“Me?” Katie echoed again.
“Think of it from a police perspective. Because of Chad’s ten percent investment, when you inherit half the business, you’ll have a majority interest, meaning you get to call the shots. You got to quit a job you didn’t like, and as the owner of your own business you get more respect, more prestige. People have been killed for a lot less. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gerald Hilton hasn’t already mentioned all this to Detective Davenport. Your favorite cop may also think you’re feeding him all your suspicions to throw him off the track.”
“That’s ridiculous. I could never kill anybody. And my behavior has not been suspicious. I’m trying my darnedest just to keep Artisans Alley afloat. If you want suspicious, why hasn’t anyone seen Gerald Hilton in town since last Saturday?”
“I have.”
“When?” Katie demanded.
“This morning—he came to my office. He wants me to persuade you to sell the land to the hotel chain.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Katie asked, forgetting about dessert and setting her fork aside.
“How is it relevant?”
“Oh, Seth—it proves he’s got a motive for getting rid of his uncle. You said Ezra changed his will in a hurry. Had Gerald been the sole heir before that?”
Seth nodded. “I see what you mean.” He polished off the last of his pie. “I wouldn’t worry about any of this, Katie. Stay focused on keeping Artisans Alley open—if that’s what you want.”
Katie digested that piece of halfhearted advice. “I have to save Artisans Alley to keep Victoria Square viable.” She told him her plans to sell Artisans Alley and acquire the English Ivy Inn at the east end of the Square. “Selling the Artisans Alley’s land for a hotel would kill the Square. McKinlay Mill needs Victoria Square if it’s going to become a booming tourist mecca.”
Seth gave her a funny, crooked smile. “You’re forgetting about all the investments at the new marina.”
“It doesn’t hurt for a small town like McKinlay Mill to have more than one tourist attraction,” she countered. And then proceeded to tell him exactly why. Funny how in only days, revitalizing Artisans Alley, and her plans to get it back on track, had become Katie’s newest favorite subject. It was only Seth’s stifled yawn over a third cup of decaf that finally shut her up.
“I’m sorry, Seth. You’ve had a much longer day than me,” she apologized.
“Maybe, but I’ve enjoyed this evening. Perhaps one day I could take you out to a real restaurant for a gourmet dinner.”
Their gazes locked. “That would be nice.”
Seth reached for her left hand, covering it—and her wedding band—with his own.
“Real nice.”
Thirteen
The afterglow from her dinner with Seth stayed with Katie through the night. Her sleep was dreamless and restful. She awoke, showered and dressed, and then searched her cupboards for apple or cherry pie filling and found none. It was just as well—pies were better made from scratch, and she’d missed cherry season by at least two months. Maybe she’d bake something else for Seth to show her appreciation for all his kindnesses. She’d have to think about it.
It would be a busy day at Artisans Alley. Katie had arranged with two of the artists to help her spruce up the outside of the building, and so she’d dressed appropriately in jeans and a sweatshirt. Fred Cunningham had also promised he’d come by to inspect the retail space. Katie hadn’t looked at the locked rental spaces near the building’s main entrance, and had no idea what state they might be in. She might have to tidy them up, as well. Still, she was determined to take in stride anything the day offered.
Her euphoria evaporated, however, when she returned from feeding Ezra’s cat to find Gerald Hilton on Artisans Alley’s doorstep. A solemn-faced uniformed man of about sixty—with gray hair, a trimmed, gray mustache, and a clipboard in hand—stood beside him.
Katie got out of her car, balancing a Tupperware container of home-baked oatmeal-raisin cookies fresh from her freezer, her purse, and the morning paper. She picked through her keys as she approached Artisans Alley’s main entrance. “Good morning,” she said, and managed to at least sound civil.
“Hi. I’m Ed Davis,” the stranger said in introduction, holding out his hand. “McKinlay Mill’s fire marshal.”
Oh. Swell.
Katie set her purse down on the ground so she could shake hands, and then glanced at Hilton’s smug face, fighting the urge to smack him.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” she told Davis.
“As a matter of fact, you have,” Hilton said. “I want my own set of keys. I do own forty-five percent of this operation.”
Katie forced a smile. “Not until after probate.” She picked up her purse, her own keys jangling as she opened the lock. “I assume this is a sneak inspection?” she said to Davis.
“Sort of, ma’am. Mr. Hilton here was concerned—”
“Yes, I’ll bet he was,” Katie said, cutting him off.
The two men followed her inside, waiting for her to hit the master switch that would bathe Artisans Alley in light.
“This looks old,” Hilton said, tapping a knuckle against the dented gray metal circuit box. “Is it up to code?”
“Probably not,” Davis said, “but then, an old building like this would be grandfathered in. As long as we find no blatant safety violations, Artisans Alley can continue to operate as usual.”
Hilton frowned. It was just like him to try to get Artisans Alley shut down, Katie thought.
“How can I help?” Katie asked Davis, wanting to cooperate fully.
“I’d prefer to just wander around by myself, if you don’t mind. We can talk after I’ve made my inspection.”
“That would be fine.” Katie led them through the lobby to the French doors of Artisans Alley, and unlocked it. Davis nodded and proceeded into the Alley. Hilton started to follow, but Katie grabbed him by the shoulder. “I’m sure Mr. Davis is capable of doing the job by himself.”
“Oh, yes,” Davis called over his shoulder. “I’ve been here many times before.”
Hilton’s glare could’ve singed Katie’s eyebrows, but she managed to smile until Davis was out of earshot, then turned on her unwanted business partner.
“Go ahead, try to shut us down. But I will not sell the building or the land until I’m good and ready to. I’ll drag us both into bankruptcy before I do that.”
“That’s what you say now. But you’ll cave. Everyone does eventually.”
Katie straightened, stepping into Hilton’s personal space. “Mr. Hilton, my ancestors were Scottish. My maiden name was MacDuff. A Scot never bluffs about money. And a Scot never backs down from a fight. If you want a fight over this, I’d be more than happy to give you one.”
Their gazes locked for long, painful seconds. It was Hilton who looked away first.
“You won’t be talking so tough after the inspection,” he grumbled, turned, and plunked down on one of the folding metal chairs that had been in the lobby since the after-funeral gathering. Hilton opened his briefcase, took out his cell phone, and began to text, ignoring her.
Katie stormed off for the tag room; she’d had enough of the pompous little jerk. Anger pumped adrenaline through her. Her oatmeal breakfast lay heavy in her stomach. Okay, maybe she was bluffing. She had no intention of filing for bankruptcy—if she could possibly help it, that is. But Hilton didn’t have to know that.
She tossed her coat at the rack in the corner—and missed. “Damn!” Kicking it, she snatched up the coat, slinging it over a peg before heading for the side entrance, to open it for the artists who might come in early to restock their booths. She abandoned the cookie container in the lounge and made coffee before finally making it to her office. Turning on the desk lamp, she was again confronted with the remaining mess from the break-in. Right now she wasn’t up to a prolonged battle with Hilton. Right now she wished she could jump into her car, push the accelerator to the floor, and es
cape to the mountains, to the beach, anywhere but McKinlay Mill—a far cry from the woman who had stood up to the arrogant bully only moments before.
Chad’s face, smiling at her from the framed photo on her desk, annoyed her. “You should be taking care of all this—not me,” she growled. Then, feeling angry with herself for blaming him for this whole convoluted mess, Katie brushed her fingers against the pewter frame. She’d handle Hilton and whatever news the fire marshal gave her.
She would, because she had to.
Katie bent to pick up a stack of old receipts. Dated a decade before, they weren’t worth keeping. She tossed them onto the already overflowing wastebasket, which toppled and fell.
Sighing, Katie picked up the mess and took it to the Dumpster that held recyclables out back. Back inside, she found Ida Mitchell, still clad in her raincoat and scarf, in the vendors’ lounge standing near the coffeepot, contemplating one of the cookies. “Good morning, Ida,” Katie said, forcing herself to sound cheerful.
Ida glared at her for several long seconds before turning her attention back to the container of cookies.
Katie shrugged and sailed past her, but was taken aback when she found another unwelcome visitor in her office, poking through a file folder marked “Rents.” “Can I help you?” she snapped, not sounding at all helpful.
Peter Ashby whirled. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”
“Well, you are in my office.”
“And you invited me,” he reminded her.
So she had, albeit for the previous day.
“Have a seat,” Katie said, dropping into her chair.
Ashby remained standing, crossing his arms over his broad, sweatered chest. “What do you want for the barn rental?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t given it any thought. First of all, I need to inspect the property and I can’t. You have it locked. If the roof leaks, I’ll get it fixed. That would protect your property and improve the quality of mine.”
“Then you could ask for a higher rent.”
“That, too,” she conceded.
Ashby towered over her, his expression thoughtful as he considered her proposal.
“I don’t think I want to continue renting the property. I’ll need a couple of weeks so I can find another place to store my merchandise.”
Katie nodded. “Fine. I’ll charge you the same as your regular per-week booth rent here at Artisans Alley.”
“That’s unfair. That’s—”
“Probably a lot less than you were paying Ezra, and you know it.”
Ashby didn’t deny it. Still, he let out a harsh breath. “How’s a guy supposed to make a living in this business with money-grubbers like you putting on the squeeze? Ezra did just fine, and you could, too. In fact, you ought to drop the booth rent now that you’re letting low-end crafters in.”
“Why?”
“Because by allowing them to sell new, made-in-China merchandise we’ve lost our prestige—our cachet.”
Katie bristled. “I will not allow any vendor to bring in commercially made products. And do I need to remind you that you’re selling resin statuary—copies of other people’s work? That doesn’t qualify as all that artistic in my book.”
“The work is classic. Resin is just a modern medium.”
“They’re not your original work. I’m surprised Ezra even let you into Artisans Alley. And you always have the option of leaving.”
Ashby’s gaze hardened. “I may just do that.”
“Fine. I’ve already got a waiting list of crafters eager for booths. Just give me a week’s notice before you vacate,” she said, and bent to pick up another stack of yellowed papers.
Ashby stood there for a moment, fists clenched, looking ready to explode, then abruptly turned and left the office.
Jerk.
It was then Katie noticed Ida still standing in the vendors’ lounge, nibbling on a cookie. Had she heard the entire conversation? Did it matter? She was years behind in her rent—and a prime candidate for eviction. Witnessing Katie’s conversation with Ashby might drive home the point that vendors who didn’t pay couldn’t stay. Instead of looking embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, Ida continued to stand there and blankly stare.
“Do you need some help?” Katie asked, perhaps more sharply than she’d meant to.
Ida shook her head and scurried away.
Katie turned her attention back to her desk. She needed to calm down, and reached across the desk to turn on the radio. Was that Hank Williams, Sr., accompanied by twangy steel guitars, belting out a song of love gone wrong? Where had Ezra ever found an oldies country station?
Twirling the dial of the antique receiver, Katie found the local classical station. A mournful dirge that she couldn’t identify filled her office, reflecting her mood, and for a moment she reconsidered her choice. Instead of changing it, she went back to the task of picking up and sorting the debris from her office floor.
Now Katie had another dilemma. Should she call Davenport and tell him what Rose suspected about Ashby and the possibility of stolen cemetery art, or would it sound like sour grapes, considering the conversation she’d just had with him?
As soon as she thought she could string a rational sentence together, Katie picked up the phone and punched in Davenport’s number. For once, she was happy to get his voice mail instead the man himself. She recapped Rose’s suspicions with an invitation for him to call if he had any questions. She knew he wouldn’t.
The music had done its soothing trick, and by the time Ed Davis popped his head around her office door some ninety minutes later, Vivaldi had cheered her, and all the papers were in neat stacks—albeit on every flat surface.
“Can I speak to you?” Davis asked.
“Sure,” Katie said, dreading the conversation. Could this dour-faced man really shut down Artisans Alley?
“The bad news is I found six safety violations,” he said, handing her a sheet of paper with check marks dotting the appropriate squares. “The good news is, they’re easily fixed, and you have seven days to comply.”
Katie let out a breath as she studied the list. “What does this mean, daisy-chained extension cords?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
Katie followed the fire marshal to Booth 20.
“See how this vendor has an extension cord plugged into a strip plug and then an extension cord coming out of that? It could cause an overload. You don’t want that in a tinder-dry old building like this.”
Katie frowned. “Yes, I see.”
“We recommend each wall plug have a surge protector, with a fuse. If there’s an overload, the fuse will trip.”
“Let’s take care of this right now,” Katie said, and unplugged the offending extension cord. She had to move the lamp, which had been plugged into the second strip plug. Its cord was much too short to reach the wall socket.
“This is the most common problem,” Davis said. “There are three booths that need attention. Probably new vendors. That’s what usually happens.”
Katie nodded. “I’ll make a point to stress safety. And I’ve already been thinking about upgrading the electric throughout the building.” Although she didn’t know where on earth she’d find the money to do that. “What about the rest of the items on the list?”
Davis explained what needed addressing and how it should be done. Katie agreed she’d make the work a priority. All in all she was actually glad the fire marshal had come. She had too much at stake to let a couple of artists’ carelessness give Hilton what he wanted.
“Have you spoken to Mr. Hilton about this?” Katie asked.
“Not yet. I’m sure he’ll be quite disappointed. He told me he wants to shut down Artisans Alley and sell the property as soon as possible.”
Katie studied the man’s face, noticing the kindness in his gray eyes. “And you wouldn’t like that?”
“Ma’ am, I’ve lived in McKinlay Mill all my life. I’ve seen a lot of changes over the years,
but I’d sure hate to see it lose its small-town flavor. There’re plenty of hotels in Rochester. Plenty of marinas in the area, too. Building those things here would just bring a lot of transient people—maybe the wrong element, if you see what I mean.”
Katie nodded, not sure she approved of his reasoning, but agreeing with his conclusions.
“I know Ezra Hilton was murdered,” Davis continued, “but that was the first killing in McKinlay Mill in over forty-five years. I wouldn’t want that to become commonplace.”
“Amen,” Katie agreed. She walked with Davis toward the exit. “Thank you for coming. And I’ll see you on November fifth.”
Davis nodded and stepped into the lobby. Hilton was on him like a pit bull. Katie abandoned Davis to his fate, unwilling to get into another verbal tussle with her soon-to-be partner.
Rose had arrived and was already stationed at the cash checkout, her ever-present romance novel open. “Vance is looking for you,” she said without looking up from the printed page.
“Thanks, Rose.”
Katie wandered back to her office, didn’t find Vance there, and took a walk around the ground floor. Sure enough, Vance was at his own booth, straightening up after the previous day’s customers.
“You wanted to see me, Vance?” Katie asked.
He turned smoldering eyes on her. “Why did you call my house and upset my wife yesterday?”
Taken aback, Katie could only stare at him. “Excuse me for calling the only living person who knows how Artisans Alley’s mechanics work. I own it now, and I need to know, too. I didn’t lead your wife to think you were here all day. I covered for you!”
It was Vance’s turn to squirm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. But Janey’s a worrier, and she doesn’t need that kind of stress.”
What kind of stress? Katie was tempted to blurt out. That she suspects her husband of cheating on her? She decided to try tact first. “I’ m sorry to hear about your wife’s medical problems, Vance. But please don’t use me or Artisans Alley as your alibi for whatever else you do in your personal life.”
A Crafty Killing Page 15
