A Sprinkling of Murder - Daryl Wood Gerber Page 0,4
Petra had excelled at everything—cheerleading, debate team, academics. There wasn’t a blot on her record. It was obvious that she aspired to greater things than simply remaining a councilwoman. My guess? Mayor of our fine town followed by governor of the state.
“The councilwoman is a piece of work.” Joss brushed the underside of her nose.
“Yes, she can be a bit snooty.”
The city council had enacted a number of quirky rules over the years. One of my favorites was not being allowed to wear high heels without a permit. To be fair, that rule was prudent because a person in heels could trip on the cobblestoned walkways in town and suffer a sprained ankle. To make her voice known, Petra had added a few eccentric rules of her own, like banning silly string—that gooey stuff kids like to shoot at one another—in public.
“You were on an errand when they came in,” Joss went on.
“How do they know each other?” I asked.
“Mick grooms Miss Pauli’s collies. Hey, that rhymes. Fiona!” Joss called. “I made a rhyme.” Fairies loved rhymes and all sorts of poetry. “Where is she?”
“Around.”
Years ago, Joss had traveled to Ireland on a fairy tour to romp with fairies at dawn. In Kerry, she’d explored woodlands. In Killarney, she’d walked the fairy trail. And in Dublin, she’d visited the leprechaun museum. But it wasn’t until she encountered Fiona that she’d really experienced the magic.
“Back to Mick,” I said.
“Supposedly, he wanted to show Miss Pauli the shop.” Joss rolled her big brown eyes. Was she intimating that there was more to their relationship? “FYI, he raved about you and Open Your Imagination. He said we needed more creative thinkers in town.”
“Well, I’ll be darned.”
Was Fiona working her magic on Mick? Any fairy, even a young righteous fairy, could influence a person. I searched for her but didn’t see her in the main showroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Pixie on the patio dancing on her hind legs trying to bat a shimmering wisp with her forepaws—Fiona.
A few minutes later, as I was rearranging fairy-themed greeting cards on the revolving rack, the front door opened again and in strode Mick’s wife, Emily.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“Who?” I slotted the last grouping of cards in a bracket.
“My husband, who else? I saw him come in here.”
Prior to today, Emily hadn’t ever spoken to me. I’d tried starting up a conversation or two, but she’d snubbed me each time. She had never deigned to enter Open Your Imagination, either. With her long mane of hair, buckteeth, and flared nostrils, she reminded me of an angry bronco. Even her voice had a nasal quality. I bit back a snicker as I caught my unintentional pun—nasal/neigh-sal. A horse’s whinny echoed in my mind. I blamed my father for my mental lack of decorum. He’d taught me how to pun. Perhaps I should add no more puns to my ways-to-improve-myself list, I mused. The list was getting long, but I could manage one or two more goals.
Emily sidled toward the left wing of the shop, running her finger along the shelving as she went as if she were inspecting whether we dusted or not. We did. Daily.
I strode to her, hand extended. “Emily, I’m so pleased to meet you finally. I’m Courtney.”
“I know who you are.”
“Mick has said nice things about you.”
“He has?” Her mouth fell open, as though she couldn’t believe it. Self-consciously, she buttoned her beige cardigan and adjusted the hem of the sweater over her tan trousers.
“Mm-hm,” I murmured. Over the past year, in an effort to tamp down Mick’s displeasure with my scoring the lease on this location, I’d escorted a few dog-owner customers into his shop to promote his business. “On a number of occasions, I’ve heard him tell his clients how good you are with your German shepherd.”
“Shep.”
“Yes, Shep.”
“Is Mick here?”
“He was, but he left. Did you check Wizard of Paws?”
“Of course I did. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
No, but you are a tad caustic. I forced a smile. “Do you like tea, Emily? We’re serving high tea on weekends now. Our chef is an expert with muffins and scones, and you’ve simply got to taste the Brie and strawberry tea sandwiches.”
“I drink coffee.”
“We serve coffee, too. A variety of blends. Have you seen the porcelain cups we sell? Coffee always tastes better in a beautiful cup, don’t you think?” I gestured to the antique white oak hutch that displayed a host of cups and saucers.