Something about his tone told Katie this might not be good news. “And?”
“He seemed a lot more interested in Ezra’s will and what he was likely to get from it than what happened to poor Ezra.”
Katie’s stomach tightened. “Is it out of line for me to ask? Not for myself ...” she quickly explained. “For the Alley. There’re a lot of people’s hopes riding on your answer.”
Seth nodded. “Ezra split his assets evenly between the two of you.”
“Ohmigod,” Katie breathed. She’d hardly known the man. “Was it a recent will?”
“Dated a month ago.”
“Good Lord. Do you think Ezra had a premonition of his own death?”
Seth shook his head, his lips quirking downward. “The old man expected to live forever.”
Not if he prepaid for his own funeral
, Katie thought.
“It did seem kind of odd at the time,” Seth continued, looking thoughtful. “Ezra was in a terrible rush to get the new will written. Maybe he’d recently spoken with Gerald and wanted to make sure Artisans Alley would go on without him. I think he knew you’d try to keep it running. That
is
what he wanted.”
Katie digested that piece of information. Then why hadn’t Ezra invited her to take on more responsibility? He probably assumed she’d been in mourning for Chad.
That was true, of course, but it was her own financial need that took precedence. Chad had scoffed at the idea of life insurance. Not a good decision, especially as the local school board had cut back on teacher benefits. Like a lot of men under thirty, Chad felt invincible. Insurance could wait until later, he’d reasoned. And then he’d been killed. The funeral had set Katie back thousands. For months she’d worked overtime just to pay it off.
And Ezra
had
asked her to come by. In fact, just days before his death he’d left a message on her answering machine. She should have made time to sit down and talk about the business. Her reply was always “next week,” or “soon.”
“Don’t be surprised if Gerald Hilton shows up tomorrow,” Seth said. “He asked me a lot of questions about Artisans Alley, things I couldn’t answer. Like square footage, insurance, and such.”
“What do you think he wants?”
“Between you and me, a quick liquidation of assets. That can’t happen until after probate, and I told him so. You might want to prepare yourself for a fight. He doesn’t seem the easygoing type.”
“Swell.” Katie leaned back in her chair, idly twisting her wedding band. “I’m having a meeting with the artists and merchants from the Square at seven to talk about the Alley’s future. Can you join us?”
Seth shook his head. “I have a prior commitment. But I’ll be at the funeral home on Monday night, and perhaps the service on Tuesday morning.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going.”
She nodded and rose, wrapping her arm around his, and then walked him to the exit. “Thanks for dropping by. You’re a good friend, Seth.”
He reached for her hand, squeezed it, and then leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “See you Monday, Katie.”
She blinked, her hand automatically going to where his lips had touched her skin. The kiss had been a surprise. A pleasant one. She found herself smiling after him.
Katie made her way past a cheerful Edie, who was waiting on a customer, and paused at the Alley’s main entrance to wave as Seth’s car pulled out of parking lot. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the lights were now on in the Square’s pizza shop. She hadn’t had a chance to make contact with the owner and decided to dodge the raindrops to do so.
A row of heavy brass bells on a thick strip of age-darkened leather hung on the plate glass door, jingling loudly as Katie entered. Inside, the enticing aromas of pizza and spicy chicken wings battled for prominence, and the heady fragrances nearly lifted Katie off her feet.
“Can I help you?” asked a tall, beefy guy of about thirty. A Rochester Red Wings baseball cap sat atop his head, covering dark wavy hair, which stuck out over his ears. He wore a blue Angelo’s Pizzeria T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers. A white dishcloth at his waist made a makeshift apron. He pounded a round of flour-powdered dough, forming it into a flat circle.
“Are you Angelo?” Katie asked.
“Andy Rust. The place was called Angelo’s when I bought it last year. Can I help you?”
She reached out to shake hands, realized his were occupied, and pulled her hand back. “Katie Bonner. I was Ezra Hilton’s business partner.”
“Sorry to hear about him dying.” His words held no warmth.
“Thank you. I’ve tried to meet all the other members of the Merchants Association to—”
“Then count me out,” Andy said, bitterness coloring his tone. “I’m not a member.”
“Oh. I just thought—”
Andy looked up, his eyes cold. “Some of the merchants don’t think a pizza parlor fits the hoity-toity Victoria Square image.”
“Oh, well ... I’m sorry to hear that. Doesn’t everybody love pizza?”
Brows furrowed, Andy stared at her for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. “Not around here. What can I do for you?” he said, his voice softening.
“I’m having a meeting at seven for the artists and other merchants on the Square to discuss Artisans Alley’s future. Would you like to join us?”
Again he stared at her. “Saturday’s my busiest night of the week. I really can’t spare the time.”
“Oh, well, maybe you could combine business with pleasure. I’d like to order a couple of sheet pizzas. It might help break the ice with the artists.”
“As you said, everybody loves pizza.” As he took her order, she couldn’t help noticing the way his brows furrowed as he concentrated. It was kind of ... cute. “What time do you want them delivered?” Andy asked.
“Just before seven. Thanks.”
This time he wiped his right hand on his makeshift apron and reached to shake hers. “Thank you, Katie,” he said and held on, his deep brown eyes staring into her own. “I’ve been open almost eighteen months and you’re the first merchant to order something from me.”
Katie laughed nervously, still aware of his warm, dusty hand in hers. “It probably won’t be my last. I’m a pizzaholic.”
His answering smile charmed her. “Then I hope there’s no cure.”
Four
Katie smiled, gritted her teeth, and endured yet another bone-crushing handshake from one of the artists. Stationed at Artisans Alley’s lobby entrance, she wanted to greet every artist as they arrived for the meeting. In her left arm she held a clipboard, and dutifully checked off each name on the copy of the phone list she’d found in one of Ezra’s desk drawers.
“Glad you could make it,” she said to a grim-faced man who followed the stream inside, heading for the main staircase, where Rose Nash directed them to empty loft space above.
Once again dressed in her raincoat and kerchief, and still clutching her umbrella, Ida-with-the-giant-wart Mitchell shuffled along with the pack. “Good evening, Katie,” she said, her grin wide and her eyes looking slightly crazed. Katie tried to keep her gaze from the flaw on the woman’s cheek, but it was so glaringly obvious.
She forced a smile. “Hello, Ida. Thank you for coming. I see you’re feeling better this evening.”
Ida nodded sweetly. “Mr. Hilton’s in a better place now. I’m rejoicing for his good fortune.”
Had anyone explained to Ida that Ezra had been murdered?
Katie shook her head and watched as the clueless woman continued on her way. When she turned back, Katie recognized the Red Wings cap on a head above the crowd. She shook hands and greeted everyone else as she waited for the man to shuffle forward.
“Where do you want these?” Andy Rust asked, hefting the pizza boxes.
“Upstairs, to the left, thanks.”
Andy nodded and followed the others inside.
Vance arrived, bringing up the rear of the crowd, with a teenaged boy in tow. “Hey, Katie. This is my son, Vance Junior.” The kid actually winced at the introduction. “He’s going to watch the door and send up any latecomers.”
Katie clasped the gangly young man’s damp palm. “Nice to meet you, Vance Junior.”
“Call me VJ,” the boy insisted.
“I really appreciate this, VJ.” She looked at Vance Senior. “I need to get my notes from the office. I’ll meet you upstairs, okay?”
“All right.”
Katie hadn’t considered the logistics of stuffing sixty-plus artists and nine or ten merchants into Artisans Alley, and wished she had. Of course, the only suitable open space was upstairs in the loft-like, unoccupied area Ezra had reserved for new artists. Vance had also shown her more storage space nearby that could be converted to vendor booths. Thanks to the interest Edie Silver’s friends had shown by their calls requesting vendor space, Katie already anticipated the increased revenue.
Seating was also a problem. They had virtually none. Vance had scrounged six or seven folding chairs and a couple of tables to put out the pizza. While he’d set them up, Katie had taken a trip to the grocery store for disposable cups, napkins, and soda, and to restock her dwindling supply of hard candy. When she’d first decided to hold the meeting, she hadn’t anticipated feeding a crowd, but free food often put people in a more receptive mood to hear bad news—and that’s the only kind she had to deliver.
More than half the pizza had already been scarfed up by the time Katie reached the meeting area. People had gathered in knots, with conversations buzzing in the warm, dusty old loft.
Katie sought out a familiar face and made a beeline for Edie Silver. “Thanks for coming.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it. Looks like I’ll need to restock. Most of my merchandise is already gone,” she said, her expression smug.
“That tells me crafters
can
sell here.”
“I always knew it.” Edie raised a hand to wave to someone.
Katie looked around. “Do you know any of these people?”
“Heck, I know most of ’em. We do a lot of the same shows.”
“Shows?”
“Art festivals, canal days, and holiday craft sales. There’s a slew of big shows every year in the Rochester area. I only do the local ones, but some of these folks go all over the state and even out of state to sell their stuff.”
Katie blinked. “If you guys mingle in other venues, why was Mr. Hilton so prejudiced against ...” She hesitated before finishing, “Low-end crafters?”
Edie shrugged, not in the least offended. “A purist, I guess. A lot of highbrow artists think craft means crap. But people on a budget can afford to spend twenty bucks on a pretty eucalyptus swag when they can’t afford a primitive-style painting to hang over the fireplace in their tract house. When can we talk about my booth location?” she asked, changing the subject. “The lobby’s great, but I want a more secure space.”
“How about first thing tomorrow morning?”
Edie nodded and smiled. “Guess I’d better grab some pizza before it’s all gone.”
She’d taken only a step away when another, much younger, woman—petite and blond, and closer to Katie’s age—took her place. Smartly dressed in a denim jacket, black turtleneck, tight jeans, and black leather boots, the newcomer was the epitome of business casual. She looked vaguely familiar. Hadn’t Katie seen her in the local supermarket or drugstore?
The woman stuck out her hand. “Katie Bonner? I’m Tracy Elliott.”
For a moment the name meant nothing. Then, “Are you related to the woman who runs the tea shop?” Katie asked.
“She’s my mother. Sorry I was out when you came by earlier. My computer monitor blew and I had to drive into Rochester to get a new one.” She rolled her eyes. “It’ll be years before a decent computer outlet comes to this hick town.”
Katie didn’t see what that had to do with selling tea and pastries, but she didn’t get the opportunity to ask.
“A lot of our business is on the Internet. Check us out,” Tracy said, handing Katie a business card. “I can’t bake worth a damn, but I wanted to be part of the shop. When I suggested we sell some of Mom’s blended teas online, it seemed like I’d found my niche. Now we make more money on that than the shop itself.”
“Then, why—”
“Are we a part of Victoria Square? It’s Mom’s hobby. And ... well, she had other reasons for being a part of the Square.” Tracy didn’t elaborate. “Ezra was a great guy, but he kept both feet firmly planted in the twentieth century. I offered to build him a website. It would be good a marketing tool for Artisans Alley. He wouldn’t take advice from a woman—let alone someone young enough to be a grand-daughter. Mom says you’re part owner. If you want a website, I’d be glad to set the whole thing up for you for a competitive price.”
“That’s awfully nice of you. Thanks.”
“Why don’t we talk about it tomorrow? Mom makes the world’s best scones. Drop by the shop before opening and try them out.”
“I’d like that. And please help yourself to some pizza before it’s all gone.”
Tracy’s gaze traveled over to where Andy Rust lingered at the fringe of the crowd. “Thanks, but no thanks. Talk to you tomorrow,” she said, and filtered back into the throng.
Katie looked over at Andy again. Hands thrust into his jacket pockets, he leaned against one of the massive hand-cut support beams, having obviously decided to hang around for the meeting. What could the merchants possibly have against him? He seemed a decent, friendly enough guy. And surely a pizza parlor wasn’t
that
detrimental to the livelihood of the rest of the Square. She’d have to find out what was really going on. But that could wait until later.
Katie consulted her watch, saw that it was already after seven. Public speaking was not her forte, and the plastic smile she’d been wearing for the last half hour was already beginning to droop while the butterflies in her stomach multiplied. Katie resisted the impulse to crunch another lemon drop she’d squirreled away in her pants pocket, and instead sorted through her notes. Why oh why hadn’t she’d joined the debating team back in high school, or perhaps the local Toastmasters chapter? To distract herself, she counted heads. When she got to fifty-five, she decided it was time to start.