A Crafty Killing

by London Lovett

  Jackson walked out of the barn. We strolled slowly around the perimeter looking for evidence. "No footprints, which means the killer probably walked straight from the car up the cement pathway to the barn."

  "Speaking of footprints, what about the clay print in the kiosk? Were you able to talk to the potter?" We wandered past an open trash bin. It was filled with flattened boxes waiting to be recycled. Nothing of note inside.

  "I haven't questioned him formally. However, he did say he met briefly with Henrietta the day before her murder. They spoke inside her kiosk. He said that must have been when he left the shoeprint. Since there isn't much motive to connect him to the murder, I'm taking him at his word for now. But I haven't crossed him off the list."

  More of Jackson's team showed up at the property to start the evidence search.

  Jackson put his sunglasses back on. The light glinted off the dark lenses. "Just like the quilter's booth, this place looks pretty clean. I think we're going to have to pinpoint the time of her death, then we can find out who wasn't at the fair this morning. If the killer is one of the other artists, then they would have had to leave their stand to commit the murder."

  What he said made perfect sense, then something shocking occurred to me. "Jax, the killer didn't know that Katy had left behind her spring wreaths. They might have known she left to pick them up, but that could have been anyone at the fair. But this wasn't a precise plan because no one could have known Katy would have to leave to pick up wreaths." I looked up at him as everything gelled in my mind. "So that means—"

  "That means this killer has syringes ready to go. Which means—"

  I put my hand to my chest. "They might just be getting started. My gosh, this whole fair could be wiped out by the end of the week."

  "Which means we're going to have to solve these cases fast. Where are you headed now?" he asked. "Or should I be afraid to ask?"

  "I'm not a dull, old innkeeper yet. The doilies and coffee refills will have to wait. But don't worry. I'm going to head home and do some research on some of the local artisans."

  "Home and not the office? Still rough over there?"

  I groaned. "You haven't heard the latest. I'll fill you in sometime, but for now, I need to do research at home because I no longer have electricity near my desk in the news office."

  His brows folded together. "No electricity?"

  "It's all part of the filling in. I'll tell you later. In the meantime, get to work, Detective Jackson. There's a killer on the loose."

  Chapter 26

  I'd found a window of quiet in the house. Ursula and Henry had gone to the hardware store for supplies, so I had the house to myself . . . relatively speaking.

  "You'll have the posture of an old laundress if you keep hunched over that tin box." Edward appeared across from me as I typed in various names to get the goods on the local artists. So far, the search results had yielded mostly photographs of their crafty wares. Katy Michaels had many glowing reviews on her wreaths. The wreath buying world was going to be devastated by her loss. There were no posts on any of her social media accounts indicating that she was dead. Jackson had probably not notified next of kin yet. (His least favorite part of the job.)

  I sat up straight and realized Edward was right. My shoulders were bunched up around my ears and my back was achy. I got up and did some simple yoga stretches. He watched in amusement.

  "For a woman, you do the oddest things," he noted. I bent over into a downward dog and quickly realized without the yoga mat my palms were picking up an impressive amount of grit. But it felt so good I held the stretch. I was sure my new boss had more to do with the kink in my shoulders and back than my laptop.

  I dropped my head and opened my eyes and found a curious upside down face staring at me.

  "Ahh!" I dropped hard to my knees. Edward was still hanging upside down feet toward the ceiling and head just an inch above the floor. "Don't do that. It's creepy, like a vampire."

  His image vanished and reappeared right side up. "I just decided to look at the whole thing from your perspective."

  "Now you've seen it, so don't ever do that again." I shivered once to get the shock out of me. I turned my waist to check my back. "At least you scared away the kink."

  "You see. Should I turn upside down again? By the way, I think your housekeeping skills have been lacking. From that angle, I could see dust and dog hairs everywhere."

  I brushed my hands against each other to dislodge the grit. "I'll let the servants know they should do a better job."

  I sat back at the computer. It was time to research Larry Royce, the potter. His website popped right up. It was well organized and easy to navigate. There were pictures of him working at the wheel with pottery at different stages. Examples of all the styles and color choices he offered were splashed across the pages. His prices were reasonable, and there were plenty of reviews from people who were thrilled with their pottery.

  One side of the page contained a list of blog posts that seemed to go back several years. As I read, I discovered he'd worked as a phlebotomist for years, but his success in pottery had allowed him to quit his day job and work full time on his craft.

  I clicked on a three-year-old post that talked about where he got his clay and the new kiln he'd purchased that his wife had given him plenty of grief about, mostly because he'd set it up in their den. In another post written days later, he humorously wrote about his wife's cookie decorating business and how he was making the 'supreme sacrifice' of a tightening waistband in order to provide much needed feedback. The sugar cookies were his favorite, although the gingerbread were a close second. Along with the post were photos of her creations, pink tutu wearing ballerinas, little cowboys with fuzzy chaps and orange and black striped tigers. His wife was a true artist. Each cookie was a masterpiece of shiny icing and whimsical details. Amongst the cookie photos were pictures of his wife, Joyce, a petite brunette with round blue eyes, selling cookies at various events including one of the annual Firefly Craft Fairs. I combed through my mental images of the various fair vendors and couldn't bring up one for a cookie seller. And I wasn't one to miss a booth selling baked goods.

  I browsed through the dates and topics of subsequent blog posts and noticed there was a large gap of almost a year between posts. A little further scan of the post titles revealed the reason for the months long hiatus. I clicked on a post titled Finding My Way out of the Haze.

  It started, "For months it seemed Joyce's death had erased any sense of being. I no longer existed, therefore I could no longer create. But with Dr. Rathbone's support, I'm finally finding my way out of the haze. I tossed a mound of clay onto the potter's wheel for the first time since her death. It was a complete disaster, but it felt good to get my hands wet with clay again."

  There were no other details about his wife's death, but a quick search led me to an article about her suicide. It was hard to imagine the round eyed, smiling cookie baker in the photo had taken her own life but then many people were good at masking their depression.

  The phone rang snapping me out of research mode. It was Lana. For the first time ever, I hesitated before answering it. Dave Crockett wasn't just putting an ugly knot in my work life, he'd invaded my personal life as well. I cleared my throat to ensure a cheery greeting.

  "Hello, big sister, what's up?"

  "I'm just calling to see how you're doing." She paused to let me fill in details, but there weren't many I could discuss with her without upsetting the balance of her new relationship.

  "Me? I'm fine. Just sitting at home doing a little research for my next story. How are you doing?" I decided the best strategy was to flip the conversation to her. Normally, Lana preferred a conversation heavily focused on her but not this time.

  "Since you're changing topics, I can only assume you're not fine," she said. "Dave mentioned to me that he would be lead reporter at the paper. When I asked him if that meant there would be two lead reporters, he chuckled. It got me thinking—I've been blin
ded by all this new romance stuff, and that's so not me. Dave's addition to the paper has been bad for you, hasn't it?"

  I had a lightning fast mental debate on which way to answer her question. Whatever my response, it was the proverbial double-edged sword. I went the sisterly support route. "Lana, if you're happy, then I'm happy. Whatever comes my way at the newspaper, I can assure you, I've faced it before, and I've managed to get past it. I was disappointed to hear that I was no longer lead reporter," I laughed dryly. "The position was so brief, I'll hardly miss it."

  I hoped my response would alleviate any concerns she had, but she grunted in frustration. "I can't believe I finally find someone I like, and he pushes my sister out of her lead reporter position."

  "It's not his fault." It left a bitter taste in my throat to have to defend Dave, but I needed to do it for Lana. "Prudence seems determined to make my job miserable." I realized my misstep the second it left my mouth.

  "Ah ha! So you are miserable, and all this if you're happy, I'm happy is just a bunch of baloney. That's it. I'll end it with Dave."

  "What? No. How did you jump to that? I just told you Prue is the source of my problems. Besides, my career in journalism will end soon. It's one of the reasons Prudence gave Dave the lead job. She knows about my plans to open an inn. Really, Lana, it's all good. Don't break it off. You're happy. You are happy? Right?" I started to consider that Lana was looking for an off ramp. It wouldn't be the first time my hard to please sister was ready to break things off.

  Her delayed response seemed to indicate that she wasn't entirely certain about any kind of future with Dave. I felt a twinge of guilt when I realized how thrilled I was about that prospect.

  "I'm happy," she said plainly. "I think. Not sure. Darn you, how did you turn this around to be about me? We're enjoying each other's company . . . for now. But the first inkling I get that Dave is somehow making your life difficult, then I'm pushing him out the door in his gray slacks and sweater."

  I laughed. "The man does seem to like gray."

  "Yes, apparently he thinks he looks best in gray. As he puts it, it makes clothes shopping much easier. Well, I've got to cut a thousand foil hearts for a wedding reception, so I'll let you go. But, Sunni," she said earnestly before I could hang up, "you will let me know if things get worse, right?"

  "Yes, you'll be the first person I call."

  "Ha, no I won't. I know you'll call Jackson and then Emily and then Raine. Then you might consider calling me."

  "Well, Jackson is my boyfriend," I admitted.

  "Yes, don't rub in your fantasy romance with the extraordinary Detective Jackson. Some of us have to settle for gray slacks and sweaters. That's all right. On this subject, I give you a pass to talk to Emily and Raine first, but I still need to know. All right?"

  "Yes. Have fun with the foil hearts. I'll see you later."

  The late winter sun was hovering low in the sky, looking heavy and dreary from a day of work showering the earth with its light. I felt the same weariness from my day. I texted Myrna to let her know that I wouldn't be in for the rest of the afternoon because I was bogged down with research for my article.

  "All right, wink wink," she texted back. "Enjoy. By the way, Prudence has called a meeting for eight in the morning. She's put me in charge of picking up donuts. What are you in the mood for?"

  "I think I'm in a glazed twist kind of mood. And make it two. I'll need it to get through another one of her dreadful meetings."

  Chapter 27

  I had no idea what kind of horror show I'd walk into at the newspaper office, but I steeled myself for whatever rotten tomatoes would be tossed my way. The aroma of donuts hit me first, which helped strengthen my resolve to let it all bounce off me. Myrna had my two glazed twists on a plate ready to fortify me with sweet bread and sugary glaze. Parker ducked behind his monitor. The all too familiar sound of nasal spray being shot up a nostril followed.

  The two other staff members were noticeably absent. Prudence's office door was shut, but I could hear her laughing. Dave's deep laugh joined hers. She had certainly warmed up to him quickly.

  I walked to my pathetic desk with the computer parts piled on top, including the surge protector and an array of electrical cords. I yanked out my chair and sat down to eat my donuts. The joy of that moment was stolen when Prudence and Dave walked out of the office still chortling about some inside joke . . . apparently.

  Parker landed in one of his dramatic throat clearing sessions, something he insisted had to do with his terrible allergies, only, in this case I assumed he was just trying to be annoying. And it worked. Prudence favored him with an admonishing scowl.

  "My word, Parker, you should have that checked by a doctor. That is not normal."

  If there was one person who enjoyed hearing the words you should have that checked by a doctor, it was my hypochondriac editor. His eyes lit up as if she'd just told him he would receive a raise. "You know, I've been thinking the same thing. I think I'll call my doctor right now and see if he can fit me in today."

  Prudence grew flustered and shuffled forward and back on her hard-soled shoes. "I didn't say you should go immediately." She laughed dryly. "If I didn't know any better, Parker, I'd say you were a bit of a hypochondriac."

  Badly, I wanted to ask, what gave it away? The lozenge wrappers that covered his desk and even occasionally the floor around it? Or was it the constant flow of nasal spray? It might just have been the fever thermometer he kept stashed between the pens in the pencil cup.

  Parker sat up straight, no longer hiding behind the monitor. "I assure you that there is nothing forced or fake about my throat clearing. I have terrible allergies. Now, are we going to get on with this meeting? I have to make calls to all the sponsors who have emailed me, upset and hysterical about the new price list you handed out." It was refreshing to see the old, snappy Parker talking back to the new boss.

  The new boss wasn't nearly as refreshed. "Those are my new terms. If you can't handle their complaints, I'm happy to do it myself."

  Parker's chin moved side to side in thought. "You know what? You're right. I'll forward all the emails to you, then you can give them your reasons for the big price increase. I'm sure you'll be able to smooth things over just fine." He followed with a cynical grin.

  I pushed the donut into my mouth to keep from snickering. I glanced over to see Myrna using the same trick with her chocolate glazed.

  Prudence decided to ignore the statement and the sarcastic smile. She struck me as the kind of person who had so much confidence no ounce of sarcasm or criticism would give her pause or slow her down.

  "I've called this meeting to give a run down on the utility bills for this office."

  Parker, Myrna and I exchanged questioning glances. "I usually pay those at the end of the month," Myrna spoke up hesitantly.

  "I'm not speaking about how they get paid. I'm mentioning utilities because the bills are far too high. Now, I think we can all handle a degree or two less on the thermostat in winter and a degree or two higher in the summer."

  "A degree or two isn't going to make that much difference on the bills," Parker suggested. "But having all of us out sick, will, in the long run, be harder on the budget. Not to mention, it'll slow down the paper."

  "Nonsense. No one catches cold because the thermostat is lower." Prudence dusted her hands together to let us know that part of the meeting agenda was over. I suddenly had a vision of myself tapping away on an old manual typewriter while wrapped in my winter coat, scarf and gloves. "Enough about that. We'll start adjusting the thermostat today. Next on the agenda is updates on stories." She turned to me. It seemed she preferred to stand for our meetings, like a strict school teacher who liked to keep an eye out for kids not paying attention. I'd been paying attention when she turned to me. I put on a good face to show I was listening. But, in my mind, I was thinking she could have told us about the thermostat adjustment in a text or memo. Calling us in for trite office details was a far bigger waste of
newspaper money than degrees on the thermostat. It seemed our new boss was a controlling micromanager.

  "Sunni, how is the article about the craft fair coming?"

  "It's been a little slow considering it was interrupted by murder, but you can be sure you'll have a full article filled with details about all the wares being sold at the fair." It was the type of story that would take no time to write with little thought required. I made a point of looking down at my pitiful desk. "Of course I'll have to write it at home since I no longer have use of my computer here in the newsroom."

  She turned stiffly with her perfect posture and too tight knit dress toward my desk. "Yes, that's right." She sighed in irritation as if the whole me requiring electricity thing was my fault. "Myrna, please call an electrician today so we can get an outlet added."

  Myrna pulled out a pad of paper and wrote down the order.

  Prudence put on a much kinder face for her lead reporter. "Dave, how's your story going? I suppose we'll need to give you extra time since there are now two victims." She shook her head. "What is this town coming to?"

  Parker cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Prudence, if you extend the deadline on the story, I won't have time to go through it. It won't make the next edition."

  "That's all on you. Just make sure it gets finished for the next edition. It's too important of a story to leave out," she said sharply.

  All of a sudden, grim, stunning headlines were necessary to sell the paper. It was a change of heart.

  Dave pulled out a notepad. "I've got some details on the first murder of Henrietta Lopez. It seems she was poisoned."

  Everyone within a fifty mile radius already knew that, but Dave seemed proud of himself, nonetheless.

  It took me a moment to notice that suddenly the focus was on me. "Sunni, if you could take some time to provide Dave with the details of the second murder," Prudence started.