“Were Ezra and your father much alike?”
Tracy stifled a laugh. “No way. My dad was a retired dentist. He had a
real
life, his friends, and us, of course. It seems like Ezra only had Artisans Alley and the Merchants Association. Maybe that was all he really wanted.” She looked back at her mother. “Mom would like to take you up on your offer of a private good-bye with Ezra. We could come here early tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“I’ll speak with Mr. Collier and let him know you’ll be coming,” Katie promised.
“Thanks,” Tracy said.
Detective Davenport reentered the room, notebook in hand, and spoke with another one of the mourners.
“Boy, that guy wouldn’t win any personality contests,” Tracy muttered. “He’s got a real attitude problem.”
“You noticed that, too, huh?” Katie asked.
“What’s he trying to accomplish with all these pointed questions? It was a robbery, plain and simple. Ezra was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
If only it were that simple, Katie thought. But too many people seemed to have had reasons for getting rid of Ezra. From his greedy nephew, to his spurned lover, to someone unwilling to repay a relatively small loan. And how many other people might have had motives to kill the old man?
“Trollop!”
The shouted word cut across the quiet viewing room. Katie’s head whipped around. A red-faced Nona Fiske stood before an open-mouthed Mary Elliott.
“What the ...” Tracy began, and hurried off to intercede, with Katie following close behind.
“It’s your fault Ezra’s dead!” Nona screamed. “If you hadn’t come to Victoria Square, Ezra would still be alive today.”
Mary looked around at the crowd, whose attention was now riveted on the two women. “This isn’t the place to discuss—”
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone!” Nona bellowed.
“Ladies, ladies,” Katie soothed, and rested a hand on Nona’s elbow, intending to steer her away, but the older woman shook her off.
“Keep your hands off me.”
“Could you please lower your voice?” Katie said, noticing Tracy pull her mother away from the ruckus.
“Look at her,” Nona spat. “She came to Ezra’s viewing with her bosoms hanging out—the brazen strumpet!”
Katie glanced back at Mary, who wore a modest scoop-necked shirt under a dark suit jacket. Hardly the wardrobe of a jezebel.
“Mrs. Fiske,” Katie began in a tone her aunt Lizzie rarely used, but when she did—people listened.
“That’s Miss Fiske,” Nona corrected.
“Miss Fiske,” Katie tried again. “I know you’re very upset about Ezra’s passing—we all are. But please—”
“And who are you to be taking over his business, making his funeral arrangements. It should’ve been done by his friends, people who loved and cared about him, not some opportunist—”
“That’ll be enough, Miss Fiske.” Though Seth towered over the quilt shop owner, his expression was kind, even sympathetic, and Katie was never so glad for someone to come to her rescue.
“Ezra had already planned his own funeral, and Mrs. Bonner is one of his legal heirs. I’m sure if you had known that, you wouldn’t have said—”
Nona Fiske’s face scrunched up and she burst into tears, her wrenching sobs causing those rubbernecking to turn away in embarrassment. “It’s all her fault,” she cried, pointing at Mary. “Things were fine on the Square until that harlot came along. I tried to tell that policeman about her, but he wouldn’t listen. He said she had an alibi, but I know better.”
Katie risked a glance at Davenport, who was furiously scribbling in his notepad. So the detective
had
actually interviewed a few of the merchants. And about time, too.
Seth handed Nona a clean handkerchief, which she took, blowing her nose and wiping at her already red and puffy eyes. “I’ll take you home,” Seth offered, and Nona put up no resistance as he led her to the exit.
Katie let out a breath as she surveyed Ezra’s remaining friends and colleagues, remembering Davenport’s pronouncement that one of them had probably killed him.
She didn’t want to speculate on just who that could be.
Nine
The next morning, Katie arrived at Artisans Alley before Ezra’s memorial service to take down some of Edie Silver’s Halloween decorations. Paper skeletons and pumpkins were absolutely the wrong theme for an after-funeral gathering.
The Blueberry Catering truck arrived right on schedule, and Katie left them to finish their setup, making it to the funeral home a full fifteen minutes before the service was to begin. The parking lot wasn’t as full as she would have thought, considering the turnout the night before, and Katie entered the building with a heavy heart.
Gilda Ringwald and Mary and Tracy Elliott were the only Victoria Square merchants in evidence. Nona Fiske was conspicuous by her absence. Had she been too embarrassed after her outburst to show her face? After the previous evening’s spectacle, Mary had been happy not to run into Nona again, and thanked Katie profusely for allowing her a private good-bye with Ezra. Neither Andy Rust nor Seth Landers had made it, but there were enough Artisans Alley artists to fill several rows of folding chairs that faced the open coffin. Also noticeably absent was Ezra’s only surviving relative—Gerald Hilton.
Luther Collier’s funeral service was general enough not to cause offense, and the personal remembrances of Ezra from people such as Vance Ingram and Rose Nash made it a fitting memorial to McKinlay Mill’s leading citizen. Still, the lack of mourners bothered Katie. Most people probably had to work, Katie surmised, and then worried she’d be stuck with finger foods for one hundred.
By the time Katie made it back to Artisans Alley, the caterers had transformed the lobby with tables filled with food and urns with coffee and hot water for tea. She stationed herself at the main entrance just in time for the crowds to arrive.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for coming,” she greeted total strangers, people who had not attended either the wake the night before or the service that morning. “Won’t you sign the guest book?”
A number of Artisans Alley’s artists and several merchants from the Square showed up to pay their last respects to Ezra. But still Gerald Hilton wasn’t among them. Maybe she’d scared him off on Saturday.
Seth dutifully arrived, giving Katie yet another perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Well, a kiss was a kiss, even if brotherly.
“Glad you could make it,” Katie said. “Sorry we missed you this morning.”
“I’m sorry I can’t stay. I had court this morning and I’ve got appointments I wasn’t able to reschedule this afternoon.”
“I’m just grateful you diffused that nasty situation last night.”
“Glad I could help. But I have something for you. I didn’t think it appropriate to give it to you earlier.” Seth dipped a hand into his suit jacket and came out with a set of keys. “They’re to Ezra’s house. If you’ve got time, you might want to check it out. You’ll be responsible for disposing of the estate and paying off any debts.”
Katie let out a breath. “Okay. I’m not reopening Artisans Alley until tomorrow anyway. I’ll go as soon as all the guests leave.”
Seth took in the oddly shaped lobby. “This is a great space.”
“Yes,” Katie agreed. “Chad said they often used it for special sales events.”
“The lighting is much better than in the individual artists’ booths. You ought to make it a gallery.”
Katie looked around the empty walls. “Maybe I will. I just have to figure out how to charge the artists who’d use it—and referee the fights that are sure to break out among them.”
Seth smiled. “You’ll figure it out.” He looked at his watch. “I really must be going.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Katie said.
The rest of the guests seemed in no hurry to leave—at least, not until the food was all gone. Katie made the rounds and listened in on the latest local gossip—the main topic being the new marina. It was all everyone could seem to talk about. That, and Ezra’s murder, of course.
The caterers cleaned up the mess, even vacuuming the carpets, then stood patiently waiting while Katie wrote a check with what seemed like far too many zeros. She winced as she signed her name, and hoped business would be booming on the weekend to make up for the expenditure.
After locking the doors and setting the security system, Katie started off for Ezra’s home.
The old farmhouse on County Road 8 was in desperate need of some tender loving care, Katie observed, looking over the rusted gutters and peeling paint. The grass needed cutting, and one of the shutters had fallen off the house and lay haphazardly on the ground. Taking in the three-story structure, Katie noted there were no drapes on the upstairs windows. Cardboard cartons blocked them—probably a fire hazard.
Katie’s heart sank. Clearing out and selling the place was likely to be a time-consuming project, and, in its present shape, not a lucrative one. If Gerald was so anxious to get his share of the estate, maybe he’d be willing to help with the cleanup.
Taking the keys from her purse, Katie inspected them, wondering which one opened the front door. None of them, it appeared. She went along to the back entrance and the door opened on her second try. A striped mass of tawny fur launched itself at her, howling and winding around her legs in a frantic figure eight.
“Oh, you poor kitty,” she murmured. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Sniffing the air, she realized it had been a while since the litter box had been changed, too.
The cat cried piteously as Katie searched the kitchen cupboards for its food. Why hadn’t someone told her Ezra owned a cat? Surely Mary Elliott or Nona Fiske knew.
Katie found a can of cat food and emptied it into a bowl she grabbed from the drain board. The tabby danced around her ankles, threatening to trip her as she walked the few steps to the plastic placemat and empty water and food bowls on the floor by the fridge.
“That ought to hold you for a while,” she said. While the cat wolfed its meal, Katie refilled the water bowl, then searched out the litter box, which she found by the washer and dryer. Five minutes later, she’d changed it, and went back to the kitchen to find her furry new friend furiously washing its front paws.
“What’s your name?” Katie asked, petting the cat’s silky head. But the cat’s only answer was a resounding purr.
“I don’t know what to do about you. I’ve already got a kitty,” she said, thinking of Mason and knowing he wouldn’t want to give up his status as king of the jungle.
Deciding the cat’s fate would have to wait a few days. She’d come twice a day to feed it until she either found it a home or, barring that, found time to take it to the vet to be checked for feline leukemia before bringing it to her apartment. No way would she compromise Mason’s health. But she couldn’t neglect this little one either. Probably a female, she decided, because of its size, but she wasn’t inclined to check its anatomy to find out.
Taking a look around the large kitchen, she noticed how neat it was. The laundry room had been clean and tidy, too. Then why were boxes stacked in front of the upstairs windows?
She did a quick walk around the first floor, finding a cubbyhole home office, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room. The walls were in need of fresh paint, and the rugs were threadbare, but the inside of the house looked to be in pretty good shape. Had Detective Davenport been through to search for clues?
Heading up the creaking staircase, she found the doors of the three bedrooms closed. Upon opening them, she found each room filled, floor to ceiling, with boxes of receipts. They couldn’t all be from Artisans Alley, Katie thought. Sure enough, the boxes were labeled, dating back to the late nineteen sixties, the accumulated records for Ezra’s former business ventures—an appliance store that was open through the seventies, and a hardware store that had closed a year or so before he’d opened Artisans Alley.
Ezra’s office may have been untidy, but on each of his archived boxes he’d recorded, in his precise handwriting, the nature and date of the receipts. Katie selected the one that held receipts for the previous three months and took it downstairs.
She set it on the recliner seat and tugged at the strip of strapping tape that kept it closed. It came off in a sticky curl that she shook from her hand.
Something hit her from behind, nearly knocking her from her feet. A tangle of furry legs and a tail tried to steady itself on her shoulder.
“Good Lord!” Katie gasped, her hands flying back to stabilize the cat, who, despite its precarious position, did not sink its claws into her skin. Intent on the tape, the cat jumped down to the chair.
“Oh no you don’t,” Katie said, grabbing the tape and rolling it into a ball, stuffing it into her jacket pocket. The cat hopped onto the armrest, looking for its now-missing prize, and then jumped onto the back of the chair.
Katie glanced up at the empty topmost shelf on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The cat must have leaped down from there. Had Ezra trained it to land on his shoulder?
She turned her attention back to the box, picking up a fat envelope from Ezra’s bank, thumbing through the pages, which listed only the check numbers and amounts. Too bad banks no longer returned the cashed checks themselves; otherwise she would’ve had an opportunity to examine the signatures on the back. She still hadn’t had an opportunity to go online to look—but what a time sink that would be.
Replacing the envelopes, she folded in the carton flaps. The cat was no longer on the chair. Katie looked up to see it sitting high atop the bookshelf.
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”
The cat closed its eyes, opened its mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It looked smug.
Grabbing the box, Katie headed for the kitchen. She heard a dull thunk from the living room, and before she’d grabbed her purse and keys from the counter, the cat was winding around her ankles, as though begging her to stay.