Three
“It’s kinda dreary in here,” Edie Silver said, glancing around Artisans Alley’s uninviting lobby. The large, carpeted foyer had been painted white a long time before, but was now a timeworn yellow, marred by scuff marks and the remnants of aged masking tape still clinging to its walls, which were pocked by old nail holes.
“Can you make it look festive for Halloween?” Katie asked as her stomach grumbled. It was after six and she hadn’t even taken time for lunch.
Edie’s gaze narrowed. “What’s your budget?”
Katie sighed, thinking about the few bills in her wallet. “Twenty-five dollars.”
Edie rolled her eyes. “Honey, you don’t want help—you want a miracle.”
“Here’s the deal—you make this area look attractive and prove to me that crafters can draw in customers, and I’ll rent you space. Same terms as the rest of the artisans.”
“Why the change of heart?” Edie asked, squinting up at her.
“I’ll level with you. This place is going broke. It’s full of artists who know a lot about their particular craft but haven’t got a clue how to market their merchandise. Ezra’s strict rules enforcing booth uniformity didn’t inspire the artists to work on their displays either.”
“A lot of them couldn’t hack it in real galleries, ya know,” Edie said snidely. “The commission of fifty or more percent is a killer. And of course, a lot of ’em are only here for the social aspect.”
“So I gathered. The artists apparently aren’t motivated to pay their rent now—and will feel even more belligerent if I have to raise it just to keep the place afloat.”
Edie’s frown twitched as she took another long look around. “I suppose I could get some orange and black crepe streamers at the dollar store. Maybe a couple of paper pumpkins. I might even have a line on some hay bales. . .” Her gaze traveled up and down the uneven walls, taking in the total space. “Yeah, I think I can do it.”
“How soon?”
Edie smiled. “How late are you willing to stay here tonight?”
“As late as you need.”
Katie awakened Saturday morning to find the gray clouds lower and darker than they’d been the day before. A light drizzle added to the gloom. Perfect retail weather, as Chad liked to say. She left a message for Josh on his voice mail. The insurance office was open a half day on Saturdays. She said she’d take the hours as vacation, and then headed straight for the local McDonald’s, where she snagged a cup of coffee and a Sausage Egg McMuffin.
On her way out, Katie paused to read the banner headline from behind the glass front on the newspaper dispenser: McKINLAY MILL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED.
Swell, she thought, feeding coins into the machine. She opened the door, grabbed a paper, nearly letting the spring door slam shut on her hand. Folding the paper, she tucked it under her arm before heading for her car.
Minutes later, she arrived at Artisans Alley, noticing a slight figure standing by the side door, wrapped in a beige raincoat over dark slacks, a black kerchief tied tightly under her chin, and huddled under a bright red umbrella. Katie gathered her breakfast, newspaper, keys, and purse, and headed for the building.
“Hello!” she called. The woman turned and Katie halted abruptly and found herself staring at the woman, whose left cheek was marked by the ugliest wart Katie had ever seen: big, round, and tall. She’d never known a wart could be tall before this.
“H-Hello,” she tried again. “Can I help you? I’m Katie Bonner—one of the new owners of Artisans Alley.”
The older woman smiled, the movement of her cheek seeming to increase the size of the growth. “I’m Ida Mitchell. I’m supposed to be working today. I’m in charge of the tag room,” she said proudly, and held out her hand to shake, but Katie juggled too many things to be able to take it.
“Sorry,” she apologized. Ida Mitchell; the name sounded familiar. Hadn’t she seen it in the ledger listing artists who hadn’t paid their rent?
“Can I hold something for you?” Ida offered.
“Um . . . yes, thank you,” Katie said, eager to get out of the rain. She handed over her breakfast bag and the already-damp newspaper, sorted through the keys, and unlocked the door, desperate not to have to look at Ida’s face.
“What is it you sell?” Katie asked, fumbling for the light switch.
“Lace. I make it myself. It’s very delicate work. The light’s on the other side, dear,” she directed.
Katie squinted into the darkness, and located the switch. “Oh. Thank you. Do you sell a lot of it?”
“Of what?” Ida asked.
“Lace.”
“Oh, no. Not much call for it.” Which would account for her not paying the rent on her booth.
With the light now on, Katie watched as Ida shook the drops from her umbrella before carefully closing it and fastening the Velcro tie around it. She placed its cord strap over her wrist. “After you,” she said brightly, and followed Katie through the corridor that also served as a storeroom, and into Artisans Alley. Sadly, except for the lobby, the place hadn’t undergone a miraculous transformation in the hours since Katie had locked up the night before. Where were the shoemaker’s elves when she really needed them?
Ida handed back Katie’s items and clasped her hands together, smiling brightly. “It’s time for me to get to work.”
“Just what is it you do?” Katie asked.
“As manager of the tag room, it’s up to me to make sure that the artists get their little price tickets back. That way they can compare them to the computerized inventory they get with their checks each week.”
Katie vaguely remembered Chad comparing his little square of paper with his price tags to a printed form of items sold. It wasn’t unknown that mistakes were made in data entry; returning the tags to the artists was a chance for them to double-check their sales with the computer printout that accompanied their weekly checks.
“I take great care in taping those tickets down in an orderly fashion. I also cut up the sheets of paper and write down the week-ending date and the booth number. That takes a lot of time, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Katie admitted.
Ida’s head bobbed solemnly. “Yes, yes. It’s quite important work.”
“How long have you been a vendor?” Katie asked.
“For as long as we’ve been open,” Ida answered, and beamed with pride.
Was she aware that Ezra had died? Or was she perhaps . . . special?
“Did you watch the news last night, or perhaps read this morning’s paper?” Katie asked.
Ida shook her head. “Oh, no. Television is a tool of the devil. And I don’t get the paper. It’s full of bad news.”
“Did you know that Ezra—”
“Mr. Hilton,” Ida corrected her. “It’s disrespectful to call someone our senior by their first name, you know.”
Whatever.
“Mr. Hilton has died,” Katie said as gently as possible.
Ida’s right hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh my goodness! Please tell me you’re trying to fool me.”
“I’m sorry, but he . . .” Could this woman handle the truth? “He passed on yesterday,” she finished.
Ida’s mouth trembled, her gigantic wart jiggling.
It was an awkward few moments before Katie could think of anything to say. “I’m sorry.” Talk about lame.
“Is that why all the police cars were here yesterday and the Alley was closed?” Ida asked.
“Yes,” Katie said.
“Whatever will we do without Mr. Hilton?” the older woman cried.
“We’re going to carry on. Ezra, er, Mr. Hilton would’ve wanted that.”
Ida sniffed. “Yes, he would.” Despite her conviction, her eyes still swam with tears. “Oh dear, oh dear.”
Katie reached out, gave the woman’s shoulder a hesitant pat.
Ida threw back her head, her body stiffening. “Despite this setback, I must not shirk my duty. Would you like me to turn on Artisans Alley’s mai
n lights, or do you want to do it yourself?”
“I think I can handle it,” Katie said gently.
“Very well.” Ida turned and marched off in the direction of the cash desks.
Okay. And how many more times that day was she going to have to break the news to artists, customers, or creditors?
Katie’s stomach growled, reminding her of her cooling, uneaten breakfast, and she turned for Ezra’s office. She pushed Ida from her thoughts, but not the problem of the deadbeat artists. She’d have to address that—and soon.
Shrugging out of her coat, she settled it on the back of Ezra’s grubby office chair and sat down at the desk to contemplate the breakfast before her on top of her newspaper. Now that the vendor entrance was open, she expected more of her dealers would begin to show up and she hoped most of them would bypass the transformed entryway. She wasn’t up to arguing about the inclusion of a crafter on the premises.
As she ate her breakfast sandwich, she decided it might be a good idea to greet the artists as they showed up for work. She tossed the grease-stained paper wrapper into the trash, grabbed her coffee and the newspaper, and went back to the main staircase. Perching on the bottom step, which faced the side entrance, she sipped her coffee, reading the paper’s top story as she waited for the next vendor to arrive. The report made Ezra’s death sound so . . . sensational. She’d heard it said there was no such thing as bad publicity, and hoped it was true for Artisans Alley’s sake.
The rest of the paper held no interest for her so she folded it and set it aside. Her gaze strayed to the missing patch of carpet at the base of the stairs. Was that blood or dirt that stained the concrete? She’d have to do something about it. The simplest solution would be to add a strip of new carpet from the bottom step back to the wall. That would also take care of the messy coffee spill. She’d add calling a carpet installer to her list of things to do today.
The outside door opened and a tall figure was silhouetted in the dim light of the short corridor leading into the main showroom. He pushed a heavy-duty dolly ahead of him, and then closed the outer door.
Katie stood, reminding herself that retail was like show business, and the show must go on. “Hi!” she called cheerily.
“Are we open today?” the man asked.
“We sure are.” She shoved her hand forward. “I’m Katie Bonner, Chad Bonner’s wife. I’m sort of in charge for now.”
“Peter Ashby.”
She shook his large, callused hand. Tall, blond, and ruggedly handsome, Ashby looked like he’d just walked off a movie set ... or maybe an old Marlboro billboard. His plaid flannel shirt and padded vest didn’t hide his muscled arms and torso. The word “hunk” lingered in Katie’s mind.
He looked down at the floor and the missing carpet. “Is this where it happened?”
She nodded. “The sheriff’s detective cut up the rug. It’s just as well. We’d have never gotten the blood out of it.”
He shook his head and frowned. “It’s a damn shame about Ezra. He really kept this place together.”
“Where’s your booth?” Katie asked, glad to change the subject.
“Upstairs on the balcony.” He pointed up to his right.
She looked up. A balcony ringed the cavernous room; its five-foot wooden railings overlooked the main showroom. “I guess it’ll take me a while to put faces to names, and names to booth numbers.”
“I’m number sixty-four. Any chance I can move downstairs soon?”
“I don’t know that there are any openings. I guess it depends if we lose any vendors,” she said, thinking about the artists who hadn’t paid their rent in weeks or months. “What do you sell?”
“Resin statuary. Life-sized copies of Victorian cemetery art. Maybe you noticed them?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t spent a lot of time upstairs,” she said. “What do people do with these statues?”
“Decorate their gardens, mostly. Right now I have twelve different pieces. I’m expecting a shipment of new merchandise in the next week or so. I’ll give you a ten percent discount on any piece you want,” he offered.
“Sorry. I live in an apartment.” After what she’d been through this past year, the last thing Katie wanted was some gruesome reminder of death staring at her while she watched TV at night.
“Does garden statuary sell at this time of year?”
Ashby raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking down. “I’ve had good luck so far. This is my second fall at Artisans Alley. Christmas is coming—the best time of the year for retail.”
Cemetery statues as Christmas gifts? Katie resisted the urge to shudder.
“Will you be here all day?” she asked, to change the subject.
Ashby nodded. “I’m scheduled to work today. Ezra usually left a job sheet on the main cash desk. I generally walk security, or carry out large pieces for customers. Sometimes do odd jobs. Do you need something done?”
“Yes. I want to make sure gawking customers don’t congregate around this staircase. Could you keep an eye out for that and break up any bottlenecks?”
“Sure thing.” He smiled, his white teeth resembling pristine white marble tombstones. “Well, I’d better get up to my booth to restock. Glad you’re here, Katie. Maybe now we can upgrade the place—attract a more discerning clientele.”
It was Katie’s turn to raise an eyebrow as Ashby bent to pick up the large cardboard carton. She studied the rest of his body as he carried the heavy box up the stairs. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight. He might be a snob but, yup, he was a hunk all right.
Before the end of the hour, another five artists had arrived to spruce up their booths before reporting for their work assignments. Rose Nash was among them. Upon arriving, the older woman, bedecked in matching beaded earrings, necklace, and bracelets, must have thanked Katie at least ten times for allowing Artisans Alley to reopen.
As Ashby had mentioned, Ezra had written up a detailed work schedule, which Katie found pinned to the bulletin board in his office. He had placed Rose and another woman at the cash desks, along with two more women to wrap the smaller, breakable items. Ashby and another man were assigned to walk security, and Vance had said he’d arrive before opening. Even so, Katie worried they might be shorthanded if hordes of the curious showed up.
Sure enough, the news of Ezra’s death had been well reported in the local media. Ghouls and curiosity seekers arrived in droves. At precisely ten o’clock, Katie opened Artisans Alley’s main, plate glass double doors to a crowd of twenty or more people, who rushed into the store as though they were competing in a marathon, their presence lending a macabre, carnival atmosphere.
And just as inevitably, the vendors who’d shown up to work demanded to know why a nonartisan was stationed at the front of Artisans Alley, selling what more than one deemed “crap,” not “crafts.”
“Halloween is only a week away. Why not capitalize on it?” Katie had said with a forced smile. Edie Silver had outdone herself. The spicy scent of pumpkin pie potpourri permeated the entryway, which looked like a Halloween fun house with fake tombstones, hay bales, cornstalks, and the inevitable paper skeletons. Maybe it was in poor taste, considering Ezra had just been murdered, but they were symbols of the season and lent a festive, not morbid, aura to the lobby. Edie’s tabletop displays of cornucopias overflowing with gourds, resin scarecrows, pumpkin candles, and her amber-and-orange dried flower arrangements were splashes of color against the rest of Artisans Alley’s dull background.
Most important, people were spending money—and not just for her items.
Many of the artisan vendors had also shown up, and one by one they drew Katie aside, demanding to know what was going on. Vance always seemed to be hovering in the background, eavesdropping. The gossip ran rampant. Everything from the place would be closing tomorrow, to the rent would be doubled the next week. Everyone asked Katie when she would call a meeting to discuss Artisans Alley’s future.
“Ho
w about tonight?” she suggested, and decided to hold it after closing. Since Artisans Alley was the most important part of Victoria Square, it made sense to invite the rest of the merchants, too.
Leaving Vance in charge, Katie headed across the Square. Her first stop: Gilda’s Gourmet Baskets.
A brass bell over the door tinkled as Katie entered the boutique filled with browsing customers. She breathed in the scents of chocolate, wood, dried basketry, fresh-brewed coffee, and vanilla. Gilda Ringwald was waiting on a customer and flashed a be-with-you-when-I-can smile. That was okay; it gave Katie a chance to give the place a quick once-over.
Baskets of all shapes and sizes filled the shop—some filled beyond capacity, only the colorful cellophane wraps holding in all the goodies. Shelves lined the walls with a variety of delights: jellies, jams, teas, soaps, loofahs, cookie cutters, and gardening gloves. Any kind of hobby or interest was represented in some way, shape, or form. A basket filled with fresh breads sat on the old-fashioned wooden counter. Katie had no doubt the just-baked delights had been carried across the Square that very morning from Tanner’s, McKinlay Mill’s only bakery.
A doorway connected this shop with the one next door—The Perfect Grape wine store. Katie peeked through and saw more baskets containing wine, cheese, and an assortment of cookies and crackers—an eminently satisfying combination. Were the two shops linked financially as well?
Katie couldn’t help smiling at the perfect blend of synchronicity the shops evoked. Why had she avoided the Square for so long? It was everything she and Chad had hoped for—everything they’d planned to be a part of.
“Mrs. Bonner,” Gilda called, delighted.
“Call me Katie, please.”
“Business is booming,” Gilda whispered, then cleared her throat, as though realizing that observation may not have been in good taste. “I spoke with most of the merchants about an emergency meeting, but we haven’t yet decided on a time to gather. Perhaps Monday.”
“I came to invite you to a meeting I’m having with the Alley’s artisans early this evening. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone.”
A Crafty Killing Page 4
