A Crafty Killing (22 page)

“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.

But she didn’t have time to do even that. As it was, she’d be late for the Merchants Association’s meeting. Instead, she did a quick circuit around Artisans Alley, turning off the lights as she went, retrieved her coat, set the security system, and locked the vendor entrance. As she walked to her car, Katie looked over her shoulder at Artisans Alley, with its dual lampposts illuminating the entrance. Its tidied exterior did look more inviting, but all closed up and darkened, the sight of it made her shiver. Ezra had died inside. Someone had killed him. Someone she might even know.

That thought didn’t make her feel at all secure, because whoever killed Ezra was probably still right here in McKinlay Mill, probably waiting to see if he or she would get away with it.

“Order. Let’s come to order,” Gilda Ringwald announced, banging her gavel on the Formica table. The chatter of voices quieted amid the clatter of cutlery on heavy restaurant china as Betty, the night waitress, finished clearing the table.

Katie glanced at the others surrounding her at the long table in the dreary, dark-paneled private dining room in the back of Del’s Diner. Only the row of faux Tiffany lamps overhead broke the gloom. All ten of the surviving members of the Victoria Square Merchants Association gave Gilda their full attention.

Nona Fiske had deigned to honor them all with her presence, but she sat at the opposite corner of the table from her rival, Mary Elliott. Still, her frosty demeanor didn’t put too much of a damper on the evening, and after an hour of polite conversation, Katie was pretty sure she could apply names to all the Association members’ faces and identify their businesses.

Paula Mathews owned the Angel Shop—what Rose had described as a “death” store. Paula had opened her business, which was filled with angel figurines and items such as garden memorial stones, to help her through the loss of her mother after a long battle with cancer. Sue Sweeney owned Sweet Sue’s Confectionary, the Square’s candy shop, and often all of Victoria Square smelled heavenly of melted chocolate—that is, when it wasn’t vying for prominence with the just-as-agreeable scent from Booth’s Jellies and Jams, made by owner Charlotte Booth. Dennis Wheeler owned Wood U, a specialty shop that featured handcrafted wooden products. Chad had bought Katie one of Dennis’s oak-inlaid-with-maple jewelry boxes as a Christmas gift several years before.

“Our first sad duty,” Gilda began, “is to elect a new president of the Association. Ezra Hilton’s passing left a large hole in all our lives, but he would have wanted us to go on, to make Victoria Square the success we all know it can be.”

“Hear, hear,” said Conrad Stratton, owner of The Perfect Grape wine store.

“Any volunteers?” Gilda’s gaze swept those assembled. Ten sets of guilty eyes darted away from her. “Surely someone must be interested?”

Katie tuned out the murmur of voices as Gilda cajoled each of the members, suggesting why they’d be perfect for the job, making Katie glad she was a newcomer. She traced her finger along the rim of her wineglass. The last thing she needed was yet another brick on her shoulders. She had a lot to learn, like the Association’s rules, their long-term goals for promoting Victoria Square, and any marketing strategies that were already in place.

“Katie?” Gilda said.

Katie looked up. “Yes?”

Gilda’s face lit up. “Then it’s all settled. All in favor?”

Ten hands shot into the air.

“Wait a minute . . .” Katie protested, realizing exactly what Gilda had meant.

“It’s unanimous. Katie Bonner is our new Association president.” Gilda thrust the gavel at Katie, and then quickly took her seat.

Staring numbly at the wooden mallet in her hand, Katie found her throat closing. “No, I didn’t understand. I wasn’t paying attention. You can’t ask me to—”

But Conrad was already on his feet, refilling the wine-glasses. He raised his own. “A toast. May new blood bring us all success in the coming years.”

New blood! Exactly what Fred Cunningham had said.

Katie stood on rubbery legs. “Uh ... I don’t know what to say. Except—I really don’t think I’m up for this job.”

“Nonsense,” said Jordan Tanner, owner and chief pastry chef at Tanner’s, McKinlay Mill’s only bakery and coffee shop. “You were great at the vendors’ meeting on Saturday. And I heard all about how you put Gerald Hilton in his place this morning.”

Gossip sure traveled fast in McKinlay Mill.

Katie took a steadying breath. Okay, if they stuck her with this job, she wasn’t going to wait to push the envelope.

“Thank you for this, uh, honor. However, I’m curious as to why one member of the Square has not been included in the Merchants Association. Can someone tell me why Andy Rust was never invited to join?”

The once-attentive faces found somewhere else to look.

“You’re asking me to take on a lot of work. I won’t do it if I can’t at least expect honesty from my fellow association members.”

Silence.

“Gilda?”

Gilda fiddled with a pink-stoned cocktail ring on the index finger of her left hand. “Pizza wasn’t a staple of Victorian life. It just doesn’t fit the image we want to project.”

That sounded as phony as a televangelist’s promise of salvation.

“Tracy?” Katie asked.

Tracy Elliott looked at Katie over the rim of her wineglass. “I wasn’t a member when that decision was made.”

“Well, surely someone was. Conrad?”