“Besides, this guy Warren has already started some of the work, and I like what he’s done, so I’d like to keep him on.”
“Warren Noth?” Katie asked, surprised.
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s doing the renovations at Sassy Sally’s. That’s why I’m getting such a good deal; he’s already here. It’s also why I’m not a priority: My job won’t make him near that kind of money.”
“It’s always about money,” Katie said, sighing.
Ray stood, nodding. “Pretty much everything. In my whole career, I hardly ever came across a murder that didn’t have cold, hard cash somewhere in the motivation mix. See you later, Katie.”
“Yeah.”
After Ray left, Katie kept staring into the vacant space where he’d been, thinking hard.
If murder was almost always about money, why had Josh been killed? He’d owned a moderately successful insurance agency, but Katie had done his books and knew he’d been far from making serious money.
Which brought up a question Katie should have thought about long before—how on earth had he afforded a boat like the one he’d docked at Thompson’s Landing?
Six
Late the next morning, Katie was upstairs, talking to a vendor about the work schedule, when she heard a heavy tread on the stairs. She turned just in time to see a head covered with a steel-colored crew cut rise above the railing. It was followed by a round head that wore glasses, which was followed by the rest of Fred Cunningham’s stout body.
Fred was the premier real estate agent for McKinlay Mill and owner of Cunningham Real Estate, and Katie had worked with him on the lease with Brittany and on leases for the other businesses in her building. The owners of the photography and dance studios had both talked to Katie about renewing their leases when they expired, and Katie hoped that trend would continue for years to come.
“Good morning, Fred,” Katie said. She made quick introductions between Fred and Godfrey Foster, the vendor she’d been talking to. Godfrey’s dryer lint art was, bizarrely, selling well, but his attempts to say his success was so important to Artisans Alley that he shouldn’t have to work his two days a month weren’t convincing her. “How are you this fine day?”
“I’d be perfect if I could find a renter for that last spot in this building.”
Katie laughed. “Fred, that space isn’t much bigger than a closet. Who on earth would want to rent that?”
“Well, since you’ve asked, I do have a couple of ideas.”
“Are either one of them any good?” Katie nodded a good-bye to Godfrey. She took Fred’s arm and walked him back toward the stairs.
“What do you think about a shop that sells adult novelties?”
“Not much.” They thumped down the stairs, one step at a time.
“I figured you’d say that. How about a production studio for rap music?”
Was he serious? “About the same.”
Fred heaved a heavy sigh just as they reached the main floor. “I thought you’d say that, too, but I had to ask. If I get anyone else interested, I’ll let you know.”
Katie held out a hand. “Say, Fred, do you have a couple of minutes?”
“I’m free as a bird until after lunch.” He winked at her. “You and Andy looking to buy a house? I have something that would be perfect for two harried business owners. What do you think about a condo?”
“I think you’re dreaming,” Katie said. “Do all real estate agents have such a rich fantasy life?”
“Part of the licensing requirements.” He smiled. “What do you need?”
With Katie in the lead, they headed into the vendors’ lounge. Katie took a clean coffee mug off the counter and held it up. When Fred nodded, she poured two mugfuls and handed him one before putting creamer into her own. “Did you know Josh Kimper?” she asked. An expression came and went on Fred’s face so fast that Katie wasn’t sure she’d seen anything.
“Horrible way to go,” he murmured. “Drowning in a bathtub, like that.”
Katie didn’t correct him. No one had told her to keep the knowledge about where Josh had drowned to herself, but she didn’t want to broadcast the information any more than necessary. “You know he was murdered, don’t you?”
“Horrible way to go,” Fred said again. He blew across the top of his coffee mug and took a couple of long swallows.
It wasn’t like Fred to have so little to say, Katie thought. She studied him as she rinsed off a spoon and stirred her coffee. “None of us gets to pick how we die,” she said.
“Or when,” Fred said. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
Think about what, exactly, Katie wasn’t sure, but she had a feeling it had to do with mortality and lifestyle and a life well lived. Though that was all appropriate, what she wanted from him was a little more specific.
“Speaking of Josh,” she said, “what I’m wondering is if you happen to know whether or not Josh’s building across town is up for sale.” Thanks to the mortgage payments she’d made over the years while working for him, she knew that he’d had a lot of capital invested in the place.
“The office, you mean?” Fred asked. “Or the house? Because they’re both listed as being for sale.”
Katie eyed him. She didn’t want to lie, but she also wanted as much information as she could get. Marcie hadn’t said anything about selling the house when she’d stopped by the previous week. “Did you list them?”
“Me? No.” He named the biggest Rochester-based agency. “McKinlay Mill is big enough for me.”
“Then how do you know they’re up for sale?”
Fred shrugged. “Multi-listing. And it’s not every day that a business owner is murdered.” He took another big slug of coffee, then said, “If you’re interested in buying the agency, I bet Marcie would give you a good deal on it, with you having worked for Josh for so long.”
Marcie? Katie’s eyebrows went up. “I didn’t know you knew Josh’s wife.”
“Oh. Well.” The normally silver-tongued man fumbled for words. “I . . . uh . . . well . . . I don’t. I guess. Not really.”
“Fred Cunningham.” Katie gave him a hard stare. “Do not tell me that you’ve been unfaithful to your wife. She is already far too good for you.”
“What!” He stood up straight. “Of course I haven’t been unfaithful. I wouldn’t dream of doing that to my wife. It’s just . . .” He sighed.
“Just what?” Katie prompted.
He sighed again. “I was not unfaithful. I am not unfaithful.”
Katie sensed there was something more. “But . . . ?”
“But nothing. I like Marcie, that’s all.” He shifted from one foot to another.
The feeling that there was more to the story lingered in the air. “And have you seen her since Josh’s death?”
“Well . . .” Fred stared into his coffee mug. “I did happen to stop by the house a few days after he died to give my condolences.”
“And?” Katie prompted.
“And that’s when she told me she’d already listed the insurance agency and the house. She apologized, kind of, saying she was sorry she didn’t list them with me. I told her not to worry about it, that they were a little far afield of my area. There are lots of fine Realtors closer to her neck of the woods, and I told her the one she chose would probably do an excellent job and get great prices for both the business and the house.” He stopped talking and looked at Katie sheepishly. “My wife doesn’t need to know about this, does she?”
Either Fred’s wife was extremely jealous or he had an overdeveloped sense of shame, which was hard to believe in a real estate agent. “I don’t see why,” Katie said. “You didn’t do anything wrong, right?”
“What? No, of course not.” Fred shook his head vigorously. “I’d never cheat on my wife, not even to console a newly bereaved widow.”
Katie t
ook the empty mug he proffered, accepted his thanks for the coffee, and watched him go.
But all the while she was thinking one thing: Hmmm.
After a quick lunch from the bakery, a lunch of which her nutritionally minded great-aunt would never have approved, Katie took a brisk walk across the Square to Sassy Sally’s. On the way, she thought about how much she loved the month of September. The weather was relatively warm, the snowy chill of winter was months away, and the air was often so clear and still that it reminded her of the set of a play just after the curtain rose.
Shaking away the fanciful idea, Katie walked up the steps and through the half-open door. Once again, pickup trucks filled the driveway and the poundings of hammers and the shrill shriek of circular saws filled her ears.
“Knock, knock,” she called. “Is anyone home?” She started down the hallway to the kitchen but stopped short as Don yelled, “We’re in the parlor.”
She turned around, made her way back to the lobby, and, just before entering the parlor, asked, “Are you decent?”
“Not in the last twenty-three years,” Nick said, laughing.
“And who do you think you are,” Don scolded, “coming in here without treats. I’m dying for a sweet snack, and when we heard your voice, I thought rescue was imminent.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” The two men were seated side by side on a sofa upholstered in a rose-patterned fabric. In front of them was a coffee table stained so dark it was almost black and covered with fabric and paint swatches, and trim samples.
The remainder of the large room was comfortably furnished with a mixture of upholstered and harder seating. A set of glass bookcases lined one wall, vintage prints of McKinlay Mill occupied another wall, and the other two walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a superbly pleasant space with a wood floor and thick area rugs underfoot, and Katie was glad she’d sold all of the items she’d been stockpiling for so long to Don and Nick so she could visit them on a regular basis.
“Still making decorating decisions?” She sat in the comfy chair that Nick waved her into.
“We’ll be choosing room and bathroom decor until the day we die,” Don said mournfully.
Nick elbowed him. “Oh, come on. This is fun, remember?”
“A year ago, all this was fun.” Don gestured at the piled-high coffee table. “Six months ago it was fun. A month ago, even, it was almost the only thing I could think about. But the last week or so . . .” His voice trailed off. He picked up a sheaf of paint samples and shuffled through them, for once silent.
Katie looked from one man to the other. “The last week or so,” she said. “Since Josh was killed, you mean.”
“It’s like a curtain has come down.” Don pulled a fabric swatch from the bottom of one of the tumbling piles and held it up. “All of this”—he spread his hands toward the coffee table—“was great fun two weeks ago. Now?” He let his hands drop.
“Our future used to be clear,” Nick said. “Now there’s just a murky fog ahead. That Detective Hamilton stops by almost every day, asking questions. Sometimes different ones, sometimes the same ones. We have no idea what’s going to happen.”
Don swallowed. “Every night since Josh died, when I close my eyes, all I see is that arm hanging over the edge of the tub, with those dead fingers dangling down.”
Katie shivered. She’d seen the same thing, but she’d known what was coming. To be confronted with that sight unexpectedly? It was no wonder that Don was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. But maybe what she’d stopped by to tell them would help, at least a little.
“Did you know Marcie Kimper, Josh’s widow, has already put both his business and their house up for sale?” she asked.
“Already?” Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s fast work.”
“Yes indeedy.” Don looked thoughtful. “Makes you wonder a little bit, doesn’t it? Everybody says to wait six months to a year after a spouse’s death to make big decisions.”
Katie squirmed in her seat. She’d quit her job with Josh and moved to working full-time at Artisans Alley within seven months of her husband’s death. Then again, maybe that proved the point—she’d wanted to quit her job at Kimper Insurance for ages, and Chad’s tragic car accident, followed by the death of Ezra Hilton, the other partner at Artisans Alley, had pushed her in a new direction.
When she mentioned this, Don squinted at her. “So you’re saying Marcie killed Josh to, what? Set herself free?” He smirked.
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just tossing out suggestions.”
“Suggest away,” Nick said. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Don’s not getting enough sleep these days and barely knows what he’s saying.”
Katie saw Don’s expression darken and jumped in before a real argument could start. “I stopped by the insurance agency yesterday,” she said. “And it turns out that Josh’s new office manager, the woman he hired to replace me, is young and extremely pretty. And she bawled her eyes out when I started talking about Josh.”
“O-ho!” Don grinned, his sour expression already history. “Methinks there’s a possibility there. Love triangle, jealousy, murder!”
Nick frowned. “Josh was having an affair with his employee and Marcie was so jealous she killed him. Seriously? I mean, you’d met Josh, right? He sure didn’t seem like anyone who would inspire deep passions.”
Had Don been talking to Ray about it?
“What do you think, Katie?” Don asked, grinning. “Did you ever harbor a deep, secret passion for Kimper?”
“Maybe a deep hatred,” she said without thinking. Then she saw the looks on the men’s faces and hastened to add, “Not that I truly hated him. He was . . .” The words she’d thrown at him on the marina’s dock came back to her, and she smiled faintly. “He was arrogant and rude and a male chauvinist pig, but I wasn’t filled with hate for him, and certainly not so much that I would have killed him.”
Nick nodded. “Maybe in the heat of an argument you might have slapped him silly, but it just doesn’t make sense that you’d want to kill him almost a year after quitting that job. And you’re nothing if not sensible.”
“Um, thanks.” Sensible? That made her sound like a pair of shoes.
“It’s just as well,” Don said. “If Josh had divorced Marcie and married you, your name would have been Katie Kimper, and that’s just too horrible to contemplate.”
She made a face. “There’s another possibility. What if Josh was killed to get him out of the way? What if Marcie was the one having the affair?” Because even though Fred had protested, maybe he’d protested a little too much? And how long had Marcie been seeing that attorney she’d seen consoling the lovely widow so soon after her husband’s murder?
“Well,” Nick said, “that’s for the police to find out, isn’t it?” He looked from Katie to his partner and back. “What?”
Don sighed theatrically. “The poor, misguided soul. Clearly, Nick hasn’t been watching the correct television shows.”
“Or reading the proper books,” Katie added. “The police are shorthanded and can always use some help.”
“Leave it to the professionals,” Nick said firmly. “It’s their job. And we should be out of it, anyway. We have alibis.” He looked to his right. “Solid ones, right, Don?”
Don blinked. “Sure. Of course we do. We were at that party. Lots of people saw us.”
“Right.” Nick gave Don a hard look, one that was filled with something Katie couldn’t interpret. “Lots of people.”
“But speaking of Josh Kimper,” Don said, either not noticing or ignoring Nick’s leaden glance, “do you think I should tell the police what I learned this morning?”
“Tell them what?” Katie asked.
“Don,” said Nick in a warning tone of voice.
“Oh, don’t ‘Don’ me. Let’s try it out o
n Katie. If she thinks it’s police-worthy, I’ll tell Detective Hamilton next time he stops by. If she thinks I’m ridiculous, well, so be it.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself.”
“Okay, then.” Don faced Katie. “I was in Rochester yesterday, running some errands, and I decided to stop in at that nifty wine shop near Winton Office Park. You know the one?”
Katie nodded. When she’d worked for Josh, she’d passed it twice a day on the way to and from work. She’d stopped in once when she’d wanted a nice bottle for a dinner party she and Chad were scheduled to attend, but she’d walked out after realizing that the average price per bottle was more than they’d usually paid for a dinner for two.
“Love that place,” Don said. “I stopped to order up a case of their best Beaujolais nouveau. I can’t get enough of that stuff. It goes perfectly with—”
Nick made a rolling motion with his index fingers. “Moving on, here.”
“Anywaaay,” Don said, drawing out the word, “when I was in there, checking out the new labels, I overheard a conversation between a customer and the store’s owner. It didn’t take long before I realized they were talking about Josh. Which wasn’t a huge surprise, because it’s not every day that a guy in your neighborhood gets whacked. The surprising part was what they were saying about him.”
Katie found herself on the edge of her seat. “What were they saying?”
“That Josh had been buying up other insurance agencies. Suburban places, it sounded like, because I heard them talk about Parma and Henrietta.” He snapped his fingers. “Greece, too, come to think of it.”
“Weird,” Katie said, frowning. “Buying even a small insurance agency would cost thousands and thousands of dollars. Josh didn’t have that kind of money.”
“He didn’t eleven months ago,” Don said. “Who knows what might have changed since you left?”
Nick blew out a breath. “Probably nothing. And the two guys you were listening to were probably just spreading unsubstantiated rumors. Let’s be honest—which is more likely? Rumors or Josh Kimper magically coming up with the wherewithal to purchase two or three businesses.”
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