A Crafty Killing Page 13

  "Me?" I pointed to myself. "I've been working on the craft fair just like you asked. Why would I have any details on the second murder?" I was really working toward an Oscar this morning. Or maybe not. Prudence seemed to see right through it.

  A condescending smile curled her thin lips. "Dear, I know many people in this area. A friend of mine mentioned that her grandson was the medic on call when Katy Michaels' death was called in . . . by Sunni Taylor, reporter for the Junction Times." She said that last part snidely.

  Parker laughed and clapped. "Good job, Taylor. It's always nice to hear that one of our reporters was first at the scene of a crime. And if you called it in, even better."

  I nodded at him to show my appreciation. It seemed he was no longer going to sit idly by while an entirely inexperienced woman with time and money to spare destroyed the paper.

  Prudence's nostrils were stretched. "Since Sunni found herself in the middle of it all, she'll have plenty of details to hand over to the reporter who is covering the murders. After all, we're a family here at Junction Times. We're all here to support each other because if we all succeed the paper succeeds."

  Parker tossed me an eye roll while Prudence's back was turned. Dave hadn't looked my direction, but he seemed pleased with Prue's little pep talk. It seemed I was going to have to fill him in on Katy Michaels' murder. Looked like I was doing his work as well as mine. It was the Chase Evans debacle all over again and, frankly, I was getting a little tired of it. The conversation I'd had with Lana slipped to the front of my mind. How was I going to be able to pretend to like Dave Crockett when I disliked him more with each interaction?

  Chapter 28

  After filling Dave in on only the slightest of details about Katy's death, I headed back to the fair. My assignment was centered on the vendors and crafts at the fair. If my research veered across lanes to Dave's murder story that would just be one of the consequences of doing in depth reporting.

  I wasn't exactly sure what I'd find as I walked back through the entrance. One thing was starkly obvious, there were far less shoppers than one would expect. The vendors had to be disappointed after preparing all year for the annual event. During my research I found that it wasn't cheap to sell things at the craft fair. A single kiosk for all five days cost a thousand dollars. A person would have to sell a lot of bags of homemade toffee or dog sweaters to make any kind of profit. I assumed most people saw it as a way to show off their products, hand out business cards and, with any luck, grow a big client base.

  One vendor who looked somewhat glum about the slow foot traffic was Juniper, the mini garden creator. She was still putting some finishing touches, another tiny tombstone and a small, pruned tree, on the church and graveyard garden.

  Like Katy, this morning, her nerves were on end. She startled as I approached and said hello. "Oh, it's you, the reporter." She was less friendly than before but then things had really taken a turn for the worse. She sat back on her stool and her shoulders slumped. "I suppose you've heard about Katy Michaels. It's all over town already. It seems none of us are safe now. I don't understand, what possible reason could anyone have for killing artists? We're harmless." She waved her arms over her gardens. "We add beauty to the world."

  "I agree, a group of talented artists should be the last people on a killer's list. Is there anyone you can think of, anyone who might have had a vendetta against the Crafting Society or this whole event, in general? Maybe someone who wasn't allowed to participate?"

  Juniper adjusted the paisley print scarf around her neck. "Anyone can participate as long as they're willing to pay the fee. Have the police found a suspect? I keep hoping they'll make an arrest so we can all relax. What they say about any publicity, even bad publicity, being good for business is just not true. I've only had three sales all day. At this rate, I won't even make back the money I spent on garden soil." There was little sympathy or mourning for her two co-vendors, but I could see where this whole thing might put a lot of people in a financial hole. (As long as they didn't find themselves in a six feet hole first.)

  Since I had her attention, she wasn't busy and she seemed eager to talk, I decided to ask a question that had muddled my thoughts ever since I researched Larry Royce, the potter, who, conveniently enough, also worked as a phlebotomist before going full time into clay.

  I sidled up to her booth and perused the gardens casually before striking up the conversation. "I was doing some research for my story, and I came across Larry's website."

  Juniper picked up a small pair of pruning shears and began sculpting a small succulent plant. "Yes, he has a nice site. His pottery is shipped around the world. I wish I had a product that could be shipped worldwide, but it's just too complicated with live plants. My garden scenes are really meant to be fluid. I can change and rearrange things because nothing is glued down or hardened in a kiln."

  "I can see where it would be nearly impossible to ship one of your amazing garden scenes." I'd always found splicing in the occasional compliment helped win people over and gain their trust. Something told me Juniper knew everything that went on in the local art world.

  "I read a few of his blog posts." I glanced in the direction of Larry's booth. He was helping several customers pick out some pottery. I turned back to Juniper. "Is it true his wife died by suicide?"

  The new topic had gathered all her attention. She put down the pruning shears but held onto the plant as she leaned toward me. "It was just devastating for him. I don't think he expected it."

  "What could have caused it? I saw that she was a talented cookie artist."

  Juniper nodded. "The finest. People swarmed her booth at the fairs. But then—" she paused and stuck the plant into a hole she'd prepared. She returned to our conversation and tossed out a bombshell. "Joyce had gotten tired of baking so many cookies. She was having problems with her hands and wrists from overuse. She wanted to keep decorating. She started replacing her homemade cookies with ones she purchased from a bakery. They were still beautiful and people didn't seem to notice. I only knew she was using bakery bought because I happened to know the baker who was supplying her with undecorated cookies. When Henrietta found out about the readymade cookies, she took away Joyce's membership in the society."

  I stood frozen to the spot, stunned at what Juniper had revealed. "So Joyce was a member in good standing, but when Henrietta discovered that Joyce was using bakery cookies she was kicked out? How did it affect Joyce's business? I noticed there are plenty of vendors, yourself and Larry included, that do not have the gold membership seal. I assume it doesn't affect sales too much?"

  "Not too much, although Henri liked to think it was a big deal. I mean, it's true, some shoppers only stop at the kiosks with the gold seal, but the rest of us do just fine without it. It wasn't just the loss of membership that hurt Joyce's business. Henrietta couldn't let it go. She made sure word got around that Joyce's cookies weren't really homemade. The business took a tumble. Eventually, Joyce stopped selling cookies altogether."

  Juniper was tossing so much incredible information at me, I was trying to absorb it and, all the while, come up with my next line of questions. The follow up query was actually pretty easy. "Do you think that Joyce became despondent enough about her failed business to take her own life?"

  Juniper shrugged lightly. "I couldn't say for sure. I didn't know Joyce that well, but she committed suicide just about six months after she shut down the business. I know Larry never spoke to Henrietta after she kicked Joyce out of the society. He pulled his own membership at the time. He told Henrietta and her team of membership officers that they took themselves too seriously and that they should all rethink how they treat people."

  "Membership officers? Katy was part of that group, wasn't she?"

  Juniper's eyes widened. "Do you think—?" She shook her head. "No, it couldn't be. I guess I'm just jumping to conclusions now. Larry would never do such a thing. I don't think he's capable of murder. Naturally, he was extremely broken up about Joyce'
s suicide. We didn't see or hear from him for months."

  "Yes, that doesn't seem surprising."

  After a stretch of no customers, three women arrived to ask questions about the mini gardens and how to care for them. "Thanks for your time," I told Juniper. It was time to talk to Larry Royce. If what Juniper had told me was true, then I'd just uncovered a motive. And his old day job gave him the skills needed to successfully inject someone with poison.

  Chapter 29

  I kept myself busy, happily browsing the dog sweaters, while Larry Royce helped a customer pick a vase. She was rather indecisive, as if her life depended on the choice. In the end, she decided on a tall, slender vase with a rust colored glaze. Larry rolled it in bubble wrap and the woman walked away with a triumphant smile, apparently certain she'd made the right choice. I, on the other hand, was far more indecisive about the dog sweaters. In the end, I reminded myself that Newman and Redford hated to wear clothes. I left the vast array of sweaters wondering if I should get myself a tiny, short-haired dog just so I could buy adorable sweaters.

  I'd talked myself cleanly out of the idea by the time I reached Larry's kiosk. That was when I noticed that my coworker, Dave Crockett, had arrived at the fair. He stood with his fancy tablet ready to take notes. Had Prudence bought the man a tablet to use for stories? I'd been using a pen and pad for my entire tenure at the paper. A tablet was never offered. Parker would have considered it a waste of money, and he wouldn't have been too far from wrong. I'd always preferred the more organic, primitive pen and paper for spur of the moment interviews . . . and murders, for that matter. It would surely be ironic if Prudence doled out big money for a tablet when she'd just lectured us on the thermostat temperatures.

  I wiped the irritation from my mood. I had a job to do. I needed to find out who was killing the crafters before anyone else died and, of course, before my coworker uncovered the truth. Not that I had any worries on that account. I was way ahead on the investigation, and my main suspect was standing in his kiosk and pulling on his clay spattered work apron.

  Larry finished tying his apron. "Hope you're back to buy. This whole craft fair is a bust."

  Thanks to you, I thought wryly. "Yes, it seems to have gotten off to a terrible start. I doubt there's any way for it to recover at this point."

  He pulled some clean rags out of a box and set them near the pottery wheel. "I suppose we vendors will just be lucky not to wind up dead." He spoke rather callously about the deaths, another check on the murderer list.

  "It's a terrible tragedy what happened to Katy and Henrietta." I pretended to be interested in a bowl with a bright green glaze. "You are so talented. I checked out your website. I'm planning to mention particularly nice websites in my article for the Junction Times. Do you mind if I add yours?"

  "Please do. That would be great. Free advertising might at least make up for the total loss I'm taking on this fair."

  "Glad to help." I put down the bowl. "I confess, I read some of your blog posts. They were very well written and inspirational." I put on my most sympathetic expression. "I was so sorry to hear about your wife."

  Larry's face dropped. "Yes, Joyce was the light of my life. She was an artist too."

  "She was a cookie decorator. I saw the photos on your site. Very talented."

  Larry nodded. His entire mood had darkened but then I had brought up a painful subject. "She was having trouble with her hands and wrists. Carpal tunnel and some arthritis." He took a steadying breath and lifted his face. "She decided she could take some of the hand work out of her business by decorating bakery made cookies." A dry, unhappy laugh followed. "Those women in the Crafting Society are such snobs. They took away her membership. Word got out that she was no longer baking cookies herself, and people stopped buying them. She was devastated. She'd struggled with depression her whole adult life and losing her business—" He took another slightly ragged breath. "If you don't mind, I'm going to get working on this clay before it gets too dry. Feel free to look around. And here's a little insider information—"

  I practically fell forward in my eagerness to hear his insider's information. Was he about to give away some evidence?

  He came closer. I took a discreet step back just in case he was wielding his weapon of choice, a cyanide filled syringe. He glanced side to side to make sure no one was in earshot. My heart trotted ahead of its normal pace, and adrenaline tightened my muscles.

  His brows lowered to a serious position. "Most of us give a thirty percent discount on the last day of the fair. That way we don't have to so much to pack up."

  The rush of adrenaline flowed right through me and released itself as a short, explosive laugh. "I'll keep that in mind then. Thanks for the information."

  I swept my gaze around at the fair activities, namely, the activity of a certain reporter. Dave was heading with speed and purpose toward the entrance. A familiar set of broad shoulders had just strolled into the fair. Before I could wave to Jackson, Dave landed right in front of him, his fancy tablet in hand. Those same familiar broad shoulders immediately stiffened as he listened to whatever Dave was talking about.

  I headed in their direction. After all, I had every right to approach the detective, whose spare time job was wonderful boyfriend to reporter Sunni Taylor. On closer inspection, Jackson's jaw was set as rigidly as his shoulders.

  "You can't keep us in the dark, Detective Jackson," Dave was saying as I reached hearing range. "The people have a right to know if there's a serial killer on the loose." He said the last part loud enough to catch the attention of nearby shoppers. They immediately started whispering and exchanging looks of horror.

  "And that's exactly why I'm not giving you anything else out here in the open. You're starting rumors that will only ignite fear," Jackson said sternly. He pulled a card out of his pocket. "This is the spokesperson at the precinct. Melvin can tell you everything we can share with the public right now. Any interference by the media will only damage the investigation."

  I stood a foot or two back. Dave hadn't seen me yet. I wanted to see him in action. He was most definitely not scoring points with Jackson.

  "Come on, Detective," Dave said snidely. "You know this guy Melvin is just going to give me the runaround and try and placate me with trite details. I need the real scoop behind the story. How close are you to catching this killer? Should we all be watching our backs?"

  Jackson's gaze caught mine. His amber eyes glittered with irritation. For the sake of family peace, I decided to step in. Hopefully, it was a wise decision.

  "Hello, Dave." My cheery tone bounced off the tension in the air.

  "Sunni," Dave said in a far less amiable tone. "If you could just give Detective Jackson and me a second, we're not finished with our conversation."

  "Actually, we are finished," Jackson said smoothly. "Please direct any more queries to the name on that card." Jackson sidled past him to where I was standing.

  Dave spun around with an incredulous grunt. "That's not right. You'll probably tell her everything about the case. I'm the one covering the murder."

  "We're not going to be discussing the case." Jackson took my hand. "We're going to be discussing our plans for lunch. Again, Melvin will tell you everything you need to know."

  Before Dave could say another word, Jackson tugged me along toward the food court. I could feel Dave's angry stare on our backs as we walked away. How was this possibly going to work? Lana was going to be so unhappy with both of us.

  Chapter 30

  I guess Crockett thought he could be pushy because we sat together for a dinner party," Jackson said as he motioned toward the burgers.

  "Pushy is one of the words I've lined up to describe him," I muttered. "Of all the guys Lana could have chosen, she ended up with Dave Crockett. I was trying really hard to like him, but my efforts keep getting thwarted by his unpleasant personality. He was nice enough at the dinner party."

  "Possibly an act for your sister. People tend to put on their best faces when t
hey're in a new relationship."

  I squeezed his hand and peered up at him. "I refuse to believe that Detective Brady Jackson ever had to put on airs to impress a woman."

  He peered over at me. "Who me? Of course not. I mean, just one flash of this smile"—he pointed at his chin and forced a grin—"and they melt like butter."

  I shucked him on the shoulder and remembered too late how hard his arms were.

  One advantage to a low turnout was short lines at the food booths. We stood behind three women who had apparently been jewelry shopping. Each of them were admiring their new necklaces and earrings as they waited for their turn to order. It reminded me of how just a few days ago I fancied myself spending an entire day shopping under the guise of working. But so far, it'd been all work and no shopping.

  "I've got something big to tell you." I looked back just to make sure Dave hadn't tagged along. "I was waiting until we were well out of earshot of nosy reporters. But you first. What did the coroner have to say about Katy's death? Was there any evidence at the scene?"

  Jackson lowered his voice, although the women in front of us were so enamored with their purchases they would hardly care to listen in. "Katy died the same way as Henrietta. Lethal injection of cyanide. This time the needle came out cleanly, which might have been a result of her falling face first."

  The three women stepped up to order. We inched up too. The aroma of grilled onions reminded me that I was hungry.

  "Poor Katy," I said. "What did you find? Anything significant? A clay footprint perhaps?"

  "No clay footprint. The killer pays attention to details. The place was clean. They must have followed her into the barn, by way of cement path. They pushed the needle in, pulled it out and left. The farms out there are spread apart so no one saw anything."

  We stopped our conversation to order lunch. The burger server handed us our food, and we carried it over to a picnic bench.