A Crafty Killing (5 page)

Finally, Vance exhaled loudly and turned back to face her. “It’ll be a hard sell. The artists don’t want to share space with low-end crafters.”

Katie didn’t back down. “If they’re the only ones interested in renting space here, then there’s really no choice.”

“It’s kinda dreary in here,” Edie Silver said, glancing around Artisans Alley’s uninviting lobby. The large, carpeted foyer had been painted white a long time before, but was now a timeworn yellow, marred by scuff marks and the remnants of aged masking tape still clinging to its walls, which were pocked by old nail holes.

“Can you make it look festive for Halloween?” Katie asked as her stomach grumbled. It was after six and she hadn’t even taken time for lunch.

Edie’s gaze narrowed. “What’s your budget?”

Katie sighed, thinking about the few bills in her wallet. “Twenty-five dollars.”

Edie rolled her eyes. “Honey, you don’t want help—you want a miracle.”

“Here’s the deal—you make this area look attractive and prove to me that crafters can draw in customers, and I’ll rent you space. Same terms as the rest of the artisans.”

“Why the change of heart?” Edie asked, squinting up at her.

“I’ll level with you. This place is going broke. It’s full of artists who know a lot about their particular craft but haven’t got a clue how to market their merchandise. Ezra’s strict rules enforcing booth uniformity didn’t inspire the artists to work on their displays either.”

“A lot of them couldn’t hack it in
real
galleries, ya know,” Edie said snidely. “The commission of fifty or more percent is a killer. And of course, a lot of ’em are only here for the social aspect.”

“So I gathered. The artists apparently aren’t motivated to pay their rent now—and will feel even more belligerent if I have to raise it just to keep the place afloat.”

Edie’s frown twitched as she took another long look around. “I suppose I could get some orange and black crepe streamers at the dollar store. Maybe a couple of paper pumpkins. I might even have a line on some hay bales. . .” Her gaze traveled up and down the uneven walls, taking in the total space. “Yeah, I think I can do it.”

“How soon?”

Edie smiled. “How late are you willing to stay here tonight?”

“As late as you need.”

Katie awakened Saturday morning to find the gray clouds lower and darker than they’d been the day before. A light drizzle added to the gloom. Perfect retail weather, as Chad liked to say. She left a message for Josh on his voice mail. The insurance office was open a half day on Saturdays. She said she’d take the hours as vacation, and then headed straight for the local McDonald’s, where she snagged a cup of coffee and a Sausage Egg McMuffin.

On her way out, Katie paused to read the banner headline from behind the glass front on the newspaper dispenser:
McKINLAY MILL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED.

Swell
, she thought, feeding coins into the machine. She opened the door, grabbed a paper, nearly letting the spring door slam shut on her hand. Folding the paper, she tucked it under her arm before heading for her car.

Minutes later, she arrived at Artisans Alley, noticing a slight figure standing by the side door, wrapped in a beige raincoat over dark slacks, a black kerchief tied tightly under her chin, and huddled under a bright red umbrella. Katie gathered her breakfast, newspaper, keys, and purse, and headed for the building.

“Hello!” she called. The woman turned and Katie halted abruptly and found herself staring at the woman, whose left cheek was marked by the ugliest wart Katie had ever seen: big, round, and tall. She’d never known a wart could be tall before this.

“H-Hello,” she tried again. “Can I help you? I’m Katie Bonner—one of the new owners of Artisans Alley.”

The older woman smiled, the movement of her cheek seeming to increase the size of the growth. “I’m Ida Mitchell. I’m supposed to be working today. I’m in charge of the tag room,” she said proudly, and held out her hand to shake, but Katie juggled too many things to be able to take it.

“Sorry,” she apologized. Ida Mitchell; the name sounded familiar. Hadn’t she seen it in the ledger listing artists who hadn’t paid their rent?

“Can I hold something for you?” Ida offered.

“Um . . . yes, thank you,” Katie said, eager to get out of the rain. She handed over her breakfast bag and the already-damp newspaper, sorted through the keys, and unlocked the door, desperate not to have to look at Ida’s face.

“What is it you sell?” Katie asked, fumbling for the light switch.

“Lace. I make it myself. It’s very delicate work. The light’s on the other side, dear,” she directed.

Katie squinted into the darkness, and located the switch. “Oh. Thank you. Do you sell a lot of it?”

“Of what?” Ida asked.

“Lace.”

“Oh, no. Not much call for it.” Which would account for her not paying the rent on her booth.

With the light now on, Katie watched as Ida shook the drops from her umbrella before carefully closing it and fastening the Velcro tie around it. She placed its cord strap over her wrist. “After you,” she said brightly, and followed Katie through the corridor that also served as a storeroom, and into Artisans Alley. Sadly, except for the lobby, the place hadn’t undergone a miraculous transformation in the hours since Katie had locked up the night before. Where were the shoemaker’s elves when she really needed them?

Ida handed back Katie’s items and clasped her hands together, smiling brightly. “It’s time for me to get to work.”

“Just what is it you do?” Katie asked.

“As manager of the tag room, it’s up to me to make sure that the artists get their little price tickets back. That way they can compare them to the computerized inventory they get with their checks each week.”

Katie vaguely remembered Chad comparing his little square of paper with his price tags to a printed form of items sold. It wasn’t unknown that mistakes were made in data entry; returning the tags to the artists was a chance for them to double-check their sales with the computer printout that accompanied their weekly checks.

“I take great care in taping those tickets down in an orderly fashion. I also cut up the sheets of paper and write down the week-ending date and the booth number. That takes a lot of time, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Katie admitted.

Ida’s head bobbed solemnly. “Yes, yes. It’s quite important work.”

“How long have you been a vendor?” Katie asked.

“For as long as we’ve been open,” Ida answered, and beamed with pride.

Was she aware that Ezra had died? Or was she perhaps . . . special?

“Did you watch the news last night, or perhaps read this morning’s paper?” Katie asked.

Ida shook her head. “Oh, no. Television is a tool of the devil. And I don’t get the paper. It’s full of bad news.”

“Did you know that Ezra—”

“Mr. Hilton,” Ida corrected her. “It’s disrespectful to call someone our senior by their first name, you know.”

Whatever
.

“Mr. Hilton has died,” Katie said as gently as possible.

Ida’s right hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh my goodness! Please tell me you’re trying to fool me.”

“I’m sorry, but he . . .” Could this woman handle the truth? “He passed on yesterday,” she finished.

Ida’s mouth trembled, her gigantic wart jiggling.

It was an awkward few moments before Katie could think of anything to say. “I’m sorry.”
Talk about lame
.

“Is that why all the police cars were here yesterday and the Alley was closed?” Ida asked.

“Yes,” Katie said.

“Whatever will we do without Mr. Hilton?” the older woman cried.

“We’re going to carry on. Ezra, er, Mr. Hilton would’ve wanted that.”

Ida sniffed. “Yes, he would.” Despite her conviction, her eyes still swam with tears. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

Katie reached out, gave the woman’s shoulder a hesitant pat.

Ida threw back her head, her body stiffening. “Despite this setback, I must not shirk my duty. Would you like me to turn on Artisans Alley’s main lights, or do you want to do it yourself?”

“I think I can handle it,” Katie said gently.

“Very well.” Ida turned and marched off in the direction of the cash desks.

Okay. And how many more times that day was she going to have to break the news to artists, customers, or creditors?

Katie’s stomach growled, reminding her of her cooling, uneaten breakfast, and she turned for Ezra’s office. She pushed Ida from her thoughts, but not the problem of the deadbeat artists. She’d have to address that—and soon.

Shrugging out of her coat, she settled it on the back of Ezra’s grubby office chair and sat down at the desk to contemplate the breakfast before her on top of her newspaper. Now that the vendor entrance was open, she expected more of her dealers would begin to show up and she hoped most of them would bypass the transformed entryway. She wasn’t up to arguing about the inclusion of a crafter on the premises.

As she ate her breakfast sandwich, she decided it might be a good idea to greet the artists as they showed up for work. She tossed the grease-stained paper wrapper into the trash, grabbed her coffee and the newspaper, and went back to the main staircase. Perching on the bottom step, which faced the side entrance, she sipped her coffee, reading the paper’s top story as she waited for the next vendor to arrive. The report made Ezra’s death sound so . . . sensational. She’d heard it said there was no such thing as bad publicity, and hoped it was true for Artisans Alley’s sake.

The rest of the paper held no interest for her so she folded it and set it aside. Her gaze strayed to the missing patch of carpet at the base of the stairs. Was that blood or dirt that stained the concrete? She’d have to do something about it. The simplest solution would be to add a strip of new carpet from the bottom step back to the wall. That would also take care of the messy coffee spill. She’d add calling a carpet installer to her list of things to do today.

The outside door opened and a tall figure was silhouetted in the dim light of the short corridor leading into the main showroom. He pushed a heavy-duty dolly ahead of him, and then closed the outer door.

Katie stood, reminding herself that retail was like show business, and the show must go on. “Hi!” she called cheerily.

“Are we open today?” the man asked.

“We sure are.” She shoved her hand forward. “I’m Katie Bonner, Chad Bonner’s wife. I’m sort of in charge for now.”

“Peter Ashby.”

She shook his large, callused hand. Tall, blond, and ruggedly handsome, Ashby looked like he’d just walked off a movie set ... or maybe an old Marlboro billboard. His plaid flannel shirt and padded vest didn’t hide his muscled arms and torso. The word “hunk” lingered in Katie’s mind.

He looked down at the floor and the missing carpet. “Is this where it happened?”

She nodded. “The sheriff’s detective cut up the rug. It’s just as well. We’d have never gotten the blood out of it.”

He shook his head and frowned. “It’s a damn shame about Ezra. He really kept this place together.”

“Where’s your booth?” Katie asked, glad to change the subject.

“Upstairs on the balcony.” He pointed up to his right.

She looked up. A balcony ringed the cavernous room; its five-foot wooden railings overlooked the main showroom. “I guess it’ll take me a while to put faces to names, and names to booth numbers.”

“I’m number sixty-four. Any chance I can move downstairs soon?”

“I don’t know that there are any openings. I guess it depends if we lose any vendors,” she said, thinking about the artists who hadn’t paid their rent in weeks or months. “What do you sell?”

“Resin statuary. Life-sized copies of Victorian cemetery art. Maybe you noticed them?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t spent a lot of time upstairs,” she said. “What do people do with these statues?”

“Decorate their gardens, mostly. Right now I have twelve different pieces. I’m expecting a shipment of new merchandise in the next week or so. I’ll give you a ten percent discount on any piece you want,” he offered.

“Sorry. I live in an apartment.” After what she’d been through this past year, the last thing Katie wanted was some gruesome reminder of death staring at her while she watched TV at night.

“Does garden statuary sell at this time of year?”

Ashby raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking down. “I’ve had good luck so far. This is my second fall at Artisans Alley. Christmas is coming—the best time of the year for retail.”

Cemetery statues as Christmas gifts? Katie resisted the urge to shudder.

“Will you be here all day?” she asked, to change the subject.

Ashby nodded. “I’m scheduled to work today. Ezra usually left a job sheet on the main cash desk. I generally walk security, or carry out large pieces for customers. Sometimes do odd jobs. Do you need something done?”