One Hot Murder (18 page)

Katie smiled and swallowed down a lump in her throat. A year ago she had no clue that she would ever love again. Chad and Andy were so different. Chad had kept secrets. Andy was an open book. No disrespect to her late husband, but she much preferred Andy’s style.

“I wish I wasn’t so tired, and that Monday wasn’t so far away.”

“Monday?” Andy asked, puzzled.

“Yeah. I did invite you for dinner and to stay over,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yeah. Isn’t it terrible that we have to schedule our time together?”

“Yes, but it also means that our time together is that much more precious—and intense.” They shared a knowing smile.

“I love that kind of intensity,” Andy said.

“So do I.”

Oh, how she yearned for those moments of longing and desire to stretch on, but then she yawned again and the need for sleep pulled at her overtired body. “If I don’t go upstairs in the next couple of minutes, I’m going to keel over and fall asleep right here,” she said.

“Go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Andy said and peeled the plastic gloves from his hands. He tossed them aside and stepped close, pulling her to him and planting an oh-so-gentle kiss on her lips.

She pulled away enough to nestle her head against his neck and plaster the rest of herself against him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Katie Bonner.”

They hung together for a long moment before Andy pulled away. “Go home. Go to bed. And don’t think about any of the crap you went through tonight.”

She’d already done that—until he’d mentioned it, that is.

“Yes, sir,” she said anyway.

Andy led her back through his shop and out the front door to the stairs that led to the apartment above. “Good night.” He leaned forward for one last kiss before Katie mounted the steps. At the top, she blew him a kiss before she unlocked the door to go inside.

The cats were waiting for her, feeling needy after having been abandoned for so many hours. She retrieved the pouch
of cat treats from the kitchen counter and filled their empty bowls before heading to her tiny bedroom.

She had a feeling the next day was going to be just as long and with just as many surprises. And with everything that had been happening of late, those surprises weren’t likely to be happy.

Not happy at all.

Morning came far too early, and yet already the sun was sleeping in later each day. Summer in western New York was far too brief, and the extended heat wave made it difficult to enjoy the season. The thermometer outside her kitchen window already said seventy-four degrees. The paper predicted a high of ninety-seven, and the extended forecast called for showers on the weekend, putting the Christmas in July potluck party in the Victoria Square parking lot in jeopardy.

Swell.

Katie’s morning schedule was the same as always. Breakfast, shower, dress, and out of the apartment by seven fifty-eight. She’d heard noises in the pizzeria and had inhaled the aroma of baking cinnamon buns. Andy must be exhausted. If he wasn’t counting the hours until his assistant manager returned from vacation, Katie was.

A rumpled-looking Godfrey was the only vendor waiting for Katie to open Artisans Alley. “About time you got here,” he grumbled.

Katie glanced at her watch. “I’m a whole minute early.”

Godfrey shrugged.

Katie unlocked the door and Godfrey rushed in ahead of her. She went directly to the main breaker in the front of the store and turned on the lights and fired up the air-conditioning, for all the good it did. Godfrey was exiting the vendors’ lounge as Katie approached her office. She heard the sound of water running. Godfrey must have used
the restroom. She cringed. All the surfaces were still covered in black fingerprint powder. Well, there went her morning. That stuff was not only filthy, but defied dust cloths and the suction on her mini-Shop-Vac.

Before she faced the washroom cleanup, Katie put on the coffeepot—not that she would partake. She checked the status of the water bottle in the fridge and found it still nearly full, and then hauled out her Shop-Vac and began the washroom project.

By the time she emerged from the now tidy restroom, almost all the coffee was gone. She made a fresh pot and finally sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. What should she tackle first? Finalizing the agenda for the Merchants Association meeting that evening or analyzing the cost of ads for the upcoming Dickens Festival, which began in November? She chose the agenda. Since she’d heard from no one else who wanted to add items, she finished the list and e-mailed it the Association’s secretary, Sue Sweeney, owner of Sweet Sue’s Confectionery. Next she called the rental company to check on the chairs and tables that were to be delivered on Saturday morning for that evening’s potluck. Everything was in order. Another hurdle leapt.

There were many other items that needed her attention, but Katie suddenly remembered she hadn’t stocked the cash registers with money to start the retail day—which was to begin in less than five minutes.

She’d shut the register drawer and looked up. Ten o’clock. She strode to the French doors that separated the store from the building’s lobby and unlocked them. No sooner had she done that than the Big Brown delivery guy approached the door with a carton under one arm. He came inside and dropped it off at Cash Desk 1.

“Hi, I’m Katie Bonner, manager of Artisans Alley.” She offered her hand to the young, muscular guy. He looked
cute in his regulation brown shorts and shirt. A brown corporate hat covered his short-cropped blond hair.

“Greg Mason. Guess I’ll be seeing you on a regular basis.”

“What happened to Jerry?” Katie asked.

“Retired.”

Katie frowned. “Funny. He didn’t mention it to me last Friday.”

“Yeah, it was sudden. But now I’ve got a regular route, so I wish him well and thank him, too.”

Katie shrugged. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks. See ya,” he called and headed out the door.

No sooner had he left than Crissie Hunter, the tanned, thirty-something mailwoman, arrived with a stack of mail and circulars. “Hey, Katie,” she said, handing them off. “I hear you guys are going to have another one of your famous wingdings on Saturday night.”

“We sure are. Would you like to come?”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t fishing for an invitation,” Crissie said. She walked her route and already her uniform blouse was damp and sticking to her. “Just wanted to tell you to have a happy one.”

“We’ll do that.”

Chrissie turned. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Rose Nash wandered up to stand beside Katie. She spent almost as much time at Artisans Alley as Katie did. “She’s such a nice young woman.”

“Yes,” Katie agreed.

“I wanted to let you know that I’ve twisted a number of arms and we will have a bunch of side dishes for the potluck on Saturday.”

“I thought I might bring a dish of apricot carrots. They’re pretty good.”

“Oh, goody. I’ll add that to the list. I want to make little
tent cards so that all the food is labeled. I’ve managed to borrow a bunch of warming trays and some extra slow cookers. If you’ve got one, can you bring it, or put your carrots in one?” Rose asked.

“Sure. That’s a great idea.”

“Good. Do you want a list of all the dishes?”

Katie was about to say no, but then saw how much it meant to Rose to share all that she’d done to ensure everyone at the party could eat, drink, and be merry. “Sure. Thank you.”

Rose beamed.

Katie slapped the pile of mail in her right hand against her left palm. “I’m off to my office to try to get some work done. Holler if you need help come lunchtime.”

“Will do,” Rose said, and turned to Cash Desk 1. She stowed her purse under the counter, took out her romance novel, and withdrew her bookmark.
Another day at Artisans Alley
, Katie thought wistfully, wishing she could goof off for even part of one day. But then, she found she thrived on the work. Well, most of the time.

Back in her office, she sat down at her desk and rifled through the mail, putting the circulars into the recycle pile and sorting through the rest of the envelopes. Most of them were bills or credit card offers, but one of them was a square, buff-colored envelope that had been addressed by what looked like a teenager’s hand. Intrigued, Katie reached over to the chipped coffee mug that held pens, pencils, nail files, and a letter opener. She slit the top of the envelope and removed an invitation to…

“Detective Davenport’s retirement party!” she read aloud.

Why on earth would the detective want to invite her to his party? Was it because she had been a thorn in his side for the past nine months and he wanted to celebrate the fact that he’d never see her again? Had one of his teenaged daughters written out the invitation?

Did she really
have
to go to the party?

She glanced at the address. Oddly enough, it was being held right here in McKinlay Mill. She’d thought the detective lived on the east side of the city. Maybe he had moved, or was thinking of moving.

She inspected the invitation. It had been specifically addressed to her. No mention of bringing a date, not that she thought she could extricate Andy from his pizza business on a Friday evening. But maybe she could take someone like Rose. There was a number to RSVP and she decided to call it and ask.

She dialed the number. “Hi, we’re the Davenports,” said a cheerful young female voice. “We can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”

Katie hung up the phone. The bouncy voice probably belonged to one of the detective’s daughters. He had two…or was it three?

She thumbtacked the invitation to the small overloaded corkboard that hung next to her desk. She’d try calling later.

Katie opened all the bills, putting them into a folder to be dealt with next week, on bill-paying day, but her gaze kept going back to the party invitation and the address for the gathering. “Holy smoke—that’s our address,” she said aloud, and pulled the invitation off the bulletin board once again. The party was going to be held at Artisans Alley?

Was Detective Davenport the person who’d rented her empty rental space?

She dialed Fred Cunningham’s number, but it was voice mail that picked up on the fourth ring. “Fred, it’s Katie Bonner. Why didn’t you tell me it was Detective Davenport who wanted to rent my storefront for his party?” No sooner had she said it than she wondered why she was so upset. “Give me a call,” she said, and hung up the phone.

Why
was
she so upset? The detective knew she’d had financial problems in the past. Was he throwing her a bone?
And maybe she ought to consider letting the space for more short-term rentals. After all, the whole idea was to maximize her income stream—and it really didn’t matter how that was accomplished as long as it was legal.

Katie pinned the invitation back up and had just settled down at her desk when a rap on her doorjamb caused her to turn. Rose Nash stood in the doorway, and a tall, large—not fat, but big—man stood behind her.

“Katie, this is Detective Hamilton. He’d like to speak to you about the fire at Wood U.” Rose ducked around the man and made a quick escape.

Dressed in a blue sport coat that could have doubled for a circus tent, Katie wondered if Hamilton’s shoulders were too big to fit through her office doorway. She rose from her chair and offered her hand in a rather tentative manner. Was he likely to crush it? “How can I help you, Detective?” And what was he doing here instead of Detective Davenport?

The big guy clasped her hand gently, and despite the humidity, his hand was dry to the touch.

“Ma’am, I’m taking over the investigation of the murder at Wood U on Saturday night. Do you have a few minutes?”

“But I’ve already spoken to Detective Davenport.”

“I’ve read his report. I wanted to go over your statement with you. I’ll be talking to everyone who knows anything about the fire and the murder.”

“Where’s Detective Davenport?” Katie asked, growing concerned.

“He’s retired, ma’am,” Hamilton said in a bored monotone.

“But I understood he’d be working until the end of the week.”

“I believe he’s on paid leave until his official retirement date. I’m in charge of the investigation as of today. Now, I have a few questions.” He withdrew a notebook and a
capped pen from the oversized pocket of his coat. “May I sit down?”

“Sure.” Katie stood back, and sure enough, Hamilton had to sidle through the door to enter the small office. He took the seat she offered, which was a tight squeeze. Did the Sheriff’s Office have to buy oversized furniture for this guy? How had he ever made it through the ranks to the post of detective? As a rookie, had he driven the paddy wagon instead of a cruiser? The logistics were mind-boggling.

“I understand you’re not a stranger to reporting crimes,” he said in the same monotone. Was he bored or just reciting the dialogue from an old
Dragnet
episode?

“You got that right,” Katie said, and had a feeling the following conversation was going to be difficult. She settled back in her chair for what promised to be a long and boring interview.