A Crafty Killing

by Lorraine Bartlett

  Vance’s eyes bulged. For a moment he looked on the verge of erupting, then he took a breath. “You’re right,” he said, his voice tight. “It’s just that the police harassed Janey to tell them where I was the night Ezra died. I ... I didn’t tell her.”

  “Did you tell Detective Davenport?”

  “I had to.”

  Katie waited. Would he confide in her? Did she really want to know what he’d been up to?

  Yes! If Vance had been where he belonged, helping Ezra close Artisans Alley, Ezra might still be alive! So many people’s lives had been disrupted because of some thing—some act—Vance was too ashamed to admit.

  Vance remained tight-lipped, standing rigid before her.

  “I’m free all day,” Katie said, trying to keep her voice neutral. “Can we set up a time to go over how things operate around here?”

  “Let me finish tidying my booth, and then I’ll meet you back in your office.”

  “Thank you.” Katie turned.

  “Wait.”

  Katie paused, looking over her shoulder.

  Guilt and confusion paraded across Vance’s worry-creased face. His expression said he wanted to unburden himself, yet he looked away.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Katie said, leaving it an open invitation to talk—on any subject.

  Vance nodded, and then turned away to resume straightening his booth.

  Katie strode away, heading for her office.

  Back in the large showroom, Gerald Hilton stood at the main cash desk, his pudgy face flushed in anger.

  “I told you, I don’t have any say in how Artisans Alley is run,” Rose said. “And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t side with you. You want to close us down!”

  Anger propelled Katie across the floor to face Hilton. “What do you think you’re doing, badgering one of my vendors?”

  “I’m simply trying to get her to see the logic in selling this fire trap.”

  Heat burned Katie’s cheeks. “You are not to refer to Artisans Alley in that way.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Hilton snarled.

  “I just did.”

  Whoa, girl, something inside Katie warned. She took a breath to calm herself. It didn’t work.

  “Mr. Hilton, if Artisans Alley is hit by fire, flood, or locusts, you can bet I’ll do everything I can to see that the person responsible rots in jail forever.

  “As a future partner in this business, you’d be better off encouraging me to make it a success. You’ll be entitled to almost half the profits without lifting a finger to help. Right now there are no profits. Maybe by the time probate is finished, there will be. In the meantime . . .” Katie paused, running out of steam. “Just go away.”

  Hilton bristled. “I—I ...”

  “Good day, Mr. Hilton.” Katie turned on her heel and strode away.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this—or me!” he shouted.

  Of that, Katie had no doubt.

  Fourteen

  It took a good ten minutes for Katie to calm down a distraught Rose, who’d been rattled by Hilton’s fervor. By then, Katie’s volunteer force of two, Dan Amato and Ed Wilson, had arrived to spruce up the outside of Artisans Alley. She dispatched them to the tunnel by the side entrance, where they were to pick up their tools. Meanwhile, Katie grabbed a box of heavy-duty black plastic garbage bags from her office, donned heavy work gloves, and, rake in hand, exited the building to join them.

  Across the Square, a familiar car was parked outside Nona Fiske’s quilt shop. Though white and unmarked, the Crown Victoria may as well have had a neon sign, strobe lights, and the siren going full blast, for it screamed COP CAR, and, of course, meant Detective Davenport was somewhere around Victoria Square. A thread of unease wriggled through her, which was ridiculous. She’d been complaining the detective wasn’t taking Ezra’s murder seriously enough, and now that he was, she felt uncomfortable.

  Katie shook the thought away. “Okay, guys, let’s get started.” Armed with loppers and pruning sheers, Dan and Ed attacked the overgrown bushes, while Katie raked last fall’s rotting leaves from around the landscaping that surrounded the front of the building. She had quite a pile accumulated when she looked up to see Detective Davenport and Gerald Hilton standing in the middle of the parking lot. Hilton was gesticulating wildly, pointing in Katie’s direction, while Davenport scribbled notes in his pocket notebook.

  Katie remembered her conversation with Seth the night before. Did Davenport really believe she might have killed Ezra to take over Artisans Alley for some kind of profit? Right now, she wasn’t certain she could even pay herself a salary. Still, she didn’t doubt Hilton was making a good case for Davenport to come right over and arrest her on the spot.

  A suddenly nervous Katie fumbled for a black plastic bag and tossed the wet, gummy leaves into it. She willed herself not to look up again until the bag was nearly full to bursting. The two men still stood in the parking lot, deep in conversation. Katie’s cheeks flushed as the worry grew inside her. She turned away, and dragged the heavy trash bag to the Dumpster out back, straining her muscles to heft it in.

  When she returned to the front of the building, she saw Hilton’s car was gone and found Detective Davenport conversing with Dan and Ed. They all looked up at her approach. Was it her imagination, or were the two Artisans Alley vendors looking at her in a much more critical light? She swallowed hard and willed herself to buck up. After all, she knew she hadn’t killed Ezra Hilton.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Katie said, hoping she sounded welcoming—and not at all guilty.

  “I have a few more questions for you, Mrs. Bonner.” Did his voice sound just a little bit sinister?

  Katie forced a smile. “I’d be glad to answer them.” She gestured toward Artisans Alley’s side entrance. “Shall we talk in my office?”

  He nodded, and headed for the door.

  “You’re doing a great job, guys,” Katie said—trying to sound enthusiastic, instead of terrified—before taking leave of her helpers. Once inside the door, she put the rake away and peeled off the gloves from her shaking hands, wondering what else she could do to stall for time before the detective began his inquisition. She paused in the vendors’ lounge and checked the coffeepot. It was full—someone must have just made a fresh pot. The Tupperware container she’d brought in from home was nearly empty. The cookies had gone over well; only two remained. She wrapped them in a napkin and approached her office.

  Davenport stood over her desk, studying the contents strewn across it.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Katie said. “I still haven’t had time to clean up since the break-in on Sunday. Would you like a couple of oatmeal cookies? I made them myself. And I can get you a nice fresh cup of coffee to go with them.”

  Davenport straightened. “No, thanks, ma’am.”

  Katie managed not to cringe at that last word. “Sit down,” she said, and gestured toward her office chair, taking the uncomfortable metal folding chair for herself. The tiny office really wasn’t conducive to holding meetings. “What did you want to know?” she asked.

  Davenport looked her straight in the eyes. “Your whereabouts last Thursday evening.”

  Katie hesitated. “I was home alone. I’d left my job at Kimper Insurance late and went straight home.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  Katie shook her head, her stomach tightening.

  “I spoke to your ex-boss.” Davenport consulted his notes. “One Joshua Kimper. He didn’t know what time you’d left Thursday evening.”

  “He was in Syracuse on business last Thursday. I locked up the office about seven o’clock and came straight home.”

  “Did you often work late?”

  “Yes. We were a two-person operation. There was always work to be done, and I welcomed the overtime pay.”

  “Are you in financial trouble?” Davenport asked, his tone flat.

  “No,” Katie said, startled.

  “May I ask wh
y you needed the extra money?”

  Katie sighed. “When my husband invested our life savings in Artisans Alley, he left us flat broke. When Chad was killed several months later, I had no money to pay off his funeral expenses.”

  Again Davenport consulted his notes. “According to your bank, you paid off Collier’s Funeral Home back in August. This is October.”

  What else did he know about Katie’s financial situation? “I’ve been trying to shore up my savings.”

  “For a rainy day?”

  “Something like that.” She wasn’t about to tell him that deep inside she still harbored the dream of opening the English Ivy Inn.

  “Did any of your neighbors see you arrive home on Thursday evening?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I mean, I didn’t speak to anyone.”

  Detective Davenport merely nodded. His cool-and-calm routine was really beginning to bother her.

  “You could ask the management of the Winton Office Park to check their surveillance tapes,” Katie suggested. “They might show what time I got into my car on Thursday night.”

  “I’ve already done that. I’m still waiting for that information,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Katie’s throat constricted. Could he be seriously trying to pin Ezra’s murder on her?

  “Tell me again why you were here at Artisans Alley on Friday morning,” the detective asked.

  They’d already been over this at least three times on Friday, but Katie dutifully repeated her story that she’d seen the police cars outside the building when heading for work that morning. Again, Davenport nodded. Wasn’t he capable of showing any emotion? Or would that be even worse than his I’m an android personality?

  “Look, Detective, I don’t know what nonsense Gerald Hilton told you, but I had no reason to see his uncle dead.”

  “You did quit your job to take over the running of this place.”

  “I should’ve quit my job a long time ago.”

  “The timing does seem coincidental,” Davenport insisted.

  “Only to you and Mr. Hilton.”

  The detective consulted his notes once again. “What’s the current value of Artisans Alley?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve only briefly spoken to our accountant. I have an appointment for next week. The business has several loans in arrears. It looks like I’ll spend the next couple of weeks just trying to keep us out of bankruptcy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I understand there’s an offer by a major hotel chain to buy the land Artisans Alley sits on.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. But I’ve found nothing to substantiate that claim.”

  “Who would have that information?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve heard it might be the Radisson chain, but I have no proof of that.”

  Davenport grunted, closed his notebook, and stood. “Thank you for answering my questions, Mrs. Bonner. I’ll be in touch.”

  Katie rose and followed him out into Artisans Alley, but Davenport retraced his steps to the side entrance, and left the building without another word. Katie stood in the open doorway and watched him go.

  Dan and Ed had finished their pruning, and were filling more plastic bags with the detritus. The front of the building looked tidy and much more inviting, thanks to their efforts.

  Detective Davenport climbed into his big white car, started the engine, and pulled out of the Victoria Square parking lot, leaving Katie nearly as rattled as Rose had been upon Gerald Hilton’s departure.

  Fred Cunningham called at nearly three o’clock to say he’d soon arrive with a measuring tape, his digital camera, and a stack of contracts to be signed, giving Katie and her two-man cleanup crew only enough time to pick up the worst of the rubbish left by former tenants. Katie left the guys to sweep the place and replace some fluttering fluorescent tubes. Within minutes of signing the contract, one of Fred’s prospective clients arrived to inspect the empty retail space at Artisans Alley.

  Katie found herself wringing her hands as Fred and the dancing school instructor wandered the space, talked about adding floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a ballet bar, new flooring, and upgrading the lighting, making Katie grateful such improvements wouldn’t be her responsibility.

  It was after five when the woman finally left, with no contract signed. By then, Katie had closed Artisans Alley and all her vendors had left for the day. She and Fred retreated to the vendors’ lounge to talk.

  “Well, what do you think?” Katie asked anxiously, and handed Fred the last, dregs-filled cup of coffee from the pot.

  Fred accepted the cup, took a sip, and didn’t wince. If nothing else, the man had intestinal fortitude. “She’ll think about it overnight, and will be in my office before ten o’clock to sign the papers.”

  “You really think so?’ Katie asked, already anticipating a new dribble of income for Artisans Alley.

  “Not a doubt. Everything else she’s looked at is substandard. You’ve got higher ceilings than most of the retail space in McKinlay Mill, giving her little ballerinas a lot more room to leap around.”

  “That’s the first real piece of good news I’ve had since Ezra’s death.”

  Fred smiled. “And it won’t be the last. We’ll have all that space rented by March, if not sooner,” he said confidently.

  March? That was five months away! How could Artisans Alley survive until then? How was Katie supposed to pay her bills without income? “That long?” Katie asked, her voice almost a squeak.

  “I hope I can do it before then—but I don’t want to mislead you either. It could take that long.”

  Katie’s hopes sank.

  Fred frowned. “Ezra left you a real turd, Katie, no doubt about it. But I know a good businessperson when I see one. You’ll turn things around in no time.”

  Businessperson? Oh well, at least Fred wasn’t some misogynist brute. And Katie hoped he was right about her managerial skills.

  “How well did you know Ezra?” Katie asked. “I mean, what if it wasn’t just a robber who killed him?” Detective Davenport certainly didn’t seem to believe that scenario.

  Fred shrugged. “Ezra and I clashed on several occasions.” He laughed. “We argued about that empty retail space on more than one occasion. I told him over and over again that I could rent it for him, but he always blew me off. He was too cheap to pay me a commission, and you can see how the place went downhill without that steady income.”

  Had Chad realized that simple truth, too?

  Then what Fred said took on a more sinister meaning. They’d argued. For a full ten, foolish seconds, Katie wondered if telling Detective Davenport that tidbit would divert him from trying to pin Ezra’s murder on her. Just as quickly, shame enveloped her. The commission on such a deal was hardly worth Fred’s time—let alone risking his freedom for. In all her dealings with Fred during the time she’d hoped to purchase the old Webster mansion, she’d never had the feeling he was in business just for the money. He seemed to derive more pure pleasure in wrapping up a successful deal—any deal—than the income it produced, and she felt ashamed for even considering him a potential killer.

  “What are you thinking, Katie?” Fred asked.

  She took a deep breath and lied through her teeth. “I’m trying to imagine why anyone here in McKinlay Mill would want to see Ezra dead.”

  Fred laughed grimly. “The fact that he was a cantankerous bastard might have something to do with it. He pissed off a lot of people for a lot of years.”

  “He did?” That wasn’t what Rose and some of the other vendors and Victoria Square merchants had said. They’d spoken about Ezra in reverent tones.

  “Oh, sure,” Fred said, and took a gulp of his coffee. “When his appliance store closed, he left a slew of creditors in the lurch. Same as when his hardware store went under. If he hadn’t died last week, I’m betting Artisans Alley would’ve had to close before the new marina opens next summer. By now you’ve had a chance to look at the books, so wouldn’t you agree?”

 
Katie nodded. “You’re right. I’m not sure I can keep it open until then.”

  Fred smile. “Then it seems I have more faith in you than you do.”

  Katie so wanted to believe him. “Really?”

  His grin broadened. “Yes, really.”

  “I’m so glad you feel that way. It gives me hope. What I want to do is turn this place around so that I can buy the old Webster mansion. I’ve never given up hope that I can one day open the English Ivy Inn.”

  Fred’s smile waned. “It might take a long time to do that.”

  “Maybe, but I’m nothing if not persistent.”

  Fred stared into his nearly empty cup, failing to meet her gaze. “I have every confidence in your abilities.” He looked up. “I know you just quit your day job and are gambling on Artisans Alley to pay off for you, and I see success in your future. I never felt that way about Ezra, and believe me, Katie, I’m seldom wrong.”

  Katie felt a smile creep onto her lips, her hopes soaring once again.

  Fred put his cup down and stood. “I’d better get going. And aren’t you supposed to attend that emergency meeting of the Merchants Association tonight?” he asked.

  Katie glanced at the clock. “Oh, gosh, I forgot all about it. And look at me—dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.”

  “I don’t think they’ll care what you look like—they’re eager for fresh blood.”

  “That sounds almost scary.”

  “A lot of the merchants are in almost as bad financial shape as the Artisans Alley vendors. Have you seen how many of the shops are empty on the Square?”

  Katie had noticed, but it hadn’t made that much of an impact on her until he’d mentioned it. Katie walked him to the door. “How did you know about tonight’s meeting?”

  “I know just about everything that goes on in McKinlay Mill,” he admitted with a bit of a sly smile. He paused at the door. “Check my website when you get home. I’ll have your retail space listed by then. And I’ll really push it with my clients.”

  “I appreciate that, Fred. Good night.”

  She closed the door and thought again of calling Detective Davenport. If Fred really knew all the secrets in McKinlay Mill, he might know who held a grudge against Ezra and why.