“I’m sorry, Katie. I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”
She patted his hand. “I’m a big girl, Seth. And if I have any trouble with Mr. Gerald Hilton, I have a wonderful attorney who can put him in his place.”
Seth squeezed her hand again. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
Their eyes met and held. Seth’s intense gaze seemed to penetrate her soul. Katie was the first to look away. “I may have done something extremely stupid this morning. I quit my job,” she admitted.
Seth blinked. “That does sound a bit drastic.”
“Artisans Alley needs a full-time manager and I was overdue for a change. I have a little money saved—I’ll either sink or swim.” Why did she sound a whole lot more confident than she felt?
“If you need advice, just ask,” Seth said.
Katie smiled. “I will.” She thought about his offer for a moment. “In fact, maybe you can advise me on something right now.” She lowered her voice. “The guy who owns the pizza parlor next to Artisans Alley has a lot of high school boys working for him. Local troublemakers. He’s supposed to be a positive role model for them. Should the police know about this, and if so, who should volunteer the information?”
Seth let out a sigh. “Ideally, he should have told the police. Is he here?”
Katie shook her head. “If I talk to Detective Davenport, and those kids had nothing to do with Ezra’s death, I could be making an enemy of my neighbor.”
“That is a dilemma,” Seth agreed. “Do you really think one of those boys could have killed Ezra?”
Katie frowned. “I don’t think so. I mean, Ezra had to have let his killer into Artisans Alley. Andy said none of the merchants ever ordered anything from him. So, unless Ezra was acquainted with one of the boys for another reason—like he knew their parents—he probably wouldn’t have opened the door.”
“What if someone waited for Ezra to leave, surprised the old man, and forced their way in?”
“It could’ve happened that way, I suppose,” Katie said, her worry intensifying.
“Would you like me to talk to Detective Davenport?” Seth asked.
“No, it’s my responsibility.” Katie located Davenport across the room. “And I’d better do it now, before I lose my nerve.”
Seth gave her an encouraging smile and she started off.
Davenport was conversing with Peter Ashby and a couple of the other artists. Katie waited for the detective to finish before interrupting. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
Davenport stood there, staring at her—waiting.
“Privately,” she amended.
He frowned, then nodded toward the foyer.
Katie felt all eyes on them as they left the room.
“Yes, ma’ am,” Davenport said once they were out of earshot.
She relayed what Andy had told her, and was surprised to see the detective’s eyes light up.
“Interesting. I’ll pay Mr. Rust a visit this evening.”
“Do you have to mention where you got this information?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“And do you have to keep calling me ‘ma’ am’ ?” Katie asked, annoyed.
“Sorry, Mrs. Bonner.”
That was nearly as bad.
“I phoned yesterday and left you a message. You didn’t get back to me.”
“I’m a very busy man,” Davenport said in a monotone.
“I wanted to tell you that someone owed Ezra five thousand dollars. It was due to be paid the day Ezra died. I found the agreement yesterday, but I can’t make out the signature.”
Davenport’s expression—and his voice—hardened. “You should have told me this sooner.”
“When? You didn’t return my call,” she reiterated.
Davenport didn’t back down. “That agreement is evidence. You’ll have to turn it over to the Sheriff’s Office. Where is it now?”
“In a file drawer at Artisans Alley. You can have it tonight if you want.”
“Does anyone else know about this?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Then you’d better keep it that way.” Davenport’s tone was serious, with just the hint of a threat in it.
“Maybe we could get signatures from all the artists and compare them,” Katie suggested.
“The department will handle that,” he said, his no-nonsense voice annoying Katie once more.
“Very well, Detective.” Their gazes locked. The arrogant man unnerved her, but also reminded her of someone else. “Have you spoken with Ezra’s nephew, Gerald Hilton?”
“Not yet.”
“What have you been up to?” At Davenport’s steely glare, she continued. “Mr. Hilton is eager to settle the estate. Before he found out about me, he thought he was in for a lot of money at Ezra’s death. That could be a motive for murder, too.”
“I’m quite capable of deciding what constitutes motive, Mrs. Bonner. I suggest you concern yourself with running Artisans Alley and leave the investigating to me.”
“If you can spare the time.” Katie turned on her heel, stalked forward, but then abruptly halted, unsure what to do next. Seth was surrounded by several artists—perhaps clients—and she decided not to intrude. She glanced at the clock: eight thirty—half an hour to go until calling hours ended.
She caught sight of Tracy, who waved and crossed the room to join her. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you with the reception tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I understand,” Katie said, her nerves still jangled. She took a breath to steady herself. “The caterer you suggested assured me they could handle the job.”
“They’re great. Mom trained with them for two years before we opened our shop.”
Katie glanced back at Mary. “How is your mother?”
“Pretty torn up.” Tracy’s voice had hardened, her lips growing thin. “She’s taking Ezra’s passing almost as hard as Daddy’s death.”
Katie wasn’t sure what to say.
“In some ways, I think Ezra reminded Mom a lot of Dad,” Tracy continued. “He was much older than her, too. Almost as old as Grandpa Wilson, but they fit, you know? They were happy, until Dad was sick for so long.”
“Were Ezra and your father much alike?”
Tracy stifled a laugh. “No way. My dad was a retired dentist. He had a real life, his friends, and us, of course. It seems like Ezra only had Artisans Alley and the Merchants Association. Maybe that was all he really wanted.” She looked back at her mother. “Mom would like to take you up on your offer of a private good-bye with Ezra. We could come here early tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“I’ll speak with Mr. Collier and let him know you’ll be coming,” Katie promised.
“Thanks,” Tracy said.
Detective Davenport reentered the room, notebook in hand, and spoke with another one of the mourners.
“Boy, that guy wouldn’t win any personality contests,” Tracy muttered. “He’s got a real attitude problem.”
“You noticed that, too, huh?” Katie asked.
“What’s he trying to accomplish with all these pointed questions? It was a robbery, plain and simple. Ezra was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
If only it were that simple, Katie thought. But too many people seemed to have had reasons for getting rid of Ezra. From his greedy nephew, to his spurned lover, to someone unwilling to repay a relatively small loan. And how many other people might have had motives to kill the old man?
“Trollop!”
The shouted word cut across the quiet viewing room. Katie’s head whipped around. A red-faced Nona Fiske stood before an open-mouthed Mary Elliott.
“What the ...” Tracy began, and hurried off to intercede, with Katie following close behind.
“It’s your fault Ezra’s dead!” Nona screamed. “If you hadn’t come to Victoria Square, Ezra would still be alive today.”
Mary looked around at the crowd, whose attention was now riveted on t
he two women. “This isn’t the place to discuss—”
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone!” Nona bellowed.
“Ladies, ladies,” Katie soothed, and rested a hand on Nona’s elbow, intending to steer her away, but the older woman shook her off.
“Keep your hands off me.”
“Could you please lower your voice?” Katie said, noticing Tracy pull her mother away from the ruckus.
“Look at her,” Nona spat. “She came to Ezra’s viewing with her bosoms hanging out—the brazen strumpet!”
Katie glanced back at Mary, who wore a modest scoop-necked shirt under a dark suit jacket. Hardly the wardrobe of a jezebel.
“Mrs. Fiske,” Katie began in a tone her aunt Lizzie rarely used, but when she did—people listened.
“That’s Miss Fiske,” Nona corrected.
“Miss Fiske,” Katie tried again. “I know you’re very upset about Ezra’s passing—we all are. But please—”
“And who are you to be taking over his business, making his funeral arrangements. It should’ve been done by his friends, people who loved and cared about him, not some opportunist—”
“That’ll be enough, Miss Fiske.” Though Seth towered over the quilt shop owner, his expression was kind, even sympathetic, and Katie was never so glad for someone to come to her rescue.
“Ezra had already planned his own funeral, and Mrs. Bonner is one of his legal heirs. I’m sure if you had known that, you wouldn’t have said—”
Nona Fiske’s face scrunched up and she burst into tears, her wrenching sobs causing those rubbernecking to turn away in embarrassment. “It’s all her fault,” she cried, pointing at Mary. “Things were fine on the Square until that harlot came along. I tried to tell that policeman about her, but he wouldn’t listen. He said she had an alibi, but I know better.”
Katie risked a glance at Davenport, who was furiously scribbling in his notepad. So the detective had actually interviewed a few of the merchants. And about time, too.
Seth handed Nona a clean handkerchief, which she took, blowing her nose and wiping at her already red and puffy eyes. “I’ll take you home,” Seth offered, and Nona put up no resistance as he led her to the exit.
Katie let out a breath as she surveyed Ezra’s remaining friends and colleagues, remembering Davenport’s pronouncement that one of them had probably killed him.
She didn’t want to speculate on just who that could be.
Nine
The next morning, Katie arrived at Artisans Alley before Ezra’s memorial service to take down some of Edie Silver’s Halloween decorations. Paper skeletons and pumpkins were absolutely the wrong theme for an after-funeral gathering.
The Blueberry Catering truck arrived right on schedule, and Katie left them to finish their setup, making it to the funeral home a full fifteen minutes before the service was to begin. The parking lot wasn’t as full as she would have thought, considering the turnout the night before, and Katie entered the building with a heavy heart.
Gilda Ringwald and Mary and Tracy Elliott were the only Victoria Square merchants in evidence. Nona Fiske was conspicuous by her absence. Had she been too embarrassed after her outburst to show her face? After the previous evening’s spectacle, Mary had been happy not to run into Nona again, and thanked Katie profusely for allowing her a private good-bye with Ezra. Neither Andy Rust nor Seth Landers had made it, but there were enough Artisans Alley artists to fill several rows of folding chairs that faced the open coffin. Also noticeably absent was Ezra’s only surviving relative—Gerald Hilton.
Luther Collier’s funeral service was general enough not to cause offense, and the personal remembrances of Ezra from people such as Vance Ingram and Rose Nash made it a fitting memorial to McKinlay Mill’s leading citizen. Still, the lack of mourners bothered Katie. Most people probably had to work, Katie surmised, and then worried she’d be stuck with finger foods for one hundred.
By the time Katie made it back to Artisans Alley, the caterers had transformed the lobby with tables filled with food and urns with coffee and hot water for tea. She stationed herself at the main entrance just in time for the crowds to arrive.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for coming,” she greeted total strangers, people who had not attended either the wake the night before or the service that morning. “Won’t you sign the guest book?”
A number of Artisans Alley’s artists and several merchants from the Square showed up to pay their last respects to Ezra. But still Gerald Hilton wasn’t among them. Maybe she’d scared him off on Saturday.
Seth dutifully arrived, giving Katie yet another perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Well, a kiss was a kiss, even if brotherly.
“Glad you could make it,” Katie said. “Sorry we missed you this morning.”
“I’m sorry I can’t stay. I had court this morning and I’ve got appointments I wasn’t able to reschedule this afternoon.”
“I’m just grateful you diffused that nasty situation last night.”
“Glad I could help. But I have something for you. I didn’t think it appropriate to give it to you earlier.” Seth dipped a hand into his suit jacket and came out with a set of keys. “They’re to Ezra’s house. If you’ve got time, you might want to check it out. You’ll be responsible for disposing of the estate and paying off any debts.”
Katie let out a breath. “Okay. I’m not reopening Artisans Alley until tomorrow anyway. I’ll go as soon as all the guests leave.”
Seth took in the oddly shaped lobby. “This is a great space.”
“Yes,” Katie agreed. “Chad said they often used it for special sales events.”
“The lighting is much better than in the individual artists’ booths. You ought to make it a gallery.”
Katie looked around the empty walls. “Maybe I will. I just have to figure out how to charge the artists who’d use it—and referee the fights that are sure to break out among them.”
Seth smiled. “You’ll figure it out.” He looked at his watch. “I really must be going.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Katie said.
The rest of the guests seemed in no hurry to leave—at least, not until the food was all gone. Katie made the rounds and listened in on the latest local gossip—the main topic being the new marina. It was all everyone could seem to talk about. That, and Ezra’s murder, of course.
The caterers cleaned up the mess, even vacuuming the carpets, then stood patiently waiting while Katie wrote a check with what seemed like far too many zeros. She winced as she signed her name, and hoped business would be booming on the weekend to make up for the expenditure.
After locking the doors and setting the security system, Katie started off for Ezra’s home.
The old farmhouse on County Road 8 was in desperate need of some tender loving care, Katie observed, looking over the rusted gutters and peeling paint. The grass needed cutting, and one of the shutters had fallen off the house and lay haphazardly on the ground. Taking in the three-story structure, Katie noted there were no drapes on the upstairs windows. Cardboard cartons blocked them—probably a fire hazard.
Katie’s heart sank. Clearing out and selling the place was likely to be a time-consuming project, and, in its present shape, not a lucrative one. If Gerald was so anxious to get his share of the estate, maybe he’d be willing to help with the cleanup.
Taking the keys from her purse, Katie inspected them, wondering which one opened the front door. None of them, it appeared. She went along to the back entrance and the door opened on her second try. A striped mass of tawny fur launched itself at her, howling and winding around her legs in a frantic figure eight.
“Oh, you poor kitty,” she murmured. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Sniffing the air, she realized it had been a while since the litter box had been changed, too.
The cat cried piteously as Katie searched the kitchen cupboards for its food. Why hadn’t someone told her Ezra owned a cat? Surely Mary Elliott or Nona Fiske knew.
; Katie found a can of cat food and emptied it into a bowl she grabbed from the drain board. The tabby danced around her ankles, threatening to trip her as she walked the few steps to the plastic placemat and empty water and food bowls on the floor by the fridge.
“That ought to hold you for a while,” she said. While the cat wolfed its meal, Katie refilled the water bowl, then searched out the litter box, which she found by the washer and dryer. Five minutes later, she’d changed it, and went back to the kitchen to find her furry new friend furiously washing its front paws.
“What’s your name?” Katie asked, petting the cat’s silky head. But the cat’s only answer was a resounding purr.
“I don’t know what to do about you. I’ve already got a kitty,” she said, thinking of Mason and knowing he wouldn’t want to give up his status as king of the jungle.
Deciding the cat’s fate would have to wait a few days. She’d come twice a day to feed it until she either found it a home or, barring that, found time to take it to the vet to be checked for feline leukemia before bringing it to her apartment. No way would she compromise Mason’s health. But she couldn’t neglect this little one either. Probably a female, she decided, because of its size, but she wasn’t inclined to check its anatomy to find out.
Taking a look around the large kitchen, she noticed how neat it was. The laundry room had been clean and tidy, too. Then why were boxes stacked in front of the upstairs windows?
She did a quick walk around the first floor, finding a cubbyhole home office, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room. The walls were in need of fresh paint, and the rugs were threadbare, but the inside of the house looked to be in pretty good shape. Had Detective Davenport been through to search for clues?
Heading up the creaking staircase, she found the doors of the three bedrooms closed. Upon opening them, she found each room filled, floor to ceiling, with boxes of receipts. They couldn’t all be from Artisans Alley, Katie thought. Sure enough, the boxes were labeled, dating back to the late nineteen sixties, the accumulated records for Ezra’s former business ventures—an appliance store that was open through the seventies, and a hardware store that had closed a year or so before he’d opened Artisans Alley.
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