those dark times. Planting fairy gardens helps me.”

  He nodded.

  “Ladies at a tea the other day said you have quite a widespread clientele,” I went on. “Dogs as far away as San Jose.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Hattie Hopewell mentioned it.”

  “Hattie. That woman has a heart of gold.”

  “And a green thumb,” I added.

  “And the reddest hair in the world.” He chortled, then grew silent and tilted his head. “You look as though you want to ask me something.”

  Yes, of course I wanted to ask him something. His alibi. “No-o,” I stammered.

  “Perhaps about San Jose? I’m guessing Hattie or one of her sisters mentioned that I drove there the night that Mick...” Gregory faltered. “The night he was killed. Am I warm?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Shep, fetch.” He hurled the tethered ball.

  Shep tore after the toy. Fiona shot into the air. Playfully, she tried to keep up with Shep as he ran. She couldn’t. Shep snatched the tethered toy after one bounce and trotted back with it. He dropped it at Gregory’s feet. Slobber clung to the fabric.

  Fiona settled on my shoulder and wrinkled her pretty nose. “Ew.”

  “Good boy.” Gregory scratched the dog under the chin. “Sit. Paw, paw.” Shep obliged by lifting his left paw. Gregory shook it. “All done.” He clipped on Shep’s leash, wound the rope with ball into a coil, fastened it with a small bungee cord, and hooked the coil over his shoulder. “Time to go back.” Obeying a miniscule gesture by Gregory, Shep shuffled to the man’s left side and paused. Gregory said to me, “Heading our way?”

  “No, I’m going to take a few more photographs.”

  “Too bad. I thought we might talk a bit more.”

  Talk? He was about as chatty as a mime. He wasn’t going to tell me about his client in San Jose, even if I point-blank asked.

  “Enjoy the day,” he added.

  As he strolled off, an unnerving sensation snaked up my back. He’d been toying with me almost as much as he had the dog.

  Chapter 19

  Raindrops are like fairy whispers.

  —Anonymous

  On the way back to the shop, I ate my energy bar and asked Fiona about magic, wondering what happened when a fairy lost it. I was trying to process how desperate Gregory Darvell might have been if he’d lost his dog show–winning talent.

  “If a fairy loses her magic,” she replied, “there are ways to find it again, but she’ll need help from the queen fairy. She alone has the power to restore it. Way back when, a fairy lost her magic and begged the queen’s favor. Punishment was involved. She is old now and keeps to herself.”

  “Losing her magic wasn’t punishment enough?”

  “You don’t simply lose your magic.” Fiona wrinkled her nose. “You have to have done something bad. Very bad. Bad enough that magic didn’t want to remain a part of you.”

  Yipes.

  “Luckily, I didn’t do anything that bad.”

  I wadded up my energy bar wrapper, ready to stride into the shop, when I spotted Isabella Acosta across the street—sans poodle. She was standing in front of her art gallery talking animatedly to Petra Pauli. Each wore a figure-slimming power suit. Petra was stabbing the readout on her cell phone as if proving a point to Isabella.

  After checking traffic in both directions, I scooted across the street. Fiona kept pace. Petra caught sight of me, bid a hasty good-bye to Isabella, and darted into Hideaway Café. To, um, hide? I wondered.

  Isabella spun around and frowned, but she didn’t budge. She planted a fist on one hip. “What do you want?”

  Until learning she’d supposedly witnessed me arguing with Mick, I’d never met the woman. Never been in her shop. And she’d never stepped foot in mine. Come to think of it, the day I’d seen her in front of Wizard of Paws was the first time I’d laid eyes on her. At the book club tea, she’d sat with the other dog owners. She and Petra seemed to know each other. Were they friends or acquaintances? Had the councilwoman pitted Isabella Acosta against me? Why would she do that?

  “I’m Courtney Kelly.” I jutted my hand and offered a friendly smile, one I used often when dealing with crusty clients. “I’d like to get something straight. You told Emily that you saw me arguing with Mick Watkins.”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  She smoothed the collar of her suit. “Hours before he was murdered. You were standing in front of Wizard of Paws.”

  “With Gregory Darvell, the dog trainer?”

  “No, with Logan Langford.”

  “Aha. Logan and Mick were arguing. Not me.”

  “You were there.”

  “Not raising my voice.”

  Isabella pouted. “Mick was glowering at you. You swatted the air.”

  I tried to recall whether Fiona had come between Mick and me. Perhaps I’d shooed her away. My memory was blank. “Mick and I didn’t argue. I liked him.”

  “That’s not what Emily says.”

  “Emily.” Fiona circled my head and huffed. “That woman is poison.”

  I sighed. Emily could have been the one who’d set the lies in motion, in order to give the police a suspect other than herself. I offered another smile. Broader. Really working it. A door-to-door salesman couldn’t have done a better job. “Mick and I weren’t arguing.”

  “I must have been mistaken.”

  “Will you tell Detective Summers?”

  “When I find time. He and I—” Isabella paused and cocked her head. “You’re curious.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Curious, as in odd.”

  “Odd as in different can be a good thing. Who wants to be blah?” I forced a laugh.

  She pursed her lips. “I enjoyed the tea the other day. Cocoa had fun, too. I didn’t see any fairies, though.”

  I doubted she ever would. She was too aloof. She struck me as someone who had bottled herself into a perfect, tidy package, and that was all the world would ever see.

  “Come visit the shop again,” I said, “and I’ll help you build a fairy garden. That might open you to their world.”

  “I’m not a gardener.”

  “You don’t need to be. You only need inspiration and a bit of playfulness.”

  Fiona whizzed above Isabella’s head and sprinkled her with fairy dust.

  Isabella blinked and raised her chin. She inspected the sky, as if anticipating rain, and held out a hand, palm up. “Do you feel the mist?”

  “The fog is rolling in,” I lied. “Fairies enjoy the fog,” I added.

  “I can imagine them having fun in fog,” she said dreamily. “Glowing as they dart back and forth.”

  “Exactly.”

  Isabella shook her head as if to clear the image. “No, no. I hate fog. It makes my hai
r curl.”

  “Longer hair doesn’t curl as much,” I said.

  “This”—she pointed to her Mohawk hairstyle—“has a story behind it.” Without adding more, she ended the conversation and strode away.

  As I crossed the street, I said to Fiona, “What did you do to her?”

  “Gave her a dose of imagination.”

  “Why would she need it? She owns an art gallery.”

  “That doesn’t mean she dreams. Her artists do.”

  The moment I walked into the shop, Joss charged me and tapped her watch. “Where have you been? Are you ready to teach your class?”

  “Sorry. I got waylaid.” I tossed the energy bar wrapper in the garbage pail behind the sales counter.

  “While you were gone, I prepped the craft area and fielded phone calls.” Joss handed me a smock so I wouldn’t soil my clothes. “Holly Hopewell is on her way. She’s running a few minutes behind.”

  “I’m glad she didn’t cancel.”

  “Her sister Hattie vowed to tease her mercilessly if she did,” Joss said. “The others are already here.”

  I thanked her and fled to the restroom where I freshened my face and brushed my windblown hair. Then I filled a glass with water and strolled to the patio to teach the class.

  The bonsai-shaping event was always one of my favorites. I offered it once a month. In the learning-the-craft corner, Joss had preset the table with trees the students would work on and the appropriate tools they would use. Three people were in attendance. Holly would make four. More were registered for next month’s event. Word was getting around that the classes were fun and enlightening. I noticed a few customers who were browsing the shelves for fairy garden items pointing at us and whispering among themselves.

  Seconds before the start of the class, Holly bustled in, looking hip in a semi-sheer Van Gogh–print cape over a denim jumpsuit, her curly hair secured in a fashionable silver clip. She said she had something to tell me, but I asked her to hold the thought as I guided her to the students’ station.

  “Welcome, everyone.” I rounded my small presentation table, set up specifically for this occasion. It held a bonsai, a coil of 1.5mm copper wire, and six-inch stainless steel shears with a micro-tip.

  After a brief introduction and sharing my affection for bonsai trees, I launched into the instruction. “Sitting before you are the same items that are on my table. Wiring is a crucial technique to shaping and training bonsai.”

  The word training gave me pause. I flashed on Gregory trying to train me in the park—okay, not train me, but definitely trying to manage me. Why? Maybe he treated humans the same way he treated animals. Was his alibi a lie?

  I shook free of the notion and continued. “By wrapping wire around the branches, you are able to bend and reposition them. After a few months, when the branches are set, you can remove the wire. Try it with a branch. Like this.” I demonstrated the technique. “One of the issues with wiring is that, during the growth season, branches can quickly become thick. The wire can create ugly scars. So you want to make sure you check your tree often and remove the wiring in time.”

  The owner of Carmel Collectibles, a cherry-cheeked man with twinkling eyes, mumbled that he couldn’t quite get the hang of it. I moved to help him. He was holding his coil at an odd angle.

  “Think of it like wrapping ribbon around a gift,” I said to him.

  That tip seemed to work. He was an expert with ribbon; he made gorgeous bows.

  Returning to my presentation table, I said, “You want to wire all the branches you intend to shape before bending them. It’s tricky.”

  For an hour, I instructed them. When all was said and done, I had four very happy customers.

  As the class concluded, Holly approached me with a cup of tea in hand. Her cheeks were flushed with good energy. “How I wish I could train my garden as well as I can a bonsai.”

  “I could give you some tips on my day off,” I said.

  “I would love that.”

  “Now, what did you want to tell me? Did you find an eyewitness?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, dear, I’m sorry. Not yet.” She set her tea down. “However, I have something else to tell you. About Gregory Darvell.” She clasped my hands. Hers were still damp from using soap and water following the bonsai session. “I found out that he entered Shep in a competition.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Emily has no clue.”

  “Aha!” Fiona hovered over Holly’s shoulder. “I was right. He killed Mick to get control of the dog.”

  “Go on,” I said to Holly.

  “A friend of the family in San Jose has the inside scoop,” Holly continued. “Hattie and Hedda know her. She shows her Dachshund. She’s such a dear. And she never lies. She saw the paperwork.” Holly hesitated. “Is it possible Gregory killed Mick to get his mitts on the dog?”

  I gawked. Had Holly heard Fiona or had my fairy put the notion in Holly’s head? I said, “You should tell the police.”

  “Oh, no, dear.” Holly wagged a finger. “The police and I aren’t cozy. They think I’m a bit of a crackpot.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my secret.” She grinned.

  How I wanted to hear more. I imagined she’d lived a rebellious and colorful youth as an artist.

  “Thank you for the class,” she said. “I’m going home to set my bonsai in the proper window, after which I’ll continue my search for a witness on your behalf. The Poms and I love to walk.” She gathered her newly wired plant and bustled out of the shop.

  At the same time, Meaghan trotted in. “Ready for tea?”

  “Go,” Joss said. She was sitting behind the register reviewing the days’ receipts. “I’ve got this covered. This is our lull time, after lunch and before school’s out.”

  Meaghan looped her arm through mine and steered me out of the shop and across the street to the café.

  Brady seated us at a table on the patio. “Saw you taking a few photos at lunch,” he said. “In the park.”

  “I didn’t see you,” I said, remembering how Ulani Kamaka had sneaked up on me.

  “I was racing past and didn’t stop to say hello. I was on a mission to pick up a few staples. We’d run out. Did you have fun?”

  Even though I’d felt uncomfortable on the outing, thanks to conversations with Ulani as well as Gregory, I said, “I had a ball.”

  He handed us two menus and made a U-turn to greet more guests.

  Meaghan leaned forward. “Am I sensing an attraction between you two?”

  “We’re old friends.”

  “Old friends can be the best kind. You don’t have to go through the craziness of getting to know each other.”

  “Stop. I’m happily single. Okay?”

  “He’s really handsome in an easygoing way.”

  He was that. I wouldn’t disagree.

  We ordered tea and chocolate caramel brownies from our waitress. Meaghan liked to try brownies wherever she went. She was intent on discovering the ingredients in any new flavor.

  I closed the menu. “So, what’s your angle about clearing my name?”

  Meaghan chortled. “No preamble. No ‘Hey, how are you doing? How’s your love life?’ ”

  “I didn’t have to ask. I can see you’re beaming,” I said, “which means you must have seen him during lunch.”

  Her cheeks tinged cherry pink. “I did.”

  “Are you two getting serious?”

  “I don’t think we can be. I adore his passion, but his temper...” Meaghan traced a finger along the rim of the table. “My mother has warned me.” Meaghan’s father had had a temper, too. When Meaghan was five, her mother put a restraining order on him. A year later, he moved to the East Coast. Meaghan received cards on her birthday, but she hadn’t spoken to him in years. “So, for now, it’s a lark. We’ll have fun, but the moment he raises a hand, he’s toast.”

  “Good to know you have limits,” I said, and mean
t it. “Now, the angle that might clear me?”

  “One of our artists is a techie. He said every Internet user has a digital footprint. We need to find yours.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Let’s see if I can get this straight. A digital footprint is a trail of data a user creates while using the Internet.”

  “But we already know the data is in my chat room.”

  “He can take it one step further. If you grant him access to your accounts, on Facebook and other social media, then he can track the way in which you communicate and be able to prove beyond a doubt that it was you in that chat room.”

  My breath caught in my chest. “Really?”

  “Trust me, this guy is wicked smart. Are you open to the idea?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He’ll need your ISP address.”

  “Joss wrote it down.”

  “Text her.”

  I did. Seconds later, Joss sent a reply. I copied it and sent it to Meaghan via text.

  “How did we ever communicate before the digital age?” Meaghan quipped. “I’m forwarding this to my guy.” She tapped instructions and set her cell phone to one side as our waitress brought our treats. “Oh, yum.” Meaghan bit into her brownie and swooned. She hailed Brady who was chatting up a customer by the arched entrance.

  He sauntered over. “Problem?”

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Meaghan gestured to the second half of her brownie. “I love the caramel combined with the extra chocolate chips. I absolutely must have the recipe. Will you share?” She patted an extra chair at our table, inviting him to sit.

  He didn’t. He folded his arms, looking quite foreboding. “If I dole out trade secrets, what will make Hideaway Café special?”

  “I’ll take the recipe to my grave.” Meaghan crossed her heart.

  Brady turned to me. “What do you think?”

  “You can trust her.”

  “I meant about the brownie.”