A Crafty Killing (21 page)

“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.”

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.

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 why 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?”