Gilda nodded. “I’d be interested in attending.” She lowered her voice. “Have you heard anything from the police about Ezra’s murder?”
“Nothing so far. I’m not sure if I should call them either. They were going to do an autopsy today. I don’t know when they’ll release the body for burial. I guess I should talk to Mr. Collier at the funeral home.”
Katie realized she sounded wishy-washy, but at that moment she felt she’d lost touch with the take-charge woman who’d been in control at Artisans Alley only minutes before. She changed the subject. “The meeting’s at seven. Can you make it?”
“I’ll make it a point to be there. I’m sure the other merchants will, too. Have you met them?” Katie shook her head. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself,” Gilda suggested. “They’re all dying to meet you.”
Dying? After what happened to Ezra, it was a poor choice of words.
“I’m on my way,” Katie said, and started for the door. She paused, turning back to face Gilda. “You have a wonderful shop. I’m sorry it took Ezra’s death to get me in here.”
Gilda’s smile was gentle. “Then don’t be a stranger.”
Outside, Katie stood for a moment under the door’s colorful striped awning, looking out over Victoria Square. Her gaze fell on the decrepit mansion to the east. Paint flakes the size of silver dollars hung from its weathered clap-boards. The English Ivy Inn—what she and Chad had planned on calling it, should they ever have saved enough to buy it—was never to be. Still, in her mind’s eye she saw it restored to its former glory, with new landscaping in place, and cascades of ivy and yellow rambling roses climbing on more than one trellis.
Katie looked back at the ugly brown monstrosity that was the Artisans Alley and sighed.
Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the tea shop.
Like the morning, the afternoon was a blur of new faces and names, all strangers, all anxious, and all putting their faith in Katie to make things turn out right.
Katie sat at Ezra’s—now her own—desk and marveled at the newly created order. What had seemed like an insurmountable mess turned out to be relatively organized once she figured out Ezra’s haphazard filing system. Still, it would take weeks to go through all the accumulated paper in the file cabinets.
Vance had handled just about every crisis that arose during the day—from disgruntled customers to a tape jam in Register 1. Katie had all but decided to ask him to manage the place. She just had to figure out how to pay him.
Edie Silver told Katie that she’d already spread the word that crafters could now rent space. Already Katie had heard from five interested artists. If she could rent all the empty booths, it would mean an extra three thousand dollars a month in revenue. She’d probably have to raise the rent anyway, but she’d give it a month to see how things worked out.
It was after four, though, and she still hadn’t made the call she’d been dreading. To avoid it just a little longer, she picked up Chad’s journal and flipped through a few of the pages.
January 2nd
AA is a good acronym for this place—Artists Anonymous—or maybe Artists-Destined-To-Remain Anonymous. It’s full of odd ducks and social misfits. That Ida Mitchell lives and breathes to tape down price stickers, treating the task like it was the most important job in the world. Then again, I’ve never had another vendor’s price tags on my weekly sheet. Poor Rose Nash must be really lonely. She drops everything to come in and work at the register whenever another vendor skips his or her scheduled shift—which happens far too often. Ezra ought to lay down some tough rules. Those who can’t—or won’t—work, should have to pay extra, or have a surcharge applied to their sales. That would get the deadbeat vendors to show up on their workdays. The excuses they make are worse than those of my ninth grade students who don’t do their homework and howl when they flunk my quizzes.
Katie frowned, closing the book and setting it aside. She’d hoped for words of encouragement from Chad, not a blunt assessment of the troubles she was likely to face. Still, she might have to bring up the subject of additional fees at the meeting that night.
Her gaze returned to the silent phone. Putting off the call wasn’t going to make the news any better. She punched in the numbers on the black touch-tone phone, and listened as the phone rang.
“Collier’s Funeral Home. How may we be of service in your time of need?”
“Mr. Collier, it’s Katie Bonner.”
“Oh, Mrs. Bonner. You’re no doubt calling about Ezra. No need to worry. Mr. Landers has already made all the arrangements, per Ezra’s instructions. Has he spoken with you about it?”
“Not yet. I probably should have called him.”
“The coroner released the body earlier this afternoon. I have a preliminary copy of the death certificate if you’d like to see it—the official documentation will be recorded with the county on Monday morning.”
“Yes, I’d like to see it, thank you. Was it blunt trauma as the deputy said?”
“Yes. But I don’t think Ezra suffered,” Collier said, his voice gentle.
Thank God for that, Katie thought.
“I thought Monday night for the viewing, and Tuesday morning for the burial. Would that be convenient for you?”
“I haven’t spoken with Ezra’s nephew, but it should be all right.” Katie paused, wondering how to tactfully bring up the subject of cost. “Did Ezra make any financial arrangements?”
“Yes, it’s all taken care of. Ezra was a practical man and made the arrangements more than a year ago.”
Katie frowned at the dichotomy of Ezra with his natty suits and polished Florsheims taking care of his funeral expenses yet leaving his supposedly cherished Artisans Alley languishing. At least it was one less financial worry for her.
“Thank you, Mr. Collier.”
The undertaker promised to call her with the final details and said good-bye. He hadn’t mentioned speaking with the Sheriff’s Office. But maybe that was standard procedure. Still, it didn’t seem like Detective Davenport had done much investigating. As far as Katie knew, he’d only spoken with a couple of the merchants on the Square. She’d thought he might show up during the day to speak with the artists, but he hadn’t done that either. Maybe it was his day off . . .
Don’t get involved, Katie told herself. It wasn’t her job to find out who’d killed Ezra. And yet what if Davenport didn’t even try to find the murderer? It could be someone involved with Artisans Alley—or on the Square—right now. That thought brought her no comfort.
“I’m not going to think about it,” she said aloud.
“Think about what?”
Startled, Katie nearly jumped. “Seth. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Never,” Artisans Alley’s lawyer said, and entered the office. Dressed in an oatmeal-colored sweater, matching slacks, and a droplet-speckled raincoat, the small-town attorney gave off an instant aura of trust. At forty, he was ten years older than Katie, but unlike many of his peers, he still sported a full head of sandy-colored hair, and a frame that suggested he worked out on a regular basis. How such a handsome, decent guy had evaded matrimony for so long was a mystery to her.
“I just spoke to Luther Collier at the funeral home. He said you’d made all the arrangements. Thanks.”
Seth waved a hand to brush it off. “I’m happy to help. I dropped by to see how you were doing.”
“So far, so good.” She glanced at the dusty-faced clock on the wall. “And we’ve only got another forty-five minutes until closing. It’s been a good day for sales.”
He nodded and leaned against one of the khaki-colored file cabinets. “I spoke with Ezra’s nephew, Gerald.”
Something about his tone told Katie this might not be good news. “And?”
“He seemed a lot more interested in Ezra’s will and what he was likely to get from it than what happened to poor Ezra.”
Katie’s stomach tightened. “Is it out of line for me to ask? Not for myself ...” sh
e quickly explained. “For the Alley. There’re a lot of people’s hopes riding on your answer.”
Seth nodded. “Ezra split his assets evenly between the two of you.”
“Ohmigod,” Katie breathed. She’d hardly known the man. “Was it a recent will?”
“Dated a month ago.”
“Good Lord. Do you think Ezra had a premonition of his own death?”
Seth shook his head, his lips quirking downward. “The old man expected to live forever.”
Not if he prepaid for his own funeral, Katie thought.
“It did seem kind of odd at the time,” Seth continued, looking thoughtful. “Ezra was in a terrible rush to get the new will written. Maybe he’d recently spoken with Gerald and wanted to make sure Artisans Alley would go on without him. I think he knew you’d try to keep it running. That is what he wanted.”
Katie digested that piece of information. Then why hadn’t Ezra invited her to take on more responsibility? He probably assumed she’d been in mourning for Chad.
That was true, of course, but it was her own financial need that took precedence. Chad had scoffed at the idea of life insurance. Not a good decision, especially as the local school board had cut back on teacher benefits. Like a lot of men under thirty, Chad felt invincible. Insurance could wait until later, he’d reasoned. And then he’d been killed. The funeral had set Katie back thousands. For months she’d worked overtime just to pay it off.
And Ezra had asked her to come by. In fact, just days before his death he’d left a message on her answering machine. She should have made time to sit down and talk about the business. Her reply was always “next week,” or “soon.”
“Don’t be surprised if Gerald Hilton shows up tomorrow,” Seth said. “He asked me a lot of questions about Artisans Alley, things I couldn’t answer. Like square footage, insurance, and such.”
“What do you think he wants?”
“Between you and me, a quick liquidation of assets. That can’t happen until after probate, and I told him so. You might want to prepare yourself for a fight. He doesn’t seem the easygoing type.”
“Swell.” Katie leaned back in her chair, idly twisting her wedding band. “I’m having a meeting with the artists and merchants from the Square at seven to talk about the Alley’s future. Can you join us?”
Seth shook his head. “I have a prior commitment. But I’ll be at the funeral home on Monday night, and perhaps the service on Tuesday morning.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going.”
She nodded and rose, wrapping her arm around his, and then walked him to the exit. “Thanks for dropping by. You’re a good friend, Seth.”
He reached for her hand, squeezed it, and then leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “See you Monday, Katie.”
She blinked, her hand automatically going to where his lips had touched her skin. The kiss had been a surprise. A pleasant one. She found herself smiling after him.
Katie made her way past a cheerful Edie, who was waiting on a customer, and paused at the Alley’s main entrance to wave as Seth’s car pulled out of parking lot. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the lights were now on in the Square’s pizza shop. She hadn’t had a chance to make contact with the owner and decided to dodge the raindrops to do so.
A row of heavy brass bells on a thick strip of age-darkened leather hung on the plate glass door, jingling loudly as Katie entered. Inside, the enticing aromas of pizza and spicy chicken wings battled for prominence, and the heady fragrances nearly lifted Katie off her feet.
“Can I help you?” asked a tall, beefy guy of about thirty. A Rochester Red Wings baseball cap sat atop his head, covering dark wavy hair, which stuck out over his ears. He wore a blue Angelo’s Pizzeria T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers. A white dishcloth at his waist made a makeshift apron. He pounded a round of flour-powdered dough, forming it into a flat circle.
“Are you Angelo?” Katie asked.
“Andy Rust. The place was called Angelo’s when I bought it last year. Can I help you?”
She reached out to shake hands, realized his were occupied, and pulled her hand back. “Katie Bonner. I was Ezra Hilton’s business partner.”
“Sorry to hear about him dying.” His words held no warmth.
“Thank you. I’ve tried to meet all the other members of the Merchants Association to—”
“Then count me out,” Andy said, bitterness coloring his tone. “I’m not a member.”
“Oh. I just thought—”
Andy looked up, his eyes cold. “Some of the merchants don’t think a pizza parlor fits the hoity-toity Victoria Square image.”
“Oh, well ... I’m sorry to hear that. Doesn’t everybody love pizza?”
Brows furrowed, Andy stared at her for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. “Not around here. What can I do for you?” he said, his voice softening.
“I’m having a meeting at seven for the artists and other merchants on the Square to discuss Artisans Alley’s future. Would you like to join us?”
Again he stared at her. “Saturday’s my busiest night of the week. I really can’t spare the time.”
“Oh, well, maybe you could combine business with pleasure. I’d like to order a couple of sheet pizzas. It might help break the ice with the artists.”
“As you said, everybody loves pizza.” As he took her order, she couldn’t help noticing the way his brows furrowed as he concentrated. It was kind of ... cute. “What time do you want them delivered?” Andy asked.
“Just before seven. Thanks.”
This time he wiped his right hand on his makeshift apron and reached to shake hers. “Thank you, Katie,” he said and held on, his deep brown eyes staring into her own. “I’ve been open almost eighteen months and you’re the first merchant to order something from me.”
Katie laughed nervously, still aware of his warm, dusty hand in hers. “It probably won’t be my last. I’m a pizzaholic.”
His answering smile charmed her. “Then I hope there’s no cure.”
Four
Katie smiled, gritted her teeth, and endured yet another bone-crushing handshake from one of the artists. Stationed at Artisans Alley’s lobby entrance, she wanted to greet every artist as they arrived for the meeting. In her left arm she held a clipboard, and dutifully checked off each name on the copy of the phone list she’d found in one of Ezra’s desk drawers.
“Glad you could make it,” she said to a grim-faced man who followed the stream inside, heading for the main staircase, where Rose Nash directed them to empty loft space above.
Once again dressed in her raincoat and kerchief, and still clutching her umbrella, Ida-with-the-giant-wart Mitchell shuffled along with the pack. “Good evening, Katie,” she said, her grin wide and her eyes looking slightly crazed. Katie tried to keep her gaze from the flaw on the woman’s cheek, but it was so glaringly obvious.
She forced a smile. “Hello, Ida. Thank you for coming. I see you’re feeling better this evening.”
Ida nodded sweetly. “Mr. Hilton’s in a better place now. I’m rejoicing for his good fortune.”
Had anyone explained to Ida that Ezra had been murdered?
Katie shook her head and watched as the clueless woman continued on her way. When she turned back, Katie recognized the Red Wings cap on a head above the crowd. She shook hands and greeted everyone else as she waited for the man to shuffle forward.
“Where do you want these?” Andy Rust asked, hefting the pizza boxes.
“Upstairs, to the left, thanks.”
Andy nodded and followed the others inside.
Vance arrived, bringing up the rear of the crowd, with a teenaged boy in tow. “Hey, Katie. This is my son, Vance Junior.” The kid actually winced at the introduction. “He’s going to watch the door and send up any latecomers.”
Katie clasped the gangly young man’s damp palm. “Nice to meet you, Vance Junior.”
“Call me VJ,” the boy insisted.
“I really appreciate this, VJ.”
She looked at Vance Senior. “I need to get my notes from the office. I’ll meet you upstairs, okay?”
“All right.”
Katie hadn’t considered the logistics of stuffing sixty-plus artists and nine or ten merchants into Artisans Alley, and wished she had. Of course, the only suitable open space was upstairs in the loft-like, unoccupied area Ezra had reserved for new artists. Vance had also shown her more storage space nearby that could be converted to vendor booths. Thanks to the interest Edie Silver’s friends had shown by their calls requesting vendor space, Katie already anticipated the increased revenue.
Seating was also a problem. They had virtually none. Vance had scrounged six or seven folding chairs and a couple of tables to put out the pizza. While he’d set them up, Katie had taken a trip to the grocery store for disposable cups, napkins, and soda, and to restock her dwindling supply of hard candy. When she’d first decided to hold the meeting, she hadn’t anticipated feeding a crowd, but free food often put people in a more receptive mood to hear bad news—and that’s the only kind she had to deliver.
More than half the pizza had already been scarfed up by the time Katie reached the meeting area. People had gathered in knots, with conversations buzzing in the warm, dusty old loft.
Katie sought out a familiar face and made a beeline for Edie Silver. “Thanks for coming.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it. Looks like I’ll need to restock. Most of my merchandise is already gone,” she said, her expression smug.
“That tells me crafters can sell here.”
“I always knew it.” Edie raised a hand to wave to someone.
Katie looked around. “Do you know any of these people?”
“Heck, I know most of ’em. We do a lot of the same shows.”
“Shows?”
“Art festivals, canal days, and holiday craft sales. There’s a slew of big shows every year in the Rochester area. I only do the local ones, but some of these folks go all over the state and even out of state to sell their stuff.”
Katie blinked. “If you guys mingle in other venues, why was Mr. Hilton so prejudiced against ...” She hesitated before finishing, “Low-end crafters?”
A Crafty Killing Page 5
