A Crafty Killing (19 page)

“No, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. Mount Hope Cemetery in Rochester is one of the best examples of a Victorian cemetery in the whole country. Buffalo’s Forest Lawn is another fine example. Both have exemplary statuary, as well as being the final resting places for the famous and infamous. There’re books available on the subject—take a look at the local-interest shelf next time you go to the mall bookstore. But my guess is Ashby went out of state for his master copies.”

Rose was quiet for a moment. “Seems to me that when Peter first came to McKinlay Mill, his car had Ohio license plates. I’ll bet he vandalized some cemetery back there—and maybe still does.”

Katie kept her eyes riveted on the road, sickened by what Rose had just said. Ashby had told her he had new merchandise arriving. If he was making copies—where
had
the originals come from?

“What should we do about it?”

“Ask the police to send out an APB—or whatever it is they do when they suspect someone of a criminal offense,” Rose declared.

An all-points bulletin was hardly appropriate for this situation, but Detective Davenport might be interested in this little development. Of course, if Rose was right, if Ezra
had
discovered what Ashby was up to—on his own property—maybe it would be worth the risk for Ashby to silence someone who had that knowledge.

Say Ezra confronted Ashby in Ashby’s booth at Artisans Alley, and then headed down the stairs to call the police. An angry Ashby could have grabbed one of the rocks from Rose’s booth, smashed it against Ezra’s skull, and then left him for dead. Ashby would have had to replace the pink quartz—no doubt wiping it clean of fingerprints first—then emptied the cash drawer to make it look like a robbery.

It all fit perfectly.

Too perfectly. Or at least Davenport would think so. Although he hadn’t actually said so, Katie knew the detective considered her suggestions and offered tidbits of information more a hindrance than help to his investigation.

“Slow down,” Rose cautioned, just before Katie would have missed the Victoria Square entrance.

Katie made a sharp right turn, grateful there’d been no car behind her or in the oncoming lane. McKinlay Mill’s streets were virtually empty—even though it was just seven thirty on a Wednesday evening. Pulling up alongside Rose’s little red car, she eased the gear shift into park.

“I know you’re not scheduled to work tomorrow, but we had two no-shows today. Is there a chance I could impose by asking you to—”

“Of course I’ll come in, dear,” Rose said, her smile bright. “A widow has plenty of empty hours to fill.”

Katie pursed her lips. Did Rose hate going home to an empty bed as much as she did?

Rose unbuckled her seat belt as Katie switched off the engine. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“My office is still a terrible mess. I thought I’d take an hour or so to finally clean it up.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Rose said, her voice filled with maternal indignation. “I’m not leaving you here all alone with a murderer running around loose. Especially not at night.”

Rose did have a point.

“I suppose I could come in early tomorrow,” Katie said.

“Yes, you can,” Rose said. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. You have to promise me, now.”

A smile tugged at Katie’s lips. “Okay, I promise.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you tomorrow. And thank you.”

“For what?” Katie asked.

“For taking me to the police station.”

Katie had almost forgotten why they’d been out together.

“And for making an old lady feel worthwhile again.”

The poor lighting made it hard to see if there were tears in Rose’s eyes, but her voice betrayed the depth of her feelings.

“You’re very welcome,” Katie said, and she meant it.

Rose got out of the car and Katie waited until she’d gotten safely into her own vehicle, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot.

Katie started her car, put it in gear, then steered for the exit. As she passed Angelo’s Pizzeria, she caught sight of Andy Rust’s unsmiling face peering out through the large plate glass window. She sketched a quick wave, but he turned away.

Katie drove on, feeling as though she’d just been snubbed. But that couldn’t be. They’d had a pleasant conversation at lunch and had parted under good terms. At least, she thought they had. Or maybe she just
hoped
they had. She liked Andy Rust. A lot.

She also liked Seth Landers, who hadn’t called her back, she noted. But then, she couldn’t remember if she’d switched on her cell phone.

“It’s too soon after Chad’s death to think about other men,” she chided herself as she pulled into her apartment’s parking lot. “Much too soon.”

She parked the car, sorted her door key from the others on the ring, and opened the driver’s door. Almost immediately a figure got out of a car across the way.

“Hey, lady, you hungry?” came a familiar voice.

“Seth, is that you?” Katie called, squinting in the lot’s wan lamplight.

He caught up with her. “I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. I was about to give up.”

“I was expecting a call, not a visit,” Katie said, nonetheless flattered by his attention.

“Could I interest you in dinner? McKinlay Mill hasn’t got much to offer, but the meatloaf at Del’s is pretty good. If they’ve got any left.”

Katie glanced at her watch. Her poor cat, Mason, had been alone all day. But she was hungry and still hadn’t made it to the grocery store to refill her empty cupboards.

“Great,” she said, and let the lawyer escort her to his car.

Much too soon
, her inner voice scolded again. But dinner was only dinner—not a lifetime commitment. Still, she wished she was wearing her blue business suit. That would’ve looked smarter. More sophisticated.

Oh, what the heck, they were only going to the diner!

Seth opened the passenger door of his car, and Katie sank into the comfortable leather seat. Seth slid behind the wheel and the Mercedes’s powerful engine purred to life. He gave her a quick smile as he shifted into reverse. Katie smiled back but thought of Andy Rust’s dour expression as she’d left Artisans Alley, and wondered what it was he’d been intent upon.

“What’s my civic duty?” Katie asked, and took a sip of Del’s house wine. Not bad—and neither was the company. She’d ended up dominating the conversation, telling Seth about the problems at Artisans Alley, and how she wished Ezra had left the business in better shape—as well as her plans to remedy the situation, hardly giving him a chance to reply—until now.

“You could tell Detective Davenport that Ashby
may
have stolen statuary in his possession. It’ll be up to him to look into it,” Seth advised.

Katie nodded, glanced down at the remnants of her dinner, and then pushed it aside. The meatloaf had been pretty good, she admitted to herself, but the portion was overwhelming.

“Do you want dessert?” Seth asked.

“Only if you do.”

He smiled. “I’m partial to cherry pie.”

“À la mode?” she asked.

“Is there any other way to eat it?”

Betty, the night waitress, cleared away their plates, boxed up Katie’s leftovers, offered coffee, and took their dessert orders. Katie went with the peanut butter mud pie. If she was going to be bad, she decided, she may as well do it with panache.

“How are you getting along with your artists? Have they calmed down since Saturday?” Seth asked.

“Pretty much. In retrospect, I’m surprised some of them voiced their concerns so passionately. There seems to be an enormous sense of apathy among them—no doubt brought on by Ezra’s stringent rules and regulations. Still, I seem to spend a good portion of my day suspecting just about every one of them of murder. Peter Ashby’s got my vote this evening. By tomorrow, who knows? What about you?”
About time you stopped talking about yourself
, Katie’s inner voice chided.

“Small-town lawyers don’t lead very exciting lives,” Seth admitted.

“You were in court today,” Katie reminded him. “That sounds riveting.”

He shook his head. “It was a civil suit, not the stuff of movies or TV dramas. They decided to settle during recess. My client made out quite nicely.”

“Have you always practiced law here in McKinlay Mill?”

“After I passed the bar, I spent a couple of years with one of the big firms in Rochester. In those days, I specialized in real estate law. Not very interesting. My father convinced me to take over his clients when he retired. I still do house closings, but more like two or three a month instead of one or two every day.”

“Then you’re a McKinlay Mill native?” Katie asked.

“Through and through. I was born in a hospital in Rochester, but my parents adopted me when I was three days old. Except for college, I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Then I suppose you know all the local gossip?” Katie said.

“And a lot of privileged information,” Seth agreed.

Elbows on the table, Katie leaned forward and rested her head on her hands. “What do you know about Andy Rust?”

“Angelo’s Pizzeria,” he said and frowned.

Betty returned with their desserts and filled their coffee cups before retreating to the kitchen.

Katie picked up her fork and scraped a minuscule layer of chocolate onto it, sampled it, and savored the exquisite flavor. “Mmmm,” she sighed, then turned her attention back to the subject at hand. “I was curious about Andy’s arrest record.”

“What I know is hearsay. It happened when I was still in college,” Seth said. “Apparently he stole a couple of cars and got sent to reform school.”

“Andy said he didn’t go to jail,” she said, remembering her conversation with the pizzamaker.

“He probably spent a night or two in the county juvenile hall before he was shipped off to The School for Boys at Industry. It used to be the local kid crime deterrent.”

“I don’t suppose you remember whose cars he stole?” she asked, taking a bigger bite of her sinful indulgence.

Seth swallowed, looking thoughtful. “That was years ago. But it seems to me one belonged to a teacher at McKinlay High School and the other was the coolest car in town: Ezra Hilton’s classic Porsche.”

Katie’s fork dropped to the table with a clatter. “Andy stole Ezra’s car?”

Seth nodded. “Not just
any
car. A nineteen fifty-nine Porsche three fifty-six A Convertible—sixteen hundred super.”

Katie could only blink at his enthusiasm. She’d never considered a car anything more than a tool to get from Point A to Point B. “Is that a good car?”

“One of the best.” Seth sighed, growing wistful. “It was silver with a red leather interior. Everything a teenaged boy—and a grown man—could lust after. Ezra bought it from a wrecker and he and his son spent years, and tons of money, restoring it.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“For years my dad tried to buy it from him. Ezra wouldn’t sell.”

“And Andy swiped the car?” Katie asked.

“He and a friend. They messed it up pretty bad,” Seth said, taking a bite of his pie.

Andy hadn’t mentioned that little piece of news. “Did Ezra press charges?” Katie asked.

“Against Andy? Yeah. I don’t know about the other kid. Ezra was determined to teach Andy a lesson in responsibility. Funny, I haven’t thought about all this in years.”

But Katie wasn’t listening. Her brain was whirling, too busy with possibilities. “What if Andy resented that lesson? What if—”

“Are you thinking maybe Andy Rust killed Ezra?” Seth shook his head, cutting another piece of pie with his fork. “Why would he wait for a decade and a half for revenge? And besides, Andy’s owned the pizza parlor for over a year now. I know, because I represented him at the closing. If he held a grudge, and I don’t think he did, why would he wait a year before killing Ezra?”

“To avert suspicion?” Katie asked.

“You’ve been watching too many TV cop shows,” Seth said, amused.

Katie scraped another thin layer of chocolate and peanut butter onto her fork, trying to prolong the culinary decadence. “I did warn you I’ve spent the last few days thinking everyone’s a murderer.”

“You might be looked at as a suspect yourself,” Seth admonished.

Katie gaped at him. “Me?”

“You had the most to gain. Or at least that’s the way Detective Davenport’s going to look at it.”

“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.”