With a sigh of resignation, she went downstairs, retrieved her newspaper, and then breakfasted on a banana and coffee as she perused the local section. A two-paragraph story on the lower side column confirmed what Detective Davenport had said the night before: The body found in the fire had not been identified.
It turned out to be a good thing that she’d held off sending flowers to Abby Wheeler.
She refused to believe that either Blake or Andy had anything to do with the death at Wood U. There had to be another explanation.
Suppose…just suppose the body in the county morgue wasn’t Dennis Wheeler. Just because facial recognition wasn’t available to them didn’t mean a body had no other recognizable features. Surgery scars, tattoos, bones with old breaks, jewelry, or even clothing could be identifiable. And yet Davenport seemed to be pursuing the idea that Blake Taylor had killed his former teacher.
So what if the victim at Wood U wasn’t Dennis Wheeler? What if he’d had a motive to disappear? He’d certainly been secretive about selling his business.
The idea intrigued her. Katie picked up a pen and began jotting down ideas on the newspaper’s margins.
If Dennis was missing, he had to be the one responsible for firing the bullet that had killed the man found in the shop, and he’d set fire to the place to cover the crime? But why would Dennis need to hide? He hadn’t taken his car. What if he’d taken the dead man’s car in an effort to keep the authorities from identifying the body before he could get away? And where would he go? He did have the money from the sale of his shop. If the murder had been premeditated, could he have escaped to Canada? He’d need a passport to cross the border. Could he have gotten on a plane later that night and escaped to some country that didn’t have a treaty of extradition?
That was a lot of supposing.
Feeling mildly depressed, Katie wondered if she should attempt to alleviate it via her favorite pastime—baking—but already the kitchen felt like an oven on low. Still, she hadn’t brought a snack into the Alley in several days and her sweet tooth was hankering for something with chocolate.
Funny how bringing in a sweet treat could soothe frayed nerves and promote general happiness among the vendors. It worked and she was sticking with that successful formula. And if she had to deal with Ida once again, she was going to need something to settle her own nerves. But instead of making liquor-infused chocolates, she settled on peanut butter buckeyes, which required no baking. She could melt the chocolate and shortening in the microwave. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with cleaning the top half of the double boiler—at least not that morning.
Half an hour later, the buckeyes were in the fridge firming up nicely.
As Katie got ready for work, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she now knew about Dennis Wheeler. Was a man who picked on his students—children who wouldn’t ordinarily fight back as Blake had done—as easily capable of murder?
Katie opened Artisans Alley’s vendor entrance at precisely eight o’clock. Sometimes she found vendors waiting to get in to straighten their booths or add new merchandise, but that morning she was alone. She took her plate of buckeyes to the vendors’ lounge and popped them in the fridge. She’d wait until there was a pot of coffee brewing before she brought them out for everyone to sample.
In the meantime, she donned her rubber gloves and, armed with disinfectant and paper towels, cleaned the washroom behind her office. Sure enough, the little suitcase was still there.
Afterward, Katie heard people coming and going in the vendors’ lounge while she got lost in the weekly ritual of printing out the inventories and checks for each of the vendors, adding a note to remind everyone to attend the Christmas potluck on Saturday—and that she’d found the suitcase under the sink. She married the copies of the note with the checks and inventories, and put them in the proper envelopes—all of which took up far too much of her time. She’d have to start delegating some of the menial work. Putting labels on each of the envelopes was time-consuming. It might be just the kind of job for Ida—that is, if she could tear herself away from her precious sales tags for an hour or so a week. If not, maybe it was something the girls on the register could do between waiting on customers. She should also look into offering reduced rent in exchange for a little clerical work. She’d put that on the list of things to do, too.
The phone rang at just past ten. Katie picked it up. “Artisans Alley. Katie Bonner speaking. How may I help you?”
“Katie, it’s Fred.”
“Hi, Fred. What’s up?” she asked, pleased to hear his voice.
“The closing on the Webster mansion was this morning. I know I said I’d bring the new owners over to meet you, but something’s come up. They’re already on their way to the house if you want to meet them. They should be there any minute.”
“Thanks. I’ll go over and introduce myself.”
“They’re eager to join the Merchants Association, so why don’t you take over one of your welcome packets.”
“Great idea. I’ll do just that. Thanks.”
“I’ll be dropping off the check for the one-night rental on that empty storefront later today or maybe tomorrow.”
“Whenever,” Katie said. “See you then.” She hung up the phone and stood, turning to her file cabinet and the drawer she kept that contained her files and other information on the Victoria Square Merchants Association. She grabbed a packet for the newcomers. New blood. Just what the Square needed.
Since she hadn’t offered the buckeyes to the vendors yet, maybe she should take them over and give them to the mansion’s new owners. Chocolate and peanut butter—nothing said “welcome to the neighborhood” any better.
But when Katie went to the refrigerator, the cookies (or were they technically candy?) were gone—and so was the charming rose-patterned plate she’d put them on.
“That does it!” she said to no one in particular. “Something’s got to be done to stop whoever’s filching food from the fridge!”
But what that something was, she wasn’t sure.
She stormed off to lock the vendors’ entrance before opening for the day and heading over to the Webster mansion, or rather Sassy Sally’s. Ugh. The name made her shudder.
As she began her trek across the Square’s lengthy parking lot, a Big Brown truck pulled in. Katie waved at the man behind the wheel, expecting it to be the regular deliveryman, but that day it was someone else. The lucky bum was probably on vacation—something that wasn’t likely to happen to her anytime soon. She watched as he hopped from the truck, package in hand, and hoofed it into Gilda’s Gourmet Baskets.
As Katie passed The Quiet Quilter, she noted that the note she’d attached to the front door the day before had already been removed. Sure enough, Nona’s car was parked at the side of the building. So far there was no sign of the contraband signage either.
Good.
An unfamiliar car was parked outside of the Webster mansion, and two men stood with their backs to the Square, admiring the building.
“Anybody home?” Katie called cheerfully as she approached. The walk across the lot had cooled her anger over the missing buckeyes.
The men turned. “Sure are,” the fairer of the two said.
Katie extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Katie Bonner. I manage Artisans Alley on the other end of the Square. I’m also the president of the Merchants Association. I’ve come to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Oh, you’re the one who hates us,” the sandy-haired man said and grinned as he shook her hand.
Katie’s mouth dropped open in shock, the fingers of her left hand clenching the welcome packet, wrinkling the envelope. “I beg your pardon.”
“For buying the property you’ve had your heart set on for so long,” said the dark-haired man. He had a touch of gray at his temples, making him look distinguished. He offered her his hand, and she took it.
“I—I…” Katie couldn’t seem to say another word.
The sandy-haired man’s sm
ile was warm. “Hi, I’m Nicholas Farrell—you can call me Nick—and this is my partner, Don Parsons.”
“I—I…I don’t know where you got the idea that I—I…” She couldn’t even bring herself to repeat the four-letter word.
“Okay, maybe hate is a little strong. We were told, by our mutual friend Seth Landers, you were upset to see the building get sold out from under you once again. We apologize. But you have to admit, it is a diamond in the rough. Can you blame us for wanting to bring this old girl back to life?” Don said, gazing fondly at the old home.
Katie shook her head.
“Would you like to come through with us now and hear what we’ve got planned?” Nick asked.
Katie nodded. She was beginning to feel like a mime. She certainly wasn’t at her articulate best.
Nick held out his hand and she took it. “Careful walking through the yard. The first thing on the list is to get rid of all this debris and start the demo.” He led her through the tangle of weeds and other detritus littering the small courtyard.
“I understand you’re an old friend of Seth’s,” Katie said as they mounted the creaky wooden steps.
Nick’s grin was broad. “He was my first boyfriend—back when we didn’t know what being boyfriends was all about—and were afraid to act on it anyway. He stuck up for me, like a big brother. We’ve remained friends all these years. He was my best man at Don’s and my wedding.”
Seth had said he’d attended the wedding. He hadn’t said he’d participated in it. And she could identify with Seth acting like a protective older brother. She looked at him in the same light.
“Seth tells me that you’re his best friend here in McKinlay Mill,” Nick told Katie.
She smiled. “I’m flattered.”
Nick produced a set of shiny new keys from his jacket pocket and inserted one into the deadbolt. He turned it, then selected another key from the ring and inserted it into the lockset. “That’s got to go,” he said, indicating the handle.
“Maybe the door, too,” Don agreed, “unless our contractor knows how to make a Dutchman to repair the hole for an antique glass doorknob and mortised lock.”
“You sound like you know a lot about construction,” Katie said.
“Don?” Nick laughed. “He just watches a lot of episodes of This Old House.”
“Hey, you do, too!” Don protested.
Katie stifled a smile. Fred Cunningham had been right. Already she felt comfortable with Nick and Don and bet Fred’s prediction they’d become friends would indeed come true. “So what have you got planned for the entryway?” she asked, once they’d all trundled inside.
“Restoration. That means tearing out all the drywall that broke this beautiful home into apartments.”
The former owners had started that work—until Katie had helped them with their sweat-equity demo, knocked a hole in a piece of Sheetrock, and found the remains of a human body. That ended their demolition, and they’d put the house back on the market in a matter of days.
“First things first. Up the fire insurance on this place,” Don said seriously. “I admit it, I was extremely upset to hear about the fire on the Square the other day.”
“Make that we were upset,” Nick echoed. “Especially if it is arson. Do you know anything about it, Katie? I mean, other than what’s already been on the news?”
“I’d like to reassure you, but at this point, I have no idea.”
Nick nodded. “Seth said you had lots of ideas on remodeling and redecorating this old place. I’d love to hear them.”
Tell them about the stuff in your storage unit, a little voice within her urged. Maybe they’d want to buy it.
“You might not be able to shut me up,” she said instead.
“Seth said you know where to buy antique furniture and accessories.”
Tell them about the stuff in your storage unit! the voice said louder. Offer them a great price to take it off your hands.
“I sure do. There’s a great shop in Greece on the Ridge. And there are some wonderful architectural salvage places in Rochester, too. You’ll want to check out the weekly sales at Donahue’s Auction Barn in Parma, as well.”
Are you going to tell them about your stuff or not? the voice taunted.
“No.”
“No?” Nick asked, confused.
Katie gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Just thinking aloud. I had to stop going to auctions and sales. I downsized to a tiny apartment earlier this year and I just don’t have any more room.”
“And we have plenty of rooms to fill,” Don said, waving a hand to take in the empty, cavernous house. “We might have to go on buying trips to New York.”
“You’ll pay a lot more. You’ll find wonderful furnishings locally for a fraction of the big-city prices. I’ll make up a list of places for you to check out.”
And one of them had better be your storage locker, the voice taunted.
“And before I forget…” She handed Nick the slightly crumpled envelope she’d been holding in her sweaty hand. “I understand you’re eager to join the Merchants Association?”
“We sure are,” Don said. “We want to become a contributing force on Victoria Square and figure the best way to do that is to become friends with all the other merchants.”
“They’re a great bunch of people. We’re having a meeting on Wednesday night at Del’s Diner. We’d love to have you join us. We have dinner before the official meeting starts. Conrad Stratton from The Perfect Grape always brings a nice selection of wines, too.”
“Sounds great,” Nick said. “We’ll have to patronize his shop.”
“He gives discounts on bulk sales,” Katie said.
“We’ll be buying sherry by the case for our guests,” Don said.
Katie laughed and thought of the lovely crystal glasses and decanters swathed in bubble wrap in a box in her storage unit. “I was going to do the same thing.”
“Great minds think alike,” Nick said.
“Or read all the same books about innkeeping,” Don agreed and grinned.
Nick nodded toward the kitchen. “The room that seems to need the most work is right through here.”
“Don’t I know it,” Katie said. It was going to have to be a total gut job before they could open for business.
“Seth said you had a lot of good ideas. Come on in and tell us about them. We can compare notes,” Nick said, and led her through the dining room toward the back of the house. She’d walked through these rooms so often she could have done it blindfolded.
“Uh-oh,” Nick said as they entered the dusty kitchen. A window in the back door had been broken, and glass littered the old yellowed linoleum. That would have to go, too.
They all looked at the gaping hole where the window had been, then around the room, which showed signs of someone having been there in the not-too-distant past. Candy wrappers and fast-food bags littered the counters, as well as a nearly empty take-out coffee cup sitting in the dirty sink.
“When did you say you did your walk-through?” Katie asked.
“Friday,” Don said, sobering. “This stuff wasn’t here then.”
Nick gave him a knowing glance. “Methinks a trip to the hardware store is in order to replace this glass.”
“Calls to the locksmith and the security company are in order, too,” Don agreed.
“I can’t imagine who’d want to break in now, when the house has been sold,” Katie said. “It’s been empty for years and thankfully was never vandalized.”
“Let’s hope whoever was here didn’t do any other damage. We’d better do a thorough walk-through,” Nick said. Don nodded.
“You might want to call the Sheriff’s Office, too,” Katie recommended. “It’s probably not related to the arson at Wood U, but you never know.”
“We’ll do that,” Nick agreed.
Katie studied their somber faces. “I’m so sorry this has ruined what should have been a happy day for you.”
“Not ruined, but…it
does put a damper on it. Still, we’re determined to open Sassy Sally’s on time, and neither this—nor renovation nightmares—will deter us.”
“Nothing will discourage us,” Don said with determination.
On the one hand, Katie was happy to hear that…but it also meant the death knell to all her dreams for The English Ivy Inn.
And why would someone have broken into the place? To hide? Someone who had reason to disappear but didn’t want to go far?
Was it possible her harebrained theory about Dennis Wheeler could actually be true?
Seven
Katie returned to her office and immediately noticed that not only had her vintage rose plate not been returned, but that her small heater had once again gone missing. This time she didn’t bother searching Artisans Alley and marched directly to the tag room.
Sure enough, Ida sat before her folding table, diligently working on attaching the sales tags to small squares of paper, with the heater chugging along merrily behind her. She had not taken Katie’s suggestion to dress warmly, this time wearing a matching shorts and sleeveless shirt combination.
Katie stomped over to the heater, and turned it off. She was angry enough to rip the cord from the wall, but didn’t want to damage the little machine.
As before, Ida seemed oblivious to her presence until the heater’s fan stopped running. Her head jerked up and her breath caught in her throat at being startled. Her left hand snapped up to clutch her chest. “That’s the second time you’ve nearly scared me to death,” she complained.
“And that’s the second time you’ve stolen my heater.”
“I told you, I’m cold!”
“And I asked you to dress warmly.”
“And I told you, I can’t do that.”
Katie crossed her arms over her T-shirt, but took special care to keep her voice level. “Then if we can’t come to a compromise, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave Artisans Alley.”
Ida’s eyes became so wide, Katie thought they might pop out of her skull. “You can’t do that!” she hollered.
“Yes, I can,” Katie said, making sure to keep her voice level.
“Then I’ll bring in my own heater.”
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