A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Did she say why?”

  “Because you’re too curious for words.”

  “Curious as in odd or curious as in prying?”

  Fiona scrunched her nose. “How would I know?”

  “What was the poodle owner’s reply?”

  “Nothing, why?”

  Suspicion gnawed my insides. I peered at Isabella again. She was standing by herself, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Was she spreading more lies about me? Before I could approach her, she sprinted through the shop as if she were on her way to a fire.

  Fiona fluffed her wings. “The lady with the Weimaraner hopes they find Mick’s killer soon. She said the murder was casting a pall over Carmel-by-the-Sea.” Fiona cocked her head. “What’s a pall?”

  “A gloomy cloud.”

  As if the weather god had a sense of humor, suddenly the patio went dark. A huge cloud blocked the sun’s rays from entering through the pyramid skylight overhead. I shivered.

  Chapter 12

  Leave room in your garden for the fairies to dance.

  —Anonymous

  “Good-bye, thanks for coming,” I said as customers left the shop. To a person, each told me how much they had enjoyed the tea as well as the book club. A few wished they’d seen a fairy. I suggested they sign up for a learning-the-craft seminar to make a fairy garden; it would help them open their hearts.

  As the last attendee walked out, I breathed a sigh of relief. All in all, the event had been a hit. I strode outside to stretch and caught sight of Brady sweeping the sidewalk in front of Hideaway Café. He was whistling and seemingly at peace with himself. I envied his calm.

  A screen door squeaked open. I spotted Emily Watkins and a lean man in a three-piece suit exiting Wizard of Paws. Shep, off leash, sauntered behind them and sat obediently beside the man, who automatically scratched Shep’s head.

  “You have no idea how much I needed you to do that,” Emily gushed, toying with the bolo-tie necklace hanging around the collar of her wrangler shirt. “You were so gentle. You said all the right words.” She kissed the man on the cheek, but when she glimpsed me, she reared back as if I’d startled her . . . or caught her in the act. “Oh, it’s you,” she cried.

  Unsavory thoughts caromed in my head. Was she, like her husband, having an affair? Was this man her lover? Had she killed Mick to make room for someone new in her life?

  “Courtney”—Emily beckoned me closer—“come say hello to Wright Youngman.”

  Wright? As in Mr. Right and Mick was Mr. Wrong? I silently chided myself and sobered my thoughts. Eager to learn more, I strolled across the courtyard.

  “Wright Youngman, attorney at law.” The man pulled a business card from his jacket pocket.

  I scanned the card, which included his name, followed by specialties—estate planning, trusts, wills—all in bold. I recalled a similar card lying next to Mick’s corpse.

  Emily said, “When Mick’s sister Miranda arrived and demanded her portion of Mick’s will, I realized it was time to contact his lawyer and find out what Mick might have arranged. Mick was very private about these things.”

  Youngman started to speak when the screen door to Wizard of Paws flew open. Miranda Watkins tramped out and nearly rammed into Shep. The dog hopped out of the way and skirted to the other side of Emily for protection.

  Miranda stared daggers at Emily. “Well, you must be happy.” With her orange hair and dressed in black sweater and trousers, the woman reminded me of a scorched pumpkin. “You got your way.”

  Emily sighed. “Not my way, Miranda. Mick’s way. He wrote the will.”

  “You niggled and taunted until he caved to your wishes, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t. I told you, not one word of his last will and testament is mine. I had no clue what he’d done. He and I managed the business together, and we talked about caring for animals, but we didn’t discuss the future.” Emily’s eyes welled up. “He had secrets, Miranda. Lots of secrets.”

  I imagined Emily was referring to his affair with Petra. Were there more secrets? Had Mick done something illegal?

  Miranda sniffed.

  “I don’t even know if he wanted to be buried or cremated.” Emily splayed her hands. “We hadn’t discussed—”

  “Cremated,” Miranda snapped. “Everyone in our family has been cremated. Our great-grandfather didn’t believe in spending money for a plot when all we were going to do was turn into ashes.” She knotted the hem of her sweater in her fist and released it. “According to him, a burial plot was a waste of money.”

  “I’d agree,” Emily said weakly.

  “Mick shouldn’t have died.” Miranda sucked back a sob. “Who wanted him dead? Who, who, who?” She spanked one hand against the other.

  “I don’t know.” Emily chewed on her lower lip. “Honestly, Miranda, I don’t.”

  Given her overly emotive state, I wondered whether Miranda was trying to hide the fact that she’d killed her brother to get her hands on his money, until I recalled Detective Summers clearing her. She had a verifiable alibi. In New York.

  A long silence fell between the women.

  Youngman cleared his throat. “Once again, Miss Watkins, as I said inside, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t.” Miranda held up a hand. “Don’t. Say. It.” She clipped off each word. “My sister-in-law will get the business and the house. And you’ll get your fee. But me? I’m left out in the cold with nothing to remind me of my brother.”

  Emily said, “If you want his car—”

  “It’s electric.”

  “How about his golf clubs?” Emily offered. “I know you love golf.”

  “They’re men’s clubs,” Miranda hissed.

  Emily sighed. “I didn’t think—”

  “You never think, Emily. That’s just it!” Miranda glanced at me and blinked. Hadn’t she realized I was there? Was she suffering such a fit of pique that she was blind to her surroundings? Wedging her black clutch higher under her arm, she muttered, “I don’t know what he saw in you, Emily. I really don’t.”

  Emily said, “I believed in his dreams.”

  Youngman put a hand on her arm. “He told me as much.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “Dreams, schmeams. Are you telling me it was his dream to take care of everyone else’s curs?”

  “No. That’s not what I said. I meant—”

  “Good-bye, Emily.” Miranda marched to the curb and turned back. “Don’t bother to contact me again. Ever. If you see me walking down the street, make a U-turn. Got me?”

  After Miranda turned the corner, Emily smiled at Youngman in the way she had when they’d first exited the shop, and I realized I’d misread everything. Youngman must have been gentle with Miranda when he’d told her how Mick had planned his estate. Youngman had used all the right words to soothe the raging beast—Miranda. Emily had been wise to leave the matter to him. If she had given the news to her sister-in-law on her own, who knew what havoc Miranda might have wreaked?

  Youngman shook Emily’s hand and said, “Whatever you need, call me. We’ll take this one step at a time.”

  “The funeral first,” she said. “The police told me I could proceed after next Wednesday.”

  The attorney nodded sympathetically and headed in the same direction that Miranda had gone.

  Emily stared at me, her horsey face pale, her jaw twitching. “Well, that wasn’t pretty.”

  “I take it you and she were never close.” I offered a friendly smile.

  “At the wedding, for her toast, she said Mick had married beneath him.”

  I coughed out a laugh. “She didn’t.”

  “She did.” Emily sniffed. “Nobody knew what on earth she was talking about. I went to college; he didn’t. But I let it slide. Mick and I were in love. His ridiculous sister wasn’t going to break us apart.”

  “Where did you and Mick meet?”

  “At an animal shelter. We were working summer jobs. I was in charge of the small
dogs. He was in charge of the pit bulls. Ours was a match made in heaven.” She wrapped her arms around her torso and stood frozen, as if she were unable to move. “Or so I thought.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Emily faltered. “I saw lots of people going into your shop earlier,” she said, changing the subject. “Were you having a special event?”

  “We had a book club tea.”

  “I’ve never joined a book club.”

  “It was our first,” I admitted. “It went very well.”

  Fiona darted into view and circled over Emily’s head. She uttered a fairy incantation. Shimmering lavender fairy dust drizzled down.

  Emily shimmied her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I don’t like Petra Pauli.”

  Oho. What kind of fairy dust had Fiona sprinkled on her, a candor formula? If only there were a potion that could make the guilty confess, but I knew there wasn’t. Fairy magic had limitations.

  “Mick was seeing her whenever I went away,” Emily went on.

  I blinked. She hadn’t guessed about the affair; she had known about it. I said, “I heard you and Petra had a—” I didn’t go on. Being brazen was one thing. I wasn’t cruel.

  “A fight?” Emily finished. “About her wanting to fetch her lingerie from my house?”

  I kept mum. If Emily was willing to chat about it, I wouldn’t stop her.

  “We didn’t fight. I told her I’d find whatever was in my house and I’d send it to her. I was very civil.”

  What some people viewed as a fight could be considered a civil conversation by others. I wouldn’t quibble.

  Emily squared her shoulders. “To answer your unasked question, yes, I knew for certain about the affair. Like I said, I went to college. I’m not a babe in the woods. I didn’t press my husband about it because I thought the fling would fizzle.” She combed her hair with her fingers. “I know I’m not pretty. I know I won’t win awards for being the warmest person on the planet, either, but I loved him, and he loved me. I believed in him. I expected us to spend the rest of our lives together.” She lowered her chin and gazed at me from beneath her long lashes. “Did Petra say something to you?”

  “To me?”

  “About our exchange?”

  I gulped. I wasn’t good when put on the spot. One more thing to fix on my ways-to-improve-myself list. I needed quick comebacks and pithy answers. “She intimated that Mick was in love with her.”

  “It was a dalliance, nothing more. Nothing!” Emily slapped her thigh. Startled, Shep keened. Emily bent to pet his head and peered up at me. “I know you didn’t kill him, Courtney. I’m sorry I implied that the other day. I was shaken. Do you think Petra did?”

  “Why would she have?”

  “Because, like I said, Mick wasn’t going to leave me. That had to make her mad. And she has a temper.”

  “You sound as if you know her well.”

  Emily screwed up her mouth.

  “She has an alibi,” I said. “She was at a secret political meeting.”

  “Ha! I bet if you call Oriana Gray, she’ll know if that’s a crock.”

  Oriana Gray, also a councilwoman, owned a sophisticated inn on Junipero Avenue. She could be quite vocal about street noise and the number of unsponsored events in Carmel-by-the-Sea.

  “Oh”—Emily bit her lip and sucked back a sob—“if only I’d been there that night, I could have talked Mick out of going to your place to search for fairies.”

  Fiona zoomed to my shoulder. “He did what? Did you know about this?”

  I nodded.

  “Why didn’t I know about this?” She flitted to and fro. “What else are you keeping from me?”

  I couldn’t answer her. Not here. I trained my focus on Emily. “Are you sure that’s why Mick stole into my shop?”

  “That’s what his note said. You don’t think”—she inhaled sharply—“he went there to meet her, do you?” The way she said her sent chills through me. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t. I mean, you don’t understand. He and Petra did not go to clandestine places. Their affair was out in the open. They met at her house, our house, and well-known inns, too. It was like Mick wanted me to catch him.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “You’re wondering how I know where they met,” Emily continued. “You’re wondering if I was spying on them. No.” She waggled a finger. “I know because Mick had a habit of keeping business cards from every place he went. He was a sucker for them.” She let out a scornful laugh. “Long ago, a mentor told him that having a business card readily available was the best way to promote Wizard of Paws.” She mimed removing a card from a pocket and handing it to me. “As a result, Mick collected hordes of them, too.”

  I flashed on the business cards lying on the patio next to Mick’s body. Why had he carried one for his attorney? Wouldn’t Mick have entered Youngman’s contact number on his cell phone? Maybe Mick had recently visited Youngman and, out of habit, had taken another card. If he’d visited Youngman, had he discussed changing his will by cutting out Emily and including someone else, say Mick’s sister or Petra? Did Emily kill him before he could finalize the change? Had Summers questioned the attorney?

  Shep nudged Emily’s hand and growled.

  She tugged his ears fondly. “I know, boy. I know.” To me she said, “The poor fool has been acting strangely ever since Mick died. He does this growl thing all the time. Especially at two in the morning.” She lowered her voice. “Between us, I wonder if Mick’s spirit might be visiting me. I suppose that might sound silly to you, or perhaps it doesn’t, seeing as you believe in fairies.” She peered at me. “You do, don’t you?”

  I nodded. I didn’t care if Emily thought I was crazy. Fiona was real. She flew in front of Emily’s face and stared into her eyes as if trying to assess the woman’s truthfulness.

  “You know, my great-grandfather swore he saw ghosts at Point Pinos Lighthouse,” Emily went on. “He told my brother and me stories that would make your hair stand on end about wraiths flying around and blowing in his face to taunt him. I’ve never seen a ghost, but I’m a believer.”

  Fiona blew air at Emily; she didn’t react.

  Shep butted Emily’s leg.

  She cooed to him. “Yes, I know, boy. Time to get going.” She met my gaze. “I think S-H-E-P might need special training to work through the trauma. Gregory Darvell has offered to work with him. He said”—she nodded in Shep’s direction—“he might be suffering PTSD. Can dogs get that?”

  “I would assume any living, breathing creature can,” I said. “However, I thought Mick didn’t want Shep to go into competition.”

  “Gregory won’t be training him. He’ll only be helping him psychologically, like a dog whisperer.”

  I wondered whether I should tell her the theory I’d heard at the tea, that Gregory Darvell should be a suspect in Mick’s death. Did Detective Summers consider Gregory a person of interest? The police weren’t keeping me apprised of their investigation. I doubted they were looping in Emily, either.

  “It’ll cost a lot of money, of course,” Emily went on, “but Shep is all I have, aren’t you, boy?” She tickled him under his neck. “Yes, you are.” She tilted her head. “What do you think I should do?”

  “About?”

  “The D-O-G?”

  I bit back a smile. Not because Fiona was sitting on Shep’s head but because Emily’s spelling D-O-G so the dog wouldn’t understand was endearing.

  “Whatever it takes,” I said. “You want him to be happy, don’t you?”

  “More than anything. He’s my world now. Thanks, Courtney. I appreciate your advice. Let’s go, boy.” Emily returned inside Wizard of Paws. Shep followed at her heels.

  As Emily disappeared, I couldn’t help wondering about her motive to kill her husband. She had obviously loved Mick, but he’d duped her, and, with him gone, as long as she wasn’t proven guilty, she would inherit everything. Money could heal a whole heap of regrets.

  Thinking about Emily’s lik
ely inheritance made me reflect on Logan and his possible money problems. Had debt driven him to murder? He and I banked at Carmel Bank, a locally owned business. Would a chat with my loan officer deliver answers? As if. No loan officer, not even mine who had a heart of gold, would give me the time of day about someone else’s finances.

  “What’s got your face in a pucker?” Joss asked as I returned inside the shop.

  “Nothing.”

  Fiona said, “She chatted with Emily Watkins. That woman is crisp.”

  Joss rested a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you take a walk? You’ve been going strong all day.”

  “I need to make a phone call first.”

  I retreated to my office. Fiona accompanied me. Putting the phone on speaker, I dialed the Orchid, Oriana Gray’s inn, and asked the clerk to put me through.

  “Miss Kelly, what can I help you with?” Oriana had a firm, crisp tone. I’d never stayed at her inn or referred anyone to it. Were the beds at the place as hard and unwelcoming as she was? “I’m about to consult with a client. Spit it out.”

  “I want to ask you about”—my mouth went dry—“a meeting.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say you want to set up a meeting?”

  “No. I want to ask you about a meeting. With Petra Pauli. She...” I begged my courage to find its voice. “She said she had a secret political meeting last Wednesday night. I assume you were in attendance.”

  “Heaven’s no. It started way too late for me. I go to bed religiously at ten every night. I need my beauty sleep.”

  Fiona yawned and flitted out the door without saying good-bye. Where was she going?

  “I think Petra planned the meeting on purpose to keep me at bay,” Oriana added. “Did she tell you that I was there?”

  “No. I—”

  “Then I don’t know what the issue is.” Oriana cleared her throat. “Look, Miss Kelly, I know what happened at your shop. You must be devastated. Petra said you’re a suspect. That’s a shame, but if there isn’t anything else, I’ve got to go.”

  I thanked her for her time. When I hung up, I realized my hands were sweating and I was breathing high in my chest. Asking people point-blank for information did not come easily to me.