A Sprinkling of Murder (A Fairy Garden Mystery Book 1)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

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

  “You can trust her.”

  “I meant about the brownie.”

  “Delicious. The pecans are a nice touch.”

  He grinned. “It’s a family recipe. Handed down from my grandmother.”

  “So you won’t share?” Meaghan batted her eyelashes. Working it. She was incorrigible.

  “I’ll think about it.” He turned to me. “By the way, what’s going on with the investigation? Any news? I saw Logan Langford nosing around the Village Shops, asking my neighbors about their rents and such. I don’t trust that guy.”

  Fiona appeared over Brady’s shoulder. “You left without me.” She alit on my arm and plumped her wings. “Of course, it was partly my fault. I was busy sleuthing. I wasn’t around.”

  Sleuthing what? I wondered. At times, she was as elusive as the wind.

  “And later,” Brady said, drawing my attention back to the conversation, “Langford came in here to meet with that attorney.” He snapped his fingers searching for a name. “Youngman.”

  “Wright Youngman?” I asked. “Emily Watkins’s attorney?”

  “Yes. He leases the unit in the Village Shops above Acosta Artworks.”

  I sucked in a breath. Could it have been Youngman, not Emily, who had sicced Isabella Acosta on me? Was the man in love with Emily or simply serving as her protector now that her husband was dead?

  “You’re frowning, Courtney,” Brady said.

  “Do you know Isabella Acosta?”

  He nodded. “She comes in about once a week with a client. She’s all business. Why?”

  “She’s one of the main reasons the police are interested in me as a suspect.”

  Brady smirked. “If you ask me, she ought to be a suspect. She was furious when she picked up her precious Cocoa the other day at the groomer. Mistakenly, someone had given the poodle a Mohawk. Not cool.”

  “But Isabella sports a Mohawk.”

  “She got her hair trimmed that night to match him so that he wouldn’t feel self-conscious.”

  I bit back a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  “Poodle owners can be quirky.” Brady’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

  Would a bad haircut on her dog have driven Isabella to murder? If the dog were a show dog, possibly. “Is she friends with Petra Pauli?”

  “They have the occasional lunch. They’re usually talking about city restrictions. Isabella would like a larger sign for the Village Shops.”

  Meaghan tapped the table. “Go on about Wright Youngman, Brady. Did you hear what he and Langford were talking about?”

  “A lease perhaps?” I asked.

  “Nope. They were discussing bank loans. If I heard correctly, Langford said he was being gouged.”

  “As in usury?”

  Brady nodded.

  Youngman’s specialties were estate planning, trusts, and wills. Would he know how to rectify a debt?

  “I’ve got to go.” Brady brushed my shoulder with a fingertip. “Keep me in the loop.”

  A shiver—the good kind—shimmied up my neck.

  “Brady.” Meaghan grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and held fast. “Will you ask our waitress to bring me another brownie? Pretty please?”

  He chuckled and said, “Sure. Are you planning to take it to a lab and dissect it?”

  “Nope. I intend to devour every last morsel.”

  When he left, I said, “Go easy, girlfriend. You don’t want to fight a sugar rush all afternoon.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A short while later, after paying the bill, we left the restaurant and crossed the street. Dodging traffic, Meaghan promised to touch base the moment she heard from her techie artist. In front of Open Your Imagination, she bussed me on the cheek and said, “Keep your spirits up.”

  As she dashed away, I paused, captivated by a scenario that was playing out down the street.

  “What’s caught your attention?” Fiona asked.

  I pointed at Logan Langford standing outside the driver’s side of his Lexus SUV. He was tying an antique desk on top using nautical knots. A young, slender man with dark eyes and a hooded brow was standing on the far side of Logan. He said something. Logan glimpsed left and right as if trying to discern whether they were being watched.

  Deftly, I pretended to be checking email on my phone. After a brief moment, I returned my focus to them, fascinated. What had the young man said? Did it have to do with Logan’s usury issue? The young man jutted a hand at Logan. Pinning the desk with one hand, Logan used his other to execute what looked like a secret handshake. The men clasped wrists and slid their hands down to a grip. They then flipped their hands over, whacked the backs together, and gave a thumbs-up gesture.

  “See you, sucker,” the younger man bellowed.

  He hopped into a green BMW and swerved onto the street, nearly striking Logan, who shouted a curse. The younger man cackled and waved a not-so-nice good-bye. The grinding sound the BMW made as it sped away was lethal.

  Chapter 20

  Nothing can be truer than fairy wisdom. It is as true as sunbeams.

  —Douglas Jerrold, “Our Honeymoon:

  An Apology and An Explanation”

  The moment I walked into the shop, Joss darted to me. “Call Meaghan. Now.”

  My pal and I had only parted minutes before. What could be so urgent?

  “Now,” Joss repeated.

  “Okay, okay.” I skirted the sales counter and dialed Meaghan’s cell phone.

  She answered after one ring. “I’ve got good news. I’m coming right over.”

  Seconds later, Meaghan flew through the front door, breathless. “My guy has already accessed your chat room account and found your digital footprint.”

  “Her what?” Joss asked.

  Meaghan recapped what she’d told me at the café. “He found digital proof that distinguishes Courtney’s writing from anyone else’s.”

  “Explain,” I said.

  Fiona flitted between Joss and me. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

  Meaghan opened the Notes app on her cell phone. “As it so happens, you always add a smile emoji after you write LOL.”

  “Big deal. Everyone does.”

  “No. Everyone does not. Most people use one or the other. In addition”—she referred to the Notes app—“you use the shortened version of U for you.”

  “My father hates that I do it. He doesn’t like text shorthand.”

  “You also write enuf for enough and LMK for let me know. There are dozens of other abbreviations and repetitions that you use, making it unmistakable that it was you at the computer that night. My guy is writing up a report.”

  I grabbed Meaghan in a bear hug. “Who knew that being boringly predictable would prove I’m innocent?”

  Joss said, “You should contact Detective Summers.”

  I tapped the detective’s number into my cell phone. His phone rang three times. He didn’t answer. I ended the call, dialed the precinct, and asked for him. He answered in less than a minute. Had he been monitoring his cell phone calls? Had he avoided mine on purpose? It didn’t matter. I filled him in on Meaghan’s friend’s findings.

  Summers sounded reasonably impressed. “Have him send his report to me. If our techs confirm...” He gave me his email.

  I jotted the email on a notepad. “In the meantime, I have another bit of news.”

  Summers made a sucking sound, like he was enjoying a late lunch at his desk. “I’m all ears.”

  I told him that Isabella Acosta, the person willing to lay Mick’s murder on me, had been upset about the haircut her poodle received at Wizard of Paws.

  Summers snorted. “You think she’d kill Mick over a bad haircut?”

  “If the dog’s a show dog.”

  “It’s not. I know Cocoa. The poor cur couldn’t obey a hand signal if his life depended upon it. He walks and sits. That’s the scope of his talent.” Summers clucked his tongue. “For a poodle, he’s not very brigh
t.”

  “How do you know Isabella?” I asked as I sketched a fairy on the notepad.

  “We dated for a nanosecond.”

  It was my turn to snort. “I can’t see it.”

  “Nobody could. We’d met at the plein-air event last May and got to chatting about art. We went out for dinner. Our budding romance fizzled after one date. I learned more about her errant dog than I’d ever wanted to know.” He wadded up something that crackled—the wrapping for his lunch, I imagined.

  “Do you have any other leads?” I asked.

  The silence was deafening.

  After a long moment, Summers said, “Good-bye, Courtney.”

  I stared at my cell phone. Call ended. Shoot.

  “Uh-oh,” Joss said. “You’re frowning.”

  “What did he say?” Meaghan asked.

  “If his people confirm the evidence”—I twirled a hand—“I assume I’ll be in the clear.”

  “That’s great.” Joss high-fived me.

  Meaghan crushed me in a hug.

  Fiona did backflips in the air. Fairy dust glimmered in her wake.

  “If,” I cautioned them. “In the meantime, I gave him another suspect to consider. Isabella Acosta. Although I’m not sure he took that suggestion seriously.” Truth? I knew he hadn’t.

  “Hello-o-o, am I interrupting a celebration?” a woman called as she entered the shop.

  Pastor Li, the silver-haired Asian leader of the congregational church near my house, limped toward us, her dog-carved cane providing serious support.

  “Please, come in.” I hurried to her and offered my elbow.

  The pastor didn’t take it. She tilted her head back and looked into my eyes. “I was speaking with Holly Hopewell a bit ago. I’ve been in Chicago at a conference for a few days. Holly told me the horrible news about the murder. She said you’re a suspect.”

  “Not any longer,” Meaghan crowed.

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” Pastor Li said. “I told Holly it couldn’t be so. I saw you a number of times that night, Courtney, as I let my sweet pup out.” Her dog wasn’t a pup. He was an aging shar-pei, more wrinkles and belly than legs at this point. “Poor dear has to pee frequently. He didn’t settle down until nearly two a.m.”

  I clasped her hand. “That’s wonderful. Not about your dog. But that you saw me.” I said to Meaghan and Joss, “More corroboration of my innocence. Whee!”

  They cheered.

  “Pastor Li, would you go to the police precinct and tell them?” I asked.

  “Of course. I’ll go there immediately, if”—she smiled—“you’ll consider coming to church to celebrate.”

  “Will do.” I kissed her cheek. I hadn’t been to church in months. Sundays were busy at the shop. Plus, I often considered nature my church. I did a lot of praying while walking. “How about a set of wind chimes, ma’am, on the house?”

  “No, thank you. We don’t have boastful things at the church.”

  “But angels love music,” I countered.

  She tittered. “Another time.”

  Meaghan said, “I’ll walk with you to the precinct, ma’am.” She offered the pastor her arm.

  At the same time, Petra Pauli rushed in, nearly steamrolling over Meaghan and the pastor as they were exiting the shop. Meaghan shot her a peeved look. Petra was oblivious.

  “What’s with all the hoopla, Courtney?” Petra asked. “I could hear you cheering from across the street.” She ran her fingers though her tangled blond curls and shifted the Open Your Imagination shopping bag she was carrying to her other arm.

  “Courtney is exonerated,” Joss shouted.

  “Of murdering Mick Watkins? How wonderful!” Petra exclaimed. “Of course, I never thought you were guilty.” She gave me a hug that felt more like a chest bump. No squeeze. No hands on back.

  I didn’t judge. I sensed touchy-feely wasn’t her thing. I eyed the shopping bag. “Do you have a return?”

  “Yes. Actually, an exchange.” She pulled down her red-cropped sweater—it had crept up on her dash inside—and smoothed one hip of her slim jeans. “Rather than the ones I purchased, I’d prefer to have teacups with fairies on them.” She handed me the bag and roamed the shop. “I saw some the other day,” she said over her shoulder. “How I would love to see a fairy.”

  Fiona popped into view and hovered by Petra’s ear. The woman didn’t have a clue. She didn’t even feel the breeze.

  Laughing, I hurried after her and steered her toward the Reutter Porcelain that featured a storybook tea set with flower fairies. “These are lovely.” The sweet pea fairy was my favorite. “If you don’t like them, we have Copeland Spode fairy dell teacups. They would be lovely for your project.” I gestured to the nearby display table where the Spode cups were sitting. “By the way, if you’re interested, I am offering a teacup fairy garden workshop in a few days. They’re simple to make. You should join us.”

  “Maybe I will.” Petra leaned in to me. “Speaking of Mick’s murder...”

  I gawped. We hadn’t been.

  “I asked around about Gregory Darvell,” Petra continued. “I know he had it in for Mick. A few of us were talking the other day at the book club. One woman said Gregory wanted to get his hands on that dog. The German shepherd. Shep. You saw Gregory at the council meeting fawning over the dog, didn’t you? While Emily—” Petra blew out a quick burst of air, obviously remembering how Emily had publicly shamed her with the hot pink lingerie. “This is pretty.” She picked up the sweet pea fairy teacup and raised it to the light. “I love purple. It’s such a regal color.” She set it down and inspected another. “Back to Gregory.”

  Despite the fact that Gregory sneakily had entered the dog in competition, I said, “He can’t have killed Mick. He was in San Jose on a training appointment when Mick died.”

  “That’s just it,” Petra said. “He wasn’t. A fellow councilperson, Oriana Gray, saw him driving in Mick’s neighborhood that night.”

  “That can’t be true. I spoke with Miss Gray. She went to bed early, which was why she didn’t attend your secret political meeting.”

  “Not that early. She thought he might have been stalking Mick.”

  “Stalking?”

  “Following him to see when he could strike. She wondered if Gregory tailed Mick to your shop. She definitely saw—” Petra gasped. “Oh, no!” She pointed out the window. “There he is. Darvell.” Her face turned ash white. “Is he following me? Has he figured out that I know his alibi is bogus?”

  “Unless Oriana was mistaken.”

  “She never is. The woman has a steel-trap mind.”

  I wasn’t sure a good mind substituted for decent eyesight. What kind of car did Gregory drive? Was it as unremarkable as Miranda Watkins’s black Honda? Could Oriana have been misguided about who had been driving?

  I peered out the window. Gregory was outside Wizard of Paws, taking Shep from Sonja. He wasn’t looking in our direction, which suggested, to me anyway, that he wasn’t coming after Petra. I presumed he was heading off to give the dog another training session.

  “Big dogs,” Petra muttered. “Too much work if you ask me.”

  “Your dogs aren’t slouches in the size category.”

  “They’re not lap dogs, but they’re not the size of Shep.” She splayed her hands, indicating a huge animal. “How Mick adored him.”

  I thought again of Gregory Darvell’s motive. Would he have killed Mick for the opportunity to show the dog and revive his reputation as a premier trainer?

  * * *

  While Joss saw to Petra and her purchases, I grabbed my cell phone and headed outside. I caught a glance from Joss, but I ignored it. She didn’t like Petra; I understood that. However, we didn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing our customers.

  Gregory was on one knee near the entrance to Wizard of Paws, slipping a leash over Shep’s neck. Sonja stood nearby. “His teeth look good,” he said.

  Sonja nodded her agreement.

  “His co
at is glossy. You’re doing well with whatever you’re feeding him.”

  Sonja beamed. “Mick believed in a one-protein diet. No corn, wheat, or other fillers.”

  “Excellent.” Gregory lumbered to his feet and asked Shep to sit. The dog obeyed, his gaze fixed on Gregory.

  “Nicely done,” I said as I joined them.

  Fiona flitted past Sonja and behind Gregory. She hovered above Shep. The dog’s eyes rolled upward, but he didn’t move a muscle. That made Fiona giggle. “Should I tease him?” she asked with a trill.

  I shook my head once, which made her giggle all the harder; she knew I wouldn’t respond aloud.

  “Hey, Gregory, I heard you’ve entered Shep in a competition,” I said.

  Sonja shot him a look. “You what? No, no, no. You cannot. Mick would forbid that.”

  Gregory’s cheeks reddened. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. For air?

  “Emily did not give you permission to do so, did she?” Sonja asked, acting as territorial as if she were the owner.

  “She will. You’ve seen him, Sonja,” Gregory countered. “He takes to training like a duck to water. I was going to tell Emily in time.”

  “When?” Sonja jammed a hand on one ample hip.

  “After the funeral. After she’s had time to grieve.”

  Sonja folded her arms and clicked her tongue, not believing him.

  Fiona knuckled my forehead. “Ask him his alibi.”

  I licked my lips. “You know, Gregory, there are... rumors going around.”

  “I hate rumors,” he shouted. Shep flinched. Gregory petted the dog’s head to calm him. “Sorry, boy.”

  “I hate them, too,” I said. “People were talking about Mick and me, saying I had reason to kill him. Thankfully, that rumor has been put to rest. A witness can verify my alibi.” I offered a supportive smile. “What was your alibi again?”

  He cut a sharp look at me. “I had no cause to kill Mick.”

  “As I said, there are rumors, one of which is that you want to own Shep for yourself.” I was lying, but Gregory didn’t know that, and he did adore the dog. “With Mick out of the picture...”

  “No way,” Sonja said. “Emily loves the dog. She will never give him up.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “However, another way for Gregory to spend time with Shep is by training him. In addition, Gregory is hoping to win back his reputation. He can do that by making Shep a winner, right, Gregory?”