One Hot Murder

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One Hot Murder Page 4

by Lorraine Bartlett


  Katie sighed as she trudged on. She’d have to pull out the Association’s rules and regulations and figure out what to do about it before Wednesday night’s monthly meeting.

  And she’d have to tell Detective Davenport what Fred had told her. She shook her head.

  Dennis…what were you thinking? And why weren’t you honest with us?

  Katie had a feeling that there was a lot more to this whole fiasco than a fire and a suspicious death. A whole lot more.

  Swell.

  Rather than interrupt Davenport’s conversation with Conrad, Katie pulled the cell phone from her jeans pocket and left him a voice mail message and gave him Fred Cunningham’s phone number. He could better answer whatever questions the detective would have.

  She entered the Alley through the front door, greeted several of her vendors and customers, and headed back toward the vendors’ lounge.

  Gwen Hardy, the Alley’s resident weaver, sat at the vintage chrome and Formica table in the lounge, reading the morning paper and nursing a sweating can of pop. A box fan roared behind her. She looked up as Katie entered. “Good morning.”

  “Not so far,” Katie grumbled. She didn’t elaborate and went to pour herself that tall glass of cold water she’d promised herself earlier. She opened the fridge. Not only did she find the water bottle empty, but the ice cube trays in the freezer were in the same condition. Cursing under her breath, she refilled both before downing a cup of lukewarm water from the tap. She’d have to wait several hours for her cooling refreshment.

  Once back in her office, she sat down in her chair and noticed a pile of old papers sitting on what had been her formerly tidy desk. They hadn’t been there when she and the detective had left some twenty minutes before. Katie bent down to set the stack of papers on the small square heater under her desk and–whoosh!—they fell to the floor in an untidy mess. “What the heck?” She bent down and immediately saw the problem: Her heater was missing.

  Muttering a few more curses under her breath, she bent down to collect the papers, tidied the stack, and set it on her desk before leaving her office.

  “Uh-oh. You don’t look happy,” Gwen said, polishing off the last of her pop.

  “It appears that someone has taken the little heater from my office.”

  Gwen blinked, startled. “Who needs heat in the middle of July? The place is as hot as a blast furnace.”

  “I’ve had a few vendors complain that their booths are too cold. They think it keeps customers from buying their crafts.”

  “If any of them want to change booths, they’re welcome to mine. The devil himself could be comfortable in the chaise lounge I’m using to show off my rugs.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk around to see if I can find the guilty culprit.”

  “And what will happen if you find him or her?” Gwen asked, trying to keep from smiling.

  “All hell really will break loose.”

  “Before you go, I was wondering if you could put another sign up on the fridge. I left a six-pack of pop in it the other day and it’s all gone. I labeled them and everything.”

  Every few weeks, lunches, pop, and any other food item not nailed down would disappear from the fridge. All the vendors came and went and Katie never really paid attention to who was putting things in or taking things out of the community refrigerator—and nobody would admit to liberating items that did not belong to them either.

  “I’d like to know who keeps ripping down my signs,” Katie said with a rueful shake of her head. “I’ll do it as soon as I get back.”

  Gwen toasted her with her empty pop can. “Thanks.”

  Katie took a few steps forward and then paused. “Are you coming to the potluck dinner on Saturday night?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “What are you bringing?”

  “Since this is supposed to be a Christmas party, I thought I’d bring some fudge. Goodness knows I haven’t had any since the holidays.”

  “Oh, sinful!” Katie said and laughed. She liked Gwen. Unlike now, maybe at the much-delayed Christmas party she might actually have time to have a real conversation with the woman.

  Katie made a quick circuit around the back of the Alley, straining to listen for the familiar sound of the heater’s rather noisy fan. She’d gotten so she looked forward to hearing it on a cold day in winter. It would be several more months before she thought she’d hear it again. The only problem was—she didn’t hear it running. Did that mean someone had taken it from her office and removed it from the building? Could whoever took it be the same person who’d been raiding the fridge?

  Maybe she had a bigger problem than the missing soda cans.

  Rose Nash knew just about everything that went on in Artisans Alley. Katie decided to check in with her before she made what she anticipated was another fruitless course around the first floor.

  Rose was at her register with what had to be the first customer of the day, and her wrapper hadn’t yet arrived. Katie stepped up behind her and began to wrap several beautiful pottery plates with a peacock motif and an iridescent glaze.

  Rose finished the transaction, bade the customer good-bye, and turned to face Katie. “Thanks for stepping in.”

  “I can’t stay long.”

  “That’s okay, Liz just went to help a customer. She should be right back. What’s up?”

  “The heater in my office is missing. I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

  Rose smiled. “I didn’t take it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Rose’s gaze traveled over Katie’s shoulder and suddenly Katie knew just where to find her personal heater.

  “Looks like it’s time to visit the tag room,” she said. Rose handed her the chipped coffee mug containing the sales tags she had just taken off the merchandise. “Here. As long as you’re going in there, put Ida to work.”

  Katie accepted the mug and headed for the tag room, hoping she would be able to keep her temper in check. Dealing with Ida was always an ordeal. The woman suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder. She had to do everything in exacting order all the time. She seemed incapable of breaking her set routine, and understanding the social norms that most people took for granted. Ezra Hilton had felt sorry for Ida and allowed her to keep her booth rent-free for a number of years. That had to change when Katie became manager—she’d needed to pull Artisans Alley out of the red, and fast. However, she wasn’t without compassion and had allowed Ida to display her handmade lace on a shelf in one of the display cases out back in exchange for her work in the tag room—something Ida seemed content to consider as her life’s work.

  Katie stood at the tag room’s door and peered inside. Ida sat on one of the folding chairs, hunched over the long table, inspecting one of the vendor’s tags, then turned to the correct stack of papers, shuffled through them, and carefully reached for her Scotch tape, grabbed a piece, and attached the tag to the paper. Then she carefully stacked the papers and began the process once again.

  Katie sighed. No wonder it took the woman so long to do the task. Why didn’t she just sort all the tags into piles corresponding to the numbered sheets of paper and then attach them?

  It wouldn’t do any good to argue with Ida. In fact, just saying hello could turn into a difficult conversation. And sure enough, Katie’s small square heater was cranking away behind Ida, who probably had a very warm butt to show for it. Oddly enough, she was dressed in a sleeveless top, shorts that showed her ample cellulite, and sandals. No wonder she was cold sitting under an air-conditioning duct.

  “Ahem,” Katie said.

  Ida continued to examine the sales tags before her.

  Katie cleared her throat even louder.

  Ida did not look up.

  Annoyed, Katie stepped into the room. “Ida?”

  The older woman grabbed another piece of tape and placed it on a sales tag and put them both on another of the paper sheets before her.

  “Ida!�
� Katie tried again, much louder.

  Still no reaction. Did the woman need a hearing aid?

  Katie marched over to her heater and hit the off switch. The fan continued to run for at least another thirty seconds as Katie stood there, glaring at Ida. When the fan finally quit, Ida’s head jerked up, as though she’d just awakened from a doze. She saw Katie standing over her and squealed in surprise.

  “Goodness! Were you trying to scare me?” she accused.

  “I’ve been trying to get your attention for more than a minute,” Katie said.

  “Well, you might have called me by name,” Ida admonished.

  “I did—and more than once.”

  “Oh…well.” Ida shrugged and returned her attention to her work.

  “Ida, why did you take this heater from my office?” Katie asked.

  Ida didn’t look up. “I was cold.”

  “I don’t appreciate people taking my things.”

  Ida grabbed another piece of tape and stuck down another tag.

  Katie unplugged the heater and picked it up. It wasn’t exactly heavy, but it wasn’t featherlight either. Suddenly Ida seemed to come back to the here and now.

  “You can’t take that away.”

  “It’s mine,” Katie reminded her.

  “Yes, but I’m using it.”

  “Without my permission,” Katie reminded her.

  “Why would I need permission to use it?” Ida asked.

  “Because it doesn’t belong to you.”

  “But without it, I’ll be cold.”

  “Then I suggest you dress more appropriately in the future.”

  “How?”

  Katie sighed. “If you know you’ll be cold working here in the tag room, then you should wear slacks and long sleeves—or bring a sweater when you come here.”

  Ida waved a hand in annoyance. “That’s really stupid. I’d be much too hot when I drive here and then when I go back home at closing time.”

  “Does your car have air-conditioning?” Katie asked.

  “Yes, but I never use it. The car uses more gas when you turn on the AC. Everybody knows that, and I’m on a tight budget.”

  “Believe it or not, so is Artisans Alley,” Katie said. The bulky heater was getting heavy, making her arms ache.

  “How does that affect me?” Ida asked, clueless.

  “You are not to use this heater. Tomorrow I want you to bring a sweater,” Katie reiterated.

  “But then my legs and feet will be cold.”

  “Bring some sweatpants and socks.”

  “I can’t wear socks with sandals,” Ida said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that just looks dumb,” she asserted.

  Katie sighed. There was no use arguing with the woman. She turned and stalked out of the room.

  “Hey, bring that heater back,” Ida called, but Katie ignored her and headed out the door.

  Rose had been waiting for Katie to return to the main showroom. “You got your heater,” she said in amazement.

  “Of course I did. It’s mine.”

  “But without it, Ida will be cold.”

  Rose was beginning to sound just like Ida. “She only has to work another seven hours and then she can go bake in her car on the drive home.”

  Rose looked appalled. “But Ida’s old.”

  “And…” Katie had to stop and remind herself that Ida was…special. Therefore, she did not holler “aggravating.” Instead, she headed back to her office. “And I have to get back to work,” she said in exasperation.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  The phone was ringing when Katie got back to her office. She put the heater down and was about to answer it when it went silent. Rose must have answered it up front.

  Katie sat down at her desk and started straightening the papers that had been living on the heater for the past few weeks when she heard a loud boop over the intercom. “Katie, call for you on line one,” came Rose’s voice.

  Katie lifted the phone’s receiver and pressed the blinking hold button. “Katie Bonner.”

  “Katie, my love, what are you doing for lunch?”

  Katie smiled. She and her lawyer, Seth Landers, had been lunching together at least once a week since the first week she’d taken over Artisans Alley. “I hope I’m having it with you. But why are you calling on a Sunday?”

  “There’s a chance I’ll be tied up in court all week. And I didn’t want to miss out on your company.”

  “You make me blush.”

  “It’s very becoming.”

  She actually did blush. “Okay, where shall we meet?”

  “How about our place?”

  Katie shook her head. Their place was Del’s Diner. Seth had a particular fondness for their meatloaf platter. “Meet you there at noon?”

  “How about ten after.”

  “You’ve got a date.”

  “See you there,” he said and rang off.

  Katie settled the phone back on its cradle. Andy had never been jealous of the time she spent with Seth, who was gay—no need to feel threatened at all, although Katie would have enjoyed seeing Andy just the slightest bit jealous…at least once.

  But Katie was looking forward to this lunch date for more than just the egg salad on rye she was likely to order. Seth was the only lawyer in town and had once specialized in real estate law. Chances were the new owners of the Webster mansion had employed his services to seal the deal, and if so, she fully intended to pick his brain about them.

  Before Katie could start work again, the phone rang. Hopefully it was something Rose could handle, so she turned her attention to her computer. It was time to start hounding those who were late with their rent. She opened her spreadsheet and heard the boop of the intercom. “Katie, call for you on line one.”

  It was a wonder Katie ever got anything done. She picked up the receiver. “Katie Bonner here.”

  “Katie? It’s Vonne Barnett.”

  For a moment, Katie drew a blank on the name.

  “From Afternoon Tea?” Vonne reminded her.

  Ah yes. The new co-owner of the recently reopened tea shop on the Square.

  “What can I do for you, Vonne?”

  “It’s that Fiske woman again.”

  Katie closed her eyes and let her head droop. Swell. Just before the tea shop reopened, Nona Fiske, owner of The Quiet Quilter, had put out signs giving her shop designated parking—in direct violation of the Merchants Association’s charter, and directly infringing on the area around the tea shop. She’d been told to take them down, had at first refused, and then grudgingly done so, but apparently they were back up again.

  “It’s bad enough this heat wave has kept people from visiting the shop…” Who wanted to drink hot tea when it was ninety-plus degrees outside? “But now she’s kept the few that do show up from parking in front of our shop.”

  “I will speak to her again. And I will make a point to bring it up at the Merchants Association meeting on Wednesday. Will you be there?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. My mom has been out of town, but she heard about the murder at Wood U. She’s very upset. Will you be addressing that, too?”

  “I’m sure the topic will come up.”

  “We heard about the other killings on the Square, but we thought that was over. I’m not sure we would have opened here if we’d known there were going to be more killings.”

  “I understand your concerns. These things usually happen in a fit of passion, and there seems to be a lot of passion here on the Square.”

  “I just hope it’s the heat and not this latest death that’s keeping my customers away,” Vonne said.

  Katie sighed. “Me, too.”

  “I’d better get back to work. I suppose there’s a chance somebody might show up for brunch,” Vonne said.

  “Good-bye,” Katie said and hung up the phone.

  Fine. Another problem. She’d had no idea when she was suckered into taking the job how much time being pre
sident of the Merchants Association would be.

  Sweat rolled down her neck as Katie twirled the knob on her Rolodex, and then called The Quiet Quilter. It rang several times before an answering machine picked up, telling Katie that the store was closed Sundays. She’d expected as much and hung up the phone. Now she’d have to trudge across the lot and remove the cement-filled wheels that held the signs. She’d roll them to the back of The Quiet Quilter, which would make it more difficult for sixty-something Nona, who was rather petite, to haul them back out. But first she’d draft a note and attach it to the front and back doors of the shop so Nona would find it first thing Monday morning—no matter which entrance she came in.

  She put a sheet of Merchants Association letterhead in the printer, typed up a note, and hit the print button. Next up, to build an even greater sweat hauling those heavy signs out of the parking lot.

  Some days Katie absolutely loathed the sight of Victoria Square.

  Four

  Lunchtime approached, and Ida was on the warpath. She stood outside the tag room, rubbing her arms as though she were shivering, and telling anyone who would listen—vendors and customers—what a terrible, mean witch (although she told them they should substitute the w with a b) Katie was.

  Katie ignored her as she sailed out the front door and headed for the strip mall a few blocks away that housed a number of businesses—including Del’s Diner. Although the temperature was in the mid-nineties, her car was sure to be over one hundred and twenty degrees, and it wasn’t worth frying to travel such a short distance. She’d be just as hot and sweaty in the car as walking, and anyway, she needed a break from sitting at the desk in her stuffy office.

  Katie had nearly reached the melting point when she stepped inside Del’s, which felt like a refrigerator compared to the great outdoors. She looked across the booths, which were divided by a central aisle, and saw Seth in the back, waving for her to join him.

  Seth sipped his iced tea as Katie slipped into the booth seat opposite him. “Hot day,” he said. Most days he was dressed in a suit coat, but today he sat there in a golf shirt, looking relaxed. “I thought I’d melt on the drive over here. My AC never got a chance to really kick in.”

  “That’s why I walked. I feel cooked, too.”

 

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