The hair at the nape of my neck bristled with unease. I didn’t want to turn away customers, but I wanted this guy gone.
Fiona flew around him and grimaced. “He’s not trustworthy.”
“I know what I say is true,” Ferguson continued, “because I visited the recorder’s office.”
“Why would they tell you anything?” I asked.
“Because my family goes back six generations in these parts.” He peered at the patio and a sly smile drew up the left side of his mouth. He caught me staring at him and frowned. “What?”
“How many generations?” I asked.
“Six,” he repeated.
“Gee, you don’t look like you have Spanish heritage.”
“Huh?”
“One hundred years typically engenders three or four generations. The current town of Carmel blossomed after the 1906 San Francisco earthquake when artists and authors ventured south to establish a creative community. Formerly, the area was influenced by Spanish occupation. Father Junipero Serra established a mission in the late 1700s.”
“Fine. Three or four generations,” he revised.
Joss said sotto voce, “Courtney, the recorder’s office won’t care about his lineage. Anybody can view records.”
I glowered at Ferguson. Believing he was bluffing and recalling what Hercule Poirot said a detective had to be good at—guessing—I blurted, “Where were you Wednesday night?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because Tianna Thistle, the woman you threatened Tuesday, was murdered in my shop.”
He balked. His bulbous nose reddened and his puffy eyes narrowed into slits. “I didn’t threaten anyone.”
“You did.”
“Well, I didn’t kill her.” He raised his chin which made his drooping jowls waggle. “I was tending to my gardens.”
“Talking to snails,” Joss chimed.
Fiona tittered.
“Any witnesses?” I asked.
“Why would I need one?”
“Mr. Moss, you just admitted you went out of your way to seek information that would destroy Miss Thistle’s credibility. When she alleged her family had ancestral rights to this property and any treasure it might reveal, you bullied her and said, ‘Not if something happens to you.’” I pursed my lips. “What really went down? Did you steal into my shop first? Were you digging up the courtyard when she found you?”
“Digging . . . your courtyard?” His cheeks reddened. “No. I wasn’t here. I was in my garden. My neighbor saw me. Multiple times.”
I tilted my head. Was a neighbor-sighting the go-to alibi nowadays? “Why?” I asked. “Are you someone who needs to be watched?”
“Bah!” He filled his cheeks with air and blew it out. “You’re crazy.” He grabbed the handle of the gift bag and stormed through the showroom. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer if you defame me.”
When he left, my fervor deflated. I grabbed the edge of the sales counter to steady myself. Fiona doused me with a silvery calming potion.
Joss rested a hand on my shoulder. “Did you believe him?”
“Sadly, I did.”
The Monterey CountyAssessor-Recorder’s Office was located in a utilitarian building in Salinas, a town known as the Salad Bowl of the World because of the abundance of lettuce, artichokes, and other crops they grew there.
