A Crafty Killing

by London Lovett

  There was no sign of Henrietta Lopez. The quilts she'd hung from a wire waved softly in the breeze, creating a colorful curtain around her kiosk. Violet, the soap maker, had apparently stood her ground. Her booth was stacked high with colorful bars of soap wrapped in brown parchment and tied up neatly with twine. Violet was counting money in a cash box, getting ready for a flurry of sales. When I had the time to switch from reporter to shopper mode, I planned to check out the soaps. They would make excellent gifts for Cider Ridge guests.

  Juniper Carlson, the mini-garden creator, had all her small gardens displayed. She sat at the corner of her kiosk putting together a new garden. Tiny pruned plants looked like trees with gnarled branches. The mini trees created an arch that led to a small grassy knoll covered in green moss. A sweet, little white church, complete with steeple and teensy stained glass windows, sat on the knoll overlooking a garden. Juniper was biting her lip in concentration as she placed a miniature gray tombstone in the church graveyard.

  I approached the kiosk. "How charming," I noted.

  My voice startled her for a second but then a gracious smile followed. "The church and steeple garden is one of my bestsellers. I've been wanting to create one for myself. I decided to use the time between customers to finish this project." She glanced at the press pass hanging around my neck. "I see you're here bright and early to get ahead of the crowds."

  "Yes, and quite the crowd it is. The line stretched on forever." I glanced down the aisle toward the quilter's booth. "I was hoping to talk with Henrietta since she's in charge of all this."

  That remark drew a scoffing laugh. "I suppose she thinks so. I haven't seen her this morning. You'd think she would have been here early with her important position and all." A nice dose of derision came with the statement. "I got here early. I wanted to make sure everything looked just right." She took a few seconds to adjust a fairy garden, the centerpiece of her displays. It was quite detailed with hand painted red toadstools, butterflies, forest animals and of course, colorful resin fairies.

  Even though she was making some last minute adjustments, Juniper didn't seem too busy to answer a few questions. "You might have noticed I'm with the Junction Times." I held my pass up in case she hadn't noticed. "I'm writing about the craft fair. How long have you been doing these fairs?"

  A large smile crossed her face. "Will I be part of the article?" Before I could answer, she continued. "I've been creating these mini gardens for about five years. Before that I sold candles."

  "You were a candle maker? I've always thought that would be fun."

  "Well, I didn't make the candles. I just decorated them with rhinestones and resin flowers. They were popular at the time, but I believe in changing with the times. Mini gardens are popular now."

  "Yes, I've noticed. Are you part of the Crafting Society?"

  That question erased the smile, then she laughed. "That's just a silly name for a silly group of people who've deemed themselves more talented than everyone else. I don't concern myself with anything like that. I'm far too busy with my creations." She glanced up and spotted something behind me. "Here comes Katy Michaels. She's a member of the society. Maybe you can interview her." It seemed I'd insulted her with my question. It had been totally innocent on my part. Maybe I should have known better. Prudence had mentioned that the group was very particular about their members. Prudence let on that she was hurt by the rejection but then realized she didn't really have the talent level required.

  Katy Michaels reached Juniper's kiosk. I finally remembered where I'd heard the name before. Katy was the woman with the beautiful door wreaths, the one Emily followed on Instagram. Katy had a fresh pink complexion. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears. This morning she was wearing a cute straw cowboy hat that was festooned with silk flowers. She smiled politely as she approached.

  "Juni, have you seen Henri? The guys running the barbecue said the paper plates never arrived." She waved toward the quilter's booth. Still no sign of Henrietta.

  "I haven't seen her," Juniper answered without looking up from her task of pruning a small plant into a shrub. "She's probably running around making sure everything is perfect." Juniper looked up and grinned. "You know how she likes to boss people around."

  Katy's slight frown assured me she wasn't on board with Juniper's assessment. Her demeanor and tone changed. "I'll ask someone else." She shot me a cursory glance as she turned around.

  "You're Katy Michaels, the wreath maker," I said before she could walk away. Her demeanor changed back to cheery.

  "Yes, that's me."

  "My sister, Emily, follows you on Instagram. She loves your wreaths. I'm going to stop by your kiosk and pick a few wreaths for my home, the Cider Ridge Inn."

  Her blue eyes widened beneath the wide brim of the hat. "You're the owner of the Cider Ridge Inn? I love that place. I hear you're doing quite the remodel." She snapped her fingers. "Emily," she said suddenly. "You're sister is Emily Cassidy. I follow her cooking blog. She has some fantastic recipes. Her banana muffins are my favorite." Her expression was positively sparkling, and I was sure mine was too. Juniper put her radio on rather loudly to let us know she wasn't appreciating the conversation happening right in front of her kiosk.

  We stepped out of radio range, more in the center of the walking aisle.

  "I think I have the perfect wreaths for your inn. I'll put them aside. When you get a chance, stop by my booth and give them a look. I'll give you a special discount since you're Emily's sister."

  "Thank you. That's really kind of you. Emily will be here later too."

  Katy clapped excitedly. "We'll finally meet in person. I suppose I should get back to finding Henrietta. Otherwise, the customers will be eating tri-tip from their palms. I think I'll check her kiosk and see if she wrote a note in case people were looking for her. I'll see you later."

  "Yes, can't wait to see the wreaths."

  Katy headed over to Henrietta's quilt stand. I returned to Juniper. I didn't want to leave her with hurt feelings.

  "Juniper, I'm going to need a garden or two for the inn. Which ones work well inside?"

  Juniper put down her dainty pruning shears. "I have some charming little gardens with indoor plants. Of course, you'll want to place them in the sun occasionally, but not when it's snowing or frosty outside."

  A terrified scream put an end to all the conversations and activity in the park. Juniper's hand flew to her chest. "What's going on? Who's screaming?"

  My investigative instincts kicked in and I headed toward the sound. It was easy enough to find the source when I spotted Katy Michaels stumbling away from Henrietta's quilts. "Hurry, hurry, somebody call an ambulance. Something is wrong with Henri."

  Several people, me included, raced toward Henri's booth. Katy's entire body was shaking as she pointed toward the ground. "She's behind that row of quilts," she blurted. "There's something very wrong."

  As the ambulance was called, I entered the kiosk and pushed the curtain of quilts back. Henrietta Lopez was half curled on her side, limp and unconscious and quite possibly dead.

  I took hold of her wrist to check for a pulse. Her hand was cold and rubbery. With all the chaos and noise around me, including the adrenaline pumping through my body, it was hard to concentrate, but after a long minute I assured myself there was no pulse.

  "Let's use one of her quilts to cover her," someone suggested. I went along with it, not wanting to alarm all her friends and craft mates. I pulled one of her lovely quilts down from its hanger and placed it gently over her body pretending to take care to make her more comfortable. Only my ministrations were in vain. Henrietta Lopez was never going to feel the warmth or admire the beauty of her quilts again.

  Chapter 12

  The start of the fair had been delayed. A collective groan of frustration rumbled outside the park. Shoppers who'd arrived early to get in line were going to have to wait longer. They'd soon be stunned by the arrival of emergency vehicles. The ambulance would also serve as
an explanation for the delay. If my conclusion was correct, the fair might be delayed by an entire day. If the victim was indeed deceased, which all my knowledge and experience told me was the case, then the coroner would be called. If foul play was suspected, Jackson would be summoned as well.

  I'd just seen Henrietta the day before, engaged in an energetic argument with Violet, the soap maker. I took a quick survey of the onlookers gathered in front of the kiosk. Most everyone looked rightfully distressed. In particular, I sought out Violet. She was standing with two other women, all wearing grave expressions. However, if I was being entirely objective, I would say that Violet looked the least worried.

  From what I'd witnessed, Henrietta appeared to be a robust, lively woman. However, that didn't rule out the possibility she suffered some kind of acute health problem, a heart attack or stroke. But with so many people around, it seemed improbable that she didn't at least alert someone she wasn't feeling well. I'd heard more times than I cared to the story about Uncle Reginald, a distant relative, who had spent an entire day mowing his lawn, pruning his roses and trimming the hedges. Then the poor man walked inside to get a drink of water and fell over dead on the kitchen floor. It had been a heart attack yet, from all accounts, he'd been absolutely fine before his death. I'd always complained that the story had holes. Reginald was a widower and lived alone. It was hard to know whether or not he was feeling poorly before his death. It was possible he had felt chest pain or shortness of breath but ignored the symptoms. He wouldn't be the first . . . or the last.

  That thought drew my gaze back to the quilt covered body. Her deathly stillness was starting a fever pitched rumor around the crowd. "Is she dead? I don't understand. Why is she not moving," a woman rightly asked.

  Suddenly, I realized all eyes were on me for the answer. Katy shot me a knowing look through the circle of worried faces. She knew. She saw the same thing I did. Henrietta was dead.

  "Henrietta is not well. I'm not a doctor, so I can't tell you any more," I said weakly.

  "Looks like she's dead," someone called out. The others grimly nodded their heads and moved closer to each other for comfort. In the distance, sirens blared, alerting everyone in the vicinity, angry shoppers included, that emergency crews were on the way.

  "Someone should go out to the parking lot to lead the ambulance here," I suggested.

  A few people immediately volunteered and headed toward the road running adjacent to the fair. I knew I'd have to vacate the kiosk to make room for the paramedics. If this wasn't a natural death, caused by some health incident, then it would quickly become a murder scene. This would be my only chance to snoop.

  The small space was piled high with quilts. Henrietta had set up a small table and chair to do some quilting between customers. Shoppers, myself included, enjoyed seeing the wares being crafted right in front of them. A box held an assortment of fabric squares and a three level rack with wooden dowels held a rainbow assortment of thread. A variety of cutting tools and rulers sat in a tray next to a mound of white, fluffy batting. Everything looked neat, organized and untouched. The entire kiosk was pristine, not a thread out of place. Henrietta had been ready to start her day at the fair.

  The sirens grew louder. The line of shoppers circling the fair moved on from grumbling to quiet gasps of alarm. It wouldn't be long before word of the tragedy made its way around the crowd.

  I didn't dare touch or move the body, especially not with an audience. I casually leaned down to check for something out of place under the curtain of quilts. That was when I spotted a footprint. I hadn't noticed any puddles near the fair booths, and this print didn't seem to be made of mud. It was a large print, most likely a man's shoe. I crouched down and rubbed my finger on the thick outline of the shoe. I pressed the chalky gray substance between my fingers. "Clay," I muttered to myself.

  The sirens shut off. People parted to allow the ambulance, fire truck and patrol car to roll through. They were quite the alarming sight with their flashing red lights as they moved slowly between the craft displays.

  I'd had my chance to snoop around. It was time for the medics to take over. The police officers and a few of the firemen, slowly and gently, pushed the crowd back from the scene. It seemed most everyone had already come to the conclusion that Henrietta was dead. Many were just as glad not to observe the grim scene behind the quilts.

  Juniper had returned to her booth to stand amongst her miniature worlds. She had her arms crossed tightly as if holding herself. Since I'd already introduced myself, I decided to ask her a few questions. She didn't seem close with Henrietta, but I was certain she knew her well enough.

  Juniper pulled a bottle of water out of an ice chest and drank it, or better put, chugged it halfway down before I reached her kiosk. "Shock always makes me thirsty," she explained after taking a breath. "I still can't believe it." She lowered her voice even though no one was near. "Is it true she's dead?" She quickly amended her question. "That's what everyone is saying. You checked on her. What did you think?"

  As positive as I was, I wasn't at liberty to say. "I don't know. I'm not a doctor."

  "It's just, I noticed you took her pulse."

  I was surprised she'd noticed. I performed the grim task so discreetly. "Yes, I tried to find a pulse but then I'm no expert. It's possible I just missed it or it was very faint."

  Juniper nodded. "Let's hope that was the case."

  "Yes, let's. You said you hadn't seen Henrietta all morning?" I asked.

  She eyed me cautiously for a moment, then smiled. "Oh yes, that's right. With all that's happened, I nearly forgot you were a reporter. I guess questions are in your nature."

  "Yes. Sorry if I'm being nosy. I'm just curious to know what happened. If Henrietta had not been feeling well or was acting oddly, then it seems someone might have noticed. That person might be vital to the medics."

  "That makes sense but I'm afraid I won't be any help. I managed to stay clear of her all morning."

  It was a strange way to phrase it, but Juniper didn't seem inclined to correct herself. She noticed my questioning expression.

  "Well, I mean," Juniper said with exasperation, "no, I won't try and hide it. Henri and I were not friends. She was just too bossy and controlling. I'm much more of a free spirit. I'm not surrounded by scissors and cutting mats and precise measuring tools." She waved her arm over her gardens. "I go where the creative whim takes me. It's the way I roll."

  As we spoke, I sensed action at the quilter's booth was getting more serious. The police were clearing people back farther and orders were being given to send the line of shoppers back home. The start of the fair was being delayed until further notice. Juniper caught a snippet of that final order and groaned in aggravation.

  "All this work and now we're going to have less time to sell our wares. People might even be too mad to return," she complained. "It took me months of work to prepare for this craft fair."

  It was hardly the moment of empathy or thoughtfulness I would have expected from someone who was fairly certain a co-crafter was dead. It was also easy to see her side. I was sure the crafters put a great deal of money and work into preparing for the Firefly Craft Fair. It would be disappointing to have an entire day of shopping cut off the schedule. And the first day was generally the biggest, the day shoppers, who had been waiting for the fair, rushed to the entrance to spend money.

  "I won't take up any more of your time. I hope for the sake of all the people who worked so hard on this fair, that it'll be open to the public soon. However, I imagine the entire mood of the event might be a little less cheery."

  Juniper's brows creased together. "Why is that?" she asked, then caught herself. "Oh yes, right. I'm sure this terrible incident will cast a shadow on the whole thing. Sort of ironic though. Henrietta spent months organizing this event. The fair was going to showcase her talents as an organizer. At least, that's what I heard her say. Now, not only has she ruined her own event, she won't even get to see it on opening day."

/>   There was too much glee in her tone but then I'd already gathered that Juniper wasn't one to hide her feelings. I had to hand it to her, she was consistent, if nothing else.

  Somewhere amongst the voices I heard one of the officers confirm Detective Jackson was on his way. That was the final assurance that Henrietta Lopez was dead. It was also my cue to switch my hat from casual observer at a craft fair to investigative reporter at a fatal scene. Prudence wasn't going to be happy about the change in subject matter, but it was out of my control. I could hardly write about the charming handmade baskets and jewelry when the organizer of the event had fallen over dead before the gates opened.

  Chapter 13

  A sigh left me as Jackson emerged from his car, his badge hanging on his belt, his hair with just that touch of wild, and those broad shoulders. He spotted me among the faces and tried hard not to smile, but I could see that tiny tilt on the side of his mouth.

  I pushed my way through the onlookers and headed toward him.

  "Bluebird, I would say I'm surprised to see you but I'd be lying." We turned away from the audience and headed toward Henrietta's kiosk. For the first time, I noticed a gold seal about the size of a dessert plate pinned to one of the posts of the booth. It proclaimed that the artisan Henrietta Lopez was a proud member of the Crafting Society. I assumed I would find the same gold seal on all the members' kiosks.

  "What have we got, Meeks?" Jackson asked the officer in attendance.

  "A woman in her fifties, dead from an unknown cause. The coroner is on her way."

  "Any evidence of foul play?" Jackson asked.

  "None whatsoever," Meeks replied.

  I cleared my throat to get his attention. Jackson dismissed the officer and motioned for me to follow him toward the body. "I assume you think there was some foul play."

  "I'm not saying that . . . necessarily."

  "But?" Jackson took my hand and we stepped out of view, behind a hanging quilt. The medics had rolled Henrietta onto her back. Her lifeless face, eyes slightly open, stared up at the quilt draped over the wire above her. It was a sweet quilt for a child's room with blue rocking horses and red stars.