kidding.” I tiptoed closer.
“No way,” Joss murmured, trailing me.
“You can’t see the entrance easily,” Fiona went on. “It’s on Eighth Avenue. But I had a gut feeling.”
Did fairies have guts? Of course they did. They could live and die. They had to have organs. Fairy organs.
“Dig through the broken vines,” Fiona ordered. “You’ll see. That’s how Mick got inside.”
Sure enough, behind the vines was a two-foot by two-foot door, which was ajar. How had I missed it? Why hadn’t my landlord warned me about it? It didn’t have a lock.
As I stood up, a siren pierced the air. Then another.
“The police,” Joss yelped.
With a whoop, the sirens ceased.
I hurried to the front of the shop and greeted a tanned male officer and a dark-haired female officer as they strode through the door, he in street clothes and she wearing the official Carmel Police Department blue uniform.
“Good morning,” I said, even though the sun wasn’t up. “No. Let me revise that. Not so good morning. What I mean is”—I massaged the locket with my mother’s picture—“it’s a very bad morning.”
The male officer said, “I’m Detective Summers. Dylan Summers. My partner is Officer Rodriguez.”
Rodriguez nodded. She had a tight ponytail and a tighter smile.
Summers flashed his CPD badge. “Where’s the body?” In khaki trousers and white shirt with sleeves rolled up, he resembled any other local who spent hours at the beach or on the golf course. But he wasn’t like any other local. I’d seen Summers once at a city council meeting. A seasoned detective, he had talked about community safety. After the meeting, a middle-aged woman told me he’d been married once but was a widower. His wife had died in a car accident a week after they said I do. If I hadn’t gotten the scoop, I wouldn’t have known he’d ever suffered sorrow. He had an easy smile and a commanding presence.
“Follow me,” I said to Summers and Rodriguez as I led the way to the patio. “I’m the owner of the shop. Courtney Kelly. I...” I couldn’t say my resident fairy had found Mick. I could, but would they believe me? No. Lie number one, coming up. “I came in early for work and found him like this. He’s my neighbor, Mick Watkins. He owns Wizard of Paws, across the courtyard. I think he’s been murdered.”
“Please don’t theorize, Miss Kelly. Leave the deductions to us.” Summers smoothed his tawny hair and crouched beside Mick to get a better look. “Ligature marks,” he said over his shoulder to Rodriguez. “Strangled. Head injury first, I suspect.”
Fiona fluttered beside my ear. “You were right.”
“Did you argue with him?” Summers asked me as he rose.
I blanched. “No. He was like that. When I arrived. I didn’t—”
“It’s cold out here,” Rodriguez said. “He could have been dead for hours.”
“We close at six p.m.,” I said.
Summers was tall. I had to tilt my head back to make eye contact. Given the crow’s-feet around his eyes, I gauged him at about fifty to fifty-five, not far from my father’s age. “Why was Mr. Watkins here?” He pulled an old-fashioned notebook fastened with a rubber band from his pocket, opened it, and removed the attached pen.
“I’m not sure.”
“How did he get in?”
“The front door was open, but my assistant is conscientious about locking up. We... my assistant and I—” I indicated Joss, who was standing next to the French doors, arms wrapped around her teensy body. She waved her hand. “Her name is Joss Timberlake. She and I”—I still didn’t mention Fiona—“think Mick stole in through a hidden door behind the vines.” I pointed. “I didn’t know about the hidden door. I had no idea it was there until—”
“Did you mess with those vines?” Summers asked.
My cheeks warmed. I pushed away my embarrassment and squared my shoulders. “While I was waiting for you to arrive, I did a bit of, um, investigating.”
He grumbled. Rodriguez made a similar noise.
“By the way,” I continued, “the killer might have followed Mick through the secret entrance and run out the front door, which would be why it was open when I arrived.”
Summers scowled and made another note without making eye contact. “I repeat, don’t theorize.”
My shoulders stiffened. His tone reminded me of my father’s whenever he would reprimand me.
“Rodriguez,” Summers said. “Check the secret entrance from the outside.”
“On it.” She disappeared through the main store.
I said, “Detective, if you fingerprint the Dutch door’s knob, you might—”
He shook his head. “We won’t get anything. The killer was probably wearing gloves.”
“What