you outside. Officer Rodriguez, if you please.”
Reluctantly, Emily shuffled toward Rodriguez, who was waiting to escort her out.
I glanced back at Mick. Why had he come into Open Your Imagination? How had he known about the secret entrance?
“Miss Kelly.” Summers snapped fingers in front of my face. “I’m talking to you.”
Fiona snickered. I shot her a dirty look. I was pretty sure Summers couldn’t see her; otherwise, he would have mentioned her, right?
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
I was pondering Emily’s injured hand and arm and wondering whether she would have had the strength to strangle her husband, but I didn’t voice my thoughts. Summers didn’t want to hear my opinion.
I cleared my throat. “Why don’t my assistant and I make coffee and tea? Perhaps Mrs. Watkins would like a cup of something warm.”
“That would be nice.”
“Do you need to question me further?”
“Yes. Don’t go far.”
I picked up Pixie and traipsed into the main showroom. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted to me. Joss had beaten me to the punch. I was surprised Officer Rodriguez hadn’t shooed her outside along with Emily, but Joss had a way with words. She must have convinced Rodriguez that she and her colleagues would be craving coffee in a bit. I asked Joss to go to the kitchen and see if we had any cookies or tarts lying around. The police were bound to be hungry, too.
After setting Pixie on the floor and pouring a stiff cup of coffee into a Villeroy & Boch Mariefleur mug, I went in search of Emily. I found her lingering outside the front door, rocking from foot to foot and stroking her long hair rhythmically.
The fog had lifted, and the sun was rising. Swirls of peach and orange clouds decorated the morning sky. On any other day, I’d have considered it a gorgeous sight.
“Coffee,” I said, and offered Emily the mug. “I can add cream or sugar if you’d like.”
She accepted it but didn’t take a sip. “What a pretty pink flower,” she said absently, admiring the china. After a long moment, she said, “Please tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for the police to determine that.” Like a model citizen, I was taking my cues from Summers.
“I can’t believe it.” Emily sucked back a sob. “Mick’s dead. Just like that. Right when he was excited about writing again. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Mick was a writer?”
She nodded. “He had dreams. He put his career on hold to start the business and support me. He was selfless that way. And then life...” She sighed. “He didn’t dream of writing again until recently. He planned to write a thriller. He’d written notes to get started. An outline of sorts.” Wistfully she added, “He’d hoped it would become a New York Times bestseller.”
I studied her, trying to determine if she was lying about how much she admired him. She certainly hadn’t felt this lovey-dovey about him yesterday.
“He got the bug to write as a kid when he realized how many fabulous authors had lived in Carmel,” Emily went on. “Did you know the town became a haven for them after the 1906 earthquake hit San Francisco?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It became a refuge for artists, too.”
“Of course. That’s why there are so many art galleries here.” Emily smelled the coffee, but still didn’t drink. “Mick was a realist. He knew writing didn’t pay a lot, so he got a small business loan and invested in Wizard of Paws. He loved animals, and they loved him. The rest, as they say, is history.” She finally took a sip of coffee and peered at me over the rim of the cup. “Who killed him, Courtney? Did you do it?”
My insides jolted. “What? Of course not. Why would you even think that?” Why had Summers asked me the same thing? Did I look guilty? What did a murderer look like?
“The nerve!” Fiona fluttered to my side. Anger was flowing from her in hot waves. My defender. My righteous fairy.
“Logan Langford wants to end our lease,” Emily said. “With Mick out of the way, Logan probably expects you to expand your shop. That’s a pretty good motive.”
No, it wasn’t. It was as weak as water.
“I don’t want to expand.” My voice cracked. “I’m perfectly fine with the size business I have.”
“That’s not what Isabella Acosta says.”
“Who?”
“Isabella Acosta. She’s one of our clients. She owns a miniature poodle.”
“I don’t care what she owns,” I squawked.
“She told me she saw you arguing with Mick