A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Rather than interrupt them—the theory about Tish was mostly likely just that, a theory, and weak at best—I returned inside to prepare for the book club. I wanted it to go off without a hitch and to be a carefree experience for our guests.

  At ten minutes to two, a cluster of book club attendees arrived. All were in a chatty mood, even the two men. I loved how friendly people in Carmel were. If only something horrible like murder hadn’t intruded.

  Joss directed them to the patio. We’d draped the tables with pretty linens and had placed miniature six-inch fairy gardens as well as cups and saucers, silverware, and tea caddies filled with choices of tea on each. Meaghan had set her harp—a beautiful Celtic lever harp made with rosewood—near the learning-the-craft corner. Yvanna was in our modest kitchen putting together trays of delectable goodies. Earlier, I’d tasted one of her chocolate chip cookies with chiles and nearly swooned. In addition to the lemon lavender cupcakes, she had prepared a delicious rosemary scone and a variety of tea sandwiches.

  When Meaghan started playing “Greensleeves,” memories of my mother filled my mind. She had loved that particular song. She would have been so proud of my decision to open the shop.

  Fiona landed on my shoulder.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Studying.”

  “Studying what?”

  “Magic. Don’t worry. It’s the good kind. Queen fairy approved.” She cocked her head. “Why are you frowning?”

  “I’m sort of nervous. I’m worried people will gossip about, you know...”

  “The murder.”

  “And my part in it.”

  “Tosh,” she said—a favorite fairy word. “These people know you.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “You are innocent,” Fiona said. “Believe in yourself.”

  I glimpsed Meaghan in her element, playing her harp, her face euphoric and eyes closed. The vision helped me take a deep, restorative breath.

  Until a dog yipped.

  A gaunt woman in an exquisite silk sheath, today’s book selection tucked under one arm, strode onto the patio with her chocolate miniature poodle. She was talking on her cell phone. I’d seen her before, exiting Wizard of Paws when Mick and Logan had been going at it. She’d been beautifully dressed then, too, and had moved with the same imperious air. Like her poodle, she sported a curly Mohawk.

  A largish woman in lavender, who was sitting at one of the tables with her well-behaved Weimaraner and two other women with pooches, waved to the gaunt woman. “Isabella, join us.”

  The gaunt woman ended her phone call, took a seat at a table, and commanded her poodle to sit. When I overheard the woman in lavender introduce the woman to the tablemates as Isabella Acosta, I nearly choked. Isabella Acosta was the person who had falsely accused me of arguing with Mick. Why had she done so? She didn’t know me. How could she have thought I was the one having an altercation with Mick that afternoon? Summers must have talked to her by now and dissuaded her of the notion. Otherwise, how could she have the gall to show her face here?

  Holly Hopewell, dressed in a floral-print maxi dress, arrived next. Her leashed Pomeranians walked dutifully by her side. “Courtney, don’t you look cute.”

  “You too.” I smiled.

  She shook a copy of the book we were reading. “Loved this. Did not guess who did it until the end. I’m so happy we’re reading a mystery. I get tired of reading all those bestsellers about a woman’s journey. I do not need to cry and feel angst-y.” She bussed my cheek. “Thank you, by the way, for the beautiful fairy garden. It’s simply lovely.”

  “Oh, good, you received my text.”

  “Of course I did. I check them every few hours.” She scanned the patio. “Hmm. I’m feeling very confident about the vibes here. Perhaps today will be the day I spy a fairy. What do you think?”

  “You have to believe.”

  “Ha! A prudent point, my sister would say.” She patted my cheek. “By the by, I’m canvassing our neighborhood for you. I haven’t found anyone yet who saw you at your desk Wednesday night, but I’ll keep looking. Many of our neighbors live elsewhere and merely come in for a few days here and there. I’ve written a half dozen emails and left voice messages, too. Have faith.” She guided her dogs to a knot of women who were standing near Meaghan.

  The librarian, Miss Reade, a spry woman in her early seventies who was wearing a sparkly silver jacket over gray cigarette trousers, strode onto the patio. “Courtney, love, I’m here. Where do you want me?” She flourished a glittery fairy wand and winked. “I’m ready to let your fairy guide us to new heights.”

  I giggled. “Don’t make fun.”

  “I would never. My grandmother was a visionary. My mother? Not so much. Me?” She laughed a full-throated laugh. “I am a true believer.”

  I enjoyed visiting our beautiful library. The water-wise garden was exquisite with plenty of natural fairy habitats. The interior was filled with books to enjoy. Miss Reade, who had been a school librarian as well as a weekend journalist before taking on her current position, considered it her mission in life to help people discover new authors. She often joked that, given her surname, she had been destined to become a book lover.

  I guided her to an acrylic podium set near Meaghan and told her we would begin in about twenty minutes.

  As I moseyed back to the entrance to the patio, I caught snippets of various conversations. One between Isabella Acosta and the other dog owners gave me pause.

  “If you ask me, Gregory Darvell has lost his mojo,” Isabella said. Even her voice had a haughty edge to it. “He’s lost seven competitions in a row. He couldn’t do a thing with my sweet Cocoa.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hattie Hopewell, a flamboyant redhead in her sixties and older sister to my landlord. She and her brindled Scottie had slipped in without my noticing. I wondered if she’d spotted her sister. “Gregory merely needs to find the right dog.” Hattie was the president of the Happy Diggers garden club; unlike her sister, she did have a green thumb. She loved making eight-inch fairy gardens. To my knowledge, she hadn’t encountered any fairies yet, but I had hopes for her. “Ten years ago, he was brilliant with this one’s mama.” She caressed the Scottie’s ears. “May she rest in peace.”

  The woman in lavender leaned toward her tablemates as if to whisper but didn’t mute her voice. “I hear he’s a suspect in Mick Watkins’s murder.”

  “Gregory?” Hattie said. “Impossible.”

  The woman in lavender tapped the table with her fingernails. “Supposedly, Mick and he were at each other’s throats last week.”

  That was news to me. How many people had Mick riled lately?

  “Mick warned Gregory not to step foot near his shepherd, or else.”

  “What did Gregory do?” Isabella asked.

  “Told Mick to heel, of course,” the woman in lavender joked. “What he actually said was Mick’s dog wasn’t worth the trouble. That set Mick off even more.”

  “Don’t listen to gossip,” Hattie said. “Gregory is not a suspect. Besides he would be one hundred percent in the clear. He has an alibi. Wednesday night he went to San Jose to consult with a friend of my family’s about her Dachshund. Oh, there’s my sister. She knows who I’m talking about.” Hattie rose from the table and bid the dog owners good-bye.

  When she was out of earshot, the woman in lavender clucked her tongue. “Gregory being on the road doesn’t prove anything. From here to San Jose and back is only a matter of hours. Mick was killed in the dead of night.”

  Isabella gasped at the word dead. So did I.

  “Hello, everyone,” a woman crowed.

  All heads turned.

  Petra Pauli strode through the French doors with her collies, which were yet again straining at their leashes. They dragged her toward the dog-friendly table. As Petra was wont to do, she handed off her dogs. This time to Isabella. Then she tossed a copy of the book club selection on the table and orbited the patio to hand out fl
yers. “Don’t miss this coming week’s council meeting,” she said to our patrons. “We want to hear from all of you. Have complaints? Voice them at city hall. We’re here to listen.”

  I noticed a number of women on the patio eyeing Petra’s getup, a snug-fitting olive green sweater over ultra-tight camouflage-style jeans, which she’d tucked into brown boots. The boots matched her briefcase. Each item looked expensive and hip. Definitely not a mourning outfit. Maybe she hadn’t been in love with Mick Watkins after all, or she didn’t buy into the mourners should wear black tradition.

  To each and every person, Petra offered a winning smile, whether that person was receptive to her pitch or not. How politicians continually maintained a public face amazed me.

  After making one pass around the patio, Petra strode into the main showroom to offer flyers to more customers. Through the windows, I spied her talking to an attractive woman—a friend, judging by the way they hugged. The woman handed Petra a tissue. Petra lowered her chin and discreetly blotted her eyes.

  Joss was standing nearby, one hand cupped around her ear. Was she listening in?

  I caught her eye and beckoned her to join me. A minute later, she scurried through the French doors and drew me away from the crowd.

  “We’re waiting on two more people, and then we can start,” she said. “I called each and verified that they’re coming.”

  I glanced at Miss Reade, who was organizing her notes at the podium. “Perfect. Let’s have Yvanna bring out the teapots of hot water and the treats. That’ll take a few minutes. If the last two attendees aren’t here by then, we’ll start without them.”

  “Got it.” Joss turned to go.

  “Hold on.” I clasped her wrist. “Not so fast. You were eavesdropping on Petra and her friend, weren’t you?”

  Her cheeks turned crimson. “You noticed?”

  “I’m not blind.”

  “I heard Emily Watkins’s name mentioned and decided to tune in.”

  “And . . .”

  Joss lowered her voice. “Petra was complaining that Emily wouldn’t let her into their house.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why would Petra want to go inside the Watkins’s house?”

  “Apparently to fetch a few of things that she’d, um, given to Mick.”

  “Like what?”

  Joss batted her eyelashes. “Lingerie.”

  I nearly choked. “Are you kidding me? She admitted to Emily that she was having an affair with him?”

  “Sounded like it to me.”

  “How brazen.”

  Joss bobbed her head. “Needless to say, Petra said Emily called her all sorts of colorful names.”

  “I’d have clocked Petra. The nerve.” I shook my head. “Whether or not Mick was a cheater, Emily is mourning him. She deserves—”

  “Shh.” Joss pinched my arm. “The councilwoman’s heading this way. I’m out of here. Treats coming right up.” She rushed into the shop.

  As Petra neared me, I said, “Nice to see you.”

  She gazed at me warily and glanced over her shoulder. When she returned her gaze, she said, “What did your clerk tell you? Did she hear me and my friend talking about my set-to with Emily?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I can tell by your face that she did.” Petra tugged the strap of her briefcase higher on her shoulder and moved a wadded up tissue from one hand to the other. “Did she tell you the gist?”

  “I heard undergarments were mentioned.” Even using the euphemism for lingerie made my cheeks warm.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Yvanna said from the doorway. “We need to pass through.” She wheeled a teacart carrying three-tiered trays of treats onto the patio. Her sister, a younger version of Yvanna, followed carrying white teapots.

  Due to the interruption, Petra started to walk away.

  I hurried after her. Now who was brazen? On the other hand, the murder had happened on my property, and I was a suspect. I deserved some answers. “Did you hope Mick would leave Emily for you?”

  “It’s none of your business, Courtney,” Petra said icily.

  So much for acting all buddy-buddy with me the other day and offering to head up a phone tree on my behalf. She peered down her aquiline nose at me and held the stare for a moment, and then suddenly she blinked and moisture filled her eyes.

  “He... He...”

  I grabbed a napkin off a table and offered it to her.

  Petra fought for control but lost the battle. “He was going to leave Emily except he died before he got the chance.” She dabbed her eyes with the napkin. “But he promised he was going to do so by the end of summer.”

  I licked my lips recalling our conversation the other day when she’d questioned my alibi. “Petra, if you don’t mind my asking—”

  “I do,” she said, faster at the rejoinder than I had been. “But I’ll tell you anyway, because I know what you’re going to ask. Where was I when he was murdered? If you must know—” Tears dripped down her cheek; she swiped them angrily. “If you must know, I was at a secret meeting, political in nature. No one will be able to verify it, not if they want to keep their job. We abide no leaks.”

  That sounded cryptic. What kind of political meeting couldn’t be disclosed? Who were the we she was referring to? Did Petra fear revealing her plan to me would jeopardize her future?

  “Have you informed the police?” I asked.

  “Why would I need to?”

  “Because Mick is dead.”

  “I had no reason to kill him. I loved him. And he loved me.”

  I recalled my playtime with the fairy figurines when the Petra fairy had said she’d rather see Emily dead than Mick. That still rang true. On the other hand, Petra’s alibi was weak. I mean, c’mon. She had attended a secret meeting that no one could verify?

  I murmured, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Petra mumbled her thanks and strode to the dog-friendly table. She retrieved the leashes for her pets, settled onto a chair, and poured hot water into her teacup. Isabella said something to her. Petra laughed, which jolted me. Had the tears been fake? Were the two women talking about having duped me? Was I developing a bad case of paranoia? According to John Lennon, paranoia was just a heightened sense of awareness.

  I sought out Joss and whispered, “Do you know the woman with the chocolate poodle?”

  “Yep. She owns Acosta Artworks. Right across the street.”

  Of course. The gallery next to Hideaway Café in the Village Shops. I’d passed it and peered in the plate glass windows but had never paid attention to the name.

  “I’ve wandered in on my lunch hour,” Joss said. “Isabella has good taste. The artwork is very expensive. I’d need a year’s salary to purchase something there. She just took on two of Holly Hopewell’s pieces. Why?”

  “Because she’s the one who—”

  “Courtney,” Miss Reade called. “We’re ready.”

  “Hold that thought,” I said to Joss.

  “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  I crossed the patio to Meaghan. When she finished playing “Three Coins in the Fountain,” I told her to take a breather.

  She rose and bowed. The audience offered polite applause.

  After Meaghan pushed her chair closer to the harp, she whispered, “Good turnout.”

  “It is. I hope everyone likes the event. I’d like to make this a monthly feature.”

  Meaghan looped her hand around my elbow. “If it’s okay, I’m going to head back to the gallery. A wealthy local is coming in to check out some seascapes. I’ll come back later to pick up my harp.”

  “When you do, I want to discuss Isabella Acosta.”

  Meaghan wrinkled her nose. “If we must. Not my favorite person.” She bussed my cheek and slipped out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Miss Reade tapped her fairy wand on the edge of the podium. “Welcome one and all.” She introduced herself. “Let’s get started. Pour your tea, pass the scones, and may the fairies open our imaginati
ons.”

  A few in the audience giggled and fixed their eyes upward, as if expecting a flock of fairies to magically materialize. At the same time, Petra shot me a withering look. Why? Was she upset that she’d revealed herself to me? Perhaps she was plotting how she would murder me because I’d put her on the spot and asked for her alibi. Not welcoming the creepy-crawly sensation slithering up my spine, I retreated to a table on the other side of the fountain where she couldn’t ogle me.

  Miss Reade said, “Before we launch into a hearty discussion, let’s thank our hostess Courtney Kelly and her crew for putting on this festive event.”

  More polite applause. The married couple occupying the other two chairs at my table offered their thanks. The wife loved the tea sandwiches and the lemon lavender cupcakes. The husband patted his stomach and said he was partial to the savory rosemary scones. I nabbed one of those and bit into it. Heaven.

  “Now, then,” Miss Reade continued, “how many of you finished the book?”

  Hands went up, but not all.

  “That’s all right. We won’t share any spoilers.” She held up the assigned book, The Secret, Book and Scone Society. “As you all know, the name of the town featured in this series is Miracle Springs. What type of miracles does the town offer?”

  A person I couldn’t see spouted an answer. The husband at my table did the same.

  Miss Reade continued. “There are many literary references in the book. Did any resonate with you?”

  Recognizing the questions the author had shared on her website, I waved a hand. “I liked the choice of Dracula and the character Renfield. Dracula is one of my favorite books.”

  Joss chimed in from the doorway, “Mine, too.”

  “So did I,” another attendee said.

  And on it went for thirty minutes... book lovers eager to exchange views.

  At half past three, when Miss Reade was wrapping up the discussion, I peeked around the fountain. Isabella Acosta was standing near the exit hugging the woman in lavender. Petra Pauli had left.

  As if knowing who I was looking for, Fiona flew to my shoulder and whispered, “I heard the councilwoman say to the poodle owner that she doesn’t like you.”