A Crafty Killing Page 7

  I lowered my voice. "It's just that I saw Henrietta Lopez yesterday. She was energetic, sturdy, nothing about her said death was near. I witnessed a robust argument between Henrietta and Violet Harville, the woman who makes soap from goat milk." The last part lifted his brows.

  "Goat milk? They actually make soap out of goat milk?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Yes, they're not just for snuggling." I was of course thinking about my two favorite goats, Tinkerbell and Cuddlebug.

  "Right, well, I know that now. Do you think Violet might have had something to do with her death?" Jackson walked over to the body and crouched down. "Like Meeks said, there doesn't seem to be any sign of foul play." He glanced around the kiosk. "Everything looks well organized. No sign of a struggle. Not to mention, this kiosk is right in the open. It would be hard to murder someone in the kiosk and not have witnesses."

  I shrugged in agitation. "Detective Jackson, it seems you're ready to write this off as a natural death, so I won't take up any more of your time." I turned to leave, but he took hold of my hand. He peered up at me with those glittering amber eyes that always left me a little breathless.

  "I haven't written this off. I'll wait for the coroner and see what she says. But I think you might be wishing a little too hard for a murder so you have something to write about other than the craft fair."

  I shrugged again, this time more coyly. "I suppose that might be the case, but my intuition tells me there's more here than meets the eye. And if I'm right, then you need to take me to that new dessert bar over in Smithville."

  Jackson shook his head. "Goat milk soap? Dessert bars? What's the world coming to?"

  "Now you sound like an old grandpa. You and your great ancestor have more in common than you think. This is a woman's world. That is why there are awesome things like goat milk soap and dessert bars. Now, do we have a bet?"

  "What do I get if it turns out you're wrong?" he asked.

  I shook my head once. "Nothing, you'll still have to take me to the dessert bar. I just won't be gloating while I'm eating blueberry cheesecake."

  Officer Meeks leaned into the kiosk. "Detective Jackson, the coroner van just arrived."

  "That's my cue to go do my journalist thing." I winked at the devilishly handsome detective and left the kiosk.

  I realized as I stepped out into the fair, most of the kiosks were deserted. The massive meat smoker had been shut down. With no customers coming for at least a few hours, possibly more, if my intuition was right (and it usually was) most of the vendors had either gone home or to breakfast or wherever one might go when their entire morning had been turned upside down. A pair of women, younger, maybe thirty were still hanging up some of their framed photography on the corkboard lining their kiosk. Laura and Ida's Nature Photography was painted on the banner across their booth. The Crafting Society gold seal was prominently displayed next to the banner.

  "Good morning," I said in the solemn tone appropriate for the day. I lifted my press pass. "I'm Sunni Taylor. I was originally sent here to cover the craft fair. However, it seems my original plan has taken a turn." I shook my head weakly. "I'm so sorry about your co-crafter." I pointed at the gold seal. "I noticed you're part of the Crafting Society. I understand Henrietta was the president."

  One of the women, the one dressed in khaki pants and a leopard print sweater, stepped forward while the other continued with her task of hanging framed photos.

  "Your work is beautiful." I briefly wondered if a large moose photo would look good in the reading room but quickly dashed the idea from my head. I was going to blow through a month's budget if I stayed too long at the fair.

  "Thank you. I'm Ida and that is my partner, Laura. Sure was a terrible morning. We've all been working hard to make this fair a success, especially Henri. We're all just devastated at how things ended up." She shook her head. "Guess things didn't just end. They never got started."

  "Do you think the whole event will be cancelled?" I asked.

  Laura spun around. She had a silk scarf around her neck that was printed with one of their nature photos, a majestic mountain landscape surrounding a lake. "They won't cancel the entire event. Too many people have big amounts of capital invested in their businesses. It would mean financial ruin for some of us. It won't be the same without Henri, but I think even she would have agreed the fair should continue."

  "That certainly makes sense," I said. "Did Henri have family?"

  Ida shook her head. "Her husband, Derek, died two years ago. A heart attack, I think. She didn't have kids."

  Laura lifted a photo of a herd of elk from a carton. "Her quilts were her children. Quilting was her life."

  I glanced back toward Henri's booth. The coroner and her team were setting up screens for privacy before they examined the body. I turned back to the photographers. "She certainly was talented."

  "That she was," Ida said forlornly. "She was good at everything. She ran the Crafting Society, and she did a great job."

  "Yes, I've heard that," I said, although I'd heard more negative reviews than positive. "Was it true she had the final word on who was allowed into the society?"

  The two women exchanged glances, then Laura spoke up. "We all take a vote on whether or not to invite someone into the Crafting Society. But truth was, Henri always had the last say. She was fairly picky about who she let in."

  Ida huffed. "There was nothing wrong with that. I mean, why would we bother to display the society's gold seal if they let in just anybody. Some people decorate mason jars with hats and googly eyes and call themselves artists. There has to be a standard, otherwise the society is meaningless."

  I nodded along as if agreeing with both of them. I needed to keep all my interview channels open. "Well, you two are busy, so I won't take up any more of your time. I might be back to ask a few more questions about the fair." I lifted my pass. "You know, for the paper."

  That caused both women to smile. "It'll be nice to see our names in the paper," Ida chirped. "It's a great way to get our business out there."

  "Absolutely. Good luck and I hope they decide to open the fair soon." I headed back toward the quilting booth. With any luck, the coroner would have something definitive soon.

  Chapter 14

  Jackson was wearing a grin that was hard to read as I walked toward him.

  "Looks like your intuition needs a job on the force," he said wryly.

  "It's murder?" I said far too loudly and immediately shrank down as if that would erase my loud pronouncement. Fortunately, most everyone had vacated the area, the entire fair, in fact. It seemed the arrival of the county coroner had dampened everyone's enthusiasm for selling their pretty, handmade wares.

  "The coroner thinks it might be poison. She's looking for something more concrete before she takes the body to the morgue. That way I can officially tape it off as a crime scene. I don't want to jump the gun on that until I know for sure. It's easy enough to call something a crime scene but much more awkward to withdraw a crime scene and turn it into a natural cause death."

  "Yes, I see your point. While we're going under the assumption of poison, let me show you something that I noticed while waiting for the ambulance." I led him inside the kiosk and behind the coroner's screen. Her team was busy with the examination, taking swabs of Henrietta's nose and mouth. "It's over here." Some of the footprint had been erased by the activity in the kiosk but clay was like chalk. It stuck around until someone threw water on it. "It's a footprint that is far too big to be Henrietta's shoe."

  Jackson crouched down and rubbed his finger on the print just as I had done. He came to the same conclusion. "Clay?" he asked.

  "That's what I thought. There is a potter here at the fair. He's just down this aisle. He set up a pottery wheel for demonstrations."

  Jackson took a picture of the footprint and placed Henrietta's chair over the print to preserve it. "I'll have a chat with the potter once we know more."

  A member of the coroner's team approached us. "Detective Ja
ckson, we have something to show you."

  We followed him to the body. Henrietta was now resting nearly on her stomach. A small spot of blood stained her dress on the hip that had been facing the floor. Dr. Ansel, the coroner, was leaning over the blood spot with a magnifying glass. She looked up at Jackson. "Just as I thought. There's a pin sized hole in the fabric. I'm sure once I get her on the exam table I will find a pin sized hole in the victim."

  "Poisoned by injection?" Jackson asked.

  "That would be my guess. From the looks of it, the needle might still be inside her flesh. I'm going to need to rush her in for an autopsy because certain poisons are hard to detect if the tests aren't done immediately. I'll know more after the exam."

  "Guess this is a crime scene," Jackson said.

  "I'd say so." Dr. Ansel pushed to her feet and began directing her team to get ready for transport.

  Jackson and I circled out from behind the screen to get out of their way. "Guess you called that one, Bluebird."

  "Guess I did. Still, don't be too hard on yourself. After all, who would expect murder and foul play in the middle of a craft fair?"

  We were hidden behind a line of quilts. He snuck in a kiss on my forehead. "You would . . . apparently."

  My phone rang, interrupting my victorious moment. I left the scene to talk to Myrna.

  "Hey, Myrna, what's going on?"

  "Things are quite chaotic."

  I immediately knew things weren't great when I realized she was using her hand to muffle her voice. A pang of guilt struck me for not going into the news office this morning. Instead, I'd texted Myrna that I was going straight to my assignment. I was anxious to get there early and interview vendors, but if I was being honest with myself, I was also trying to avoid the drama at the office.

  "Parker just left to have an early lunch," Myrna continued in the muffled tone. "He's been sitting at his desk staring at his boxes of displaced things. How do people look when they're having a nervous breakdown?"

  "Uh, I'm not sure if there's a standard look that goes with it. Is it that bad? Poor Parker."

  I heard a woman's voice enter the room. It didn't take long to confirm that it was Prudence because Myrna started talking louder and in her official office voice. "Yes, Sunni, that's right. Mrs. Mortimer has called a meeting for one o'clock sharp in the newsroom."

  "A meeting?" I asked.

  Myrna's voice dropped down again and her real tone returned. "Yes, I have no idea what it's about but one o'clock."

  "Uh oh, I wonder what surprises Prudence will drop on us this time."

  "I'm afraid to even imagine," Myrna muttered. "At least you've had a more enjoyable morning than me. How is the craft fair?"

  "Well, not too crafty." In retrospect, I assumed the killer was fairly talented since it took us all time to discover that the victim was, indeed, murdered. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back to the office. It seems we've both had quite a morning."

  Chapter 15

  I strolled confidently into the newsroom ready to break the news that there had been a murder at the craft fair. Certainly Prudence wouldn't stop me from covering it. It was not a feel good story, but people in the community would want to hear about the tragic fate of Henrietta Lopez, a local quilter.

  Prudence was conveniently standing in the newsroom giving Myrna instructions for setting out the cookies she'd baked for the meeting. (Treats. There did seem to be at least one major bright spot in Prudence's propensity for meetings.)

  Prudence and Myrna both looked my direction.

  "Oh good, Sunni, you're here. We'll be starting the meeting shortly," Prue said briskly and headed back to her office.

  "Excuse me, Prudence, if you have a second, I need to tell you what happened this morning." Somehow, the confidence I'd walked in with had dissipated. Prudence was wearing a pleasant enough, expectant smile, only something about it told me she wasn't going to be receptive to my new story.

  "Yes?" she asked with an exaggerated blink. "That's right. The craft fair." She quickly filled the void my hesitation had left behind. "How is that going?"

  I took a breath and let it all spill out. "Actually, it's not. There's been a murder. In fact, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Henrietta Lopez is dead. It happened right in her kiosk in the center of the fair. No shoppers have been allowed in yet. The start of the fair will be delayed. But I'll get the story in time for the next issue. I'll cover the whole horrible tragedy."

  Myrna gasped. "How dreadful."

  Prudence's nostrils flared some as she processed the stunning news. It was her only show of emotion. "That's just terrible. But you won't have to cover it." Her hips swayed side to side as she bustled toward her office without explanation.

  Myrna looked at me with a distinct grimace.

  I took another breath and followed Prudence into the office. I stopped for a second, stunned by the transformation. Instead of the cold, pedestrian and somewhat messy office Parker had kept, there was plush velvet furniture, floral wall paper, a lush shag rug and a mahogany desk fit for a queen. It wasn't decor you'd see in a modern magazine, but it was exactly the style I expected.

  "Prudence, I think people in the community will want to know about the murder of a local quilter. It seems Henrietta was well known. With her being the president of the Crafting Society, it makes this an especially important story."

  As I spoke, Prudence busied herself rearranging three plants she had placed on the newly installed shelving unit. "Yes, I agree it's an important story." She picked up a small brass mister and sprayed the plants. "It's not exactly the kind of story I want to frequent my newspaper, but I believe we won't be able to ignore it."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you agree. I'll get started on it right away."

  She stopped her plant pampering and looked over at me. "You can stick with the original story about the craft fair. You won't need to cover Henrietta's death."

  I was thoroughly confused. "But you just said it needs to be covered."

  "Yes, yes it does, but I've hired another journalist. He'll be covering it."

  I stood frozen to the spot still trying to process whether or not I'd heard her right. It seemed my entire nightmare of having to be second to Chase's untalented journalism was repeating itself.

  "You hired someone?" I asked weakly, a result of having all the breath shocked out of me.

  "Yes, he comes with great credentials." Prudence didn't even show me the courtesy of looking at me as she drove a stake into my heart.

  "So did I," I said meekly. I'd been knocked off balance and couldn't find my true voice. Her shocking statement had knocked not only the breath but the fight out of me. I'd spent months fighting the same battle with Parker. My skills had only just been recognized and rewarded with the position of lead reporter. Although, all was not lost. At least I still held that title. Or did I? I was too afraid to ask. It seemed every ounce of my courage had disappeared.

  "Yes, dear, I'm sure you did, but Mr. Crockett will be a great asset to the paper. I was lucky to find him. There were very few applicants." She straightened up the two paintings she'd hung, still life pictures with the obligatory vase of flowers and piece of fruit. Suddenly, I was determined to make sure not to buy any still life paintings for the inn. "Now run along, dear. I'm going to finish my agenda." She glanced at the ornate brass clock she'd hung on the wall between the paintings. "It's nearly one. Mr. Crockett will be here soon. I'm excited for all of you to get to know each other."

  It took all my will to turn around and walk out the door. Myrna caught my expression and her hand flew to her chest. "Are you all right?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. I'm not all right."

  Right on cue, the front door swung open. A man, possibly early forties, walked into the newsroom. He was average in height and appearance with the exception of bright blue eyes. He wore a gray sweater and tie over gray slacks adding to his unexceptional appearance. Apparently, my bias against Mr. Crockett had already been fo
rmed minutes earlier. He had a nice enough smile. I had to give him that.

  "You must be Sunni, the other reporter." I was already the other reporter. He shook my hand. It was what I would classify as an overly confident handshake. The entire image, smile included, assured me this man was plenty sure of himself.

  Prudence stepped out of her office. "Dave, you're here. I'm just finishing the agenda." She disappeared again.

  I turned to him and couldn't help myself. "Dave?" I asked. "Dave Crockett?" Myrna stifled a giggle as she stayed hidden at her corner desk.

  He took the giggles well. It was easy to suppose we weren't the first to react to his name. "Yes, that's right. The parents decided to name me after my mother's late father, David Whitmore. They were so thrilled with their new baby boy, they hadn't considered that David and Crockett would create a famous historical name. I have avoided being called Davy though, and there are no raccoon hats or buckskin coats in my closet."

  Myrna and I had a good laugh. He was scoring points for humor, and I always appreciated someone who didn't mind a touch of self-deprecation. Prudence had heard us laughing and popped out of her office with great enthusiasm.

  "I'm so glad you're all getting along." She walked straight over to the tray of cookies Myrna had arranged and lifted it to offer him one.

  "Yes, we're getting quickly acquainted. My name is always a good ice breaker." Dave picked up a sugar cookie. I would have gone straight for the chocolate chip, but his cookie judgement could be overlooked. Slowly, I was convincing myself that it would be nice to have a reporter in the newsroom who actually knew journalism. Chase was no better than a block of clay when it came to writing stories and in all other aspects of being human, if I really thought about it.

  "Well, if we're all here." Prudence made a dramatic show of surveying the newsroom to look for her editor. Granted, the room was large and slightly chaotic with desks and tables strewn about in no particular fashion, but it would have been awfully hard to miss Parker Seymour. It was more than obvious that he was not in the newsroom.