“Sure thing,” said the young woman, no doubt eager to collect Tracy’s tips.
Balancing three plates on her arm, Tracy headed back into the dining room.
Mary carefully arranged sandwiches on a plate, adding a parsley garnish, then handed it to the girl. “That tea will be stewed if you don’t serve it soon.”
“I’ll be right back for it,” Janine said, and started for the dining room.
Katie cleared her throat. “Hello, Mary.”
“Good afternoon.”
An arctic breeze would have been warmer than that greeting.
“I hear Peter Ashby’s been killed,” Mary said, her ice blue eyes boring into Katie’s.
“It could’ve been an accident,” Katie said, but even she didn’t believe it.
Tracy reappeared, already untying the apron at her waist. She hung it on a peg on the wall. “I’m going upstairs to check the e-mail orders. Call if you need me, Mom,” she said, and motioned a relieved Katie to follow her up the narrow back stairs.
Skylights helped brighten what could have been a claustrophobically small attic room. Pale pink walls and cozy, incandescent light blanketed the room in warmth. Katie’s mouth dropped and her breath caught in her throat as she took in a painting of multicolored pansies that graced the south wall: no doubt about it, it was one of Chad’s unframed canvases. And very much like the one he’d described in his journal. Something he’d said he’d planned to paint as a gift for Katie. She turned away, taking in the rest of the room.
In the middle of the finished space sat an old oak table, dominated by a computer and piled with papers, a coffee mug, and a haphazard stack of books. The north wall consisted of shelving segmented into pigeon holes, presumably crammed with orders, receipts, and other paperwork.
“Welcome to the empire,” Tracy said with a flourish, and flopped onto the ergonomically correct padded office chair in front of her makeshift desk. Kicking off her thick-soled white shoes, she leaned her head back. “Thank God for high school co-op students.”
Katie blinked, sinking into an overstuffed brown leather club chair directly in front of Tracy’s desk.
“I still have to put in a couple of hours a day waiting tables,” Tracy continued, “but since Janine came to work for us, I’ve been able to catch up on our Internet orders. You ought to get a high school kid to help out at Artisans Alley.”
“I—I could sure use someone to help me wrestle Ezra’s files into order. Thanks for the idea.”
Tracy studied Katie’s face. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said, and half turned. “The picture—”
“I bought it at the Alley. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It—it was one of my late husband’s.”
“Really? He did lovely work.”
“Yes, he did,” Katie said, feeling foolish at her reaction to seeing the painting. He’d most likely sold it because it paid more than a week’s rent. He probably figured he’d do another, similar picture and Katie would never know. Still, it was lovely, and he had originally intended it to be for her ...
“But that’s not what you came here to talk about, is it?” Tracy asked.
Katie shook her head. “I found Peter Ashby dead this morning.”
“So we heard,” Tracy said and shuddered. “Broken neck?”
Katie nodded. “He was my least favorite artist, or at least one of them,” she said, remembering her little altercation with Ida. “But good Lord, what a way to die.”
“At least it was quick,” Tracy said, sounding sensible, if not compassionate. “Do you think it was an accident?”
“The naive part of me wants to. The logical part of me says ‘no way.’”
“Did the cops give you a hard time about it?” Tracy asked.
“Only one: Detective Davenport and I just don’t get along. But I had no motive to kill Ashby.”
Tracy’s eyes widened. “I think he was hoping you did. That mean old goat grilled Mom and me for almost half an hour this morning when we really needed to be setting up to open.”
Something in Katie’s chest tightened. “He grilled you? About what?”
“You, of course.”
Katie’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”
Tracy nodded. “He wanted to know at precisely what time you arrived at Del’s last night. What was your mental state? Were you flustered? When did you leave?”
“That’s just swell,” Katie groused. “He takes an active interest in the case only when he thinks he can pin the murders on me!”
“You wanted him to work harder at his job—you got your wish.”
For a moment Katie wasn’t sure if Tracy was kidding or serious. “I barely knew either of those men. And Peter Ashby was not a nice person.”
Tracy cocked her head to one side, her eyes flashing, her smile sly. “Do tell.”
Katie did. In detail, answering all of Tracy’s questions, wondering if her new friend had missed her calling to be either an investigative reporter or a prosecutor.
Eventually Tracy’s mini-interrogation wound down and she frowned. “What you’ve told me sure paints Ashby in a bad light. But despite being disagreeable, it’s unlikely he killed Ezra. His death is proof of that. So who do you think did it?”
Katie sank farther into her chair. “I haven’t got a clue. And a week after Ezra’s murder, I don’t think the Sheriff’s Office does either.”
Tracy leaned forward, her eyes widening in anticipation. “Okay, spill the dirt—what was it like finding Ashby?”
“Besides scaring the hell out of me?” Katie shrugged. “He wasn’t bloody or anything, just ... dead. He’d been a damned handsome man. Too bad he had the personality of a shoehorn.”
Tracy struggled to stifle a laugh, clearing her throat. “You noticed that, too?”
“How could I miss it?” Katie sank back in her chair, crossing her legs. “Hey, I wanted to thank you for supporting me last night at the Merchants Association meeting.”
“You mean about Andy?”
Katie nodded, a sudden tightness creeping into her muscles. Something about the way Tracy said Andy’s name—a certain familiarity—threw up a red flag.
“Ezra wasn’t about to give Andy a break,” Tracy continued. “He could be kind when he wanted to be, but I made up my mind a long time ago never to cross him.”
“I didn’t know Ezra well, but I guess he scared me a little, too.” Did Katie dare press her new friend about the pizza man?
Why not?
“Until Davenport finds out who’s killing people, I don’t know who to trust. Is Andy Rust reliable? Do you know him at all?”
Tracy seemed to tense. “We were in the same graduating class. I guess I’ve known him since childhood,” she said guardedly.
As evasive an answer as Katie had ever heard.
Tracy knew more than she was telling, but suddenly Katie wasn’t sure she wanted to know how well the woman knew Andy.
And why should Katie feel possessive toward the newest member of the Merchants Association? She’d only met Andy some six days before. Yet spending several hours with him, working with him the evening before, she kinda... sorta . . . wanted to know him better.
Guilt pressed down on her once again. Chad hadn’t even been dead a year. Despite their separation, they’d still been husband and wife, and close to a reconciliation. For the past week she’d done nothing but entertain thoughts of other men: Andy ... Seth. What in the world was wrong with her?
Loneliness! some inner part of her wailed. She was so god-awful lonely she could scream.
“Yoo-hoo! Earth to Katie!” Tracy said, a crooked smile warming her lips.
“Sorry. I kind of zoned out for a minute there.” Katie sighed, depression settling over her. “I haven’t exactly been winning friends and influencing people this past week. Half the artists want to rub me out. I’ve alienated Detective Davenport, and your mother, too.”
Tracy sobered. “Mom doesn’t dislike you. In fa
ct, she admires the way you’ve jumped in to save Artisans Alley. That’s what Ezra would’ve wanted. It’s just—” She stopped, exhaled, and looked away. “Mom gets upset when anyone defends Andy Rust.”
“Because he stole Ezra’s car all those years ago?”
Tracy met Katie’s gaze. “No, because he divorced me.”
Eighteen
Startled, Katie blinked at Tracy, her heart suddenly pounding. “Oh, I’m ... so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Tracy said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I’m not as scarred by the ordeal as Mom thinks I am.” She sighed, the corners of her mouth drooping. “Andy and I were married for three years. People say that a marriage license isn’t important when you’re in love—that it’s just a piece of paper. But it does matter. It represents a lifelong commitment that Andy—”
“Couldn’t accept,” Katie finished.
“No. I was the one who wanted out. I was bored. I thought there might be someone better out there—somewhere—and I was right. I fell for a real outdoorsman, the antithesis of Andy, who was constantly holed up in a stuffy office in Rochester. After three years of marriage, Andy wasn’t at all the man I thought I’d married. I dumped him so fast I don’t doubt his head was spinning. But I really thought I’d met my Mister Right.”
“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?”
A Crafty Killing Page 19