A Crafty Killing

by Lorraine Bartlett

  Edie shrugged, not in the least offended. “A purist, I guess. A lot of highbrow artists think craft means crap. But people on a budget can afford to spend twenty bucks on a pretty eucalyptus swag when they can’t afford a primitive-style painting to hang over the fireplace in their tract house. When can we talk about my booth location?” she asked, changing the subject. “The lobby’s great, but I want a more secure space.”

  “How about first thing tomorrow morning?”

  Edie nodded and smiled. “Guess I’d better grab some pizza before it’s all gone.”

  She’d taken only a step away when another, much younger, woman—petite and blond, and closer to Katie’s age—took her place. Smartly dressed in a denim jacket, black turtleneck, tight jeans, and black leather boots, the newcomer was the epitome of business casual. She looked vaguely familiar. Hadn’t Katie seen her in the local supermarket or drugstore?

  The woman stuck out her hand. “Katie Bonner? I’m Tracy Elliott.”

  For a moment the name meant nothing. Then, “Are you related to the woman who runs the tea shop?” Katie asked.

  “She’s my mother. Sorry I was out when you came by earlier. My computer monitor blew and I had to drive into Rochester to get a new one.” She rolled her eyes. “It’ll be years before a decent computer outlet comes to this hick town.”

  Katie didn’t see what that had to do with selling tea and pastries, but she didn’t get the opportunity to ask.

  “A lot of our business is on the Internet. Check us out,” Tracy said, handing Katie a business card. “I can’t bake worth a damn, but I wanted to be part of the shop. When I suggested we sell some of Mom’s blended teas online, it seemed like I’d found my niche. Now we make more money on that than the shop itself.”

  “Then, why—”

  “Are we a part of Victoria Square? It’s Mom’s hobby. And ... well, she had other reasons for being a part of the Square.” Tracy didn’t elaborate. “Ezra was a great guy, but he kept both feet firmly planted in the twentieth century. I offered to build him a website. It would be good a marketing tool for Artisans Alley. He wouldn’t take advice from a woman—let alone someone young enough to be a grand-daughter. Mom says you’re part owner. If you want a website, I’d be glad to set the whole thing up for you for a competitive price.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you. Thanks.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it tomorrow? Mom makes the world’s best scones. Drop by the shop before opening and try them out.”

  “I’d like that. And please help yourself to some pizza before it’s all gone.”

  Tracy’s gaze traveled over to where Andy Rust lingered at the fringe of the crowd. “Thanks, but no thanks. Talk to you tomorrow,” she said, and filtered back into the throng.

  Katie looked over at Andy again. Hands thrust into his jacket pockets, he leaned against one of the massive hand-cut support beams, having obviously decided to hang around for the meeting. What could the merchants possibly have against him? He seemed a decent, friendly enough guy. And surely a pizza parlor wasn’t that detrimental to the livelihood of the rest of the Square. She’d have to find out what was really going on. But that could wait until later.

  Katie consulted her watch, saw that it was already after seven. Public speaking was not her forte, and the plastic smile she’d been wearing for the last half hour was already beginning to droop while the butterflies in her stomach multiplied. Katie resisted the impulse to crunch another lemon drop she’d squirreled away in her pants pocket, and instead sorted through her notes. Why oh why hadn’t she’d joined the debating team back in high school, or perhaps the local Toastmasters chapter? To distract herself, she counted heads. When she got to fifty-five, she decided it was time to start.

  “Can I have your attention? Please gather around so I don’t have to shout.”

  Vance was suddenly at her side, setting down a black box covered in knobs and dials. “It’s my son’s karaoke machine. It can double as a sound system.” He unraveled the cord and plugged it into a wall socket, then handed her a microphone.

  Katie cleared her throat and tapped the mike. “Testing.” A squawk of feedback echoed through the loft.

  The buzz of voices died as Vance adjusted a dial then nodded for her to continue.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. We’re here to talk about Artisans Alley’s future. But first, let’s have a moment of reflection in memory of the Alley’s founder, Ezra Hilton.”

  Everyone bowed his or her head. Silence fell over the stuffy, low-ceilinged room. Katie saw a tissue or two dab at damp eyes. She counted to ten before beginning again.

  “Thank you. Now, before we start—”

  “Have the police got any idea who killed Ezra?” Rose Nash asked, her voice thin and anxious.

  “If they do, they haven’t shared that information with me. Of course, I’ll let you know if I find out anything. And I urge you all to cooperate with the Sheriff’s Office if they should decide to interview you.”

  “Are you going to increase security?” a man up front asked. “What if someone else breaks in to rob the place? I’ve got lots of valuable items in my booth and I don’t make enough to afford insurance.”

  Was it worth voicing that Ezra had probably known his killer, making the issue of security virtually moot? Probably not.

  “I’ll consider it,” Katie promised, then cleared her throat. “I’ve spoken with Ezra’s lawyer, as well as his accountant. We can continue to stay open during probate, but we’ve got some serious cash flow problems.”

  “You’re not going to raise the rent, are you?” came a belligerent voice from the back.

  “There’s a good possibility I’ll have to do just that. Or I may have to charge a service fee. Believe me, that’s not what I want. Unfortunately, to stay afloat, I’m going to have to run the place like a business—not a hobby. That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun and socialize, but it’s imperative that we rent out all the vacant booths as soon as possible.”

  “We don’t want crappy crafters here,” another unidentified male voice declared.

  “The area where we’re standing can accommodate up to twenty artists,” Katie said. “I’ve already spoken to six crafters who are eager to start paying rent immediately. Unless you have any alternatives, I’m going to rent out that space.”

  A wave of grumbling rolled through the loft.

  “What do you think, Vance?” Peter Ashby asked.

  “Better to have crafters come in than to have to shut down,” he said.

  Katie silently blessed him for backing her up.

  “Then let them make up the shortfall,” Ashby said. “Let’s see a show of hands. Who votes for the crafters to pay more in rent?”

  “Aye,” went the collective voice.

  Katie waved them quiet. “This isn’t a democracy, Mr. Ashby. For now, at least, everyone will pay the same rent per square foot.”

  Again, a rumble of disapproval rolled through the crowd.

  “There’s also the problem of late rents. In checking Ezra’s books, I’ve found that some twenty percent of you are between two and six weeks late. Several people haven’t paid their booth rental in months. There’ll be an amnesty period of two weeks, then I’m afraid those still in arrears will have to vacate their booths.”

  Silence and shocked expressions greeted that grim statement. Ida continued to smile blandly.

  “I realize that a lot of you barely make your rent, let alone a profit, and raising the rent would be a financial hardship. The solution to all our problems is bringing more artists into Artisans Alley. Advertising costs money, something we’re in short supply of. As you saw in the entryway today, Edie Silver found plenty of customers ready to buy her merchandise.”

  “Yeah, and she took away our customers,” someone said.

  Edie glared at the jerk.

  “I checked Ezra’s records for last Saturday. Today’s take was forty percent higher,” Katie said. “I can’t say t
hat was entirely due to Edie’s merchandise, but she nearly sold out, and that didn’t hurt Artisans Alley’s bottom line.”

  “The Merchants Association has an advertising budget and the Christmas push is about to start,” Gilda Ringwald volunteered. “That always brings in customers.” Her voice faded. “Ezra always took care of that.”

  “What’s wrong with word-of-mouth advertising? It’s free,” came another voice.

  “That’s important, too. But we have to have something special to draw the crowds in,” Katie said. “I propose we set up a committee to explore ways of enticing new customers to come visit. Any volunteers?”

  Several hands rose above the sea of heads. Katie recognized Rose Nash and Edie Silver as belonging to two of them. “Rose, could you take down the names of those interested? Thank you. What we also need to think about are long-term strategies for keeping Artisans Alley going—to bring in customers, and to get them to spend money.”

  “All this is irrelevant,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. Katie hadn’t seen the distinguished, middle-aged gentleman enter. Clad in a three-piece suit, with slicked-back black hair and a debonair manner, he elbowed his way through the assemblage.

  “And you are?” she asked.

  Without asking, the man jerked the microphone from her hand, then turned toward the crowd. “My name is Gerald Hilton. Ezra Hilton was my uncle. I want you all to know that once probate is finished, there isn’t going to be an Artisans Alley.”

  “So much for allaying the fears of our artists,” Katie began, once the crowd had cleared out and she and Gerald Hilton were alone in what she already thought of as her office. She’d wanted Vance to sit in on the discussion, but Hilton was adamant that it be just the two of them.

  “It doesn’t do any good to encourage them. Or you, for that matter. I’ve made up my mind. We’re selling Artisans Alley.”

  “I agree.”

  Hilton blinked, obviously not expecting that answer.

  “In order to get a good price, we need to offer a going concern,” Katie continued. “The business as it stands is in imminent danger of failure.”

  “That’s immaterial. We’re not selling it as a going concern.”

  “Then what’s the point—”

  Hilton shook his head in a condescending manner. “My dear young woman, have you ever heard of the Radisson Hotel chain?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’ve been interested in buying this property for the past two years. My uncle refused to sell, despite the chain’s very generous offer.”

  Chad had never mentioned that. But then, had Ezra ever told him?

  “Why would a big hotel want to locate here in McKinlay Mill?”

  “They own a share in the new marina. The area is on the verge of exploding with development opportunities and it would be well worth it for you to carefully consider their offer.”

  “I’ve lived in the village for the past four years and the rumors of development have been around for a lot longer than that. I haven’t seen the offer and only have your word on it.”

  “I assure you, what I’ve said is true.”

  “And I assure you, I’m not interested.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” he blurted.

  “No. My plan has always been to be a part of Victoria Square.” Hilton didn’t need to know just exactly what those plans entailed, and with that belligerent attitude, he didn’t deserve to know either. “It’s in the best interests of Victoria Square for Artisans Alley to remain the anchor, and to do that, it needs to be solvent.”

  “Just who do you think you are making plans for this establishment? I’ve done my homework, you see, and—”

  “I don’t think you have,” Katie said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’re not selling to any hotel chain. And obviously you haven’t done your homework. At least, not in the area of partnership agreements.”

  “Ah,” he said, ready to dismiss her again. “I’ve spoken with my uncle’s attorney. He said the assets were evenly split between the two of us. Although God knows why my uncle chose you.”

  “Because I already happen to be a partner in the business.”

  Hilton’s eyes widened in surprise. Obviously Seth hadn’t told him everything.

  “I already own ten percent of Artisans Alley. Legally, I’m the only one who can make any decisions about the business. When probate is completed, I’ll own fifty-five percent of Artisans Alley. It’s unfortunate for you, Mr. Hilton, but the person with the biggest portion of the pie gets to call the shots.”

  Hilton said nothing, but his eyes bulged, his temper smoldering.

  He paced the short distance to the door and back. “It would seem we’ve come to an impasse. There has to be a compromise.”

  Katie didn’t bat an eye. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “I’m sure you heard what I told the artists. I don’t intend to run Artisans Alley as your uncle did. I don’t consider it a hobby. You may be right. McKinlay Mill could be on the verge of an economic explosion. And if it is, Artisans Alley can be a large part of the draw. The future of Victoria Square depends in part on its survival—so do the livelihoods of a lot of other people in the village.”

  “I’m not interested in other people,” Hilton declared.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Hilton’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll change your mind, Ms. Bonner. I guarantee it.”

  Katie straightened to her full height. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “You said it,” Hilton grated. “I didn’t.”

  Five

  “He threatened you?” a wide-eyed Vance asked after Hilton had stormed out of Artisans Alley, although Katie suspected he’d been behind the door with his ear pressed to the keyhole during the whole heated discussion.

  “It sounded like that to me,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “But then, he was angry, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m sure he was just blowing off steam.”

  Vance shook his head. “I might agree with that, Katie, if Ezra hadn’t been murdered.”

  “You can’t think his own nephew would—”

  “If the land this old building sits on is worth that much, who’s to say he wouldn’t?”

  Katie frowned, and then went back to sorting through the papers on Ezra’s desk—her desk. “Other than Hilton, how do you think the meeting went?”

  “There was talk of inviting the robber to come back and rub you out.”

  Katie looked up, her mouth dropping open, and then saw the amusement in Vance’s eyes.

  “Ezra should have been more honest with everyone about his financial problems,” Vance continued. “Our artists are good people. That’s why . . .” He reached into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, withdrew a wad of folded papers, and handed them to her. “There’re at least ten checks there. I’m sure you’ll have the rest of them before closing tomorrow.”

  Katie felt her eyes fill with sudden tears. “Oh, Vance, thank you.”

  “I didn’t coerce anyone. They paid up voluntarily. Nobody wants to leave. And they want Artisans Alley to stay open, too.”

  Katie felt her throat closing. Was it gratitude or something else she felt for this old place and the friends Chad had left behind?

  Clearly embarrassed by her waterworks, Vance headed for the door. “There’s a light out in the lobby. I’d better replace the bulb before I leave.”

  “Vance, wait. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you since yesterday.”

  He turned to face her, his face impassive.

  “I want you to manage Artisans Alley. I’m not sure what I can pay right now, but you obviously know more about running this place than anyone else. We need someone to take on the day-to-day responsibilities. Someone who cares about the place. Someone who—”

  Vance shook his head, his voice somber. “No.”

  Kat
ie blinked, surprised by his quiet refusal. “It doesn’t have to be permanent, just until we find someone—”

  “I’m sorry, Katie, but I can’t.” Vance turned and opened the office door.

  “I can’t do it, Vance. I have a regular job that pays well and gives real benefits. I can’t afford to leave it. My boss is already fuming because I’ve blown off a day and a half, I—”

  “I’m sorry,” he said without even looking back, “but I can’t do it either.” Then he was gone.

  Katie sank back in her chair, panic churning inside her. Just when she thought there was a chance—however small—that things could work out, something else went wrong. Why would Vance, a retiree who many already considered to be Artisans Alley’s second-in-command, refuse?

  Would Chad’s journal hold a clue?

  Katie located the book, and flipped it open at random, running her fingers over the pages, searching for Vance’s name. She found it, near the back of book, and read the entry.

  February 26th

  Vance and I have a bit of a love-hate relationship going. I love him—and he hates me. Or at least it seems that way. I think he’s jealous of my friendship with Ezra. But then, he has gone to bat for me several times when I’ve challenged Ezra on how AA is run. I’ve been trying to convince Ezra we should do what antique co-ops do: rent shelf space. If artists do well with a shelf, they might just rent space with us. I asked Vance if he’d build them, and he liked the idea—and the idea of getting paid to do it, too.

  The rest of the account had to do with where the new shelving should be put. Chad thought it should be near the registers—likely the last stop customers made before paying for their purchases. Instead, Ezra had opted for them to be hidden in the back of the first floor.

  Katie sighed. Chad’s words hadn’t given her any insight into Vance. Since it was written eight months before Ezra’s death, it also hadn’t given Katie any insight as to where Vance might’ve been the night Ezra was killed.