A Crafty Killing Page 4

  "Ah, I see. Yes, that can't really be classified as a meeting. Unless Lana changes her mind, Emily and I will be formally introduced at dinner on Wednesday night."

  "Will you? I'll want to hear everything, so vacuum up as many details as you can in that reporter's brain."

  I chuckled. "Not sure if it'll fit with all the interesting details I'll be picking up at the craft fair." I shook my head. "Can't believe I'm back to writing about quilts. That was my first assignment with the paper. Thought I'd moved on from those kinds of stories."

  Raine cleared her throat. "Try not to feel too sorry for yourself. If memory serves me, and it always does, that quilting story was sidelined by the murder of the high school custodian."

  "True but it would have been about quilting if I'd stuck to my assignment."

  "Then what's to keep you stuck to this assignment?"

  "Something tells me Prudence will have an iron fist when it comes to her newly purchased newspaper. Besides, what are the odds of a newsworthy, sensational murder taking place to overshadow the craft fair?"

  Raine tilted her head side to side. "I wouldn't count it out yet. Something tells me that the craft fair is going to be quite the event this year, and my sixth sense is telling me it won't all be glittery picture frames and hand sewn aprons."

  "Then, here's to your sixth sense." I raised my coffee cup in a toast.

  Chapter 6

  The Firefly Craft Fair was still in the setting up process as I reached the city baseball park. The well groomed grounds came with a large parking lot, picnic benches and restrooms. In between playing seasons, the park was used for various community activities like company picnics, Easter egg hunts and events like the craft fair.

  Being a craft fair run and attended by crafty people, the banners and kiosks were a collage of beautifully painted signs and logos. It was easy to spot Violet Harville, the client Raine had mentioned. An adorable goat was hopping across her banner. The kiosk was piled high with chunks of soap and bottles of lotion.

  A man with a shiny bald head and a thick moustache was setting up a pottery wheel in the center of a kiosk that was lined with hand thrown pottery, some glazed, some natural. All very beautiful. Raine was right. Maybe hanging out at the craft fair wasn't a bad way to spend a work day. With any luck, I'd find something for the inn. In fact, one booth displayed beautiful silk flower door wreaths. The artisan had some for every occasion and season. I'd already decided that the front door of the Cider Ridge would always be adorned with a festive wreath. A circle of flowers always made a place look more welcoming. The wreath maker had so many beautiful pieces, it would be a hard decision.

  The fair, while still in set-up mode, appeared to be a well-organized affair. Everyone was working hard to make their displays attractive to customers. The jewelry makers had taken one corner of the first row. Modern, slick bracelets rested on black velvet trays while colorfully beaded earrings dangled from small brass trees. Shiny mannequin hands displayed silver and copper rings adorned with smoky pink and mint green chunks of sea glass. One kiosk displayed heavy hammered metal jewelry with dark ruby and cerulean blue stones, each piece fit for a medieval costume party or wedding.

  The aroma of hot coals wafted along the aisles as several men fired up a massive barbecue beneath a banner proclaiming that 'Rick and Roy make the best burgers in town'. I wandered past a long display of dog sweaters. Redford and Newman would look dashing in knitted sweaters, only I'd tried to dress them once before. I'd purchased expensive tartan raincoats for bad weather. It seemed like a great idea at the time. I could finally avoid having the entire house smell like wet dog, not to mention no more spraying the walls with their doggie shake offs. I strapped the coat on Newman first and pulled up the cute little attached hood. He sat right down on his haunches, rested his chin on his paws and released the saddest dog sigh the world has ever heard. Redford seemed as if he was going to be more excited about the prospect of a raincoat, but once I had it buckled on, he froze as still as a statue, as if taking a step in the thing would mean certain death. After five minutes of him staring up at me with his mismatched eyes, silently asking why I hated him enough to torture him with a coat, I whipped the coat back off. He bounced around as if I'd freed him from an iron gibbet.

  "Would you like to sample some toffee?" a voice chirped from behind. The young woman was wearing one of the handcrafted aprons from the next kiosk over. Her Tammy's Toffee logo was embroidered across the apron. The candy was all packaged up prettily in cellophane bags tied off with blue checked ribbons. The scent of brown sugar and chocolate permeated the air around the booth. I gladly stepped forward for a sample.

  "This is my original recipe, but I also have a salted caramel and a hot and spicy."

  "Sounds delicious." I crunched down the small chunk I was holding and nodded as I chewed. As was always the case with toffee, more of it landed in my molars than my stomach. "Hmm, buttery and good, just the way I like my toffee. Thanks so much. I'll have to come back and buy some of the spicy toffee. It sounds like the perfect Valentine's Day gift for my boyfriend."

  I waved and moved on but felt certain I would be visiting Tammy's Toffee again. Spicy toffee sounded like something Jackson would appreciate. I briefly considered selling treats like Tammy's Toffee at the inn. That way visitors could take home Firefly Junction souvenirs and I'd be helping local businesses. That idea settled so firmly in my head, I nodded to myself. The woman in the miniature garden kiosk caught the gesture and seemed to think it had to do with her marvelous garden creations.

  "Do you like them?" She waved her hand over a chunk of white birch that had been hollowed out and filled with a tiny fairy garden complete with tiny shrubs, stone paths and thatch roofed cottages. There was even a tiny pond created by smooth pebbles of blue glass.

  I walked over to Juni's Mini Garden's. Juni, I presumed, was sixty something with long, wavy gray hair and a silk scarf wrapped around her head. Her long, colorful skirt and Bohemian style reminded me of Raine. One of the garden scenes contained tiny foxes playing on a grassy hill while a rabbit and owl looked on. Each mini plant was pruned to resemble a tree or shrub.

  "These are amazing," I said. "Makes you feel like you've stepped into a tiny, secret world."

  She clapped once. "That's exactly the effect I'm going for. Each container comes with instructions for pruning and watering, so the garden can flourish and also stay perfectly mini."

  "They are truly marvelous. I'll have to think about it. I'm afraid my track record with house plants is not stellar." I was instantly picturing adorable gardens lining a stone path to the scrolled iron gazebo I had planned for the backyard.

  "These are easier than house plants. You can keep them outside most of the year. Just bring them inside when there's frost or snow." She reached into a glass gnome cookie jar and pulled out her business card. Here you go. I'll be here all week. I do custom gardens upon request."

  The card read Juniper Carlson Miniaturist in Horticulture. According to the address on the card she lived in Smithville. I smiled up at her. "Thanks so much. I just might take you up on that." I walked away with cheery visions of mini gardens featuring a tiny replica of Cider Ridge Inn. Maybe this assignment wouldn't be so horrible after all. Things could be worse. At least I was still lead reporter at the Junction Times.

  Chapter 7

  My new boss, Prudence Mortimer, had suggested I speak to the president of the Crafting Society. Henrietta Lopez, a quilter, was in charge of the entire event. If that was the case, then she had done a superb job organizing it. My press pass had gotten me into many events that were still in the setting up stage, and none had ever run as smoothly as the craft fair. No problems, no disagreements and everyone was busy getting their own kiosk ready for the throngs of expected visitors. At least, that was my impression in the first hour of my exploration. That all changed when I came upon an argument that seemed to include, none other than, Henrietta Lopez. At least that was my guess since the woman in question was
wearing a quilted coat and standing in front of a booth with a quilted banner touting Home of Henri's Famous Quilts.

  Henrietta was a short, sturdily built woman in her late fifties or early sixties. Her short wavy hair was tied back with a quilted hair band, a charming, sweet look considering the scowl beneath the band. Her tightly rolled fists, the same hands that sewed the fabulous quilts hanging on wires around the booth, were placed firmly on her ample hips as she berated Violet, the soap maker.

  "I'd like to know who gave you the authority to switch your kiosk position?" Henrietta snapped.

  Violet, a fifty something dressed in farmer flannel and jeans and with skin that could be used in a facial cream commercial, stood toe to toe with Henrietta. "I told you weeks ago I have to be on the south side of the park, otherwise my soaps get too hot from the sun. They start to melt."

  "That might just improve them," Henrietta barked. She made a show of pulling a linen handkerchief out of her pocket and wiping her nose. "Your goat products give me allergies. How am I supposed to sell my quilts if I'm constantly sneezing and wiping my nose?"

  Violet didn't back down. "I don't care how you sell your quilts. Mary had no problem switching places with me, so there's really no point in arguing."

  "I'm in charge!" Small veins popped out on Henrietta's neck and forehead. "You shouldn't have made any changes without informing me."

  "Sometimes it gets a little old having you in charge. You treat this silly task as if you're running an important company or hospital," Violet chided. "Stop taking yourself so seriously. It's just a craft fair."

  Henrietta's face grew redder. I considered stepping in, concerned she might just blow a gasket.

  Violet pointed and laughed at her. Not the best reaction for the moment. It made Henrietta angrier.

  "Next time, I will leave you off the list," Henrietta snapped. "In fact, you are no longer invited to any of the local craft fairs." With that, she spun around, leaving her nemesis rather stunned and speechless.

  Violet finally found her tongue. "You can't do that."

  "Just wait and see," Henrietta called back in a teasing tone.

  I decided that my interview with Henrietta Lopez should wait. I wasn't sure she'd be in the mood to answer questions. If nothing else, it seemed I'd found a touch of drama at the Firefly Craft Fair.

  Chapter 8

  Most of the crafters were too busy to talk much to a reporter. When Myrna texted that Prudence had gone to lunch and Parker had gone home sick for the day, I hurried back to the newsroom so the two of us could debrief on the alarming morning.

  Myrna was eating a cup of ramen when I walked inside the office. She was about to shove it in a drawer, worried that I was the new boss returning early from lunch. Relief washed over her when she saw it was me.

  "Thank goodness, it's just you." She placed her soup back on the desk and shut the drawer. "This is the first break I've had all day."

  I rolled my chair across to her desk. "Sorry I deserted you but Prue basically shooed me out the door to get started on my assignment."

  "How was that? I know you hate those kinds of assignments."

  "Yes but I figured I could do some shopping and find some cute things for the inn." Thinking about the inn, my future dream, always helped me get past difficult situations. Today those thoughts had come in handy.

  "That's good. They do sell some beautiful crafts at that fair. Last year, I bought a straw hat for spring. The hat maker had decorated it with adorable polka dot ribbon and silk daisies." She stirred the noodles around in her cup. "I have another one of these if you're hungry."

  "No, I'm fine. So tell me. What happened when Prudence discovered she didn't have her own office space?"

  Myrna finished slurping in a noodle and picked up a napkin to wipe her mouth. "Oh, but she does have an office." She waved with a flourish at Parker's office.

  My face snapped back to her. I scooped my chin up off the floor. "No."

  She nodded emphatically. "Yes. Why do you think he went home sick?"

  "Poor Parker. Where will he put his office?"

  Myrna put the cup down and scrunched her nose in distaste. "I think that cup of ramen has been in the break room too long. I was cleaning out the cupboards, and I found a bottle of ketchup that was ten years old. It was so brittle it broke apart when I tossed it in the can."

  "I promised to help you with that, I'm sorry."

  Myrna patted my arm. "Don't worry. I've been meaning to get in there and clean that room out for months. Prue's arrival just prodded me into it. And as to your earlier question—" Myrna's long, pink nail pointed across the newsroom to Chase's old desk. I noticed for the first time that Parker's notebooks and file drawers were sitting on top of the desk.

  "Poor us," I groaned. "The two of us are going to be stuck with Parker in this newsroom."

  Myrna nodded. "The constant sound of him shooting nasal spray up his nose and the heady scent of menthol cough drops will fill the air. Hardly makes for a good work environment."

  I groaned again. "Menthol and nasal spray, I hadn't even thought about his annoying habits. I was just thinking about him barking orders at us and those loud conversations he has on the phone, the ones we can hear through the walls of his office. This is terrible news, Myrna. How are we expected to gossip and engage in our usual small talk with Parker Seymour breathing over our shoulders?"

  Myrna tilted her head toward the office. "And don't forget the new boss. She pretends to be the sweet, older lady with her tight gray bun, floral print dresses and fresh baked pastries, but my intuition tells me she will be a barracuda when it comes to running this place. As evidenced by the fact that she didn't think twice about moving Parker out of his office." She leaned forward and looked slightly contrite about all the complaints we'd just listed about Parker. "I was sure he was going to cry. His whole face was twitching."

  I was back to feeling sorry for Parker. "Poor guy."

  "And get this—" Myrna continued. "Prue fancies herself quite the master at giving advice, so she's going to have a Dear Prudence column in the paper. People can write to her about their problems, and she's going to fix them." Myrna couldn't stop the eye roll that followed. "Sure wish I had that kind of confidence. She also mentioned that—" Myrna pulled back and sealed her lips shut.

  "Uh oh, what? What else did she mention?" I drew a circle in the air around her face. "I've seen that pinched expression before. There's more news and it's news I'm not going to like."

  Myrna shifted on her chair. "I didn't say it was bad news. You might like it. I mean, yes, I think it'll make you happy. Prudence is hiring a new reporter. That way you won't have to cover everything yourself."

  I mulled that prospect over for a second. Chase was no help at all. He was a terrible journalist, but he still held the title of lead reporter. I swallowed the news and decided I was on the positive side. "Prue is a smart woman. As far as I know, she doesn't have any future sons-in-law like Newsom had with Chase." I sat back confidently. "Having a second reporter will be good for the paper and for me. As long as I'm still lead reporter, of course. Although, not sure how much that matters if we're just covering craft fairs and cookie exchanges. Not that I'm opposed to any of those activities. I'm as excited about a cookie exchange as the next person. I just don't think it's great material for a newspaper."

  "If nobody is reading the Junction Times, then there won't be any advertisers. And if there are no advertisers, we'll both be out of a job." Myrna had pushed over a row of dominoes and put herself into a state of distress.

  I took hold of her hand and squeezed it. "Don't forget, eventually I'll be opening the Cider Ridge Inn, and you're going to come work with me."

  A smile returned to her face. "I can't wait. How is the remodel going?"

  I sighed. It was the same default sound I made anytime someone asked me how the remodel was going. I handed her my default answer too. "It's going. Not as fast as I hoped, but I think it'll be worth the wait."

 
; "I'm sure it will. Well, I suppose I should get back to the spreadsheets. They look so good this month, but I'm worried that if we change the paper too drastically the readership will drop off."

  "I'm with you on that theory, Myrna. Let's hope we can change Prue's mind with some of our own ideas. After all, our experience should count for something."

  Myrna nodded in agreement. "Unfortunately, money always makes all the decisions, and since Prue holds all the purse strings—"

  I pointed at her. "Yes, but if those purse strings start snapping from heavy debt, then she might just change her mind."

  Our attention was pulled to the front door. A delivery man had stopped in front of the newspaper office. He was pushing a dolly that was piled high with boxes.

  "Looks like Prue's stuff has arrived," Myrna said as I hopped up to get the door for the man. "She told me to put it all in her new office."

  The delivery man pushed the dolly through the door. Myrna showed him to the office and turned back to me. "Poor Parker," she said sadly.

  "Poor Parker indeed."

  Chapter 9

  Ouch." I pulled my hand back from the hot pan. My mind was definitely not on the dinner I'd generously offered to cook Jackson. In my defense, I'd invited him the night before. I had no idea that my Monday was going to be thrown into pure turmoil.

  A potholder floated through thin air. I grabbed it. "Thanks. I forget how hot this pot gets."

  Edward materialized in all his half disheveled-half dapper glory. I'd fought the urge many times to tie the cravat that was destined to remain untied for eternity. He was certainly handsome, but a neatly tied cravat would nicely finish off the look.

  "Not that your cooking skills ever show true mastery but you look particularly out of sorts this evening," he noted. Being continually focused on his own feelings and moods, Edward rarely noticed when I was, as he described, out of sorts.