“Are you okay?” I asked.
She pressed a hand to the collar of her lacy dress. “He’s following me.”
“Who is?”
“An evil fairy.”
Fiona blew a raspberry. “Liar. She’s never seen a fairy, I assure you.”
I looked from her to Shara. Playing along, I said, “Fairies aren’t vengeful, so you shouldn’t be frightened.”
“But this one is. It’s huge. Monstrous.” She raised both arms and wiggled her fingers. “With red suspenders and big ears.”
Fiona said, “Fairies aren’t huge or monstrous.”
“Please hide me!” Shara gripped the edge of a table and crouched down.
Reflexively, I glanced outside. No one was there. I turned to view the main showroom. All seemed in order. “Shara, c’mon, stand up.” I moved to her and offered a hand. “You’re safe.”
She teetered when she rose. Had she been drinking? I didn’t detect a hint of alcohol on her breath.
“No one is here but us,” I assured her.
“He seeks the treasure.” Shara swirled one hand in the air.
I forced a laugh. “Everything here is a treasure for your garden. For example, these porcelain bells?” I lifted one and handed it to her.
She set it down as if it was hot.
“And those iron statues of the fairies ringing bells will bring the owner good luck.” For a bit of holiday whimsy, I’d ordered a half dozen foot-tall statues. I’d donned each with an elf hat. Three stood in the showroom, and another three resided on the patio.
“No, he seeks the treasure”—she dragged out the word, low and slow—“buried beneath the courtyard.”
The lights in the shop flickered. Not the usual kind of blink-blink. A sharp flash like the shop had suffered a shock.
Shara let out a teensy, “Eek.”
Joss gasped. Fiona flew to my shoulder and gripped the short hair at the nape of my neck.
A strange stillness settled in.
“It’s nothing,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. The wiring in the Cypress and Ivy Courtyard where the shop was located was top notch. Everything had been updated a year ago.
“Oh, woe is me,” Shara said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned the treasure. I’m doomed.” She dashed out of the shop.
The door slammed shut.
An instant later, it opened, and Idris Gentry poked her head inside. “Knock knock.” She was dressed in an elf’s costume and belt bag, her tawny hair shoved beneath a pointy hat. No suspenders. And she had teensy ears, so she couldn’t be the ogre Shara feared. “Open for biz?”
“Closed,” I said.
“Rats. I was hoping to buy my niece a Christmas gift. Something she’ll treasure.”
The word made me think of the disturbing exchange with Shara.
“I’ll just be a jif. Pretty please?” Idris was a new hire at Sweet Treats, the bakery near the Dolores Street entrance of the courtyard. When I met her two days ago, she’d reminded me of the film moppet Shirley Temple with her mass of ringlet curls, pert nose, and melodic voice. “I’ll bring you a dozen gingerbread cookies in the morning if you’ll let me buy this.” She picked up one of the porcelain bells. “It’s perfect. Is cash okay?”
How could I refuse? With her sunny disposition, I doubted anyone ever said no to her. “Sure.”
