Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The little shoes of fairies are
So light and soft and small
That though a million pass you by
You would not hear at all.
~ Annette Wynne, “Fairy Shoes”
THURSDAY MORNING I AWOKE with a headache.
Not being a medicine person, I drank a stiff cup of Earl Grey tea with honey, a full glass of ice water, and downed a protein shake.
In need of a bit of fresh air, I dressed warmly and ran on the beach.
A few people were out walking. One man, fitted with a duffel, was strolling back and forth, waving a metal detector above the sand.
A woman stopped him and asked a question.
He pulled a watch with a thin gold band from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
She clutched it to her chest, thankful. He’d found her treasure.
When I returned home, I spent a few minutes in the garden dead-heading flowers. A gardener’s work was never done, my father would say. Then I headed to Open Your Imagination with my darling Ragdoll cat Pixie. By the time we arrived at the shop, I felt refreshed.
“Morning,” I chimed.
Joss was cleaning our wares with a feather duster. Surprisingly, her Hawaiian shirt was khaki and drab, which I deduced matched her mood. Her face was tearstained.
I plunked Pixie on the floor and hurried to her. “You got my text about what happened last night, I see.” I’d sent a message the moment I got home. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
“What text? I didn’t see a text.”
“About Tianna Thistle,” I said. “We found her after closing, dead on the patio.”
Joss gasped. “OMG. Did she have a heart attack? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want to ring you after ten. She was murdered.” I motioned to the yellow police tape crisscrossing the French doors. “Did you miss seeing that?”
“Geez!”
I gave her a quick recap and assessed her face again. “Why have you been crying?”
“Mom.” Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. “She’s not doing well.” Her mother had dementia and was in a retirement facility. “She’s not eating. They’re trying to force her, but . . .” She covered her mouth with one hand.
I swooped her into a hug.
Fiona winged into the shop. She’d wanted to keep guard and had spent the night slumbering in the ficus on the patio. She alit on Joss’s shoulder and stroked her hair. “There, there.”
Joss wriggled free of my grasp. “I’ll be fine, and she’ll be fine. Aging is the way of the world. I just wish it were more graceful.”
Fiona flitted to Pixie and kissed her on the nose. Pixie swatted her playfully.
“Morning!” My bestie Meaghan waltzed into the shop and closed the Dutch door. Her curly brown tresses graced her shoulders in stark contrast to the ecru jumper she was wearing. “I hope you’re all hungry. I brought goodies to celebrate the engagement.”
“Are you and Brady engaged?” Joss clasped my hand.
I pulled free. “Not me. My dad and Wanda.”
“Yep, they’re biting the bullet,” Meaghan said.
“I’m thrilled for them. To celebrate”—she hoisted a bakery box from Sweet Treats—“I’ve brought cinnamon buns made with mincemeat and marzipan.
” She paused by one of the holiday displays.
“Ooh, I love the bells. We’re decorating the gallery today.
” She drew nearer. When she took in Joss’s face, she set the box on the sales counter. “Whoa, what happened?”
Joss burst into tears and dashed toward the office.
“Is it her mother?” Meaghan asked. “Did she—”
“No. She’s declining, but she’s alive. However . . .” I filled her in on the events of last night.
“How awful. I didn’t know Tianna, but my mother went to her for a reading.
You know Mom. Anything for a lark. She didn’t believe one word Tianna said, but she liked her.
She said she was guileless.” Meaghan shook her head sorrowfully.
“Poisoned. Do you have a clue who did it? And is there really a treasure?”
“If there was, it’s long gone. The hole is empty. Red wants an archaeological team to view the area and see if they can find telltale clues. By the way, he’s got a cold. He might need some TLC,” I advised her.
“Noted.”
“Halloo! Do we smell goodies?” Glinda Gill entered the shop.
Lissa Reade followed her, carrying a stack of paperback books.
Glinda was dressed for tennis, her bobbed blond hair pulled into a scrunchie. Seeing her bare legs made me shiver. Light on her feet, she weaved through the showroom to us, searching left and right. For Fiona, I imagined. She had yet to see a fairy.
Fiona, the imp, knowing Glinda was eager to see her, orbited her head giggling.
Giving up, Glinda lifted the unopened bakery box. “I didn’t eat breakfast,” she chimed. “I’m starved. May I?” When she registered our faces, she frowned and placed the box on the sales counter. “Why so glum?”
Meaghan explained. The hole. The treasure. The poisoned cookie. The body.
“Wow,” Glinda said softly. “How are you holding up, Courtney?”
“I’m so sad for Tianna.”
Lissa shook her head. “Yes, poor thing.”
“Tell us more about the treasure,” Glinda said.
I relayed bits of the story, including my suspicions about Shara and Horace.
“I know Shara.” Meaghan twirled a finger. “She can be sort of kooky. Do you know she wants to travel the US selling her fairy figurines?”
“She’s mentioned it.” I didn’t think a city-to-city effort would garner many sales, but I didn’t deter her.
Instead, I’d suggested she open an Etsy account, but she was intimidated by a computer.
“I think Horace Elias is the one who is a little out there. I mean, c’mon, his cuckoo clock informed him about the treasure? ”
Meaghan snorted.
“Horace. He’s a talented clockmaker, but”—Glinda twirled a finger beside her head—“I’m not sure all the gears in his brain are ticking on full speed.”
Fiona mimicked Glinda’s gesture. I frowned at her. She blushed, clearly getting my message to cool it.
“When Brady and I ran into him last night outside his shop,” I went on, “we noticed his fingers were dirty, maybe from digging the hole. I mentioned it to Officer Reddick, who said he was going to speak with Horace. I wonder if he has.”
Meaghan hitched a shoulder. “Got me.”
“Glinda,” I said, “Horace told me you and he have spoken about your pirate ancestry, which is why he believed the story about the treasure was real.”
“We did. He was fascinated.” Using her hands, she painted a picture as she spoke.
“As I said to you previously, my ancestors weren’t the bad kind of pirates.
I mean, yes, they were privateers, but they didn’t kill a soul, unlike Hippolyte Bouchard, a French-born Argentine who targeted Spanish settlements and ships.
Bouchard alleged the Argentine government commissioned him to attack, officially making him a privateer.
But I don’t equate the two.” She wagged her head.
“Pirates hurt people. Privateers don’t.”
Lissa said, “Did you know Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island was inspired by the Monterey Peninsula? Point Lobos, specifically.”
“Fascinating,” Glinda murmured. “And now, if you all don’t mind, I simply can’t help myself.” She opened the bakery box, withdrew a Christmas bun, and bit into it. Marzipan stuck to her lip. She licked it off. “Delicious. The new baker they have at Sweet Treats is a keeper. Do you know her name?”
“Idris,” I said. “She’s very nice.”
Thinking of her made me wonder whether the killer had personally baked the cookie Tianna ate or had purchased it at Sweet Treats. If purchased, how would the killer have applied the poison?
“Back to Tianna,” Glinda said. “She believed she had a legal entitlement to whatever lay beneath the courtyard property?”
“Yes.” I flashed on the moment when Tianna claimed she had ancestral rights.
Ferguson Moss had taunted her, saying she wouldn’t have rights if he found the treasure first. What if he came to the shop and dug the hole and when Tianna showed up, he killed her?
Except she had dirt under her fingernails, so she must have begun digging the hole before him.
“Lissa . . .” I recapped Tianna’s allegation.
“What do you know about ancestral rights?”
“Establishing them relies on documents proving ownership. You know what I mean. Property deeds. Wills. Lineage.” She tapped the list on her fingertips. “Did she present any of those?”
“No. She mentioned the term in passing.” The word passing caught me up and my insides wrenched with grief.
Tianna had passed. Died. Right here. “Even if she could have proven her ancestors owned the property the courtyard is built on, it wouldn’t have mattered, right? There’s a new owner. Logan Langford.”
“Good point,” Meaghan said.
“Genealogical research,” Lissa went on, “like examining historical land records, could be helpful in identifying generational ownership and how the property was deeded.”
“Which I would find where?” I asked. “At City Hall?”
“At the Monterey County Assessor-Recorder’s Office,” she replied.
Meaghan glimpsed her watch. “I’ve got to run. Enjoy the treats. See you all on Saturday. Bye, Fiona.”
The fairy zipped to her and pecked her on the cheek.
“Before you go,” Lissa said, and eyed me. “Courtney, did you ask her?”
“Ask me what?” Meaghan cocked her head, her gaze suspicious.
I said, “We’d like you to play the harp at the tea.”
“Done.”
“And sing.”
Meaghan blanched. “I haven’t sung in years.”
Lissa petted Meaghan’s arm. “I hear you’re very good. It’s just a little ditty. ‘Fairy Nightsongs.’ You don’t need a big voice.”
Meaghan regarded me, one eyebrow arched. “Fine. I’ll do it for you, Lissa. Not for my pal who forgot to clue me in.” She grabbed a Christmas bun and headed out.
A while later, after Lissa and Glinda left, Fiona nestled on my shoulder, and I dialed Officer Reddick. I hadn’t expected him to report back to me yet, but the murder had occurred in my shop, and I needed answers.
He answered on one ring. “How can I help you, Courtney?” He sneezed and blew his nose.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks.”