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.
“I’m sorry, Katie. I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”
She patted his hand. “I’m a big girl, Seth. And if I have any trouble with Mr. Gerald Hilton, I have a wonderful attorney who can put him in his place.”
Seth squeezed her hand again. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
Their eyes met and held. Seth’s intense gaze seemed to penetrate her soul. Katie was the first to look away. “I may have done something extremely stupid this morning. I quit my job,” she admitted.
Seth blinked. “That does sound a bit drastic.”
“Artisans Alley needs a full-time manager and I was overdue for a change. I have a little money saved—I’ll either sink or swim.” Why did she sound a whole lot more confident than she felt?
“If you need advice, just ask,” Seth said.
Katie smiled. “I will.” She thought about his offer for a moment. “In fact, maybe you can advise me on something right now.” She lowered her voice. “The guy who owns the pizza parlor next to Artisans Alley has a lot of high school boys working for him. Local troublemakers. He’s supposed to be a positive role model for them. Should the police know about this, and if so, who should volunteer the information?”
Seth let out a sigh. “Ideally, he should have told the police. Is he here?”
Katie shook her head. “If I talk to Detective Davenport, and those kids had nothing to do with Ezra’s death, I could be making an enemy of my neighbor.”
“That is a dilemma,” Seth agreed. “Do you really think one of those boys could have killed Ezra?”
Katie frowned. “I don’t think so. I mean, Ezra had to have let his killer into Artisans Alley. Andy said none of the merchants ever ordered anything from him. So, unless Ezra was acquainted with one of the boys for another reason—like he knew their parents—he probably wouldn’t have opened the door.”
“What if someone waited for Ezra to leave, surprised the old man, and forced their way in?”
“It could’ve happened that way, I suppose,” Katie said, her worry intensifying.
“Would you like me to talk to Detective Davenport?” Seth asked.
“No, it’s my responsibility.” Katie located Davenport across the room. “And I’d better do it now, before I lose my nerve.”
Seth gave her an encouraging smile and she started off.
Davenport was conversing with Peter Ashby and a couple of the other artists. Katie waited for the detective to finish before interrupting. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
Davenport stood there, staring at her—waiting.
“Privately,” she amended.
He frowned, then nodded toward the foyer.
Katie felt all eyes on them as they left the room.
“Yes, ma’ am,” Davenport said once they were out of earshot.
She relayed what Andy had told her, and was surprised to see the detective’s eyes light up.
“Interesting. I’ll pay Mr. Rust a visit this evening.”
“Do you have to mention where you got this information?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“And do you have to keep calling me ‘ma’ am’ ?” Katie asked, annoyed.
“Sorry, Mrs. Bonner.”
That was nearly as bad.
“I phoned yesterday and left you a message. You didn’t get back to me.”
“I’m a very busy man,” Davenport said in a monotone.
“I wanted to tell you that someone owed Ezra five thousand dollars. It was due to be paid the day Ezra died. I found the agreement yesterday, but I can’t make out the signature.”
Davenport’s expression—and his voice—hardened. “You should have told me this sooner.”
“When? You didn’t return my call,” she reiterated.
Davenport didn’t back down. “That agreement is evidence. You’ll have to turn it over to the Sheriff’s Office. Where is it now?”
“In a file drawer at Artisans Alley. You can have it tonight if you want.”
“Does anyone else know about this?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Then you’d better keep it that way.” Davenport’s tone was serious, with just the hint of a threat in it.
“Maybe we could get signatures from all the artists and compare them,” Katie suggested.
“The department will handle that,” he said, his no-nonsense voice annoying Katie once more.
“Very well, Detective.” Their gazes locked. The arrogant man unnerved her, but also reminded her of someone else. “Have you spoken with Ezra’s nephew, Gerald Hilton?”
“Not yet.”
“What
have
you been up to?” At Davenport’s steely glare, she continued. “Mr. Hilton is eager to settle the estate. Before he found out about me, he thought he was in for a lot of money at Ezra’s death. That could be a motive for murder, too.”
“I’m quite capable of deciding what constitutes motive, Mrs. Bonner. I suggest you concern yourself with running Artisans Alley and leave the investigating to me.”
“If you can spare the time.” Katie turned on her heel, stalked forward, but then abruptly halted, unsure what to do next. Seth was surrounded by several artists—perhaps clients—and she decided not to intrude. She glanced at the clock: eight thirty—half an hour to go until calling hours ended.
She caught sight of Tracy, who waved and crossed the room to join her. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you with the reception tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I understand,” Katie said, her nerves still jangled. She took a breath to steady herself. “The caterer you suggested assured me they could handle the job.”
“They’re great. Mom trained with them for two years before we opened our shop.”
Katie glanced back at Mary. “How is your mother?”
“Pretty torn up.” Tracy’s voice had hardened, her lips growing thin. “She’s taking Ezra’s passing almost as hard as Daddy’s death.”
Katie wasn’t sure what to say.
“In some ways, I think Ezra reminded Mom a lot of Dad,” Tracy continued. “He was much older than her, too. Almost as old as Grandpa Wilson, but they fit, you know? They were happy, until Dad was sick for so long.”