Whatever the truth was, Tianna had been murdered because a killer believed a treasure had existed beneath the tiles of the patio. Now I was determined to find out who.
CHAPTER SIX
A fairy went a-marketing?—
She bought a coloured bird;
It sang the sweetest, shrillest song
That ever she had heard.
~ Rose Fyleman, “A Fairy Went A-Marketing”
AFTER THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL TEAM LEFT,thankfully I was able to open the patio to customers because a bunch of regulars arrived, each on the hunt for pottery and figurines and plants. I wasn’t scheduled to give any private or group classes until next week, so I was able to spend time chatting with each person. Of course, a few had heard about the murder and wanted to see where the treasure had been buried. Grimly, I tried to figure out who would have shared the news. Surely not the police, and I doubted Meaghan, Lissa, or Glinda would have said a word. Horace Elias knew about it because of the police inquiry, but if he was the culprit who had unearthed the treasure and killed Tianna, why would he leak the news?
“I’m hungry for sugar,” Joss said when there was a lull.
I stopped tallying the morning’s receipts and regarded her. She was lying. Ever since she’d suffered an arduous dentist visit, she hadn’t eaten a single dessert. Plus she was biting into a deli sandwich packed with salami. “Uh-huh,” I snarked. “What kind of decadent delight would you prefer?”
“Something holidayesque. You know, gingerbread or peppermint or, hey, how about iced sugar cookies? I saw Sweet Treats has a special on them. We’re going to serve those at the tea, right? I should taste test them.”
“Ahem.” I cleared my throat. “Don’t kid a kidder. What’s up?”
“I know you care about the shop. I know you don’t want any bad publicity to affect business. And, let’s face it, a murder on the premises is bad publicity. Anyway”—she rotated a hand—"when I was returning from lunch, I saw Shara Popple slipping inside the bakery. You need to talk to her about where she was last night.” She tapped her temple. “It’s time you stimulate your little gray cells with an interrogation.”
Fiona flew between us. “She’s right. It’s time to put on your Hercule Poirot hat.”
Poirot frequently wore a dark-colored Hombourg hat, but I didn’t think it encouraged his little gray cells to work harder.
“While you’re there,” Joss said, “see if Idris knows of others who bought gingerbread cookies in the past couple of days.”
“Bought them and poisoned them?” I asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
Knowing my plucky assistant would hound me until I did her bidding, I grabbed my crossbody purse and headed to Sweet Treats. Fiona accompanied me.
A few customers were peering into the glass display case filled with pastries, cakes, and cookies. All three of the retro pink stools were occupied at the pink counter. Yvanna Acebo, a beautiful Latina who helped out with the book club teas because she had Saturdays off, wasn’t dressed in her typical uniformof pink hat and apron over white dress. Instead, like Idris yesterday, she had donned an elf costume. Her outfit sported striped leggings and a hat fixed with pointy ears.
“Hi, Courtney,” she said. “I heard what happened. A couple of shop owners have been spreading the word. What a tragedy. Are you okay?”
“Managing.”
Yvanna was packing up a variety of orders. “Find a table, and I’ll be right with you.”
“There’s Idris.” Fiona pointed a finger.
Through a glass window customers could view the kitchen. Idris was patting palm-sized wads of dough on the pastry island and placing each in a miniature tart pan. The pink apron she’d donned over her elf costume was covered with flour. Her nose and cheeks were dusted as well. Baking tools like thermometers, pastry brushes, and spatulas peeked from the pockets of her apron. Beyond her on the wall was a bulletin board holding a wealth of three-by-five cards outlining orders to be filled. To the right of the board were six pocket hanging file holders. They appeared to be teeming with bills and receipts and an array of colored envelopes. Would a special order for gingerbread cookies be tucked among them with the killer’s name on it?
Idris caught sight of me and waved a latex-gloved hand. I crooked a finger, miming I needed to ask her a question.
She removed the gloves, abandoned her post, and pushed through the swinging doors while tucking a loose hair behind her ear and up into the chef’s cap she sported. She met me at the far end of the counter, extended her arms, and shook out her fingers. “Much better,” she crooned. “Stretching gets rid of the tension.”
I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be to bake all day.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Fiona orbited Idris’s head. The baker didn’t notice her.
