A Crafty Killing (10 page)

Vance hadn’t shown up, so it was up to Katie to fumble with printer glitches and all the other mundane problems that arose that morning.

Long after the midday rush, Rose assured Katie everything was under control. With that in mind, Katie figured she could risk taking an extended break.

She snuck out of Artisans Alley’s back entrance and threaded her way through the cars in Victoria Square’s parking lot, heading for Tea and Tasties. When the heavenly scent of baking met her halfway, she breathed deeply and quickened her pace.

The brunch crowd was long gone and the shop’s front door was locked. The darkened storefront looked anything but welcoming, but a car parked at the side of the building told her that someone was still inside. Katie went around to the back of the store and knocked on the door marked DELIVERIES.

Wiping her damp palms on the back of her jeans, Katie rocked on her heels, waiting for someone to answer. Over the years she’d lost contact with old friends. Thanks to their full-time jobs, Katie’s schoolwork, and Chad’s booth at Artisans Alley, the couple had scant time to build or maintain outside friendships. Since Chad’s death, Katie had occupied herself working long hours at Kimper Insurance with little time for anything else—with the exception of her baking hobby, that is. Now, when she really needed it, her support system was definitely lacking. Had Tracy’s invitation the evening before only been polite conversation? The thought depressed her.

Finally the door rattled open. Mary Elliott greeted her, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hello, Katie. Tracy said you might stop by, but we were expecting you much sooner.”

“I was detained,” Katie said simply, grateful for the cheerful welcome.

Mary frowned. “Yes, we saw the police cars. Please, come in.”

Katie stepped into the cocoon of warm air, her eyes wide with envy as she took in the banks of ovens on the far wall. The kitchen’s center island workstation contained sacks of opened flour and sugar, bowls of separated eggs, and tubs of spices. Despite the chaos of the work area, the rest of the room was spotless. A rack of trays stood nearby, filled with fresh-baked cookies. Envy burned within her. Oh, if she could only have such a wonderful kitchen to bake in.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Katie said, and took in yet another deep lungful of the heavenly aromas.

Mary pursed her lips, swallowing. Katie had forgotten the poor woman had found Ezra’s body just two days before. Swallowing down guilt, and not wanting to bring more attention to her stupid remark, she asked for Tracy.

Mary stepped over to the wall and pressed a button. A harsh bell sounded in some other part of the converted house. Moments later Tracy appeared, dressed in tight jeans, a bulky blue sweater, and black suede high-heeled boots, looking comfortable, yet smart. “Glad you could make it, Katie. Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, no. And after everything that happened this morning, I could sure use a pick-me-up.” Did that sound like too blatant a plea for a freebie? And truthfully, Katie felt that a shot of whiskey was more likely to hit the spot, but she didn’t voice the idea.

“You’re in the right place for tea and sympathy,” Tracy said, her voice welcoming. “Come on into the shop.”

“Put the kettle on, Tracy. The walnut scones will be out of the oven in a few minutes,” Mary said, and went back to her work.

Mary had been occupied with customers the day before, so Katie had only told her about the vendors’ meeting before hurrying on to Nona Fiske’s quilt shop. Now she had a real opportunity to study the shop, and was absolutely delighted. Several small tables, with seating for two or four, lined the west wall. Linen-covered, each table held a bud vase with a pink or red carnation and a spray of baby’s breath. The opposite wall housed a large refrigerated case, filled with all sorts of tempting sweets, a counter, and a lovely antique cash register. Dainty rose-patterned wallpaper decorated the walls, with a teacup border edging the ceiling. An old oak schoolhouse clock told Katie it was already after three. Shelf upon shelf of floral teapots and matching cups or mugs, tea cozies, and toast racks were available for sale, as were the packages of imported blended teas Tracy had mentioned the day before.

“The scuttlebutt is Artisans Alley had a break-in overnight,” Tracy said, and moved behind the counter.

“That’s true. My office was ransacked. There’s no telling if the burglar found what he was looking for.”

“This is getting downright scary. That’s why I insisted on being here this afternoon. I don’t want Mom working here alone anymore.” Tracy sighed. “Do you have a tea preference?”

Katie shook her head. “Anything’s fine.”

Tracy grabbed a teapot from one of the shelves. “How about Earl Grey? It’s my favorite.”

Katie nodded, taking in the soothing atmosphere, something she’d hoped to convey if or when she opened the English Ivy Inn. “Your shop is lovely. It makes me want to pull out my checkbook and buy everything in sight.”

Tracy smiled. “That’s just the ambiance we’d hoped for.”

“Of course, the reality is—” Katie started.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Tracy said. “Discretionary spending has been on the wane for a long while now. That’s why Mom still takes on the occasional catering order. She’s working on one now. We had a rough first year, but we’re already pulling in a modest profit. I’m praying that continues.”

Was that yet another veiled reminder that Victoria Square’s merchants were dependent on Artisans Alley for their survival?

Katie took a seat and stared at the linen tabletop. “By any chance do you have time to listen to a sob story?”

Tracy’s smile was warm. “All the time you need.”

While Tracy made the tea, Katie poured out her troubles, starting with the break-in, and backtracking to her heated discussion with Gerald Hilton the evening before. She even told Tracy about her job at Kimper Insurance, and how unhappy she was with the way Josh treated her.

Tracy served the steaming brew in delicate, primrose-patterned bone china cups. “Sorry about your day job, and it sounds like Gerald hasn’t got a leg to stand on. Serves him right for being so mean to the artists.”

Mary joined them, bringing in a tray laden with still-warm scones piled on a three-tiered plate, sweet butter, raspberry jam, and clotted cream to the table. She served, placing a paper-doily-covered plate before each of them.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about a manager for Artisans Alley,” Katie said. “I don’t know anyone else who’s qualified to take over, or even who I can trust. I guess I’ll have to call an employment agency.” She took a bite of the warm, crumbly confection, savored it, and swallowed. Good as it was, it couldn’t hold a candle to the scones her beloved Aunt Lizzie had made.

“Why don’t
you
take charge yourself?” Mary asked, adding a dollop of clotted cream to her scone.

“Me? There’s no way. I have a real job.”

“A job you don’t really like,” Tracy added. “And it sounds like you’re vastly overqualified for it, as well. You ought to make use of that marketing degree of yours.”

“I tried getting jobs in the field, but all the big Rochester firms keep downsizing and firing—not hiring—workers. Besides, I have no practical experience in marketing. At least at Kimper Insurance I have health care and other benefits.”

“Like what?” Mary asked.

“Vacation, for one.”

“Which your boss gives you a hard time about using,” Tracy reminded her.

“Working for Josh Kimper isn’t the best job in the world,” Katie admitted, “but it’s stability. I can’t possibly give it up for Artisans Alley. Especially when I don’t even know if I can keep the place afloat until Christmas—let alone beyond.”

Mary put a hand on Katie’s shoulder. “You don’t have to make up your mind today, dear. Think about it tomorrow when Artisans Alley is closed.” She glanced at the clock. “Oops. I’ve got some mocha chocolate chip cookies in the oven. They’re due to come out right about now.” As if on cue, a bell rang in the kitchen. Mary rose from her seat and hurried off.

“Did you see Ezra’s death notice in the paper this morning?” Katie asked, referring to the announcement notice Seth had placed in the
Democrat and Chronicle
.

Tracy nodded. “In case you didn’t know, Mother and Ezra were . . . friends.”

“Good friends?” Katie asked.

“
Close
friends,” Tracy clarified, and Katie remembered Mary’s sobs upon finding Ezra—her lover?—dead.

“If she’d like some private time with Ezra before the burial, I’d be happy to arrange it.”

Tracy’s gaze darted to the kitchen, then back to Katie. “I’ll let you know. Thank you.”

“Artisans Alley closes in about an hour. I’d better get back.” Katie stood and started for the door, but then she turned. “Thanks for the tea—and the sympathy.”

“I’ll see you at the funeral home tomorrow night,” Tracy said.

Katie headed for the door, and then stopped abruptly, her throat suddenly dry. The memory of Ezra’s still body stretched out on Artisans Alley’s floor filled her mind. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “Ezra’s really dead.” She turned her tear-filled eyes toward Tracy.

Without hesitation, Tracy stepped forward and embraced her, patting her back sympathetically.

“I don’t know why it hit me like this,” Katie said, wiping at her eyes. “But suddenly I just feel so alone.”

“You can handle this. It’s not the end of your world. It’s a new beginning,” Tracy suggested.

“It’s a beginning all right, but of what?”

Tracy didn’t answer, just patted Katie’s back some more.

“I’m sorry,” Katie apologized and pulled away. “I didn’t mean to dump on you like this.”

Tracy smiled with a look of distant pain in her own eyes. “It’s okay. What’re friends for?”

Plywood covered Ezra’s—now Katie’s—broken office window, darkening the room and making Katie feel claustrophobic. She sat at her desk once more, sifting through yet more file folders from the mound on the floor. Once more she came across the key to “Chad’s pad.” Like it or not, one of these days she was going to have to deal with disposing of the items in there. Maybe in a couple of weeks. It might take her that long to work up the courage to read the rest of the journal, too.

Yeah, maybe in a couple of weeks.

Katie reached for another stack of folders and uncovered a framed picture, its broken glass long gone. A young man with curly blond hair and a blithe smile looked back at her.

“Who are you?” she asked, and naturally received no answer. The frame was dime-store etched metal—nothing spectacular—the picture a high school graduation photo.

Shrugging, she set the picture on the desk next to Chad’s and wondered what she should do about her regular job the next day. Artisans Alley was closed on Mondays, so that gave her an extra twenty-four hours to make up her mind about the business’s future. She’d have to tell Josh she had other responsibilities and would need more time off—to attend Ezra’s funeral on Tuesday, and to hire a manager. She’d have to bust her buns trying to catch up with Kimper Insurance’s Friday and Saturday work. That still left the rest of the week to worry about.

Should she open Artisans Alley on Wednesday, or shut down and keep the place open only on the weekends for the time being? Maybe that was the best—her only—option. The artists were paying rent for a six-day week; to cut them back to two . . . they’d expect a rent reduction, and she couldn’t afford that either. Would they leave in droves if she announced a cutback in hours? But what was her alternative? Maybe she could work part-time at both jobs—at least for a couple of weeks . . .

Katie realized she’d been sorting papers into piles, but she hadn’t really looked at any of them. She set the hanging file folder aside and went through the closest pile once again.

One sheet in particular drew her attention: a simple loan agreement for five thousand dollars, typed on standard eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch white paper. Though properly dated and signed, the signature on the agreement was illegible. Ezra probably hadn’t thought it important enough to type in the borrower’s name. He knew who he was giving the money to. Katie studied the squiggly line—the handwriting was totally illegible. Did the signer think he or she was a movie star, or maybe a doctor? One thing was clear. The loan was due to be paid in full on October twenty-third.

The day Ezra died.

Katie read through the simple document once more. Ezra had taken it seriously enough to write it all down, but he was damnably vague about who owed him the money. The loan was dated four months before Chad’s death, and definitely did not contain the borrower’s name beneath the signature. Would Chad have known about it? Had the money come from the Alley’s funds, or was it a personal loan? Could the killer have ransacked the office looking for this one piece of paper?

Katie pulled out the rent checks Vance had given her the evening before, comparing the signatures. No, whoever signed the loan was not one of these artists. Who was to say it was an artist who’d asked Ezra for the loan? Did Ezra’s bank send statements showing miniature versions of each Alley check or were they available as JPG pictures online? She’d have to check. Comparing them to the signature on the loan might be the best way to eliminate any artists as suspects. She’d have to make a trip to Ezra’s house, since she hadn’t seen any evidence of bank statements in the vast sea of dumped Alley files.