A Crafty Killing

by Lorraine Bartlett

She set the carton in the Focus’s trunk, got in the car, and started the engine. It was only then that her hands began to tremble. Putting the car in gear, she drove to the exit and waited for a break in the traffic. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw Josh still standing in the parking lot. She could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.

  Instead of heading home, Katie went straight to Artisans Alley. She took the carton from her trunk and transferred it to her new work environment, plunking Chad’s picture, the philodendron, and her candy jar onto the back corner of Ezra’s desk—her desk. She thought she’d feel terrified, giving up her financial security, but as she looked around the shabby office, exhilaration filled her. She knew the panic would come later.

  First things first. She called Tracy, but it was too late to arrange for an after-funeral gathering. Tracy recommended Blueberry Catering in nearby Parma, who were only too glad to take on the assignment—for a surcharge, owing to the lateness of the order. They promised they’d arrive with an assortment of finger foods, cookies, and punch for one hundred, and set up in Artisans Alley’s lobby. Thank goodness Edie Silver had already moved her wares to her new booth on the second floor the day before.

  The repair guys showed up, took down the plywood, and replaced the window in Katie’s office. She liked the sound of that: her office. After they left, she ignored the mess from the weekend break-in and spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out the computer program that would sort the inventory data and spit out vendor checks. After a few stops and starts, the computer complied. She was grateful Chad had left such precise documentation. Then she signed each and every one, and decided to buy a signature stamp before the next week. Writer’s cramp was no fun at all.

  The afternoon waned. Katie locked up Artisans Alley, stopped at the bank to make her first deposit, and was about to head home when on impulse she turned right instead of left at the village’s main crossroad. Artisans Alley’s survival might rely on the new marina. It was time to check it out.

  The drive to the lakeshore took less than five minutes. Preoccupied with her job at Kimper Insurance these past eight months, Katie hadn’t seen the extent of the development, and was surprised to find it farther along than she’d imagined. She parked her car in the little municipal lot and headed out on foot.

  It was sad to see the seasonal businesses shuttered for the long, dreary, Western New York winter. The Hot Pointe burger and ice cream stand looked forlorn in the encroaching twilight. Sylvan’s Souvenirs, which sold trinkets, banners, and wind socks, was also closed for the season. Outside its door stood a big ice freezer—a commodity not in demand in late fall—ready to fill the coolers for the fishermen’s catches come summer.

  The old Gray Gull Tavern on the water’s edge had been newly shingled, looking a lot more upscale, and its name had been changed to The Pelican’s Roost. Katie and Chad had eaten there often before they decided to save every extra penny in order to open the English Ivy Inn. She’d eaten a lot of boxed macaroni and cheese since those days. As in the tavern’s previous incarnation, cheerful neon beer signs glowed in the front bay windows, and a blue-and-white-striped awning flapped over the deck out back, hinting at lunches and dinners alfresco in warmer temperatures. Had the changes been made in anticipation of increased foot traffic? But what about the name? No pelican had ever roosted in this part of the country—or ever would.

  Pulling up her collar against the wind, Katie strolled farther down the street. A sign in front of Captain Jack’s boat rental promised twenty additional slips come the new year, along with an expanded bait and tackle shop. She traveled on.

  At the end of Thompson’s Landing, the skeleton of what would be the new marina was already taking shape. The builder’s announcement stated there would be room for more than one hundred boats, a bathhouse, and restaurant facilities—opening Memorial Day weekend. A cheerful banner said, SEE YOU THEN!

  “I don’t think they’ll make it,” she muttered to herself.

  “Of course they will.”

  Katie whirled to find McKinlay Mill’s most successful real estate agent, Fred Cunningham, striding toward her, his steel-colored crew cut standing up to the stiff breeze.

  Fred paused beside her, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and crossed his arms over his chest, his tawny camelhair coat making him look like a chubby teddy bear. He fixed his gaze on the steel beams silhouetted against the gray sky. “She’ll be a beauty.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “And there’s talk of building a water park closer to the village. Can you imagine that?”

  “No,” Katie admitted, feeling overwhelmed. “I can’t.”

  “It’s just what McKinlay Mill needs to put us on the map.”

  “Do you really think so?” Katie asked.

  “Definitely. I was on my way to an appointment with a potential investor at The Pelican’s Roost when I saw you standing here. You can’t believe the interest that’s been shown in McKinlay Mill in the last few months. Things are about to explode here on the lakeshore.”

  “You could be right,” Katie admitted. “I was shocked at how Ezra Hilton’s murder brought new customers to Victoria Square.”

  “That was unfortunate, but the killing was an aberration. Check the stats, my dear; McKinlay Mill is one of the safest communities in the state. And once boating season starts, nobody will even remember it happened.”

  “That’s a sad commentary on Ezra’s worth as a person,” Katie said.

  “Business is business,” Fred said with a shrug.

  Katie sighed. “I suppose you’re right. And I’m glad I ran into you, Fred. I’ve been meaning to call you about listing the retail space in Artisans Alley.”

  Fred’s eyes widened. “I like the sound of that. And as a matter of fact, I’ve got a client looking to open a dance studio. Can I bring her by later this week so she can look at the space?”

  “You sure can.”

  “And I have another client looking for office space.”

  “The more the merrier,” Katie said, a shot of hope coursing through her.

  Fred sobered. “Ezra was a great guy, but not always the best businessman. I could’ve had that space rented out a long time ago, but he wouldn’t give me a chance.”

  “I have every confidence in you.”

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, and we’ll talk more about it.”

  “Yes, please do. Will you be at Ezra’s wake tonight?”

  Fred shook his head. “Sorry, can’t make it. I have two meetings this evening, and I’m showing warehouse space to another client at eight. The market around here is sure heating up.” He looked at his watch. “Oh, gosh, I’m going to be late.” He gave her a quick salute. “See you later, Katie.”

  Katie watched as Fred hurried down the sidewalk for the bar before she turned back to face the muddy expanse of land the marina would soon occupy. She thought about what Fred had said. If progress, in the form of new development, brought more people to McKinlay Mill, she had a better shot at pulling Artisans Alley out of debt, selling it, and fulfilling her own entrepreneurial dreams.

  Development was supposed to be a good thing.

  And if that was true, then why did it feel so wrong?

  Katie made it home before the horizon completely swallowed the sun. As she feared, her fridge was still empty, and her cat Mason’s stash of kitty kibble was no more inviting than it had been the night before. She made a fuss over, and then fed, the black-and-white cat, found a box of stale crackers, slapped some peanut butter on them, downed them with a tall glass of milk, and completed her dining experience for the night. After changing into the same black suit she’d worn to Chad’s wake, she headed for Collier’s Funeral Home.

  The parking lot was empty when she arrived, but the front door stood open. Luther Collier met her, taking both her hands in his. “Mrs. Bonner, I’m so sorry we have to meet again under such painful circumstances.”

  The elderly, white-haired gentleman had been McKinlay Mill’s u
ndertaker for as long as anyone could remember, inheriting the business from his own father decades ago.

  “Thank you, Mr. Collier.”

  “Ezra is in the Rose Room. He’s our only client tonight. I’m sure there’ll be a large turnout. He was respected by most of the community.”

  Only most of them?

  Collier led her into the large room, which glowed with soft pink incandescent light—the better to give the dead a rosy complexion. Rows of folding chairs took up half the open area, leaving space for a receiving line and enough room to mingle. Comfortable couches lined the walls of the room, with end tables on either side bearing glowing lamps and boxes of tissues. At least ten sprays of flowers brightened the gloom that even the cream-colored walls and mauve draperies could not dispel. Katie hadn’t thought to send flowers.

  Katie’s stomach tightened as Mr. Collier gripped her elbow and propelled her forward toward the coffin. Scrutinizing the dead always made her uncomfortable, reminding her of her own mortality. She’d decided on a closed casket for Chad, who’d died of head injuries from the crash. Luther had done his best, but she’d seen none of the man she’d married in the battered, lifeless husk that remained.

  Ezra lay in the open coffin, his once-proud nose pointing toward the ceiling, his glasses clasped in his waxy, sallow-skinned hands. Seth Landers had made all of Ezra’s arrangements. Had he gone to Ezra’s house to pick out a suit?

  “I don’t even remember when I last saw Ezra alive,” Katie murmured. She and Ezra had conducted most of their business over the phone. She’d brought the last of Chad’s stored merchandise to round out his booth several weeks before, but she’d been in too much of a hurry to stay and chat with Ezra. Now she wished she had.

  Collier’s round, pink face loomed. He seemed to be waiting for praise for a job well-done.

  “Ezra looks very ...” Katie stumbled over a descriptor. “Natural.”

  No, he didn’t. He looked dead. Someone had stolen what remaining precious days the old man might have enjoyed. Katie’s fists clenched at her sides, her eyes filling with tears.

  Collier patted her arm, misinterpreting her emotional state. “I’ll give you a few moments alone with him,” he said, and withdrew.

  Katie stared at the casket’s brass handles. “It’s okay, Ezra, I’m going to manage Artisans Alley myself. I’ll give it my best shot and keep it going for as long as I can.” She raised her gaze to take in Ezra’s still form, as inert as the earth he’d soon be committed to.

  Katie sighed and turned away, checking out the flowers and reading the cards that accompanied them. The Artisans Alley vendors had purchased a large spray of gladioli—had Rose arranged that?—as had the Victoria Square merchants. Seth had sent a bouquet, and she was surprised to find one with her own name on the card. Seth must have ordered that, too. Trust him to take care of everything.

  Mary Elliott had sent a dozen red roses. “For thine eyes did shine, and made me happy,” the card read. The card on a bouquet of pink carnations and baby’s breath, from Nona Fiske, declared, Undying devotion. Katie couldn’t place a face with the name, although it seemed familiar. The rest of the cards were from strangers. Nothing from Ezra’s nephew, Gerald, she noticed.

  “Mrs. Bonner?”

  Katie turned at the unfamiliar voice. Not totally unfamiliar, it turned out: Detective Davenport.

  “I was beginning to think you’d given up investigating Ezra’s death,” she said, unable to hide her irritation.

  “Merely being efficient. The victim’s wake is the perfect time for me to speak with most of his friends and family.”

  And totally tacky, Katie thought, bristling at the detective’s tone. “Before he was ever a victim, Ezra was a person.”

  “I realize that, but I’m sorry to say this isn’t my only case.”

  “Have you done anything to find the murderer?”

  Davenport exhaled, as though bored. “As I told you, that’s why I’m here.”

  Katie crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, and I suppose you think the murderer is just going to show up and stroll over to the coffin tonight?”

  Davenport didn’t even blink. “Quite possibly, yes.”

  Eight

  Why did wakes so often resemble cocktail parties, Katie wondered. The only things missing were adult beverages and delicious finger foods. And of course, the participation of the guest of honor.

  Laughter cut the air again. Katie glanced toward a knot of men standing near Ezra’s casket, the tallest among them being that hunk Peter Ashby. Had he or one of the others just told a joke? Clad in beige Dockers and a brown bomber jacket, Ashby looked like something out of a movie, and had the eye of more than one woman in the room. Had he left his Indiana Jones fedora and bullwhip at home?

  Katie had stationed herself at the doorway, hoping to meet, greet, and memorize the names and faces of everyone who’d come to pay their respects to Ezra, but soon realized the task was futile. It seemed that just about everybody in McKinlay Mill had shown up. Had they actually known Ezra, or had morbid curiosity drawn them to take a look at McKinlay Mill’s first murder victim in decades?

  Dry-eyed and pale, a demure Mary Elliott sat on one of the low couches against the wall, clutching a damp tissue and staring at nothing, while her stylishly dressed daughter, Tracy, stood nearby, looking bored. A prudish-looking woman with pursed lips and dressed in widow’s weeds kept glaring at Mary from across the room, her gaze filled with hostility.

  Gilda Ringwald, the basket shop owner, passed by and Katie snagged her. “Thanks so much for coming, Gilda.”

  “It was the least I could do for poor Ezra.” Gilda glanced across the room at the body and shook her head sadly. “Such a shame.”

  A momentary, awkward silence fell between them, which Katie broke. “Has the Merchants Association set the time and place for their next meeting?”

  “Thursday evening at Del’s Diner. Six fifteen sharp. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll be there,” Katie said. She nodded toward the grim-faced woman. “I’m having a hard time pinning names to faces. Could you remind me of that lady’s name?”

  “Nona Fiske. She runs the Square’s quilt shop.”

  Katie remembered the card on the flowers: Undying devotion. “I understand she and Ezra were good friends,” she bluffed.

  Gilda leaned closer. “Very good friends. But that was before Mary Elliott opened her tea shop,” she said, her voice filled with reproach.

  “Were Ezra and Nona lovers?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but they were close enough that Nona thought about closing her shop and relocating once Mary moved in on Ezra. Seeing that woman walk across the Square to Artisans Alley every day with a plate full of goodies was like a stake in poor Nona’s heart.”

  So, the way to a man’s heart really was through his stomach.

  It was hard enough imagining Ezra even having a sex life at his age—let alone with Nona Fiske. Perfect nunnery material there, with her prim collars, midi-length skirts, and sensible shoes. But then, maybe that was why Ezra had been attracted to the vivacious Mary Elliott, the complete antithesis of the Square’s quilter. Mary looked at least ten years younger than her fifty-odd years, with a body a forty-year-old would covet.

  Was it possible Ezra’s death had been merely the result of a lover’s spat? That didn’t seem likely. Surely it made more sense to eliminate the competition rather than the object of one’s affection. But Ezra had obviously known his killer—had let that person into Artisans Alley and trusted him or her enough to turn his back on them.

  Katie changed the subject. “I’m hosting a reception at Artisans Alley after the service tomorrow. I hope you can make it.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” Gilda said.

  “Feel free to tell the others, too. Although I’ll also have Mr. Collier announce it at the service tomorrow.”

  Gilda nodded, and then her gaze drifted. “Oh, there’s Ben Stillwell. Excuse me, but I must go
speak with him.” She hurried across the room, leaving Katie alone once more.

  As she studied the faces around her, Katie realized she recognized only a few of the artists from Artisans Alley. She’d already spoken with Rose Nash, and was beginning to feel isolated among the crowd of strangers. Then Seth Landers walked through the main entrance. Although before this week she’d known the attorney only casually, she thought they could be more than friends. Especially since that kiss the other day . . . Okay, it was only on the cheek—but that still counted.

  “How are you, Katie?” Seth asked, pausing before her and taking her hands in his own. His fingers were warm and dry, his touch sending a flutter of excitement through her.

  “Pretty good, under the circumstances. I’m glad you could make it.”

  Seth glanced toward the casket, his mouth settling into a frown. “I hate these things. The person you’d really like to speak to is beyond reach.”

  Amen, Katie silently agreed.

  “At least Ezra got a good turnout,” Seth said, glancing around the room, taking in those who’d assembled to pay their respects.

  “Including the police,” Katie said.

  Seth raised an eyebrow.

  “That man in the trench coat,” she said, nodding toward Davenport.

  Seth turned, stared at the man in the rumpled raincoat, and frowned. “Who does he think he is, Columbo?”

  Katie smiled. “My thoughts exactly. The one person I haven’t seen is Gerald Hilton. I met him on Saturday. He didn’t know I was already part-owner at Artisans Alley.”

  Seth’s eyes twinkled. “You don’t say.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “Let’s just say the younger Mr. Hilton was more than a bit arrogant, telling me how he wanted events to unfold. I listened without comment and he went away, very pleased with himself. Did he give you any trouble?” Seth asked, concern tingeing his voice.

  “Not unless you count his threat of mayhem.”

  At Seth’s startled expression, Katie explained, making light of the incident, but the attorney’s expression remained somber.