A Crafty Killing (24 page)

“I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, Detective. This isn’t how I planned to spend my morning either. And Artisans Alley will lose another day of revenue because of it.”

Davenport frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought you so coldhearted, Mrs. Bonner.”

Katie blinked, ashamed at her thoughtless outburst. All the same, she hadn’t liked Ashby, and the possibility that he might have vandalized graves still angered her. “I’m concerned for our artists,” she amended. “Because now we’ll have to close for the day.”

“And reopen to hordes of morbid curiosity seekers tomorrow. Maybe you should hire a clown to entertain the folks.” Davenport slapped his notebook closed and stepped away to speak with the medical examiner. “How long would you say he’s been dead?”

The ME straightened. He looked like the stereotypical nerdy scientist, complete with crew cut and Coke-bottle glasses. Katie wouldn’t have been surprised if the man was named Poindexter. “Rough guess—between ten and twelve hours.”

“And what would you say killed him?” Davenport asked.

The man squinted up at the rail above. “The fall. Broke his neck, as you’ve probably already surmised. The autopsy will make it official.”

“And the classic question,” Katie said. “Did he fall, or was he pushed?”

“There were definitely signs of a struggle upstairs,” Davenport said, staring directly at Katie. “And you say you locked up about six last night?”

“Yes.”

Davenport nodded. “Who else has keys?”

“Only me . . .” Katie let the sentence dangle. “Well, I’m not really sure. Vance Ingram might have a set. The photographer who rents the space above the lobby has a key to the main entrance, but shouldn’t have one to Artisans Alley. Other than that . . .” Something cold clamped around her heart. “I really don’t know.”

“There were no keys on the body,” the ME volunteered.

Davenport turned back to Katie. “Is Ashby’s car in the lot?”

“I didn’t see it,” she said, “but I came in the back entrance; it could be in the Victoria Square lot. I didn’t think to look.”

“It might be a good idea to change your locks to keep anyone else from using the place after hours,” Davenport advised.

She nodded. Why hadn’t she thought of that herself?

Davenport stared at the body on the floor. “Is this the man you left the message about yesterday morning?”

“Yes. Have you had a chance to look into his background?”

“Not yet. It’ll be on the top of my to-do list when I get back to the office.”

Typical
, Katie thought.

Davenport stared straight into Katie’s eyes, and didn’t even look at his notebook as he flipped it open once more. “Now, let’s recap how you spent last evening.”

Katie sighed, crossing her arms to hug herself. She never had gotten around to turning up the heat. “Fred Cunningham—he’s looking for clients to rent out unused retail space for me—was here with me until about six o’clock. After he left, I locked up and then drove over to Del’s Diner for a dinner meeting with the Victoria Square Merchants Association. It lasted until nearly nine thirty. I came back to the Square—”

“What for?” Davenport interrupted.

“To talk to Andy Rust at the pizza parlor.”

“Did you see any lights on in Artisans Alley?” Davenport barked.

“I didn’t look. If I had seen something out of the ordinary, I certainly would have checked up on it.”

Davenport nodded. “You said you spoke with Mr. Rust,” he prompted.

“He was shorthanded. I helped him make pizzas until after midnight.”

“And you have witnesses who can corroborate all of this?”

“Of course—Andy and several of his delivery boys.”

Davenport frowned. It seemed to be his normal expression. He took a couple of paces away from Katie, then turned back to face her. “Did Mr. Ashby have any enemies?”

“How would I know? I only met him six days ago—and I wasn’t impressed by his charm or honesty.” Katie’s gaze drifted down to the dead man once again. In death, he didn’t look half as hunky. She remembered that Ida Mitchell had heard her loud discussion with Ashby the day before. As Ida wasn’t happy with her just now, it might be better if she volunteered that information.

Davenport listened—with no discernible expression on his unblinking face—to her version of what happened.

“Did you see Mr. Ashby after that?”

“No. He was so obnoxious I half expected it was Ashby who killed Ezra. He had the motive, the opportunity—”

“The motive?” Davenport asked, frowning.

“Well, maybe.” Katie repeated Rose’s theory that Ashby’s resin copies of cemetery statuary could have been made from stolen originals—and suggested he check for reports of graveyard vandalism locally and in Ohio, where Rose thought Ashby might have come from. Although Davenport listened, he looked skeptical.

“Ma’am, please leave the speculation—and the investigation—on these deaths to us. Unlike the general public, we actually
do
know what we’re doing.”

Katie bristled under Davenport’s accusing glare. “I beg your pardon, Detective. As Artisans Alley’s manager I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on around here. At least I’ve been asking questions, whereas you—”

Shut up. Shut up!
Katie’s better judgment screamed. Hadn’t Seth warned her she could be considered a prime suspect? And now Detective Davenport had found her standing over yet another body.

“I’m sorry, Detective. I’m upset. I’m new to managing a business of this size, and Artisans Alley has a precarious bottom line. Two deaths in one week haven’t helped.”

Davenport simply stared at her, his pudgy, unattractive face and dull, shark-like eyes revealing no emotion. “I’m sure it’s all been extremely upsetting to you, Mrs. Bonner. Why don’t you just run along to your office like a good girl and let us professionals do our jobs.”

The others all seemed to wince.

Katie clenched her fists. Of all the pompous, infuriating, condescending, male chauvinist pigs she had ever met—

Yet Katie also knew that annoying Davenport was not in her own—or Artisans Alley’s—best interests.

Katie spoke through gritted teeth. “Maybe I’ll just do that.” Turning on her heel, she stormed off.

Squelching the impulse to slam her office door, Katie closed her eyes and counted to ten. That didn’t work, so she counted to twenty. Looking around the room reminded her of the abundance of filing she still had to sort through. Frustration set in. What should she keep? What if she threw away important papers?

She sat down and sifted through the first pile, discarding anything older than three years. What she needed was a good cry.

No. That would be just what a man like Davenport would expect of a woman.

Barring that, what she needed was to blow off some steam. Maybe she could buy a punching bag. Could Edie Silver paint a reasonable facsimile of Detective Davenport’s face on one? Inflicting a left hook and a right jab on a dummy might not teach the real imbecile a lesson, but it would sure make Katie feel better.

I’m only here because of the English Ivy Inn. I have to get through this in order to
—she eyed the ugly khaki-colored walls and winced—
make this place a success so I can finally get what
I
want.

That said, she still wanted to punch Davenport.

After a few minutes Katie felt rationality begin to set in once again. What she really needed was to talk. Only there were very few people in her life that she felt she could confide in.

And just whom should she trust?

Andy? Seth?

Katie liked both men—a lot. But what she needed now was a woman’s perspective. Rose Nash had been great, treating Katie like a daughter, but Katie needed a younger, more businesslike confidant. Someone familiar with the kinds of problems she was encountering.

Tracy Elliott had gone against her mother’s wishes by voting to let Andy Rust in the Merchants Association. Had Katie put her in an awkward position, or did that mean Tracy was serious about using every available resource—people and assets—to make Victoria Square an economic success?

It would probably be hours before the police and sundry professionals would pack up Ashby’s body and leave, Katie realized. In the meantime, she decided to call a locksmith to make sure only she had access to Artisans Alley. After that, she’d head straight across the parking lot to seek out some woman-to-woman talk.

A knocking at the back door drew Katie’s attention. She glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes past time to open Artisans Alley for the vendors who wanted to restock their booths. Why hadn’t she thought to call those scheduled to work? Then again, when would she have had time to do that? As she got up from her desk, she figured she should make signs to tape on all the door to let them—and Artisans Alley’s customers—know the store would be closed yet again.

The knocking at the back door intensified. Katie turned the bolt and opened the door. Ida Mitchell stood on the top step, bundled up in her raincoat once more, her hand poised to knock again. “Why are all the doors locked? Why are police cars taking up all the good parking spaces?” she demanded.

“There’s been an ... an accident,” Katie said. “Peter Ashby was killed. We won’t be open today.”

“But we were closed on Tuesday, too,” Ida said belligerently.

“I know. But the police said we can’t reopen today.”

“That’s not fair,” Ida cried.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Ida pushed past Katie, barging into the vendors’ lounge, where she pulled out one of the chairs at the table, and sat down. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. What am I supposed to do all day?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Since Ida had decided to sit a spell, Katie decided she might as well ask her some questions. “Did you know Peter Ashby?”

“Who?”

“The man who was killed here last night. He was a vendor.”

“What number was he?”

“Number sixty-four.”

Ida nodded knowingly. “Resin statuary. He didn’t get many tags, but when he did—they were whoppers. Hundreds of dollars.” Did she know all the artists by their booth number and merchandise rather than their names? “He didn’t talk to me much,” Ida continued. “He’d come into the tag room and grab his tags before we were even closed. He never filled out a new sheet, and the rules were that if you took your tag paper before Sunday night, you had to put in a replacement page.”

Okay.

“I don’t understand why people can’t follow the rules. There are reasons for rules, you know,” Ida said emphatically.

She’d given Katie a perfect segue to talk about another important subject. “Speaking of rules,” she began. “Ida, is there a reason you haven’t paid your rent in almost a year?”

Ida looked up, surprised. “I rarely sell anything. How can I pay rent if I don’t sell anything?”

“But it’s important that you do pay your rent. That is, if you wish to remain a vendor here at Artisans Alley.”

Ida shook her head impatiently. “No, no. You don’t understand. I had an arrangement with Ezra. He said I could stay as long as I took care of the tag room. I told you, I take that job very seriously.”

“Yes, and you do it well. But ... things have changed around here since Ezra’s death.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ida, Artisans Alley is in deep financial trouble.”

“How does that affect me?” she asked, totally without guile.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to come to a new arrangement, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“What kind of arrangement would that be?”

Katie sighed, exasperated. “You’re going to have to start paying your rent on a weekly basis, just like everybody else.”

“But I’m on a fixed income. I can’t pay rent every week.”

“Then I’m afraid I have no alternative but to ask you to leave.”

Ida’s eyes widened in horror. “But I don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s not fair to the artists who
do
pay their rent. You see that, don’t you?” she said in her kindest voice.

“No,” Ida said adamantly. She jumped up from the table. “I think you’re picking on me. You think I’m ugly and old and that you can single me out because of it. Well, I won’t let you. You can’t make me leave. Nobody can!”

And with that—she turned and stormed out of Artisans Alley.

“It was
her
!” Ida Mitchell proclaimed and pointed her right index finger directly at Katie, who suddenly felt like a felon in a lineup. In reality, she stood in the aisle where Ashby’s body had lain just minutes before. Ida must’ve snagged Detective Davenport as he’d been about to leave the building and told him what she’d witnessed the day before.

Katie swallowed, determined to keep her cool. She didn’t know what kind of hysterical report Ida had made—but at least she’d had a chance to tell her side of the story first. She could only hope Davenport would take her words at face value and dig to find Ida had a reputation as the Alley’s resident kook.