not bring Mom into this. She was the best mother in the world. She was creative. Colorful. She made me four cakes for my birthday every year so I’d have a choice. She”—I battled tears—“believed. She saw. She knew. Why don’t you?”
“Now, listen, Courtney—”
“I’m done. I am not going to argue with you.”
“Good. Let’s go.” He held out a hand, prepared for me to grab it.
“No, I mean, I’m not going to argue with you, period, Kipling Kelly.”
He bridled. He hated when I used his full name, the one given to him because Nana—his mother—had loved reading the classics. Like I did. Like he did. We had a few things in common.
“Fairies are real,” I continued. “My business is not fanciful. And I can handle myself. Alone. I’m staying put. I do not need your security guy, got me? End of discussion.”
“Stubborn.”
I grinned. “Darned tootin’.”
Stubbornness. Now, that was the one thing I had inherited from him.
Chapter 7
Oh! Where do fairies hide their heads, when snow lies on the hills, when frost has spoiled their mossy beds, and crystallized their rills?
—Thomas Haynes Bayly
To shake off my father’s visit, I took refuge in the greenhouse and finished making my house-themed fairy garden. I added a porcelain kitten, a welcome sign, and a miniature mailbox into which I inserted a light to represent Fiona. Pleased with the result, other than the stand-in fairy for Meaghan, I set my garden in the far eastern corner and spent a half hour taking photographs.
Around nine p.m., my stomach grumbled. I retreated inside and threw together a simple omelet made with avocados, cheddar cheese, and fresh chives. I’d lied about the salmon to my father; I knew he wouldn’t stay.
While eating, I reviewed the photos on my cell phone. Overshooting the first in the batch, I caught sight of the evidence photos I’d taken at the crime scene. I paused. Why had Mick carried so many business cards? Why had he come into my shop? Where had the killer found the rope used to strangle him?
Unable to answer any of the questions, I washed my dishes and crashed into bed.
* * *
I slept fitfully and woke Friday morning with a worry headache. I’d suffered them before, but this was worse than the others. The pain felt like a steel band was squeezing my head. Quickly, I chowed down two halves of a homemade English muffin slathered with blueberry jam; for some reason, against all known dietary facts, sugar helped me get rid of these kinds of headaches.
As I was washing dishes, Officer Rodriguez called and said I was free to open my business. I asked her if I needed official clearance from Detective Summers. She assured me I didn’t. I wanted to ask if I was still a person of interest but refrained. To stave off the lingering worry headache, it was better to assume that I wasn’t a suspect. Hope sprang eternal. Officer Rodriguez said one of her colleagues would drop off the extra set of keys and added that she hoped they hadn’t made too much of a mess. I didn’t care if they had. I was eager to resume my life.
Before ending the conversation, I asked Rodriguez the one question that had been plaguing me. Had the coroner established a time of death? She hemmed and hawed and finally admitted that Mr. Watkins had died between eleven p.m. and two a.m. Why was it so hard for her to tell me that? Did she think that if I could prove I was online during that time, I was off the hook? Did she hope I was guilty?
Don’t be silly, Courtney. Rodriguez had no skin in the game. She wanted whoever was guilty to be brought to justice.
I thanked her and, to shake off the noxious sensation swirling in my stomach, dressed in a buttercup-yellow floral romper, a lightweight yellow sweater, and my favorite clogs. Then I fetched Pixie and headed to work. Fiona caught up to us at the front door and nested on my shoulder. She yawned and stretched.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I said.
“Good morning to you. Happy May Day.”
I stepped outside. “Happy first day of May to—eek!”
A husky man in jeans and a heavy overcoat was sitting on the rocking chair on my porch, a hat covering his face. He was sound asleep and snoring.
“Hey!” I stamped my foot.
The man startled. When the hat slipped off his face, I breathed easier. “Gus!”
“You know him?” Fiona asked.
I nodded. Gus was my father’s security guy.