Dead, Bath, and Beyond

by Lorraine Bartlett

  Don glared at him. “He could have inherited money from . . . from a long-lost uncle. Or his wife could have. Or maybe his wife was the one with the money all along. She finally loosened the purse strings enough to let him buy some other businesses, but when she found out he’d bought businesses that were losing money, she killed him.”

  “See why I don’t take this seriously?” Nick asked Katie. “One scrap of overheard gossip, and he’s fabricated a story that has absolutely no basis in fact.”

  “All anyone would have to do,” Katie said reasonably, “is to call the agencies in those towns and see if there was any truth to the rumors or if they’re complete fabrications.”

  The two men stared at her long enough that she got uncomfortable. “Speaking of fabric,” Katie said, standing, “I’m sure you two need to get back to—”

  “Hang on,” Nick said, putting out a hand. “I have an idea.”

  “Me, too.” Don smiled.

  “Would you help us out, Katie?” Nick asked. “I know it’s an imposition, but—”

  “But could you pretty please call those insurance agencies and ask if there’s any truth to the rumors?” Don grinned at her.

  Nick had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “You’re probably thinking that we could do this just as easily ourselves, but I’m betting that having worked in the insurance business, you know those folks. Or,” he hurriedly added when she started shaking her head, “at least you speak the same language.”

  “Please, Katie?” Don asked. “You can say you’re a former employee of Josh’s and that you’re just making sure there aren’t any loose ends after his untimely death. No one has to know that you quit working for him a year ago, right?”

  “I’m sure everyone I dealt with was well aware that I’d left the agency.”

  “But you have a knack for this kind of thing,” Nick added. “We’d make a mess of it from the get-go.”

  She looked from one man to the other, trying to come up with a good reason not to do what they were asking. Even as she thought about it, though, she started to warm to the idea. It wouldn’t hurt her, or even take that much time, to make a few phone calls. And if she asked the right questions of the right people, she might learn quite a bit about Josh.

  “She’s hesitating,” Don observed. “We’re going to have to up the ante.”

  Nick shot his partner a glance but said, “How about we invite you and Andy over for dinner when the renovations are all done?”

  “Deal,” she said.

  “Hah!” Don snickered. “We were going to do that anyway.”

  “And I was going to make those phone calls without the dinner offer, so I’d call us even.” She laughed at Don’s rueful expression. “I’ll let you know when I learn anything,” she said and left the two to their decorating decisions.

  A few days before, Katie had emailed or phoned all the Artisans Alley vendors to say that she’d scheduled an evening meeting for that evening. She fielded the usual complaints about not being able to make it on such short notice, about having it at such an inconvenient time, and other similar grumblings and said she’d write up notes about the meeting and distribute them within a day.

  “You’re too nice,” Vance told her as they set up folding chairs in the lobby. She’d locked the front door exactly at closing time, and the meeting was set to start in a few minutes. “Ezra never had vendor meetings, and I can’t imagine a situation that would have meant he’d spend any time writing up meeting notes.”

  Katie shrugged and kept unfolding chairs, thinking that if Ezra, the former owner of Artisans Alley, had paid a little more attention to the vendors, she wouldn’t have had to spend the last year digging the place out of the massive financial hole it had dropped into.

  “Is it time yet?” Gwen Hardy poked her head around the open doorway to the main sale room. Gwen, a middle-aged woman with fantastically pale skin, hazel eyes, and ginger hair, was a talented weaver. She made blankets, wall hangings, place mats, tablecloths, even kilts.

  “Have a seat.” Katie patted a chair in the front row. She’d debated about even setting up the chairs, since that implied the meeting would run long enough for people to need to sit down, but she knew if she didn’t that the first fifteen minutes would be spent discussing whether or not they should get the chairs out. Sometimes it was easier to do something you thought was silly in order to avoid having to do something even sillier.

  Joan MacDonald, the creator of clay-based primitive animal figurines, came in next, her silver hair trim and bouncy. Katie put a hand to her own over-long hair and glanced toward Envy’s door, but the CLOSED sign was up. Well, maybe she’d get it cut tomorrow.

  Other vendors trickled in, coming down from upstairs or from the main room or in from the back door, where they’d parked in the back lot for the meeting. Edie Silver, silk flowers and crocheting. Godfrey of the dryer lint. Liz Meier, stained glass. Duncan McAllister, bird sculptures in clay and wood. Sam Amato, metal work.

  As a number of others came in and took their seats, Vance ticked off their names on the vendors’ list Katie had printed out earlier. She looked at her watch and, at the exact time she’d told everyone the meeting would be held, stepped up to the front, smiled, and said, “Good evening, everyone.”

  When the rumble of return greetings faded away, she said, “First off, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for being here. Not only at this meeting, but also here as a vendor at Artisans Alley. Though we’ve had our ups and downs this last year, I think we’re poised for a great fall and an outstanding Christmas season.”

  A smattering of applause startled her. She blinked at the noise, which had started in Rose’s corner, and said, “Um, thanks,” feeling the red warmth of a blush on her cheeks. “Anyway, when any one of us is successful, we all stand to gain from that success, so I encourage everyone to work together.” She winced internally at the platitude. When she’d been rehearsing the speech the night before, it hadn’t sounded nearly so insipid.

  She pulled in a breath and went on. “Brittany Kohler, who owns the Envy Salon, told me the other day that she’s cautiously optimistic that she’ll do well here. As I told you a few months ago, I brought her in here to expand our customer base and get in foot traffic. What I’d like to know from you is if you’re seeing any of those effects.”

  “I am,” Liz Meier said, nodding vigorously. “Hands down. I don’t even have to ask to know—I’ve never seen them before and they smell like hair salon shampoo. Where else would they have come from?”

  Laughter rippled through the group, and two more vendors shared stories of sales directly related to the salon. Katie smiled, grateful that her plan to allow the salon was actually working. It had been a gamble, and she was relieved it was paying off.

  “What about that god-awful stench?” called a male voice.

  Though Katie wasn’t sure who had spoken, she had a feeling it was Godfrey. “I’ve talked to Crystal,” she said. “That’s the young woman who is doing the acrylic nails. She’s aware of the issue and understands that it can’t continue.”

  “So what is she doing about it?”

  Yes, that was definitely Godfrey’s voice. He must have been sitting behind Duncan McAllister, who was large enough for Godfrey to hide behind. Wearing a forced smile, Katie said, “She’ll be getting the details to me soon.” Or she would be, once Katie could get ahold of her. “But you can be assured that it will be taken care of.”

  Godfrey started up again, but he was drowned out by another vendor.

  “Never mind about all that,” Edie Silver said loudly. With her gray eyes and short gray hair, her appearance matched her last name perfectly. Her short stature and solid body didn’t exactly go with Katie’s own personal vision of silver, but that could be her own limitation. “What I want to know is,” Edie continued, “what happened to Josh Kimper?”

 
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

  “Are we safe here?” someone asked.

  “Have they figured out who killed him?” asked another.

  “Is he going to kill again?”

  “I heard it was a serial killer.”

  “A what?”

  The comments grew more and more panicked. Katie scanned the group, but there was no sign of Ray. Swell, she thought. I could have used a little police backup here. Aloud she said, “The Sheriff’s Office is investigating the murder. There hasn’t been an unsolved murder in this county in many years, and I have complete faith that they’ll solve this one, too.” That was a big lie. There were plenty of unsolved murders in Rochester alone—mostly drug related.

  Her comments, while not mollifying her audience completely, did quell the questions. She looked at her notes and was about to move on to the next item when her assistant manager raised his hand. When she nodded at him, Vance asked, “Katie, what about our insurance policies? Do you know what happens when the agent dies? Sorry to put you on the spot, but I wondered if you might know since you used to work for Josh Kimper.”

  Judging from the number of eyes that swiveled her way, Katie realized that many of her vendors hadn’t been aware of that particular fact. She had no idea what the protocol was for the sudden death of an insurance agent, but she had to say something—and say it fast—or risk losing all credibility with the artisans.

  “The insurance underwriter,” she said, thinking fast, “will of course honor all policies already in place. As a business, however, Kimper Insurance won’t be able to write any new policies without a certified agent.”

  “But what if we have a claim?” Vance asked.

  Katie looked around. “How many of you have insurance with Kimper’s?” She was surprised at the number of hands that went up. Insuring their wares was a good idea, but she’d been under the impression that it was so expensive that most vendors went without. Then, suddenly, she understood.

  “Is it insurance for your booths here, or is it car, home, or life insurance?”

  The room filled with voices citing different answers to her question, so she asked for a show of hands. In the end it turned out that only two vendors had insured their Artisans Alley wares with Josh. One or two others insured their booths with other agencies, and of the absent vendors, she was told that two or three of them had booth insurance.

  “To tell you the truth,” Katie said, “I don’t know what would happen if you have a claim.” If it were her, she would have already yanked her insurance policies away from Kimper and moved them to another firm. But then she’d worked in the field for a lot of years and had a jaded view of underwriters, which was that they tried to keep from paying anything they didn’t absolutely have to.

  “But,” she went on quickly, seeing the concerned frowns, “you should probably call Josh’s office. It’s still open, and I’m sure his office manager will be able to give you accurate information.” When she wasn’t weeping, that was.

  “What about the killer?” Rose asked. “Do you think Victoria Square is safe?”

  Katie wanted to say of course it was, wanted to say that it had been a personal crime, wanted to say that Josh had been such a jerk that it was more a question of narrowing down all the possibilities than finding the one person who might have had a motive.

  But she didn’t know any of that for sure. All she could do to reassure them was tell the truth. “I think it is.” She left it at that.

  “Even with a killer running around?” someone asked.

  “Yes.” Katie nodded. “Even with.” Then, because she felt a need to explain that response, she said, “Josh drowned, but not in the bed-and-breakfast. The water in his lungs came from Lake Ontario.”

  Some people nodded, others murmured with surprise, two or three looked thoughtful. Katie took it all in, then said, “I worked for Josh for a long time. Please don’t spread this around,” she said, glancing left and right, “but he was a tremendous jerk.”

  She was relieved to hear laughter. When it started to fade, she said, “If you have any information that you think has any bearing to the murder, please talk to the deputies.” Then, after a moment, she went on to the next item on her list.

  But as they went through the plans for the harvest sale, Katie wondered about those two or three vendors who’d worn those thoughtful expressions. What did that mean?

  She didn’t know, but she vowed to find out.

  Seven

  Katie encouraged her cat Mason off the dining chair. At the same time, Andy was tipping his chair forward, creating a surface so inclined that Della would be tempted to jump to the floor and find another surface.

  Finally, they were both free to sit and eat the dinner that Katie had spent the last hour preparing: chicken teriyaki with vegetables over rice pilaf. She figured it was an excellent combination; healthy enough to keep from feeling guilty, yummy enough to keep from feeling deprived.

  “This looks great,” Andy said. “All I’ve had to eat for the last three days is stuff from downstairs. I never thought I’d get tired of eating pizza, but looks like there’s a limit, even for me.”

  Katie smiled. “I know what you mean.”

  As they ate, they talked about their days. Andy had been shorthanded lately due to unforeseen complications with his employees’ schedules, and it seemed as if the situation wasn’t going to resolve itself anytime soon.

  “I need to hire at least two more part-timers,” he said, “but where am I going to find them? The high school and college kids who want jobs already have them, and the adults I’ve seen who want to deliver pizza as a part-time job aren’t exactly the kind of guys I want hanging around my younger guys.”

  Katie sympathized. “I’ll ask Vance,” she told him. “His son is a senior in high school. Maybe he has some ideas.”

  “Thanks.” Andy smiled at her, and as per usual, her heart went a little gooey at the edges. “That would be great.” He toasted her with a fork full of chicken. “You know, I’ve been doing all the talking. How was your day?”

  She told him about her visit to Sassy Sally’s and the volunteer job she’d agreed to.

  “Because you need, what, more work?” Andy rolled his eyes.

  “It’s only a few phone calls,” she protested. “And they’re right, I speak the insurance language. I’m sure I’ll get much better answers than they would.” She’d spent the last part of her day on the computer, researching small insurance agencies in the three towns Don and Nick had mentioned, and she planned to start making the phone calls on Monday.

  Andy shook his head. “You’re a sucker,” he said, but he was smiling.

  “I’m their friend.”

  “A friend who’s a sucker for more work, then.”

  “Isn’t that a little like the pot calling the kettle black?” she asked.

  “A little?” He grinned. “I’d say a lot. That’s why I can recognize it so easily.”

  She returned his grin. “Two of a kind, is that what you’re saying we are?”

  “Here’s to us.” He toasted her again. “Say, how did your vendors’ meeting go?” he asked, before inserting the laden fork into his mouth.

  “Okay, I guess.” She frowned, thinking about the concerned questions that had come up. “It turned a little weird, though. They started asking about Josh’s murder and if they were safe or not.”

  Andy shrugged. “Seems like a reasonable concern.”

  She looked at him. “Really? Are you worried?”

  “Me?” He blinked. “Of course not. But I’m not the worrying type.”

  It was true. Andy worried less than almost any person she’d ever met. She sighed. “I wish more of my vendors were like you. And I wish Ray Davenport had been there.”

  Andy’s fork went still. “Oh? Why’s that?”

  �
�Because he used to be a detective,” she said. “I’m sure he could have answered a lot of those questions a lot better than I did. Plus, he has a way about him that calms people down and reassures them. I wish I could do that.”

  Andy didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, “You seem to be spending a lot of time with Davenport these days.”

  “Well, sure.” She looked at him with surprise. “Of course I am. We’re working on—”

  Just then, Andy’s cell phone went off. The pizzeria’s ringtone filled Katie’s kitchen. “Sorry,” he muttered and took the call. “What’s up?” He looked into space. “Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . No, don’t do that!” He dropped his fork and pushed his chair back. “I’ll be right down, okay? Don’t do anything until I get there.”

  He stood. “Sorry, I gotta go.” He leaned down to give Katie a quick kiss. “The main oven is down, and my genius assistant manager thinks it would be a great idea to close the place for the night. Seriously?”

  Shaking his head, he hurried out, leaving Katie alone at the table.

  Mason jumped up onto Andy’s chair and sat, blinking wide cat eyes at her.

  “How nice it is to see you,” she said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Meow.”

  Katie laughed. Maybe she didn’t have a boyfriend who could spend evenings with her, but at least she had cats with a sense of humor.

  The next morning, Katie woke up more than an hour before she needed to. She yawned, looked at the clock, thought about what she could do with all that time—read, bake a batch of brownies, go for a nice long walk—then she yawned again and fell back asleep until the alarm went off.

  As she got up and ready for work, she started to berate herself for not taking advantage of that extra hour, but then she decided that if she’d fallen back to sleep, she must have needed the rest. Besides, at least she was thinking about exercising, and that alone was a big step, considering that exercising hadn’t been anywhere on her priority list for the last year.