A Sprinkling of Murder

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I folded my hands, hoping she’d blurt out her confession. She didn’t. After a long moment, I said, “Do you have a secret, Petra?”

  “Me? Heavens no.”

  “Try the tactic she used earlier,” Fiona suggested.

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “Frame her. Say someone saw her driving near Emily’s house.”

  I cleared my throat. “By the way, a witness claims to have seen your Mercedes in Emily’s neighborhood.”

  “That’s not possible. I was—” Petra hesitated. “I was at a meeting.”

  “You sure do have a lot of meetings.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I repeat, do you have a secret, Petra?”

  She nudged her teacup away. “What are you implying, Courtney?”

  “Your business card was wedged into the workbook along with some notecards.”

  “Because he and I were paramours.”

  “I’m sure Mick had your phone number memorized. He didn’t need to keep a card as a reminder.”

  She fanned the air. “I assure you he wasn’t writing about me. I have no secrets.”

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. Zeus raised his head. Rather than upset him, I sat back. “Speaking of books, I was in the library earlier. The author Eudora Cash was doing research for her new manuscript.”

  “I’m not familiar with her writing.”

  “She’s a very popular historical fiction author. For her current novel, she decided to focus on events that occurred thirty years ago in Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

  “Thirty years doesn’t sound very historical.”

  “Anything that isn’t set in the present falls into that category. Lo and behold, Eudora Cash discovered something about you.”

  “Me?” Petra propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm, the epitome of casual. “Do tell.”

  “When you were a teenager, you did something criminal. Your record was sealed.”

  Petra glanced at her watch. “Oh, my, I have an appointment. We’ll chat later.” She started to rise.

  Fiona splashed her with more fairy dust. Petra sat down. Her mouth opened and closed. No words came out.

  “A sealed record is a kind of secret,” I said. “So I did a little digging.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m curious. Isn’t that how you described me to Isabella Acosta?”

  “I never said—”

  “Here’s what I discovered,” I continued. “I found a story about a child dying in a hit-and-run accident. She was your neighbor. There were photographs taken at the funeral. You were in one of them.”

  “I recall going to that. It was so tragic.” Petra’s eyes grew moist, but tears didn’t fall. “She was such a sweet girl.”

  Wow, she was good.

  “You were with two other girls in the photograph,” I said. “Isabella and Emily. I had no idea you were contemporaries, let alone best buds.”

  “We were close. We aren’t close anymore.”

  “You’re still close to Isabella.”

  “Not true. We’re acquaintances. We’re not close.” Her words had a bite to them.

  “At the book club tea you looked pretty chummy.”

  “Dog owners unite,” she said matter-of-factly, and raised her teacup to the light. Was she planning to crack it over my head and make a run for it?

  I said, “Why was your record sealed?”

  Petra set the teacup down and toyed with a tendril of hair.

  “Did you accidentally kill the girl?” I asked. “Did Mick find out? Did he threaten to expose you? Did you kill him to keep it quiet?”

  “I didn’t kill him. I loved—”

  “Petra!” a woman screamed.

  Startled, Fiona catapulted into the air.

  Emily burst onto the patio. Her face was hot pink and beaded with perspiration. She must have come straight from the hospital. She was still wearing the admission band on her wrist. She shook her fist at Petra. “Why did you attack me?”

  Joss followed at Emily’s heels. “I couldn’t stop her, Courtney.”

  I hopped to my feet. “Emily, how are you feeling?” I peered past her to see if Gregory was nearby. He wasn’t. She must have eluded him.

  “Hold on, Em.” Isabella Acosta charged onto the patio, out of breath. Via the window in her gallery, she must have spotted Emily entering the shop and hurried over. “I saw the text message you sent Petra. You were definitely out of line. How dare you call her a slut?”

  Oho. That must have been what Petra and Isabella had been discussing the other day when I’d seen Petra stabbing her cell phone.

  “Stay out of this, Bella,” Emily hissed. Addressing Petra, she said, “You hit me. You came into my house and cracked me over the head with a salt lamp, and then you rummaged through my things.”

  Petra frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your vanilla scent. It’s unmistakable.”

  Emily had known Petra was the culprit? She’d kept that tidbit from Gregory and me.

  “Why did you attack me?” Emily persisted. “Why?”

  “She wanted Mick’s diary,” I said. “The Artist’s Way, to be specific, although she didn’t realize that. She wanted whatever he’d written about her. As it turns out, she had a secret. When she received the anonymous letters you sent her, she must have thought he had sent the notes.”

  “You sent Petra anonymous letters?” Isabella exclaimed.

  “You wrote them, Emily?” Petra squawked. “Why you—”

  “Emily,” I cut in. “Petra thought Mick was going to reveal her secret, so she killed him.”

  “No!” Petra pounded the table.

  “You murdered my husband?” Tears sprang into Emily’s eyes.

  I said, “If her secret came out, it would hurt her chances for a future in politics.”

  “Why, Petra?” Emily asked. “Why did you choose him? You could have had anybody in town. You didn’t love him.”

  “Yes, I did. We—”

  “You should have kept your distance. We were happy until you came into his life.” Emily sucked back a sob.

  “Why did you send me letters?” Petra asked.

  “To scare you. But you didn’t take the bait. You didn’t leave town. I didn’t want to dredge up the memory, Petra, but I had to.”

  “The memory of the accident,” I whispered.

  “The accident,” Isabella echoed.

  Fiona fluttered over Isabella and sprinkled her with fairy dust.

  Isabella sank into the chair beside Petra and shook her head. “Years ago, we were happy, the three of us,” she intoned. “But the accident happened, and life turned dark.”

  “Bella, we vowed not to talk about it.” Emily reached for her old friend.

  Isabella wrapped her arms across her chest, wanting no part of Emily. “I devoted my life to honoring that poor girl. She loved to paint, so I put all my energy into providing more beauty to the world.”

  “What are you saying, Isabella?” I asked, slightly confused. “Were you the driver?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I was,” Emily cried.

  “Stop it, both of you.” Petra shot to her feet. The dogs stirred. Fiona doused them with fairy dust and they settled down, but Petra didn’t. She started to blink rapidly. “I was the driver,” she cried. “I did it. Bella and Em were in the car, but it was my fault. I took my dad’s car without asking. I was putting on makeup and looking in the rearview mirror at Emily. Not paying attention. The girl came out of nowhere. She was racing after a ball.”

  “The sound—” Emily’s voice cracked.

  “The sound,” Isabella whispered.

  Petra drew in a sharp breath. “I knew there was no saving her, so I sped away. I had to get my friends away from the scene. I confessed to my father that night. He was devastated. He...” She splayed her hands. “He drove the car to a dump and paid off the owner to demolish it. The
next day . . . he died. His heart couldn’t handle the pressure. I... I...” Her face pinched with pain. “A month later, the authorities found the compacted car, persuaded the dump’s owner to confess to the bribe, and ultimately determined I was at fault. My mother held me responsible for my father’s death and hated me for it, but she hired the best lawyer. My mother swore me to secrecy. If the truth got out about what I’d done, it would crush my sister’s and brother’s futures.”

  “And your own,” Emily whispered.

  “How did Mick play into this, Petra?” I asked gently.

  “I divulged the truth to him one night in a moment of intimacy. A month later, Mick let slip that he was writing a thriller about a man with a secret. Soon after that, I started receiving threatening letters saying someone would expose my secret if I didn’t leave town. I didn’t want to believe it was Mick, but it had to be. I mean, I’d asked Isabella and Emily, and they both swore they hadn’t uttered a word.” She turned all her fury on Emily. “You lied.”

  “You stole my husband.” Emily sank into a chair and tucked her hands between her knees.

  Petra said, “When the third letter came, I lost it. Whether or not Mick ever finished his thriller, my secret was in his diary. If someone read it...” She shook her head. “I couldn’t let that happen. I went to his house. He was climbing into his car. He didn’t spot me, so I followed him. Here. I saw him enter through the secret door. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I had to talk to him. I crawled in behind him.”

  “With your dogs,” I repeated.

  Fiona said, “That explains the dog hair at the crime scene.”

  “I couldn’t leave them in my car,” Petra said. “They’d yap. I caught Mick talking out loud, asking for a fairy to reveal itself. There were no fairies. He was nuts.”

  Fiona uttered, “Pfft.”

  “I confronted him about the letters,” Petra continued. “He denied sending them. I called him a liar and shoved him. Hard. He fell back and...” She trembled.

  “Hit his head on the fountain,” I finished.

  She nodded. “He collapsed to the ground. My dogs raced to him and mewled. He didn’t rouse. He was dead.”

  “Why did you strangle him?”

  “I... I needed it to look like someone else had killed him. Someone stronger.”

  “Like Gregory Darvell?” I asked. “Is that why you used one of your dog’s leashes?”

  “I’d seen Gregory earlier in the day. It seemed... reasonable. Mick and he . . . didn’t get along.”

  “And then you lied and said Oriana Gray had seen Gregory in Mick’s neighborhood, to make it seem that he was the one who had followed Mick here.”

  Petra didn’t deny it.

  “You opened the front door to confuse the police about how you got in,” I went on, “and then fled through the secret door with the dogs. Nobody saw you.”

  Emily licked her lips. “Petra, I’m sorry I sent the letters. I never would have told anyone your secret. Ever. Mick, either. He did love you. He told me earlier that night that he was going to leave me. I went to the Equestrian Inn to ponder my options, but I couldn’t stand it. I returned to have it out with him. Except he was gone. I think he hoped that a fairy might give him the blessing to leave me. He loved you.”

  Petra keened like a wounded animal. Isabella wept softly. Emily wrapped her arms around her body and rocked.

  I regarded all three women, broken to the core. One mistake had led to another. Sadly, there was no way to turn back time.

  Chapter 25

  Every time a child says, “I don’t believe in fairies,” there is a fairy

  somewhere that falls down dead.

  —J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

  While Isabella and Emily consoled Petra—yes, Emily comforted her, even knowing Petra had killed her husband—I called Detective Summers. He arrived within minutes. Officer Rodriguez didn’t accompany him. Summers had received my email with attachments, so he was on board with Petra’s history. I explained what had happened after we returned to the shop. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even remove his notepad and take notes.

  When I finished, he said, “Where is she?”

  “On the patio.”

  He passed through the doorway. I didn’t follow, although I listened in. He read Petra her rights. She nodded numbly. When Summers escorted her out of the shop, Isabella and Emily went with them.

  Joss hurried up to me. “Well, that was dramatic.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Fiona flew to my shoulder. “We did it. We figured out who killed Mick. So guess what?” She flipped up her wings and showed me. Her adult wing buds were growing. “It’s just a matter of time before they’re full-grown. Only two more sets to go.” She kissed me on the cheek and flew back to the patio.

  Pixie was there to greet her.

  * * *

  A week later, as Meaghan and I were dining on the rear patio of Hideaway Café, our new favorite go-to place, I spied Summers entering with Rodriguez, holding hands.

  I set down my zesty burger smothered in cheese and mushrooms, blotted my mouth with a napkin, and whispered, “Psst. Look over there.” I signaled with the tines of my fork.

  Someone grabbed my shoulders. “Boo!”

  I craned my neck and glowered at Brady. “You scared me.” I eagle-eyed Meaghan. “You could have warned me he was sneaking up.”

  She laughed. “Not on a bet.”

  “What were you two staring at before I so rudely interrupted you?” Brady perched on one of the empty chairs.

  I hitched my head in Summers’s direction. “I had a hunch they were an item.”

  “Not officially until now,” Brady said. “Rodriguez is quitting the force.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t like dealing with a homicide. Art theft was more her speed. She’s joining the private sector. Now the two of them can freely date.”

  “Aren’t you the gossip maven?” I joked. “Tell me, since you know everything about everyone in town, do you know why Summers and my landlord are at odds?”

  Brady grinned. “As a matter of fact, I do, but only because my father clued me in. What’s your guess?”

  “I figure Summers’s father tried to outbid Logan’s father for a property or they vied for the same woman. Am I close?”

  “You’re warm.” Brady leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table, and lowered his voice. “The two men went to school together. From kindergarten right through to business school.”

  “That’s a lot of history.”

  “After graduation, Summers’s father went into real estate like Logan’s dad. And yes, they vied for the same properties—not the same woman. A couple of years later, Summers went behind old man Langford’s back to negotiate a deal. He told lies about him, which poisoned the well. Langford accused him of stealing the property out from under him. As far as the elder Summers was concerned, it was a fair fight. The Langfords always got what they wanted, and dirty dealing was the only way to get what he wanted.”

  “No duel?” Meaghan asked.

  “No duel, but plenty of animosity. Dylan Summers is nothing like his father. He believes honesty is the best policy, a boy scout is bound by his honor, and, at all times, he should do the right thing.” Brady twirled a hand. “His father passed away years ago, but his father’s reputation has been a sore spot for Dylan.”

  “Thanks for the insight.”

  Brady patted the table and stood. “I’ve got to get back to work. Courtney, remember you promised to find time to talk shop. I’m going to hold you to that promise. You’ve got my number.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the table. “Now you do.”

  As he strutted away, Meaghan flicked my arm with a finger. “Talk shop?”

  “Photography.”

  She chuckled. “Don’t blow this. Call him. Sooner rather than later. You two have chemistry.”


  Knowing she wouldn’t let up if I didn’t, I agreed.

  “So fill me in on everyone else,” she said. “I know Logan extended your lease, like he did for the rest of us, and I heard Emily Watkins is selling the grooming business to Sonja.”

  I nodded. “Emily doesn’t want to run it. She wants to focus on her dog and horses. I think she’s going to invest in a stable.”

  “Is it true she’s dating Gregory Darvell?” Meaghan polished off her burger.

  “We’ll have to see how that works out. I think he’s in love with her dog, not Emily. She’s got baggage.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  * * *

  When I returned to the shop, Joss was showing a thin, dark-haired woman around. The woman turned, and I gawped. Tish Waterman. In my shop. She wasn’t throwing a fit, and she wasn’t wearing black. In fact, she was dressed in a frilly pink dress and looking quite relaxed as she inspected a Villeroy & Boch teacup.

  I strode to her. “How lovely to see you here, Tish.”

  She smiled. Radiantly. “It’s nice to see you, too. I got your message about going to tea.” Not only had she changed her appearance, but her voice was kinder and her gaze softer. “I would love to.”

  I jolted. Had I heard her right? What had happened to the old Tish? I glanced past her and spied a whirlwind of glittery energy. As the flurry settled, I made out Fiona dancing in a circle overhead.

  “I adore the Tuck Box,” Tish added. “I haven’t been in years. It will be fun.”

  “Fun,” I murmured.

  Fiona whizzed to me and landed on my shoulder. “I worked a little magic.”

  Tish didn’t acknowledge Fiona, but she gazed directly into my eyes. “I know you’ve heard what happened to my daughter. Hedda Hopewell is a client of mine. She said you and she talked at the council meeting. When my daughter joined the cult, I started drinking gin. A lot of gin. I went through a terrible bout of self-pity and self-recrimination. One night, I fell in my garden”—she dragged a finger along her abraded cheek—“I grazed the stone wall and...” She hesitated. “And a fairy came to help me.”

  “A fairy?”

  “I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I was hallucinating. I stopped drinking that instant and blocked the incident from my mind. My scar was my reminder of a life ruined, and I turned inward and grim. But your sweet fairy wouldn’t give up on me. Or so I hear. I haven’t met her. She came to my garden and encouraged my nurturer fairy to try again.”