A Crafty Killing (17 page)

“Oh, that’s just my perception of the man. He’s probably no more despicable than Hitler or Mussolini, but I don’t want to talk about him. Do you know any of the people at Artisans Alley? I mean, the merchants may never have patronized your place, but surely some of the artists have.”

Andy nodded, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich. “I’m only on a first-name basis with a couple of them. Vance Ingram, Rose Nash, and Ben Stillwell. I’d probably recognize a bunch of other names from orders, but I can’t say I really know any of them.”

“I don’t know any of them, so anything you can tell me would help,” Katie said, and unwrapped one of the mints. While Andy took a few moments to think about it, Katie bit down on the candy.

Andy frowned. “Yo—don’t you worry about your teeth?”

“I brush a lot,” Katie said around a mouth full of candy splinters.

“Yeah, but you could crack a bicuspid or something.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “The artists,” she reminded him.

“They seem like nice, decent people. But they’ll place an order and only make small talk if they show up too early to collect it—usually after their shifts end at Artisans Alley.”

Katie nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. She was going to have to find a confidant within Artisans Alley. Chad would have known everyone, although so far his journal hadn’t included much in the way of personal assessments of the vendors. She’d have to make the time to sit down and actually read it.

But as she thought about it more, Katie realized the best person for the job had literally been right under her nose all along.

“Goodness, yes,” Rose Nash said with a gleam in her eye, and motioned Katie closer. “I can tell you
everything
about
everybody
in this place.”

“I’m not generally a nosy person,” Katie said. “It’s just that I need to get up to speed—and fast—with how Artisans Alley operates. And that means getting the lowdown on as many artist vendors as possible.”

“I’ve been here since the beginning, so I guess I know just about everybody. We have a few new artists, but I think I at least recognize all the faces.”

“Great. What can you tell me about Vance Ingram?”

Rose leaned against the counter, and then looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. Several customers browsed in a booth down the aisle, but none close enough to listen in. “Janey Ingram’s MS has put a real strain on their marriage. Not so much now, but in the early days it was hard for Vance to take care of her and work a full-time job. Since he retired, it’s been easier.”

“Is he older than her?”

Rose nodded. “By about ten years. She went into remission a couple of years ago and that helped, but Vance hinted that lately she hasn’t been well.”

“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?

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.

“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.”