A Crafty Killing

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “He must be devoted to her.”

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Rose said, her eyes wide—her expression enigmatic.

  “You mean he’s not?”

  Rose looked around again, and then lowered her voice. “There was talk ... but it’s just gossip.”

  Katie’s eyes widened.

  A customer stepped up to the counter, laying down her purchases. Katie watched as Rose carefully entered each item into the computer. Rose wasn’t the fastest typist, and it took nearly five minutes before she finished making change and took the receipt from the printer.

  “Thank you for shopping at Artisans Alley,” Rose said, waved a cheerful good-bye to the customer, then turned back to Katie, ready to spill all. “Of course, it’s just a rumor that Vance cheats on his wife,” she said without missing a beat. “And I haven’t heard anything more about it in years. Maybe he had a midlife crisis.”

  “How about Peter Ashby?” Katie asked.

  “Oh, he’s a creep,” Rose said, not telling Katie anything she didn’t already know.

  “He’s been renting the barn behind Ezra’s barn.”

  Rose frowned. “Have you seen his product?” Displeasure colored her voice.

  “He said he sold copies of Victorian cemetery statuary.”

  “It’s downright creepy—just like him. And the prices he gets for the stuff.” Rose shook her head. “Suckers will buy anything.”

  “I’ll have to check out his booth,” Katie said.

  “It’s funny, but Edie Silver was telling me that she’s never seen a catalog for the kind of stuff Ashby sells. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be a national distributor.”

  “Where is he getting his merchandise from?” Katie asked.

  Rose’s gaze traveled up to the balcony, where Ashby’s booth was located. “That’s a good question.”

  Katie looked up, too. “Maybe I’ll go have a look now.”

  Rose nodded in encouragement.

  Katie headed for the stairs. The first booth at the top right featured handmade paper articles—greeting cards, stationery, as well as seals and wax, specialty pens, and hand-bound journals. Nothing too spectacular, but it all exuded a certain “homey” charm nonetheless.

  Ashby’s booth was next door. He seemed to have more marketing savvy than the majority of artists. Stenciled, ivy-covered pillars decorated one wall. Fake plants in terra-cotta pots made a container garden around the merchandise for sale. Floodlights showcased a full-sized Victorian beauty with flowing, windblown robes that stood in the booth’s corner. Katie had expected tombstone art, but three-dimensional cherubs and angels were the dominating theme, with only one example of each piece. All wore a facsimile patina of age. Paint or some other faux finish, Katie surmised. And they were warm to the touch—resin, as he’d told her, not marble or some other kind of stone.

  Ashby had said he had a dozen designs, and that’s just what his booth contained. An old-fashioned, purple velvet- covered photograph album sat on an antique oak plant stand, which was labeled NOT FOR SALE. Katie flipped through the pages of pictures. Each statue was shown in a garden setting, or in the middle of an elaborate water fountain.

  Katie’s gaze kept returning to the haunting statue in the billowing robes. Its eyes were vacant, but the placement of the arms leaning into the wind made one think that at any moment she might take flight. What kind of monument had the original stood on? Was it a representation of a long-dead woman or maybe just an artist’s interpretation of a woman at the turn of the last century, longing for some kind of fulfillment? How many had Ashby already sold? Katie tugged at the string tag hanging from the statue’s finger and whistled at the sky-high price. She hadn’t thought Artisans Alley could draw in customers willing to spend that kind of money on simulated antique statuary. But business must be good. Ashby said he was expecting a new shipment of merchandise within the week. That must be the reason for the shiny new lock on Ezra’s barn door.

  Had Ashby given Ezra a copy of the key for that lock? Did a landlord have the right to access his property—even if it was rented out? She didn’t know, but no doubt Seth would. She’d have to call him and ask.

  Something about Ashby’s attitude the evening before still bothered her. He’d been angry to find her on Ezra’s property. Why? What was he trying to hide?

  Katie, you’re getting paranoid.

  As long as she was upstairs, Katie decided to wander around the rest of the balcony. Each vendor seemed to have a specialty. Booth 99 belonged to a potter, and its shelves were lined with bowls, plates, mugs, and even oil lamps. The stained glass booth was numbered 32 and belonged to Liz Meier, who was currently walking security. An artificial Christmas tree was decorated with a myriad of sun catchers, but the tree had no lights, and with nothing to reflect, the ornaments looked dull and unattractive. There didn’t seem to be any electrical outlets in the booth.

  Katie moved on, amazed at how much she knew about the various arts. Chad’s lectures must have sunk in. Chad’s booth was next, with his colorful floral paintings. His booth was one of the best. He’d added tract lighting to showcase his work, and Katie remembered he’d paid to have an electrician put in a new line. Too bad Liz hadn’t done the same. The whole balcony needed better lighting. Another thing for the to-do list. She stared at the signature on a cheerful painting of daisies swaying in a breeze and felt of pang of regret—the tears came less and less as time went on—and she turned away.

  None of the other booths interested her, and Katie decided her time would be better spent in conversation with Rose. If Detective Davenport wasn’t going to strain himself to find Ezra’s killer, her efforts to gather information for him certainly couldn’t hurt.

  A chill ran through her and she held the banister as she descended the stairs and again considered that she’d probably already met Ezra’s killer. What kind of person murdered, and then resumed their life as though they’d never committed such a heinous act?

  Peter Ashby? a niggling voice in her mind teased.

  Distracted, Katie paused at the bottom of the stairs to admire a display of quartz rocks in a variety of shades that decorated Booth 8. This artist—a maker of beaded jewelry—had a good sense of how to best display merchandise. A hole in the display marked a successful sale. Next to the empty space was a lovely chunk of pink quartz. A little typed placard noted it helped promote restful sleep, and a beaded necklace and matching earrings of the same quartz beautifully polished hung above the rock.

  Katie leaned closer and frowned. A brown stain marred one of the sharp edges of the stone, and stuck to it was a single white hair.

  Eleven

  “And no one’s touched it?” Detective Davenport asked, standing before the display of colorful rocks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Katie shook her head. “I’ve sort of been standing guard.”

  Davenport withdrew a pair of latex gloves from his raincoat pocket, and put them on with a flourish. He picked up the pink quartz and carefully inspected the stain before placing it in a paper evidence bag.

  He turned to Katie, his expression dark—almost frightening. “Did you tell anyone about your find?”

  Again Katie shook her head. “There were customers around. I didn’t want to alarm anyone or bring attention to it.”

  “Who’s the booth owner?”

  “I don’t know. But Rose Nash, our cashier, knows nearly all the artists. She can tell us. If not, I have the list in the office.”

  “We’ll talk to her first,” Davenport said, and turned away, heading toward Artisans Alley’s entrance and the cash registers.

  “Detective?” Katie called after him.

  Davenport stopped, and swung his heavy head around to look at her.

  “I’m sure you’ve been checking everyone’s alibi. After that little altercation at the funeral home, I was wondering if Mary Elliott—”

  He sighed. “Of course I checked alibis. At the time of Ezra Hilton’s death, Mrs. Elliott was
with her daughter—not that it’s any of your business.”

  Katie ground her teeth, clenching her fists to keep from hitting him.

  Davenport resumed his track toward the registers.

  As expected, Rose hovered over the cash desk, her nose buried in her latest romance novel.

  “Rose,” Katie said.

  Rose held up a hand to stall them. “One more paragraph.” Her eyes darted back and forth as she scanned the page, then she threw back her head and smiled. “Wow! The hero and heroine just made love for the first time. Hot and steamy.”

  The lines around Davenport’s mouth grew more pronounced.

  “Um, Rose, you remember Detective Davenport, don’t you?”

  Rose straightened, wariness creeping into her gaze. With great care, she stuck a small piece of paper between the pages of her novel to mark her place. “Yes.”

  “Ma’am, would you know who vendor eight is?”

  “Why, yes. It’s me. Is something wrong?”

  Katie’s heart picked up speed. How would Rose handle the news that it was her property that had probably killed her dear friend?

  Davenport carefully removed the pink quartz from the evidence bag. “Does this belong to you?”

  “Yes, and it’s a bargain at fifteen dollars.” She went to take it from him, but Davenport snatched the rock back.

  “Ma’am, where were you last Thursday evening?”

  “Detective Davenport!” Katie cried. “You can’t suspect Rose.”

  Rose’s brow puckered in confusion.

  “It’s a standard question,” Davenport said.

  “I was at home all evening,” Rose said, sounding bewildered.

  “Alone?” Davenport accused.

  “Yes. I’ve been alone for five years. Since my husband, Howard, died. What are you saying?” Rose turned frightened eyes toward Katie, as though suddenly realizing the reason behind Davenport’s questions. “Is he going to arrest me? I’d never hurt anyone—especially not Ezra. He was my friend, he was—”

  “We haven’t established this object as the murder weapon,” Davenport said. “However, if we do, we’ll need to differentiate your prints—if there are any—from whoever else may have touched it. Can you follow me to headquarters? It’ll only take a few minutes to fingerprint you.”

  Rose’s breathing quickened, her frightened gaze darting back to Katie.

  “Can it wait until we close?” Katie asked, her gaze darting back to Rose. She couldn’t stand to see the panicked look in the old woman’s eyes. “Then I can come with her.”

  Davenport hesitated, then, “I guess that’ll be acceptable.”

  “Will you meet us there?” Katie asked.

  “Just check in with the desk. I’ll tell them to expect you.”

  Of course. Wednesday was probably his bowling night. No need to cancel his personal plans to wait for news on the possible murder weapon on his hottest case.

  “That’ll be fine,” Katie said, though she hoped from her tone that Davenport knew she meant just the opposite.

  Davenport nodded to the women, replaced the pink quartz in the bag, then headed for the exit.

  Rose pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her skirt pocket, dabbing at her suddenly damp eyes. “Katie, I swear, I didn’t kill Ezra.”

  Katie drew the elderly woman into a tentative embrace. “I know. We’ll work this out,” she promised, patting Rose’s bony back. She couldn’t imagine Rose being able to lift the rock over her head, let alone smashing it—with enough force to kill—against Ezra’s skull.

  “As the detective said, it’s more to tell who’s handled the quartz. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call Seth Landers for legal advice.”

  Rose’s sniffles lessened and she pulled away. “Thank you, Katie.”

  A woman customer stood some ten feet away, hesitant to intrude.

  “Can I help you?” Katie asked, trying to sound cheerful.

  She rang up the sale herself, a delicate porcelain doll with a wardrobe of exquisitely handmade clothing. Rose fumbled as she wrapped the purchase, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped the doll.

  “It’s okay, I’ll take care of it,” Katie said. “Why don’t you go sit in the tag room and visit with Ida for a few minutes. I can handle things out here, and I’ll pull Liz off the floor to help.”

  “But then no one will be walking security,” Rose said. “No, I’d feel better if I was doing something useful. If Liz will handle the register, I’ll walk around. It’s only for an hour until we close. That’ll give you a chance to call Mr. Landers.”

  Five minutes later, Katie was back in her office dialing the phone.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Landers is in court today. Can I take a message?” his secretary offered.

  Katie relayed her find and their subsequent plans to go to the station, asking that the lawyer call her that evening.

  She hung up the phone and took in the messy office. She hadn’t had a chance to do more than a cursory pickup since the break-in. She’d have to come back later that evening to finish the job. And she needed to talk to Vance about collecting work schedules from the artists for the upcoming weeks.

  Katie frowned, glancing down at Ezra’s master schedule tucked into the side of the desk blotter. Vance’s name had been jotted down for today. He’d never shown up or even called. Irked, Katie consulted the dog-eared Rolodex cards listing the artists’ home telephone numbers. She found Vance’s card and dialed. It rang six times before being answered.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice.

  “Mrs. Ingram?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Katie Bonner over at Artisans Alley. May I speak to Vance?”

  “He’s not home yet. Did he just leave? I thought he was supposed to be there until closing.”

  “Um ... yes,” Katie said, thinking fast. “I couldn’t find him here and assumed he’d gone home early. Perhaps you could tell him I called.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you. Good-bye.”

  Katie hung up the phone. So Vance’s wife thought he’d spent the entire day at Artisans Alley. He’d been unavailable on the evening Ezra died, too. Why was he being so secretive? What did he have to hide? Infidelity—or did he know more about Ezra’s death than he’d been willing to admit?

  She really needed to talk to Vance, and maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get Detective Davenport in on the conversation, too.

  Katie grabbed a pile of papers from the floor, flipping through them before straightening them to put away. A wave of shame coursed through her. Where did she get off judging Vance Ingram and contemplating telling Detective Davenport to lean on him for information? Vance’s private life—however he lived it, with whatever moral code he lived by—was really none of her business.

  She’d ask him why he hadn’t shown up and if he didn’t want to tell her—well, that was his business. But she did want to pin him down to a time when he could teach her what she needed to know about the mechanics within Artisans Alley. And unfortunately that was all she could expect from him.

  Still, a man who’d lie to his wife about his whereabouts could lie about other things ... including murder.

  Katie’s already weakened sense of security ebbed that much more.

  “It was a good thing you offered to drive,” Rose said as Katie steered her car onto the expressway entrance ramp. “I’ve lost my nerve for city driving—especially at night.”

  Katie had to smile since they’d never actually ventured into Rochester proper. The sheriff’s substation was located in one of the western suburbs. The fingerprinting had gone smoothly, and Katie had let them take hers as well. It was likely the technical team that had dusted her office earlier had found just as many of her own prints as Ezra’s.

  “Are you okay, Rose?” Katie asked.

  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” the older woman said with most of the usual good cheer evident in her voice. “Just like somethi
ng off a TV show.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Katie said. “Now that they’ve got what appears to be the murder weapon, I’m hoping they’ll figure out who killed Ezra so we can all feel safe again.”

  “Amen,” Rose said.

  “I’ll drop you off at Artisans Alley to pick up your car,” Katie said, “but do you mind if I stop at Ezra’s house to feed his cat first?”

  “Ezra had a cat?” Rose asked.

  Katie nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “I didn’t know about it until yesterday. The poor thing was half starved.”

  “I guess there was a lot about Ezra that none of us knew,” Rose said.

  “I knew very little about him. Like, was he ever married?”

  “Oh, yes. Almost forty years to Dorothy Johnson.” Rose laughed. “Funny how you always remember your friends by their maiden names, no matter how long—or how often—they’ve married. Dorothy had heart problems, poor thing. She died about ten years ago.”

  “How sad they had no children,” Katie said.

  “Oh, but they did. A son, Ronnie.”

  So that’s who the person in the framed photo in her office was.

  “He owned his own business here in McKinlay Mill,” Rose continued. “Ronnie was a tree surgeon. Seems to me he died about five years ago now.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes. They say he never worked alone—it was too dangerous. But that day he was on a job all by himself. It was hours before anyone found him, poor man.”

  That was a year before she and Chad had come to McKinlay Mill. Had Ezra looked at Chad as some kind of a replacement for his son? And if Ezra was all alone in the world, it made sense that he’d prepay for his own funeral. How sad.

  Then again, now that Chad was gone, Katie was all alone. She’d struggled to pay for Chad’s funeral, and had no funds to pay for her own—at least, not if she still hoped to buy the English Ivy Inn.

  “Then was Ezra to be buried in a family plot?”

  “I guess so. I was surprised there was no graveside service. I just assumed that was what Ezra wanted.”