Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
A fairy went a-marketing—
She bought a coloured bird;
It sang the sweetest, shrillest song
That ever she had heard.
~ Rose Fyleman, “A Fairy Went A-Marketing”
AFTER THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL TEAM LEFT, thankfully I was able to open the patio to customers because a bunch of regulars arrived, each on the hunt for pottery and figurines and plants.
I wasn’t scheduled to give any private or group classes until next week, so I was able to spend time chatting with each person.
Of course, a few had heard about the murder and wanted to see where the treasure had been buried.
Grimly, I tried to figure out who would have shared the news.
Surely not the police, and I doubted Meaghan, Lissa, or Glinda would have said a word.
Horace Elias knew about it because of the police inquiry, but if he was the culprit who had unearthed the treasure and killed Tianna, why would he leak the news?
“I’m hungry for sugar,” Joss said when there was a lull.
I stopped tallying the morning’s receipts and regarded her. She was lying. Ever since she’d suffered an arduous dentist visit, she hadn’t eaten a single dessert. Plus she was biting into a deli sandwich packed with salami. “Uh-huh,” I snarked. “What kind of decadent delight would you prefer?”
“Something holidayesque. You know, gingerbread or peppermint or, hey, how about iced sugar cookies? I saw Sweet Treats has a special on them. We’re going to serve those at the tea, right? I should taste test them.”
“Ahem.” I cleared my throat. “Don’t kid a kidder. What’s up?”
“I know you care about the shop. I know you don’t want any bad publicity to affect business.
And, let’s face it, a murder on the premises is bad publicity.
Anyway”—she rotated a hand—"when I was returning from lunch, I saw Shara Popple slipping inside the bakery. You need to talk to her about where she was last night.” She tapped her temple.
“It’s time you stimulate your little gray cells with an interrogation. ”
Fiona flew between us. “She’s right. It’s time to put on your Hercule Poirot hat.”
Poirot frequently wore a dark-colored Hombourg hat, but I didn’t think it encouraged his little gray cells to work harder.
“While you’re there,” Joss said, “see if Idris knows of others who bought gingerbread cookies in the past couple of days.”
“Bought them and poisoned them?” I asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
Knowing my plucky assistant would hound me until I did her bidding, I grabbed my crossbody purse and headed to Sweet Treats. Fiona accompanied me.
A few customers were peering into the glass display case filled with pastries, cakes, and cookies.
All three of the retro pink stools were occupied at the pink counter.
Yvanna Acebo, a beautiful Latina who helped out with the book club teas because she had Saturdays off, wasn’t dressed in her typical uniform of pink hat and apron over white dress.
Instead, like Idris yesterday, she had donned an elf costume.
Her outfit sported striped leggings and a hat fixed with pointy ears.
“Hi, Courtney,” she said. “I heard what happened. A couple of shop owners have been spreading the word. What a tragedy. Are you okay?”
“Managing.”
Yvanna was packing up a variety of orders. “Find a table, and I’ll be right with you.”
“There’s Idris.” Fiona pointed a finger.
Through a glass window customers could view the kitchen.
Idris was patting palm-sized wads of dough on the pastry island and placing each in a miniature tart pan.
The pink apron she’d donned over her elf costume was covered with flour.
Her nose and cheeks were dusted as well.
Baking tools like thermometers, pastry brushes, and spatulas peeked from the pockets of her apron.
Beyond her on the wall was a bulletin board holding a wealth of three-by-five cards outlining orders to be filled.
To the right of the board were six pocket hanging file holders.
They appeared to be teeming with bills and receipts and an array of colored envelopes.
Would a special order for gingerbread cookies be tucked among them with the killer’s name on it?
Idris caught sight of me and waved a latex-gloved hand. I crooked a finger, miming I needed to ask her a question.
She removed the gloves, abandoned her post, and pushed through the swinging doors while tucking a loose hair behind her ear and up into the chef’s cap she sported.
She met me at the far end of the counter, extended her arms, and shook out her fingers.
“Much better,” she crooned. “Stretching gets rid of the tension.”
I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be to bake all day.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Fiona orbited Idris’s head. The baker didn’t notice her.
I said, “I wanted to know if other people purchased your delicious gingerbread cookies in the past couple of days.”
“Sure. Lots of people. Tis the season,” she trilled.
“Do you remember any names of the customers?”
“They’re all new to me. Yvanna might have a record. Why?” she asked, then paled. “Oh, my. Does this have something to do with the murder?”
“You heard about it?”
“From the pet grooming shop owner. How awful. Did you know the victim?”
“I did.”
“Dreadful. Simply horrible.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to finish up. Yvanna should be able to supply the names. And I can’t wait for the book club tea. I just finished the mystery.”
“Glad you’re coming.” I spotted Shara seated at a bistro table for two, an e-reader in hand.
I crossed the bakery to her. “Hi,” I said.
“May I join you?” I didn’t wait for a response.
I moved her creativity bag, which she’d propped against the opposing chair, to the other side of the table.
Something clanked when the bottom of the bag struck the floor. “Sorry. Did I break anything?”
“No.” She waved a hand. The cluster of bangles on her right wrist jangled. “It’s all equipment. No figurines.”
“What kind of equipment?” Fiona asked. “Guns and sabers?”
I glowered at her, and sitting, returned my focus to the delicious tart sitting untouched on the table. A fork rested crosswise on the plate. “Yum, Shara. What did you order?”
“Cranberry tart and a latte. The tart is fresh from the oven.” She set her e-reader aside, and using the side of her fork, cut off a bite of the tart. She ate it and hummed. “Definitely a keeper.”
Yvanna made her way to the table. “What can I get you?”
I pointed to Shara’s order. “The same, and do you have any iced sugar cookies?”
“Our baker will be putting the finishing touches on a batch soon. Do you want holly wreaths or snowmen?”
“Snowmen. A dozen. To go.”
When Yvanna departed, I caught Fiona hovering above Shara’s creativity bag.
She gasped and whispered, “Glitter.”
There was indeed glitter shimmering on the zipper. I wondered again if Shara could have transferred glitter to the porcelain bell when she’d visited the shop, and Tianna, who’d grabbed the particular bell, had wound up dusting her own cheeks with the sparkly substance.
“Do you take your tote everywhere?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“It must get heavy.”
“Sure is, but I’m strong. Hey, I heard what happened last night. One of the customers in line ahead of me was talking. It had to be horrible for you finding a body.”
“Didn’t the police reach out to you?”
“Why would they? I didn’t know the victim.” She sipped her latte and viewed me over the rim of the cup.
“Her name was Tianna Thistle.”
“Yes. Tianna. Such a pretty name. The customer said she was a medium.”
“True.”
“Um . . .” Shara’s mouth quirked up on one side. “I’m curious, if she was a seer, why couldn’t she predict what was about to happen?”
“Mediums facilitate meetings between the living and the dead. They don’t necessarily see the future.”
“Oh.” She took another bite of her tart.
Yvanna brought my order. “Cookies will be out in a few.”
“Yvanna, hold up.” I explained my need for a list of names.
“How about I bring it to Open Your Imagination later?”
“You’re a rockstar.”
When she ambled away, Shara leaned forward. “Why would the police want to talk to me about the murder?”
“I mentioned to Officer Reddick how you had come into the shop the night before, frantic someone was following you,” I replied.
Fiona sat on the table, crossed her legs, and bent forward, propping her elbows on her thighs and her chin on her hands.
“You mentioned the treasure,” I went on. “You said it was buried beneath the patio tiles.”
“No. I didn’t. I said it was under the courtyard. You can’t think—” Her eyes widened with fright. “You can’t think I stole inside your place and searched for it. I’m not a treasure hunter. And I’m not a killer.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I have an alibi. I was home sewing and crafting. I waved to my neighbor through the window. She’ll vouch for me.”
Though having a neighbor vouch for a few minutes of time in the evening wouldn’t convince a jury of her innocence, the guileless way in which she shared the alibi led me to believe she wasn’t a killer.
“And, like I said, I didn’t know the victim,” she added.
“The killer didn’t have to be familiar with Tianna. She could have shown up at the wrong time and been collateral damage.”
“Collateral damage?” Fiona snorted. “Who do you think you are? Some spy in a thriller?”
The phrase had spilled out of me. I couldn’t retract it. Quickly, I added, “Meaning she showed up to—”
“Search for the treasure,” Shara said, “but the thief was already there and lashed out.”
I caught sight of a woman at the next table eating a gingerbread cookie, and I flinched.
Why had the killer thought to bring a poisoned cookie to Open Your Imagination?
Had it been meant for Tianna or for anyone who might have gotten in the way?
Brady’s theory bloomed in my mind. Was it possible Tianna and the killer had worked in tandem?
Was Shara in the clear because she hadn’t known her?
She was stirring her latte, not making eye contact with me.
“How did you know about the treasure?” I asked.
“Rumors. There are always rumors in Carmel about pirate stuff. I tune into conversations.”
“But why say it was under my shop?”
“I didn’t mention Open Your Imagination specifically. I simply happened to be standing in your place at the time.”
Perhaps she’d overheard Tianna talking to someone else about it.
My gaze landed on Fiona, who was yet again inspecting the creativity bag, and I flashed on the man I’d seen on my run scouring the sand for precious goods. “What made that sound earlier inside your bag, Shara?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“What clanked? I can’t imagine any tool you use to make figurines would be heavy metal or need to be stowed in such a large tote.”
“I . . .” She rolled her lower lip between her teeth and let out a long sigh but no words spilled out.
Determined to get an answer, I unzipped the bag to reveal a metal detector. “You are a treasure hunter,” I said accusatorily.
“No. Not really. I . . . I . . .” Her shoulders sagged.
“I like trinkets. I go to lots of different beaches to search for them. Watches, earrings, bracelets. Like these.” She shook her wrist, and the bangles jangled again.
“And these earrings.” She jiggled her head.
“I’ve found sets of keys. I turn them in when I can. ”
“But you keep the rest.”
Tears moistened her eyes but didn’t fall. “I’m not a complete opportunist. I’ve helped all sorts of strangers find treasures, too. Those who know I’m fixated with the hobby.”
“Did you use this tool in Open Your Imagination?” I asked.
“No!” she wailed. “No. I’ve never taken it out of the bag in a shop. Ever. Only on the beach. Promise.”
Fiona said, “Nurturer fairies help humans find things, Courtney. They’re good souls. I think she is, too.”
I nodded in agreement.