A Crafty Killing (26 page)

“What happened?” Katie asked.

“He died—the ultimate separation,” she said with bitterness. “It was an accident. We’d had a fight the night before. We weren’t even engaged and already we had in-law problems.”

“Your mother?” Katie guessed.

“She wasn’t happy, but it was his parental unit, not mine, who worked so hard to break us up. I wasn’t good enough.”

“What happened then?” Katie asked.

“I was pretty much a wreck. I turned to Andy, but he—my best friend—turned his back on me.” Tracy sighed. “Well, what did I expect?” Regret shadowed her eyes.

Katie, too, had many regrets where Chad was concerned, but most of all she regretted that they’d never grow old together.

Katie cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry, Tracy.”

Tracy’s smile looked forced. “Hey, it’s been a couple of years now. I’m a successful businesswoman; Andy’s a successful businessman. It all worked out for the best.”

Except they were both lonely people, pouring their souls into their separate businesses. What might they have accomplished together?

Katie stood. “I’d better be going. I’ve still got things to do over at Artisans Alley before I can go home for the day. Thanks for letting me vent.”

“You’re welcome—anytime.”

Tracy walked Katie back down the stairs and into the kitchen. “We ought to get together to talk about our respective businesses—compare notes.”

“Great idea. What’s a good time for you?” They made plans to meet for dinner on Monday.

Mary listened, scowling with disapproval while she rinsed dishes, then packed them into the industrial-sized dishwasher.

Tracy ushered Katie through to the now-empty shop. “Sorry about Mom. I’ll talk to her—ask her not to let her dislike of Andy color her feelings toward you.”

“I’d appreciate that. We’ll be neighbors for a long time here on the Square. See you Monday.”

Katie exited the shop and paused on the tarmac to take out her shiny new keys to Artisans Alley, wondering if her friendship with Tracy would interfere with cultivating a business relationship with Andy.

She swallowed. Yes. It would be just a business relationship. Nothing more.

Katie gazed with affection at the old Webster mansion to her left. If probate could be completed within six months, she’d be free to sell Artisans Alley. Yet the thought of all the business’s debt threatened that scenario. Could she make a dent in all that red ink? And if she couldn’t—

She watched as a car pulled up outside the mansion. A man in a tan raincoat got out and inspected the faded FOR SALE sign. How long had it been exposed to the elements? Five, seven years?

With a jolt, Katie realized she recognized the man, and started across the parking lot at a jog.

“Fred,” she called. “Fred Cunningham!”

The lenses of Fred’s glasses flashed in the sunshine. He held out his hand as Katie approached. “Hey, good to see you again, Katie.”

Katie took it, but wasted no time with other pleasantries. “Please don’t tell me the old place has been sold.”

The real estate agent looked chagrined. “The new owners signed the paperwork this morning. I just came out to put up the sold sign.” There was no pleasure in his voice, and he tried not to look Katie in the eye.

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” she cried, fighting tears.

“I couldn’t. I mean, sometimes buyers back out at the last moment. If that had happened, I wouldn’t have had to tell you at all.”

“Thanks for sparing my feelings,” she grumbled, her cheeks growing hot as she struggled not to burst into tears. “Who bought it? When did all this happen?”

“A couple came through about a month ago. I took them through two or three times. They made an offer on Wednesday and the estate accepted it.”

“For a private home?” she asked, dreading the answer.

Fred shook his head. “No. A bed-and-breakfast, just as you envisioned. Of course, it’ll take a lot of work—and a helluva lot of money—to restore it from apartments and into suites. But at least all the added plumbing will be put to good use in the bedroom suites.”

A B and B. And someone who was
not
her was going to own and run it. Katie’s breaths came in short gasps as she fought the urge to cry.

Fred frowned, his voice tinged with real concern. “I’m sorry, Katie. Until last night, I thought you’d abandoned all hope.”

Katie swallowed. “I guess I’ll have to now.” She bit her lip and looked up at the building’s roof, which needed replacement shingles. Hell, the new owners would probably have to replace the whole thing. Buying the mansion wouldn’t have been enough. She would have needed enough capital to completely renovate the place, not to mention furnishing it in period style.

Katie let out a sigh as she looked back at the ugly hulk that was Artisans Alley. It was all she could do not to sob.

“I know your heart was set on opening a bed-and-breakfast,” Fred said, “but it would’ve been an uphill battle, especially now that Chad’s gone. Zoning laws, the County Health Department’s rules and regs—they can make your life a living hell, even if you have someone to share it with. But alone . . .” He let the sentence hang.

Katie turned to stare at him, betting he hadn’t mentioned any of the county’s regulations to the new owners. Before she could comment, he spoke again.

“Yup. Retail’s a much safer bet than hotel management. Especially if it’s you who’s collecting the rents and not depending on sales for your livelihood,” Fred said with cheer and nodded sagely.

Katie blinked. “I ... I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“If we can’t rent all your available space, maybe you could open a little café inside, then you’d be sitting pretty. Especially once the new marina opens. People get bored sitting in their boats on a hot summer’s day—
and
when it rains—and what with the price of marina gasoline . . . Mark my words, when you pull Artisans Alley out of the red, Victoria Square is going to be one terrific draw.” He gave her a hope-inspiring smile. “I’d say you made the right decision, Katie.”

Katie’s cheeks didn’t feel quite so hot anymore. She looked back toward Artisans Alley, realizing it was her only hope of survival—personal and financial. Was it possible she could grow to love the place like Chad had?

“Thank you, Fred. Thanks a lot.”

An hour of uninterrupted silence would have been nice, but as soon as she entered her office, Katie found herself fielding calls from the press and declining interview opportunities. As decided at the Merchants Association’s meeting the night before, Gilda Ringwald, the new PR director, agreed to handle all media inquiries into Ashby’s death.

Katie had just changed the Alley’s answering machine’s message when the phone rang again. “This is the last call I’m going to answer today,” she vowed, then lifted the receiver. “Artisans Alley.”

“Katie?” Josh prompted.

Katie’s insides did a somersault as she recognized the voice as that of her ex-boss. “What do you want, Josh?”

“Uh ... this isn’t easy for me to admit, but . . . I want you to come back to the agency.”

Katie said nothing for a long moment—contemplating slamming the receiver into its cradle. Then again, she almost wished she were recording the call—for Josh to make such a declaration was an historic occasion.

“Katie?” Josh prodded.

“What happened, Josh? Did the girls the agency sent over quit already?”

It was Josh’s turn to be silent. Katie could envision his scowl. She wouldn’t be surprised if steam was seeping from his ears.

“I heard on the news that someone else was found dead at Artisans Alley this morning. You can’t tell me you feel safe in that crime-ridden place. Besides which, you’ll never be able to salvage the business. Not with that kind of bad publicity.”

“You don’t think so?” Katie said, her hand clamping around the phone, her temper rising.

“No. So why don’t you just admit defeat and—”

“Come crawling back to you?”

“Yeah,” he said, cockiness returning to his voice. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I’ll even sweeten the pot with a two percent raise.”

Katie took a breath to quell her growing anger. “Josh, you could offer me a million dollars and I still wouldn’t work for you.”

“No need to get snippy,” he said. “You’re just upset because of everybody dying over there. Now, I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning—eight o’clock sharp. There’s a lot of filing you need to catch up on. And then we’ll talk about how you can take on more of the day-to-day responsibilities—”

“What?”

“I’ll even give you the title of office manager. I can afford to be that generous,” the little creep said.

Katie’s hand tightened into strangulation mode around the phone. “Josh, drop dead!” She slammed the phone onto the receiver. Immediately, it began to ring again. She yanked the cord out of the wall, breaking the little plastic connector.

Swell.

It took an hour of blissful silence for Katie to calm down. She spent the time checking the dates on the old paperwork, and dumping them into the wastebasket while ruminating over Fred Cunningham’s words of wisdom. Perhaps she had made the right choice to manage Artisans Alley. Maybe if she forced herself, she could even muster the shadow of a smile at the thought.

After an hour of concentrated work, Katie closed the file cabinet’s top drawer, assessing the office’s new sense of order. The room was tidy all right, but still dirty. She was about to gather cleaning supplies and give it a thorough going-over when a tap at the newly replaced window gave her a start.

Rose, her ever-present plastic rain bonnet tied beneath her chin, waved. Behind her stood Edie Silver, bundled up in a lilac ski jacket, and holding a large canvas tote bag— looking as formidable as ever. Rose pointed toward the back door and Katie hurried into the lounge to unlock it.

“The police shooed us away earlier,” Rose said, “and then when we came back, you were gone.”

“I needed to speak with one of the other merchants on the Square. I’m sorry, Rose, but we’re closed for the rest of the day.”

“We tried to call, but just got the answering machine; later, the phone just rang and rang. Can we tell you what our committee has decided?” Rose asked.

Katie blinked in confusion. “Committee?”

“At the meeting last Saturday you suggested a number of us get together to brainstorm ways to get customers to come visit Artisans Alley,” Rose reminded her.

“And you’ve already met?” Katie asked.

Rose nodded, her eyes bright with pleasure, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“We’ve got a whole list of ideas,” Edie piped up with pride.

For the first time since finding Ashby’s body, Katie felt a surge of hope. “Please come in,” she said, sweeping her hand to usher them inside.

The ladies bustled into the dimly lit, shabby space that passed for the vendors’ lounge. Removing their coats, they took seats at the tippy table. Edie withdrew a couple of file folders from her bag, and proceeded to spread out handwritten sheets before her. She leaned forward and turned her steely gray eyes on Katie.

“Christmas,” she began. “It’s the hottest time of the year for retail. We’ve got to cash in on it. We’ve come up with two different scenarios. The first just involves Artisans Alley; the second involves all of Victoria Square.”

“Let’s hear them both,” Katie said, intrigued.

“We’re supposed to be an artists’ enclave,” Edie began, “so let’s act like one and be a little more creative in our presentation—starting at the booth level. Instead of just numbers identifying our booths, we could have Vance cut painters’ palettes out of plywood. I could paint them to look real, and then we could stencil the booth numbers in the middle. It would be really cute. Here, I have a mock-up.” She pulled a colorful drawing from her folder and handed it to Katie, who studied the design. It
was
cute, and perfectly rendered, with little circles of different colors representing paint, and even a paintbrush set to one side.

“That sounds like an awful lot of work. We have about sixty booths—with more on the way.”

“If you supply the materials—I’ll take care of the painting. We can even do an extra ten or twenty. You’ve got a lot of booths to fill up in the loft and we can be ready to accommodate them.”

Katie laughed. “It’s a deal. What else have you got in mind?”

Edie leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Next, we hold a contest for all the artists, encouraging them to fix up their booths. The best-looking one wins a prize. To keep the peace, maybe a couple of the Victoria Square merchants could be impartial judges.”

“Yes, let’s see some Victorian decoration with paint and wallpaper,” Rose piped up.

“Who pays for the paint and other supplies?” Katie asked. She couldn’t bankroll something of that magnitude.

“It would be up to the individual artists,” Rose said.