A Crafty Killing (25 page)

“Thank you, Miss Mitchell,” Davenport said kindly. “Deputy Schuler will walk you out to your car.”

Schuler dutifully stepped forward and waved a hand in the direction of the exit.

Ida caught sight of Katie again. Her face twisted into an ugly sneer and she actually stuck out her tongue before she turned and stalked off.

It took all of Katie’s self-control not to do likewise.

Davenport turned back to face Katie. “Would you tell me again about that argument you had with Mr. Ashby?”

Katie nodded, resigned.

“Let’s go sit down somewhere,” Davenport said, and gestured in the general direction of the vendors’ lounge.

Katie led the way. Once there, she pulled out a chair. Davenport took the one on the opposite side of the table. In the dim light, it might as well have been a stark interrogation room like the ones she’d seen in so many TV dramas. That made her even more determined to redecorate and make the room a much more cheerful place.

In the meantime, she met Davenport’s dull eyes.

“About that argument with Mr. Ashby,” the detective prompted.

Katie sighed. It had only been a few hours since she’d found Ashby, but it seemed like days. “I found him in my office, poking through my files,” she began.

“And that made you angry?” Davenport asked.

He was leading the witness—not at all kosher in a court of law, but then, they weren’t in a courtroom. Katie had no lawyer here to protect her interests. All she had was the truth.

“I was annoyed,” she clarified. “Mr. Ashby was belligerent toward me—at the vendors’ meeting on Saturday, when I found him at Ezra Hilton’s barn on Tuesday, and then yesterday when he told me he would vacate that property within two weeks.”

Davenport nodded, and consulted his notepad before speaking. “You said Mrs. Nash was suspicious of him and his merchandise. She’s the one who owned the pink crystal, right—the rock that likely killed Ezra Hilton?”

Did Rose’s suspicions make her look even guiltier? She hesitated before answering.

Davenport spoke first. “You realize none of this looks good, Mrs. Bonner.”

“What are you saying, Detective, that you think either I or Rose Nash had a motive to kill Mr. Ashby? If so, what would it be?”

“It’s not up to me to ascertain guilt or innocence. That’s for the courts. It’s my job to present evidence. Everything you and Mrs. Nash have told me could be nothing more than a carefully crafted story to divert suspicion.”

“It’s the truth.”

“As
you
see it,” he said.

Katie didn’t bother to deny that. “I don’t know how Peter Ashby got in here after hours. I don’t know why someone would want to kill him. I didn’t know him well, but I suspect he wasn’t a man of good character. It’s up to you to find out if that’s true.” She stood. “Now, unless you’ve got more questions for me, I have a business to run and you have an investigation to continue. I suggest we both get back to work.”

Davenport stared at her for long, painful seconds, before he, too, rose and, without a backward glance, left the vendors’ lounge.

Katie steadied herself against the table, afraid her knees might buckle if she moved too quickly. Had she helped her case or had she just made a really big mistake?

Stu Carter made the trip from Rochester with a truck full of everything needed to change all the locks in Artisans Alley. Only one lock escaped his attention, that of the photography studio above the lobby, and Katie would have to provide her tenant with a new key to the main entrance.

Katie winced at the grand total—including tax—at the bottom of Carter’s invoice, but she wrote out a check and handed it to the locksmith before walking him to the main exit and throwing the brand-new dead bolt after him.

Lunchtime had been and gone, but she didn’t feel the least bit hungry. It was human companionship she craved, and she knew just where to look for it.

Late-afternoon diners sipped tea from bone china cups, nibbling savory delectables as Katie entered the cheerful Tea and Tasties tea shop. Once again, the aroma of cakes, tarts, and fresh-baked bread nearly lifted her off her feet.

A ponytailed high schooler in a white skirt and blouse, her frilly apron piped in pink, looked up from her order pad, flashing Katie a braces-filled smile. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m not here for lunch. I’m looking for Tracy Elliott,” Katie said.

“Oh, hang on.”

The girl finished taking an order from two gray-haired ladies in printed silk dresses, then signaled for Katie to follow her through the small dining area into the kitchen.

Dressed in matching waitress garb, Tracy looked years younger. She turned, giving Katie a welcoming smile. Behind her at the center island, Mary’s usually pleasant face collapsed into a glower.

Unnerved by Mary’s reaction, Katie glanced back at Tracy. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk. I could use a sympathetic ear.”

Tracy gave her a kindly smile. “I’m just about done with my shift. Let me take out this order, then Janine can finish up for me.”

“Sure thing,” said the young woman, no doubt eager to collect Tracy’s tips.

Balancing three plates on her arm, Tracy headed back into the dining room.

Mary carefully arranged sandwiches on a plate, adding a parsley garnish, then handed it to the girl. “That tea will be stewed if you don’t serve it soon.”

“I’ll be right back for it,” Janine said, and started for the dining room.

Katie cleared her throat. “Hello, Mary.”

“Good afternoon.”

An arctic breeze would have been warmer than that greeting.

“I hear Peter Ashby’s been killed,” Mary said, her ice blue eyes boring into Katie’s.

“It could’ve been an accident,” Katie said, but even she didn’t believe it.

Tracy reappeared, already untying the apron at her waist. She hung it on a peg on the wall. “I’m going upstairs to check the e-mail orders. Call if you need me, Mom,” she said, and motioned a relieved Katie to follow her up the narrow back stairs.

Skylights helped brighten what could have been a claustrophobically small attic room. Pale pink walls and cozy, incandescent light blanketed the room in warmth. Katie’s mouth dropped and her breath caught in her throat as she took in a painting of multicolored pansies that graced the south wall: no doubt about it, it was one of Chad’s unframed canvases. And very much like the one he’d described in his journal. Something he’d said he’d planned to paint as a gift for Katie. She turned away, taking in the rest of the room.

In the middle of the finished space sat an old oak table, dominated by a computer and piled with papers, a coffee mug, and a haphazard stack of books. The north wall consisted of shelving segmented into pigeon holes, presumably crammed with orders, receipts, and other paperwork.

“Welcome to the empire,” Tracy said with a flourish, and flopped onto the ergonomically correct padded office chair in front of her makeshift desk. Kicking off her thick-soled white shoes, she leaned her head back. “Thank God for high school co-op students.”

Katie blinked, sinking into an overstuffed brown leather club chair directly in front of Tracy’s desk.

“I still have to put in a couple of hours a day waiting tables,” Tracy continued, “but since Janine came to work for us, I’ve been able to catch up on our Internet orders. You ought to get a high school kid to help out at Artisans Alley.”

“I—I could sure use someone to help me wrestle Ezra’s files into order. Thanks for the idea.”

Tracy studied Katie’s face. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, and half turned. “The picture—”

“I bought it at the Alley. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It—it was one of my late husband’s.”

“Really? He did lovely work.”

“Yes, he did,” Katie said, feeling foolish at her reaction to seeing the painting. He’d most likely sold it because it paid more than a week’s rent. He probably figured he’d do another, similar picture and Katie would never know. Still, it was lovely, and he had originally intended it to be for her ...

“But that’s not what you came here to talk about, is it?” Tracy asked.

Katie shook her head. “I found Peter Ashby dead this morning.”

“So we heard,” Tracy said and shuddered. “Broken neck?”

Katie nodded. “He was my least favorite artist, or at least one of them,” she said, remembering her little altercation with Ida. “But good Lord, what a way to die.”

“At least it was quick,” Tracy said, sounding sensible, if not compassionate. “Do you think it was an accident?”

“The naive part of me wants to. The logical part of me says ‘no way.’”

“Did the cops give you a hard time about it?” Tracy asked.

“Only one: Detective Davenport and I just don’t get along. But I had no motive to kill Ashby.”

Tracy’s eyes widened. “I think he was hoping you did. That mean old goat grilled Mom and me for almost half an hour this morning when we really needed to be setting up to open.”

Something in Katie’s chest tightened. “He grilled you? About what?”

“You, of course.”

Katie’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”

Tracy nodded. “He wanted to know at precisely what time you arrived at Del’s last night. What was your mental state? Were you flustered? When did you leave?”

“That’s just swell,” Katie groused. “He takes an active interest in the case only when he thinks he can pin the murders on me!”

“You wanted him to work harder at his job—you got your wish.”

For a moment Katie wasn’t sure if Tracy was kidding or serious. “I barely knew either of those men. And Peter Ashby was not a nice person.”

Tracy cocked her head to one side, her eyes flashing, her smile sly. “Do tell.”

Katie did. In detail, answering all of Tracy’s questions, wondering if her new friend had missed her calling to be either an investigative reporter or a prosecutor.

Eventually Tracy’s mini-interrogation wound down and she frowned. “What you’ve told me sure paints Ashby in a bad light. But despite being disagreeable, it’s unlikely he killed Ezra. His death is proof of that. So who do you think did it?”

Katie sank farther into her chair. “I haven’t got a clue. And a week after Ezra’s murder, I don’t think the Sheriff’s Office does either.”

Tracy leaned forward, her eyes widening in anticipation. “Okay, spill the dirt—what was it like finding Ashby?”

“Besides scaring the hell out of me?” Katie shrugged. “He wasn’t bloody or anything, just ... dead. He’d been a damned handsome man. Too bad he had the personality of a shoehorn.”

Tracy struggled to stifle a laugh, clearing her throat. “You noticed that, too?”

“How could I miss it?” Katie sank back in her chair, crossing her legs. “Hey, I wanted to thank you for supporting me last night at the Merchants Association meeting.”

“You mean about Andy?”

Katie nodded, a sudden tightness creeping into her muscles. Something about the way Tracy said Andy’s name—a certain familiarity—threw up a red flag.

“Ezra wasn’t about to give Andy a break,” Tracy continued. “He could be kind when he wanted to be, but I made up my mind a long time ago never to cross him.”

“I didn’t know Ezra well, but I guess he scared me a little, too.” Did Katie dare press her new friend about the pizza man?

“Until Davenport finds out who’s killing people, I don’t know who to trust. Is Andy Rust reliable? Do you know him at all?”

Tracy seemed to tense. “We were in the same graduating class. I guess I’ve known him since childhood,” she said guardedly.

As evasive an answer as Katie had ever heard.

Tracy knew more than she was telling, but suddenly Katie wasn’t sure she wanted to know how well the woman knew Andy.

And why should Katie feel possessive toward the newest member of the Merchants Association? She’d only met Andy some six days before. Yet spending several hours with him, working with him the evening before, she kinda... sorta . . . wanted to know him better.

Guilt pressed down on her once again. Chad hadn’t even been dead a year. Despite their separation, they’d still been husband and wife, and close to a reconciliation. For the past week she’d done nothing but entertain thoughts of other men: Andy ... Seth. What in the world was wrong with her?

Loneliness!
some inner part of her wailed. She was so god-awful lonely she could scream.

“Yoo-hoo! Earth to Katie!” Tracy said, a crooked smile warming her lips.

“Sorry. I kind of zoned out for a minute there.” Katie sighed, depression settling over her. “I haven’t exactly been winning friends and influencing people this past week. Half the artists want to rub
me
out. I’ve alienated Detective Davenport, and your mother, too.”

Tracy sobered. “Mom doesn’t dislike you. In fact, she admires the way you’ve jumped in to save Artisans Alley. That’s what Ezra would’ve wanted. It’s just—” She stopped, exhaled, and looked away. “Mom gets upset when anyone defends Andy Rust.”

“Because he stole Ezra’s car all those years ago?”

Tracy met Katie’s gaze. “No, because he divorced me.”

Startled, Katie blinked at Tracy, her heart suddenly pounding. “Oh, I’m ... so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tracy said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I’m not as scarred by the ordeal as Mom thinks I am.” She sighed, the corners of her mouth drooping. “Andy and I were married for three years. People say that a marriage license isn’t important when you’re in love—that it’s just a piece of paper. But it
does
matter. It represents a lifelong commitment that Andy—”

“Couldn’t accept,” Katie finished.

“No. I was the one who wanted out. I was bored. I thought there might be someone better out there—somewhere—and I was right. I fell for a real outdoorsman, the antithesis of Andy, who was constantly holed up in a stuffy office in Rochester. After three years of marriage, Andy wasn’t at all the man I thought I’d married. I dumped him so fast I don’t doubt his head was spinning. But I really thought I’d met my Mister Right.”