Itâs Spring, so letâs talk about cute little fairies! Daryl Wood Gerber brings us A Flicker of a Doubt today. Itâs a cozy mystery with magical elements to it, so letâs put on our gossamer wings and head to California.
About A Flicker of a DoubtâŻ
A Flicker of a Doubt (A Fairy Garden Mystery)
                                             Cozy Mystery
                                              4th in Series
                                          Setting â California
                                           Kensington Cozies
Fairies are trending hard, especially when it comes to fairy garden dĂ©cor in Walmart and Target and on Amazon. The latest installment in the nationally bestselling Daryl Wood Gerberâs Fairy Garden mysteries is a perfect read for Laura Childs readers and all fans of whimsy and charm.
With a theater foundation tea and an art show planned at Violet Vickersâs estate, Courtney is hired to create charming fairy gardens for the event. Itâs not so charming, however, when her best friend Meaghanâs ex-boyfriend turns out to be Violetâs latest artistic protĂ©gĂ©. Even worse, not long after Meaghan locks horns with him, his body is found in her yard, bludgeoned with anâŻobjet dâmurder.
Thereâs a gallery of suspects, from an unstable former flame to an arts and crafts teacher with a sketchy past. But when the cops focus on Meaghanâs business partner, whoâs like a protective older brother to her, and discover he also has a secret financial motive, Courtney decides to draw her own conclusions. Fearing theyâre missing the forest for the trees, and with some help from Fiona the sleuthing fairy, she hopes to make them see the light . . .
Read an Excerpt
Down by the spring one morning
Where the shadows still lay deep,
I found in the heart of a flower
A tiny fairy asleep.
~Laura Ingalls Wilder, âThe Fairy Dew Dropâ
Slam! Slam-slam-slam! Slam!
My insides did a jig. I dashed down the hall to the back of Open Your Imagination,
dusting my hands off on my denim overalls while wondering what in the world was going on.
Fiona, the teensy righteous fairy that appeared to me the day I opened my fairy garden shop,
fluttered to my shoulder. Her limbs and gossamer wings were trembling.
âWhatâs happening, Courtney?â she managed to squeak out. She hated loud noises. Hated
surprises. I didnât like them, either.
Pixie, my Ragdoll cat, trailed us. She mewed.
âDonât worry, you two,â I said. âIâm sure itâs nothing.â
I drew to a halt outside the storage room. The door opened and slammed.
When it opened again, I pressed a hand against it. âHey! Stop! Meaghan, câmon.â
The door opened wide, and Meaghan Brownie gawked at me. Her face was red, her eyes
were ablaze with fury, and her curly hair was writhing like wild snakes.
âWhat the heck has you so angry?â I asked. Iâd sent her to fetch a box of gemstones. I
had plenty, so coming up empty wasnât what was upsetting her.
âNicolas!â She huffed. âHe texted me. And . . . And . . .â She waggled her cell phone.
âOo-oh!â
Nicolas was her ex-boyfriend, a temperamental artist. A few months back, sheâd asked
him to move out while her mother had needed comforting. Heâd never returned.
âOo-oh,â she repeated, before grabbing one of the Tupperware boxes filled with
gemstones and skirting past me. She stalked toward the main showroom.
Pixie and I followed. Fiona flew above my pal, sprinkling her with a calming silver dust.
Fairies couldnât change human behavior, but they could offer potions that might help the human
solve problems. In this case, to find peace.
âHeâs so . . . so . . . â
Meaghan was not using her inside voice, but I wasnât worried about her upsetting our
customers. It was early. Nobody was in the shop yet. Not even Joss Timberlake, my right-hand
helper. Sheâd asked for the morning off, so Iâd invited Meaghan to help me prepare some items.
Why did I need help? Because yesterday Violet Vickers, a wealthy widow who donated to
numerous worthy causes, had ordered an additional dozen fairy gardens to be used as
centerpieces for the theater foundation tea she was serving on Motherâs Day. Why additional?
Because sheâd already commissioned me to make a dozen very large, elaborate fairy gardens to
be installed when Kelly Landscaping, my fatherâs company, completed the total redo of her
backyard.
It was May first. I wasnât hyperventilating. Yet. But I also wasnât sleeping much.
âLetâs go to the patio,â I said. âIâll bring some tea.â
âI donât want tea,â Meaghan groused as she breezed out the French doors to the patio, the
folds of her white lace skirt wafting behind her.
The shopâs telephone jangled. I decided not to answer. Whoever was calling would call
back. Meaghan, my best friend who Iâd met a little over ten years ago when we were sophomores
in college, needed me more. I followed her, glancing at Fiona wondering why the calming potion
wasnât working. Fiona, intuiting my question, shook her head.
âIsnât it a beautiful morning, Meaghan?â I took the box from her and set it on the
workstation table in the learning-the-craft area at the far end of the patio. âGorgeous, in fact.â
The fountain was burbling. Sunshine was streaming through the tempered-glass,
pyramid-shaped roof. The leaves of the Ficus trees were clean and shiny. Iâd already wiped down
the wrought-iron tables and chairs and organized all the verdigris bakerâs racks of fairy figurines.
Plus Iâd removed dead leaves from the various decorative fairy gardens. Presentation mattered to
me and to my customers.
Meaghan muttered, âUgh.â
âStart at the beginning,â I said. âNicolas texted you.â
âYes.â She plopped onto a bench and rested her elbows on the table.
âWhat did he write?â I asked.
âHe wants me back.â
I opened the box of colorful gemstones and ran my hands through them: hematite,
labradorite, amethyst, obsidian, and more.
âBut I donât want him back,â Meaghan said.
Fiona landed on the rim of the box. Her eyes widened. âAre they for the fairy doors,
Courtney?â
âMm-hm.â
âTheyâre pretty.â
Not only was I making the gardens for Violet, but I had three upcoming fairy garden door
classes scheduled. Fairy doors were miniature doors, usually set at the base of a tree, behind
which might be a small space where people left notes or wishes for fairies. They could also be
installed into a fairy garden pot.
âI mean, I used to,â Meaghan went on. âBut I donât anymore. We have nothing in
common.â Idly, she drew circles on the tabletop with her fingertip. âI did the right thing, donât
you think? I did, didnât I?â
Over the course of our friendship, Iâd kept my mouth shut. Nicolas and Meaghan had
never made sense. She was outgoing and personable; he was quiet, to the point of being morose.
Granted, he was a talented artist, and she, as a premier art gallery owner, appreciated his gift, but
that was not enough to sustain a healthy relationship. Not in my book, anyway.
âDid he text anything else?â I asked, not answering her question.
âNo . . . Yes. That he loved me.â She flopped forward on her arms dramatically.
Pixie pounced onto the bench and nudged Meaghanâs hip with her nose.
Meaghan sat up, drew the cat into her lap, and petted her. âYou should have seen Ziggy
the last time Nicolas contacted me.â Ziggy Foxx, an eccentric gay man in his forties, was
Meaghanâs business partner at Flair Gallery.
Cypress and Ivy Courtyard, where Open Your Imagination was located, boasted a highend
jewelry store, collectibles shop, pet-grooming enterprise, my favorite bakery Sweet Treats,
and Flair, Meaghanâs gallery.
âZiggy was finalizing a sale of one of Hunter Hockâs items, and when he heard me say
Nicolasâs name, he nearly threw Hunterâs art across the room. Hunter was there at the time.â
Hunter Hock, an in-demand artist in his thirties, was known for small pieces of art. Not as
tiny as paintings on almonds or bottle caps or even the insides of lockets. More like three-inchsquare
petite canvases. Many featured landscapes of Carmel-by-the-Sea, my home town and one
of the most incredible places on earth.
âOh, man, if Hunter could have leaped through the phone receiverââMeaghan snorted
out a laughââhe would have strangled Nicolas. You know how he likes to protect me.â
Every man whoâd ever met Meaghan had wanted to protect her. Not that she needed it.
She was a force to be reckoned with. But there was something about her femininity that brought
out the he-man in men. Me? Most men wanted to be my friend. Period. I was the girl-next-door
type. Short blond hair, athletic figure. Meaghan towered above me and had curves.
I said, âIâd bet Hunter also didnât like seeing Ziggy lose his temper.â
âDestroy a piece of his art? Oh, the insanity!â Her laugh turned into giggles. Fits of
giggles. And then tears.
I hurried to her and threw my arm around her. âHey, câmon. Deep breaths. Youâre
beyond Nicolas. You have Ziggy.â
She arched her eyebrow.
âOkay, you have Hunter,â I joked.
She sobered. âI donât have Hunter. Heâs a friend.â
I twirled a finger. âIâve seen the way he looks at you.â
âLike this?â She made a googly-eyed face.
âThatâs the spirit!â Fiona spiraled to the roof, did a loop the loop, and returned to
Meaghanâs shoulder. âNo more crying. Whatâs done is done.â She caressed my friendâs hair.
âThank you, Fiona.â Not everyone could see fairies, and Meaghan had struggled at first,
but now, she was quite in tune with them.
âWe move onward and upward,â Fiona added. My intrepid fairy knew what she was
talking about. Sheâd messed up in fairy school, so the queen fairy had booted her from the fairy
realm and subjected her to probation. But she was making the most of it. By helping humans
solve problems, she would earn her way back into the queen fairyâs good gracesâthe queen
fairy who, until a few months ago, I hadnât realized was Aurora, the first fairy Iâd ever seen; the
fairy who had disappeared from my memory when my mother died.
âWhen youâre done with your pity party, Meaghan,â I said, âhelp me sort these stones
before we open up.â
âAnd then I need to go to Flair.â
I turned on soothing instrumental music that piped through speakers on the patio, and we
worked in companionable silence for an hour, organizing and preparing.
When Meaghan was ready to leave, she gave me a hug. âThank you for talking me down
from the ledge.â
âNo thanks required. Nicolas wants you, but you donât want him. All you have to say is
no.â
âNo.â Meaghan shook her head from side to side. âNo, no, no.â
âSee?â I grinned. âThat isnât too hard.â
âUntil he comes near me and my knees turn to jelly.â
âYou wonât turn to jelly. Youâll be strong. Stalwart. Youâve been seeing the therapist.
Sheâs given you mantras. Repeat those. Over and over.â
Fiona said, âAnd if those donât work, squeeze your eyes shutââshe demonstratedââand
picture what you want out of life.â She popped her eyes open. âWhat do you want?â
âA man who thinks Iâm wonderful,â Meaghan replied. âA man who doesnât tear me
down. A man who truly loves me for me.â
I hugged her. âThatâs my girl.â
She bounded to her feet. âWant me to unlatch the Dutch door on my way out?â
âIâll do it.â It was time to open.
I followed her through the showroom. In addition to fairy garden items, we sold a variety
of specialty pieces, including tea sets, gardening tools, books about fairies, and windchimes;
fairies enjoyed tinkling sounds. I weaved between display tables to the entrance and swung open
the door. I stepped outside and drew in a deep, cleansing breath. âRemember, Meaghan, Iâm here
if you need me.â
She jogged up the stairs of the split-level courtyard. âDonât forget I brought you doublechocolate
caramel brownies,â she yelled as she disappeared from view.
Given her last name, sheâd been a brownie maker since sheâd learned how to bake. I was
lucky enough to reap the rewards.
I turned to go back inside.
âCourtney!â a woman called. Violet Vickers exited the silver Rolls Royce coupe sheâd
parked on the street.
Inwardly, I moaned. I adored Violet, but what did she need now? I didnât have more
hours in the day.
âIâm so glad youâre here.â She triggered the car alarm and strode across the sidewalk
toward me while smoothing the shawl collar of her lavender jacquard suit. âI tried phoning, but
you didnât answer.â
âHi, Violet.â I beckoned her into the shop. âWhatâs up?â I asked, closing the Dutch door
behind us, but opening the top half to let in the fresh air. âIâm getting ready to put the fairy
garden centerpieces together this morning. Your big pots are done and all set for delivery.â Iâd
made the larger-sized pots in my backyard using items in my greenhouse.
âLovely,â she said, as she was wont to do. âHas your father seen the big ones?â
My father, a pragmatist in every sense of the word, didnât believe in fairies. Opening my
fairy garden shop had been a bone of contention between us. But at least he was coming around
to acknowledging that I and others did see them. And heâd accepted that Violet expected twelve
custom-made pots in her garden. No ifs, ands, or buts. Somehow he, as her landscaper, would
make them work with his design.
âNot yet,â I said, âbut he has approved of the plant selections and color of the pottery.â
âExcellent. What are the themes of the gardens, if I dare ask?â
âLove, love, love,â I chimed. âAs ordered.â
Though she was pushing seventy, Violet applauded like a jubilant schoolgirl. Sheâd asked
that the fairy gardens reflect love in all its glory. How could I refuse? Fiona, who was turning out
to be quite the reader, had advised me from the get-go to focus on the greatest love stories of all
time: Romeo and Juliet; Wuthering Heights; Dr. Zhivago; Casablanca. Creating Rickâs CafĂ©
with its Moroccan décor for the Casablanca-themed garden had been a challenge.
Violet tapped her chin. âNow then, the reason I needed to see youââ
Tires screeched outside. A door slammed.
Fiona flew to my shoulder. âWhat now?â she asked, quivering with newfound fear.
The Dutch door burst open, and Nicolas Buley charged in, his dark hair askew, apparent
shaving mishaps checked by tissue, and his paint-splattered shirt untucked from his jeans.
âWhere is she?â
About Daryl Wood Gerber
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