The Fairyland Murders

While Izzy waited by the door for the cops, her wings safely tucked away, I took the opportunity to do a little investigating. Past experience told me Barry’s corpse and the piece of torn fairy wing from the twins’ apartment in my pocket were too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Barry was dead for a reason and I believed that very reason was sitting in my pocket.

Now I had to prove it.

My first stop was Barry’s office. Someone had bought the wings the piece in my pocket came from, and the sooner I found the culprit the better. Thankfully, Barry was old school like me. Instead of computerized records, he kept all of his paper receipts in his top desk drawer. Hell at tax time, but very helpful for this nearly computer illiterate investigator. No Fairybook or Tweety for this guy. I found my dates the old-fashioned way, the back pages of the PennySaver.

Quickly, I shifted through a stack of sales receipts from the previous week, finding nothing much of interest. I did see a copy of the receipt for Izzy’s costume purchase. The same one Barry had referenced for her address. The copy listed a nun’s habit, black in color, among other things that Barry cataloged as “fashion accessories.” A part of me really, really wanted to know what sort of accessories, fashionable or not, Izzy hid beneath her clothes besides those fabulous wings.

Shaking off the sudden swell of heat rising inside me, I focused on Barry’s drawer once again. Three stacks of receipts later I found what I was looking for.

One pair of green wings, sold last week for twenty-seven bucks. I looked for a signature or any indication of who had made the purchase. But all I found was an odd string of numbers, numbers too long to be an address or a phone number and too short to be a credit card number. Thirteen numbers in total. Was it some sort of code? None of the other receipts bore any combination of similar numbers. So why code this particular order?

I tapped the paper against my gloved hand. Maybe it was as simple as Barry using a numerical filing system for his regular customers. I glanced about the office, my heart sinking at the thought. At least four file cabinets stood against the office walls, each bursting with files and folders.

Even if I had the time—which I didn’t by the sound of approaching police sirens—finding the corresponding folder to go with my mysterious numbers was like searching for Little Bo Peep’s sheep. And that hadn’t gone very well at all.

Disgusted, I shoved the stack of receipts back into the drawer, with the exception of the one for the green wings. I pocketed it and headed for the front of the store.

Cop cars pulled alongside the storefront, lights flashing, as I arrived at Izzy’s side. I took her hand in my gloved one. “Let me do the talking.”

“I live to serve,” she sneered.

“Izzy . . .” I began, but the arrival of two plainclothes detectives stopped my next words. The female cop, her hair the color of a drab mouse with the exception of the roots, which shone like spun gold, held out her hand. “I’m Detective Goldie Locks and this is my partner,” she waved to the taller man, “Detective Peter Rabit.”

Carefully, I took her hand in my gloved one, noting her slender fingers and the overly large engagement ring on her left hand. Her fiancé, whoever he was, was overcompensating in a big way. I wondered if he was a cheater or worse. “Reynolds. Blue Reynolds, PI.” I slipped her my card, in case she decided, at some point, to find out why her fiancé had bought a rock that large.

The detective’s welcoming smile slipped a notch, a standard reaction when cop met PI. “I see.” She motioned to Izzy. “And you are?”

I answered for Izzy, my tone as cold as Barry’s corpse. “A friend.” The detective’s eyebrow raised a half inch, but she didn’t press me. Which I appreciated. Lying to the cops, while second nature for a blue-haired PI, wasn’t the best idea, especially when a dead body was involved. Not to mention adding a little breaking and entering to the mix.

“Where’s the vic?” Locks asked.

I motioned inside the store. “Southwest corner.”

She nodded once and then disappeared inside. The other detective stayed put, pulling a notebook from inside his rumpled jacket pocket. He clicked his pen twice and began to write. “Let’s start at the top.” His smile didn’t quite reach his unassuming brown eyes, a clear indication that I wasn’t going to like the next hour or so of my life. “How well did you know the victim?”

I sighed but answered his question, as well as the next hundred he asked. I tried to stick to the truth as much as possible, yet never once did I mention the soon-to-be Tooth Fairy standing next to me, nor the missing twin fairies, the fairy serial murder, or the fake wings.

“You said the door was open when you arrived?” His eyes watched mine.

“And you didn’t touch anything?”

I held up a gloved hand. “I checked Barry for a pulse and when I didn’t find one, I called you guys.”

His gaze focused on the glove and then me. “Is that what happened?” he asked, turning to Izzy with far too much interest for my peace of mind.

She bit her bottom lip as tears welled in her eyes. “I think so.”

“But you’re not sure?” His gaze focused on her. “Weren’t you with Mr. Reynolds when he found the body?”

“Did you see Mr. Reynolds touch anything besides . . .” His words trailed off as he motioned inside the shop to where Barry’s body slowly swung back and forth.

Izzy gazed up at the detective from underneath lowered lashes. If I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours with her, I might’ve believed her sweet, softly spoken lies. But I knew better. The chick had wings. Big ones. “I was so frightened.... Blue . . . he . . . he told me to wait by the door.”

“For her own safety,” I interrupted before Izzy landed me in the clink. “I didn’t know if the killer was still inside. I was only trying to protect her . . . and the crime scene,” I quickly added.

A wrinkle formed over the detective’s brow, but he didn’t comment further. Instead, he waited for his partner to emerge from the crime scene. Once she returned, he waved her over. “Goldie,” he said, and then started filling her in on our story.

Detective Locks listened to her partner, never interrupting him. When he finished she turned to me. From the crisp, cold look in her gaze, I prepared myself for an onslaught. It wasn’t long in coming.

One simple question, spoken in a husky whisper barely loud enough to hear over the buzz of activity on the street, formed on her lips. “How’d you know this was a murder?”