“I’m not scared,” I shouted, and jabbed the tip of the shovel on the porch to make a point.
However, I was also not an idiot. I retreated inside, switched on all the lights, and locked the doors. Feeling safer, I stole to a window and peered out. I didn’t see any movement. No shadows. No darting figures. No flashlight being doused. No cigarette being extinguished. Maybe I had imagined the sounds, and possibly, when I’d startled, I’d alarmed the Pomeranians. I stared into the dark for another fifteen minutes. Nothing.
Around three a.m., I slipped into bed... with the shovel by my side.
* * *
Monday morning, I awoke feeling surprisingly restored. While I was eating a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs with herbs and cheese, Fiona whizzed into the kitchen and began flitting from my plantings of basil to parsley to chives. She was humming.
“Did you dose me with fairy dust last night?” I asked.
“Whatever are you talking about?” Her voice was high-pitched and flirty. After a year of knowing her, I was savvy enough to recognize when she was lying to me.
“You did. I haven’t slept that heavily since...” I couldn’t remember when. “I faintly recall hearing an incantation.”
She giggled and flew to face me. “It was a harmless potion, created with lavender, chamomile, licorice, and valerian root.” Fairies could make all sorts of botanical potions simply by summoning the essence of plants. They never had to crush or destroy anything. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not, but next time ask me. I awoke and thought I heard someone in the yard, and you weren’t there.”
“What?” She covered her mouth, fingers spread. “Like a trespasser?”
“I’m not sure. I was deep in sleep. Maybe I dreamed it.”
“I’m so sorry. You should never be without your edge. I won’t do it again.”
“Where did you go afterward?” I asked.
“Out.”
I ogled her. Out? When I was a girl, my father had become quickly exasperated by that kind of vague response; now I understood why. A cop, even a retired one, liked his child to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.
“Out where?” I asked.
“If you must know, I went to the library.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. No harm could come from communing with books.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
“No.”
Relieved, she spiraled up to the ceiling, hovered for a moment, and then, screwing up her face with wicked delight, dive-bombed Pixie, who was sound asleep on her pillow. The kitten startled and snarled. She lashed out with a paw. Fiona plunked on the top of Pixie’s head and hugged her ribs to keep from laughing too hard.
Pixie rolled over and tried to crush her.
Fiona escaped in the nick of time.
* * *
Although Monday was my only day off each week, I often came in to the shop to do catch-up tasks. After arriving this morning, I contacted Logan Langford and told him about the break-in. I did not let on that I knew he was the culprit. To my surprise, he approved the installation of a security system. He wouldn’t pay for it, of course, but he said it would add value to the site.
Getting a security company to come out and give a bid wasn’t easy. Many of the companies were closed on Mondays, like we were. I finally cajoled two representatives to appear before the end of the day.
To bide the time until they arrived, I decided to respond to emails and such. Invariably customers who had taken their materials home to build their own fairy gardens had additional questions.
Midmorning, I settled at the chalked chestnut desk in the office to flesh out the ideas for more how-to videos, using ideas that I’d received from my online chat friends. Most of them said I’d need at least five videos to drive traffic to my YouTube channel. Using a fresh notepad, I jotted down: how to arrange foliage; how to position environmental features; which sized fairies went with which pots; how big a pot; and color scheme.
The landline phone jangled. I answered, “Open Your Imagination.”
“Courtney Kelly, please,” a woman with a crackly voice said.
“Speaking.”
“Big Valley Nursery.” The wholesale company that supplied many of our planting mixes and potted plants. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we’ve put a flag on your credit.”
“What’s wrong?” I’d never had any problem with making payments. All the company’s credit cards were at zero balance, and all its bank loans were up to date and paid.
“It seems you have broken a loan covenant. We’ll have to hold shipment on your next delivery until this matter is cleared up.”
“But I haven’t broken any covenant. Who claims I have?”
“As I said, there’s a flag on your account,” the woman said. “Once you clear it up, please send us the proper paperwork.”
“There’s got to be a mistake,” I cried.
The woman hung up. No room for debate.
I grumbled under my breath. How many of these phone calls did she make a day?
As I pulled up the Big Valley Nursery file on the computer, I wondered whether someone had deliberately messed with my standing at the bank. A loan covenant usually required that the borrower could not break the law or engage in immoral activity. I’d done neither.
Out of the blue, I thought of Logan Langford. Had he had a hand in the issue? Had he figured out that I’d spoken to Hedda Hopewell? Even though I hadn’t pressed her for his information, was he retaliating because I’d considered poking my nose into his business?
I sent an email to Joss outlining the problem. She would have to look into the matter; she was a tiger when it came to negotiations. In an instant, she wrote back saying she would come in and handle it. I reminded her it was her day off. She replied that work would be more fun than doing laundry.
My cell phone hummed. I lifted it off the desk blotter and scanned the readout. Victoria Judge had sent a text. Plain and simple: The wheels of bureaucracy move slowly. You are still a person of interest. Working to resolve this. Keep your spirits up.
I set the phone down, and it hummed again. I lifted it. My father was responding to my text about tea: How about now?
Me: Perfect. Hideaway Café on Lincoln. I’d seen people entering earlier, so I knew it was open on a Monday.
Ten minutes, my father replied.
Quickly, I refreshed my makeup, assured Pixie and Fiona that I’d return soon, left a note for Joss, and made a beeline across the street.
Brady greeted me at the hostess’s station. “Nice to see you again.”
I toyed with the hair at the nape of my neck, suddenly aware that I was underdressed in a floral long-sleeved T-shirt and bib-and-brace denim overalls. Why dress up when I planned to do grunt work all day at the shop?
“You look nice,” he said. “As fresh as a summer day.”
My cheeks warmed at the compliment. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Only saying what’s true.” I liked the way his eyes sparkled, as if he were having the best day of his life.
“I’m meeting my father,” I said.
“Great. Follow me.” He guided me to a table on the rear patio. “Here you go.” He handed me two menus. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please. With raw sugar. Coffee for my father. Black.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” He walked away with a jaunty spring in his step.
A minute later, my father strode across the patio, admiring the flowers and vines and lights strung across the expanse. Like me, he had dressed casually—denim shirt, jeans, and work boots. He smoothed his thick hair before kissing me on the cheek, and then took a seat opposite me.
“I heard you fired Gus,” he said. “Not cool.”
“Not cool that you stationed him outside my door.”
He flipped open his menu, doing his best to hide a smirk.
“I want to apologize,” I said, leaning forward on my elbows. “Not for letting Gus go, but for b
eing, well—”
“Sassy? Stubborn? Impertinent?”
“I’m independent, Dad.” I cocked my head.
“Being independent is an asset. You get that from me.” He closed his menu. “By the way, you never need to apologize. I love you, warts and all.”
“I don’t have warts,” I joked.
“Me, either.”
Over the years, my father and I had learned to talk in shorthand. We rarely yelled at each other, though we’d had a few battles. We owed it to my mother to love each other. Forever. I remembered pinky swears with him. And hot cocoa at two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. And his arms around me after Christopher dumped me. He didn’t talk. He didn’t ask any questions. He was simply there.
“Here you go.” A waitress in a red skirt and white bodice set my tea and my father’s coffee on the table and asked if we wanted anything else. She recommended the honey banana muffins, fresh from the oven. We ordered two, and she left.
My father blew on his coffee and took a sip. “So, are you still a suspect in Mick Watkins’s murder?”
“I assume so. The police haven’t exonerated me. Thank you for the attorney, by the way. She’s nice.”
“You don’t need nice. You need good.” Dad set his coffee cup on the white iron table. “You look worried.”
“I think my landlord might be trying to undermine my business.” I told him about the woman from the nursery claiming I’d broken a loan covenant.
“Why would Logan do such a thing?” Dad asked. “And why wouldn’t you suspect a competing business of sabotage?”
“Because there is no competing business within a hundred miles. Plus, I’ve heard rumors that Logan might want to oust me and all the other lessees in Cypress and Ivy.” I told my father about Logan’s stealing into the shop. I didn’t mention Fiona acting like a ghost.
“Is Summers following up on the break-in?”
“Not really. Logan didn’t take anything. And he’s the landlord. He has a right to be inside, even if he steals in through a secret door.”
I spotted Brady standing at the entrance to the patio, looking our way.
My father gazed in that direction. “Does he expect a formal invitation?” He crooked his finger.
Brady moseyed over. “Sir, good to see you. It’s been a while.” He extended his hand. They shook. “I think the last time was when you redid my family’s yard. You were one of the first in the area to use drought-tolerant plants. My mother was over the moon with the result.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
Yes, even in a mild climate like Carmel’s, drought-tolerant plants were of value. Like the rest of California, we’d endured plenty of low-rainfall years.
“Got time to sit?” Dad asked.
“Sure. I’ve got a minute.” Brady settled into the chair closest to me.
“And call me Kip, son. You’re over twenty-one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d heard you’d redone this place,” my father said. “Nice job. You’ve got a ton of five-star Yelp reviews already. Way to go. Your dad loves to talk about you.”
“Blab about me all you want. Secrets are highly overrated. Just ask my ex.”
I wondered what that meant.
Brady started to rise.
My father pinned his shoulder. “Stay a moment longer. I think my daughter could use your perspective.” He quickly explained my situation with Logan Langford.
Brady said, “You want my two cents? I don’t think you have anything to fear from him. He’s had a run of bad luck. First, his wife died. Shortly thereafter, his brothers passed away. Suddenly, he was the go-to guy for the entire family. Not only for his boys and grandchildren, but for his nieces and nephews, as well.”
“That’s just it.” I stabbed the table. “What if he’s in debt because he’s overcommitted and would do anything to get out of financial trouble? ‘Langfords don’t quit; Langfords don’t fail,’ a friend of mine said.”
My father shifted in his chair. “Nah. I don’t buy it. Logan wouldn’t kill Mick to get lease rights back. He could have done that through the court system. And I doubt he’d break into your place with the intent of sabotaging it. What would that get him?”
“If he’d trashed the place, it might have scared me into quitting my lease.”
“Shelve this for a minute”—Dad stabbed the table—“and let’s go back to the murder investigation.”
Fiona flew into view, clearly agitated. Her eyes were squinting and her forehead was pinched, although her wings glowed with vibrant energy as if she’d broken speed records to get to me. Had she sensed what we were discussing? Was she determined to stay up on every facet of the case?
“Who else do you suspect, Courtney?” my father asked.
“Emily Watkins. She inherits everything.”
“Was Mick wealthy?”
“I’m not sure.” I shared the exchange I’d had with Emily and the attorney, adding that the attorney’s card had been on the patio by Mick’s body. “You can’t tell anyone I said that. And it might not even be important. According to Emily, Mick had a penchant for picking up business cards. Petra Pauli’s card was in the mix, too.”
“Petra.” My father sniffed, his disdain evident. “Her father was salt of the earth, may he rest in peace. He gave her way too much free rein.”
“She and Mick were having an affair.”
My father whistled.
I added, “It’s possible she killed Mick.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t want to leave his wife.”
My father pushed his coffee cup to one side and folded his arms on the table. “I doubt Petra would kill the man she loved.”
“I agree, Kip.” Brady shot a finger at him. “She’d sooner have killed Emily and taken out the competition.”
Fiona alit on my shoulder. “Oho! That’s what you said.”
I gave her teensy foot a pat to let her know I’d heard her.
Brady stared directly at her, a bemused expression in his eyes. Could he see her? Or was he simply enjoying my quirk of patting my shoulder with a fingertip.
I said, “I asked Oriana Gray about Petra’s alibi. It’s iffy. Petra was in a secret political meeting that no one can speak about. Even Oriana couldn’t confirm it.”
“What’s Emily Watkins’s motive?” my father asked.
“Money. Apparently, since Mick’s death, her German shepherd is suffering PTSD. She has hired Gregory Darvell to help the dog. That’ll cost a pretty penny. You know Gregory, right? The dog trainer.”
Brady nodded.
“Plus, I think she might want to show the dog.”
“Hmm.” Brady folded his arms across his chest. “If it counts for anything, I asked Mick why he was against showing Shep. He said he didn’t want his dog to start acting like a spoiled poodle.”
“Not all show dogs are spoiled,” I countered.
“You couldn’t have convinced Mick of that.”
My father said, “Is Darvell the guy I see in the park all the time, working with little dogs?”
I nodded. “One of the dog owners at the tea on Saturday was gossiping that Gregory had lost his mojo.”
“Having a dog like Shep might make a difference,” Brady said.
I cut him a look. “Interesting that you’d say that. Another of the dog owners said she thinks Gregory should be a suspect in Mick’s murder because Mick and Gregory fought last week, although another owner dispelled that possibility saying Gregory had a pat alibi. He was training a dog in San Jose that night.”
“Uh-oh.” Brady bounded to his feet. “I’m getting the evil eye from my hostess.” He turned to my father. “Kip, it’s been nice catching up.”
Dad stood to shake his hand. “By the way, if it makes you feel better, George Pitt bombed in his last movie. Doing a noir action adventure wasn’t such a good career move.”
“Ha! Music to my ears.” Brady slapped my father on the back and eyed me. �
��Pitt is the actor who won the heart of my ex.”
“The tabloids were not kind,” my father added.
Maybe that explained why Brady had said secrets were overrated. Had his name been dragged through the mud during the divorce?
“Courtney,” Brady turned to me. “Call me if you need anything. I live over on Camino Real near Twelfth and can be anywhere in town in a pinch.”
“I live a couple blocks away, on Carmelo and Eleventh.”
“Small world.” He winked at me then continued into the main restaurant.
“You like him,” Fiona whispered in my ear.
I felt my cheeks warm.
My father reached out to me. “Back to you and your case.”
“Holly Hopewell said she’s been canvassing the neighborhood on my behalf. If I can find one person who saw me in my house and can verify my alibi—”
“Courtney!” Joss ran onto the patio, no decorum, no inside voice, her face as red as her blouse. She made a beeline to our table.
“What’s wrong?” I scrambled to my feet. Fiona leaped off my shoulder and fluttered frantically beside me. “Did the security companies cancel?”
“No, I’ve met with one already. The other is on the way. But you need to get to the city council meeting. STAT. Tish Waterman”—Joss slurped in air—“I heard she’s speaking soon. During public appearances.” Public appearances allowed members of the town to discuss matters that weren’t on the agenda. “She intends to make another stink about the shop. She wants it closed ASAP.”
I groaned. Had my encounter with Tish at the post office pushed her to the limit? Shoot! I glanced at my father. “Tish Waterman hates Open Your Imagination. Maybe she’s the one who put me in hot water with the lender.”
Dad clasped my hand. “I’ll pay the check. Go.”
Chapter 16
Fairy roses, fairy rings, turn out sometimes
troublesome things.
—William Makepeace Thackeray, The Rose and the Ring
As I hurried out, leaving my father to cover the bill, Joss told me she was already handling the problem with the lender and the nursery, and not to worry about the other security company. What would I do without her? I advised Fiona to go with Joss—I didn’t want the distraction—and proceeded to Carmel City Hall.
A Sprinkling of Murder Page 18