Carrie and Dan had been in real danger of losing their income when a client of Dan’s was murdered and Dan’s reputation—and worse—was jeopardized. They, on the other hand, had helped Jo so much after Mike’s death, first in just getting her through it, then by helping her set up her new situation in Abbotsville, that she felt the scale tilted sharply in their favor.
“We won’t get into that argument again about who owes whom,” Jo said. “We’re friends, and friends try to help each other. Let’s just bring in the rest of the stuff so I can get into the fun of arranging it all. And so you can go check out that knitting booth.”
“I did happen to notice some beautiful sweaters,” Carrie said, grinning. Knitting was her specialty, and she generously applied her time and skills handling that section of Jo’s Craft Corner. “I’d love to ask how one particular piece was done. But first things first.”
Since Jo’s booth turned out to be at the far end of the building, next to that end’s curtained doorway, they exited there and walked back to Jo’s car via the alleyway between buildings; the virtually unobstructed route proved much faster than the building’s busy aisle. Two more trips transferred the rest of the cargo, and when she’d set down her final load, Carrie stood back to take it all in.
“When ever did you manage to make all this?”
“Some are things I made in New York and withdrew from consignments before coming here. But I’ve been working hard since I first applied for Michicomi.”
“Please tell me you managed to sleep occasionally.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t run myself ragged—yet. But you know how I love working at my jewelry. What better way to relax than by doing what you love?”
“Hmm.” Carrie gave her a skeptical look. As the mother of a teen and preteen, Carrie recognized sidestepping explanations when she heard them. “Well, you certainly haven’t been over to our place much lately. The kids have missed you.”
Jo was godmother to Carrie’s fifteen-year-old, Charlie, and therefore had a soft spot for him. But she was inordinately fond of eleven-year-old Amanda as well.
“I’ve missed them too, and I promise to make up for all the lost time. If Charlie comes tomorrow to help me out, I’ll at least see him then. Is that still going to work out?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll handle the craft shop, of course, while you’re tied up here. Amanda will come there after school, and Ina Mae promised to pitch in now and then during the busier times.”
“You guys are so great,” Jo said, struggling with the lump that threatened to form in her throat. Jo remembered how retired schoolteacher and perennial dynamo Ina Mae Kepner had shown up unannounced at the shop to help out when Carrie had been briefly unable to work several weeks ago. Jo always felt she and Mike had some good friends up in New York, but nothing topped the people she’d encountered in Abbotsville. Most of them, anyway.
“Speaking of the shop,” Carrie said, glancing at her watch, “Dan should be coming by soon to pick me up and take me there. He went to meet with a prospective client not too far from here after he set up your display cases, so this worked out great. I said I’d meet him at the ticket stand. And I think I have just enough time to stop at that knitting booth. Unless, that is, you need me to help set things up?” Carrie pulled out a Kleenex and rubbed at her nose, looking questioningly at Jo over the scrunched up tissue.
“Go,” Jo urged. “I have a plan in my head for where I want everything to be, so it’s best I do it alone. Really. And when you get to the shop, call the doctor’s office for an appointment. Okay?”
Carrie smiled. “Maybe.” She took off, and Jo saw her stopping to chat with the proprietor of the knitting booth, both reaching up to the sweater Carrie had spotted earlier.
Jo turned to her own concerns. Where to start? she wondered as she gazed at the pile. She decided to first arrange her meticulously labeled boxes in the order that she would empty them, then got to work, putting silver with silver, gold with gold. Her most expensive pieces went inside Plexiglas-covered viewing cases, and her less costly ones on top where customers could touch and try on.
It was time-consuming and tedious, but Jo still took special pleasure in it. Handling each carefully wrought item meant briefly revisiting the creativity that had gone into it and the joy she had felt as it progressed. The time flew by, and so absorbed was she that Jo barely noticed the controlled pandemonium going on about her. Until, as she crouched over a final box, searching for the twin of an opal earring that had gotten separated from its mate, a piercing voice floated over her front display case.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Jo McAllister. I thought you were dead.”
Jo froze, not wanting to believe that voice belonged to who she thought it did. Then the vanity plates she had seen on the black SUV came to mind. Had the erratic driver on Route 30 been blonde? Jo suppressed a heart-sinking wince and slowly rose.
“Linda Weeks,” she said as she turned and faced her visitor. “What a surprise. It’s been a while.”
“Yes indeed. I hadn’t heard a thing about you so I naturally assumed you had perished as well in that explosion.”
“At our loft? No, I had been away at a gallery when it happened.” Jo maintained a stony smile. “There was a hugely comforting turnout for Mike’s funeral, though. I guess you didn’t hear about it in time to come.”
“No. And what a shame. It would have been wonderful to see some of the old gang.”
Jo managed not to choke. She didn’t believe for a minute that Linda had thought Jo had perished or hadn’t got the word about Mike’s funeral arrangements. More likely she simply didn’t have the strength of character to show up and face Jo, as well as the many good people erroneously referred to by Linda as her old gang.
“Well, what brings you to these parts?” Jo asked, hoping against hope that Linda was just passing through, maybe taking in the cherry blossoms in D.C. But her worst fears were confirmed when Linda’s smile turned sharklike.
“Why, I’ve been a regular at Michicomi for ages now. They’re fairly consistent, you know, about only allowing the best. And you can imagine how my jaw dropped when I looked over from my own booth and saw you here. It’s amazing, isn’t it? After all those years in the Big Apple, sharing suppliers and buyers, not to mention design ideas—then going our separate ways only to end up right across the aisle from each other for the next three days.”
Jo could agree on that point at least, as her wooden smile turned to granite.
“Amazing.”
Chapter 2
Fortunately for Jo, the arrival of a deliveryman drew Linda back to her own stall, where she remained to unpack the large box that had just arrived. Jo watched for a few moments, still unable to believe her incredibly bad luck. Of all the booths she could have been assigned, here she was within spitting distance—a phrase that made Jo salivate—of possibly the last person in the world she’d ever hoped to encounter again.
Linda was looking good, though, Jo had to give her that. She wore a youthfully styled jacket and pants that made her look in her midtwenties rather than what Jo knew to be close to her own age of thirty-six. Her hair was still blonde, having been lightened from her natural brunette shortly after Jo first met her, and was tossed in a casual style that was quite flattering. Her makeup was understated, but like every other aspect of Linda’s appearance had probably been studiously chosen and meticulously applied.
Jo intensely disliked the woman, but couldn’t deny her skill in personal presentation. As far as jewelry design, however, she honestly was amazed at Linda’s claim to regular participation at Michicomi, aware as she was of Linda’s shortcomings in that department. Was Michicomi less selective than she’d been led to believe? Or was something else involved there?
Jo turned away, not willing to go down that road. There was no point wasting any more time on the woman. Linda’s appearance at Michicomi was a definite downer, but Jo couldn’t let it affect her own Michicomi experience. She had invested too m
uch in it. Besides, she had a lot still to do on her booth before Russ showed up to take her to dinner.
That thought brought up a smile and she felt her good spirits return. Jo had begun seeing Russ Morgan, a lieutenant in Abbotsville’s small police force, a few weeks ago, a fact that continued to surprise her, considering how they had met—over a dead body—and how rocky their early encounters had been. Russ and Jo had butted heads on several occasions, but over it all had hung a definite spark. Jo had tried to deny it for a long time, unwilling to allow herself to move in that direction while still feeling Mike’s loss keenly, but the attraction finally grew too strong to ignore.
“How’re you doing here?” A voice, this time male and much friendlier, interrupted Jo a second time. She looked up to see a pleasant-faced, white-haired man in a loose brown cardigan sweater over slouchy pants. He held out his hand. “Gabriel Stubbins. Most folks just call me Gabe.”
“Hi, Gabe,” Jo shook his hand. “Jo McAllister.”
“Mine’s the wooden toy setup over there.” Gabe jerked his head toward the adjoining booth. “Been coming to these festivals close on to twenty years. This your first?”
“It’s my first time at Michicomi, though I’ve been to one or two smaller shows in the Northeast.”
“Thought I hadn’t seen you before. You get to know people after a while. Some of us become pretty good friends.” He grinned. “We’re a lot like circus folk.”
Jo hadn’t thought of it that way but realized that it must be true, with all the traveling required for the more regular vendors. “I’m sure that makes a difference, when you’re away from home a lot.”
“Sure does. A few of us bring along the family, but for the rest, we become family, at least for two, three days. Makes the off hours a lot easier. Where’re you from?”
Jo had to think about that a moment. Abbotsville? Where she still occasionally needed directions to find her way around? New York? Where she and Mike had lived and worked during their all-too-few years of marriage? One of the many places she had lived growing up, as her dad’s job moved them about? Gabe, however, wasn’t asking for her life history.
“Abbotsville,” she said decidedly. “It’s a small town just down—”
“Down Route 30, isn’t it? Been there once or twice. Very nice little place. I’m from Pennsylvania myself. Bought a little farm near Harrisburg that the wife runs, mostly.” He smiled. “But I’ll tell you more about that when you have time. I see you’ve got a few things to do. Just wanted to say ‘Hi, neighbor.’ If you need help, just give a holler.”
“Thanks, Gabe.” Jo watched her new acquaintance wander off, stopping to greet other vendors at several booths along the way. She noticed, though, that he had skipped Linda’s booth. Interesting, since they both mentioned being in Michicomi shows often.
Jo turned back to her jewelry, eventually getting the last of it arranged as she wanted. She started to move out into the aisle for a final check, then remembered the colorful tissue paper flowers she’d made and had carefully packed into their own container. She scrambled through the boxes to find them, then looked about her to choose the perfect spots to set them. Overhead, she decided. Hanging from the overhead beam that held her booth number, the flowers would both brighten and frame her area, turning gracefully on their strings with the air currents. She pulled a folding chair over to stand on and hung away, then stepped out into the aisle to gauge the total effect.
Not bad, she thought, feeling quite pleased.
“Good luck getting any customers with that setup.” Linda’s voice interrupted Jo’s reverie.
Jo clenched her jaw and turned to see Linda standing beneath a small computer monitor that she had set on an upper corner shelf of her booth. It ran a narrated video of Linda demonstrating her various jewelry-making techniques—with music in the background.
“That’s very impressive,” Jo said.
“Oh, it’s just one of—” Linda stopped, her attention caught by something to Jo’s left.
Jo followed the gaze to see Russ Morgan making his way through the crowded aisle toward her. Out of uniform, he was dressed simply in a gray V-neck sweater and slacks, but his height and dark good looks made him stand out in the throng. Jo’s heart did a little flip, particularly when he spotted her and smiled.
“Hi,” he said, coming up and greeting her with a quick peck on the cheek. “Am I too early?”
“Not at all. Perfect timing. Do you mind helping me get these packing boxes out of here, though?”
“Well,” Linda broke in, “you certainly didn’t waste much time, did you?”
Jo felt her cheeks flame, which Russ thankfully couldn’t see, having turned toward Linda.
She reached her hand out to him, smiling widely. “Linda Weeks. Jo and I know each other from way back.”
Russ shook her hand. “Russ Morgan. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, very nice to meet you.”
“Russ,” Jo interrupted, “can you grab these bigger boxes over here? I think I can get the rest.”
Russ turned back, giving Jo a quizzical look, but said, “Sure.” He loaded up, and Jo grabbed her own batch and followed him after first spreading a large tarp over her merchandise, glad that she had been able to compact the empty boxes enough to avoid making a return trip under Linda’s watchful gaze.
They pushed through the plastic-curtain door and headed down the alleyway to deposit their light but bulky loads in Jo’s trunk and back seat. After a brief discussion, they agreed Jo would follow Russ to the restaurant, which would allow her to continue on directly home afterward. It had been a hectic few days for Jo, and she’d have to get an early start for the opening of the festival the next day. She was doubly grateful, therefore, to be able to enjoy a precious few moments with Russ over a quiet dinner.
Giorgio’s was an easy fifteen-minute drive beyond the gates of the county fairgrounds. Once settled within its muted, Tuscan-like atmosphere, Jo and Russ chose and ordered their dinners, then leaned back comfortably in their chairs to sip at Pinot Noir and nibble crusty warm bread. Russ asked a few questions about Michicomi, and Jo filled him in with as much as she knew about it, including its reason for existence, which was to create a venue for artists and craftspeople like herself to reach a wider market.
“The fees we pay go largely to the overhead costs of running the festival, along with publicity and promotion. The organizers are careful about who they allow in to the shows, so that the public is guaranteed to find a high quality of merchandise. Which makes me wonder . . . well, never mind.”
With the uncanny way he had of sometimes seeming to read her mind, Russ asked, “That woman I met, Linda Weeks. How do you know each other?”
Jo sighed, but held off responding when the waiter appeared, setting down their orders of chicken marsala and shrimp-stuffed ravioli. Her ravioli dish smelled wonderful, and she was reluctant to cut into her enjoyment of it with less-than-pleasant talk. But after savoring a bite or two, she launched into the history between Linda and herself.
“We knew each other up in New York,” Jo said, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “We both made jewelry and placed it with many of the same consigners, so it was inevitable that we’d run into each other. At first she seemed perfectly nice, and we started sharing an occasional lunch. I introduced her to Mike and some of our friends.
“But Linda wasn’t having as much success with her jewelry as I was, and I guess it started eating at her. She complained to me about being dropped by a certain gallery, and she seemed to want my opinion as to what she was doing wrong. But when I ventured suggestions, such as thinking of her potential customers and what they might want rather than satisfying her own creativity, or working on one or two technical problems I had noticed, she didn’t take it well.”
“The old ‘let me complain, but don’t offer any solutions’ routine, huh?”
“Pretty much. So we drifted apart, which was okay with me until I started hearing about things she was saying
about me—really negative things—to the people I was doing business with. Things like claiming I had copied her best ideas, or that I was showing signs of a major addiction problem!”
“Uh-oh.”
“Right.” Jo took a soothing sip of her wine. “I guess she decided that her best way up was by pulling me down.”
“Did it work?”
“It started to. My business dropped off, and I lost a couple of gallery placements with no explanation. I didn’t know what to do to defend myself. I was furious, of course, largely from the helplessness I felt. Then I decided to just let it ride, do my work as I always had, and hope that people would eventually see the truth of things and that Linda would be seen for what she was.”
“Probably the best mode of action. How did that go?”
“Very well, thank goodness, due quite a bit to my regular customers who asked for my jewelry. Over time I began to hear that Linda’s business might be suffering, but I didn’t ask any questions or, tempting though it was, take any satisfaction in it.
Paper-Thin Alibi Page 2
