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Authors: Lorraine Bartlett
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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.
“Can I have your attention? Please gather around so I don’t have to shout.”
Vance was suddenly at her side, setting down a black box covered in knobs and dials. “It’s my son’s karaoke machine. It can double as a sound system.” He unraveled the cord and plugged it into a wall socket, then handed her a microphone.
Katie cleared her throat and tapped the mike. “Testing.” A squawk of feedback echoed through the loft.
The buzz of voices died as Vance adjusted a dial then nodded for her to continue.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. We’re here to talk about Artisans Alley’s future. But first, let’s have a moment of reflection in memory of the Alley’s founder, Ezra Hilton.”
Everyone bowed his or her head. Silence fell over the stuffy, low-ceilinged room. Katie saw a tissue or two dab at damp eyes. She counted to ten before beginning again.
“Thank you. Now, before we start—”
“Have the police got any idea who killed Ezra?” Rose Nash asked, her voice thin and anxious.
“If they do, they haven’t shared that information with me. Of course, I’ll let you know if I find out anything. And I urge you all to cooperate with the Sheriff’s Office if they should decide to interview you.”
“Are you going to increase security?” a man up front asked. “What if someone else breaks in to rob the place? I’ve got lots of valuable items in my booth and I don’t make enough to afford insurance.”
Was it worth voicing that Ezra had probably known his killer, making the issue of security virtually moot? Probably not.
“I’ll consider it,” Katie promised, then cleared her throat. “I’ve spoken with Ezra’s lawyer, as well as his accountant. We can continue to stay open during probate, but we’ve got some serious cash flow problems.”
“You’re not going to raise the rent, are you?” came a belligerent voice from the back.
“There’s a good possibility I’ll have to do just that. Or I may have to charge a service fee. Believe me, that’s not what I want. Unfortunately, to stay afloat, I’m going to have to run the place like a business—not a hobby. That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun and socialize, but it’s imperative that we rent out all the vacant booths as soon as possible.”
“We don’t want crappy crafters here,” another unidentified male voice declared.
“The area where we’re standing can accommodate up to twenty artists,” Katie said. “I’ve already spoken to six crafters who are eager to start paying rent immediately. Unless you have
“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.
“Can I have your attention? Please gather around so I don’t have to shout.”
Vance was suddenly at her side, setting down a black box covered in knobs and dials. “It’s my son’s karaoke machine. It can double as a sound system.” He unraveled the cord and plugged it into a wall socket, then handed her a microphone.
Katie cleared her throat and tapped the mike. “Testing.” A squawk of feedback echoed through the loft.
The buzz of voices died as Vance adjusted a dial then nodded for her to continue.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. We’re here to talk about Artisans Alley’s future. But first, let’s have a moment of reflection in memory of the Alley’s founder, Ezra Hilton.”
Everyone bowed his or her head. Silence fell over the stuffy, low-ceilinged room. Katie saw a tissue or two dab at damp eyes. She counted to ten before beginning again.
“Thank you. Now, before we start—”
“Have the police got any idea who killed Ezra?” Rose Nash asked, her voice thin and anxious.
“If they do, they haven’t shared that information with me. Of course, I’ll let you know if I find out anything. And I urge you all to cooperate with the Sheriff’s Office if they should decide to interview you.”
“Are you going to increase security?” a man up front asked. “What if someone else breaks in to rob the place? I’ve got lots of valuable items in my booth and I don’t make enough to afford insurance.”
Was it worth voicing that Ezra had probably known his killer, making the issue of security virtually moot? Probably not.
“I’ll consider it,” Katie promised, then cleared her throat. “I’ve spoken with Ezra’s lawyer, as well as his accountant. We can continue to stay open during probate, but we’ve got some serious cash flow problems.”
“You’re not going to raise the rent, are you?” came a belligerent voice from the back.
“There’s a good possibility I’ll have to do just that. Or I may have to charge a service fee. Believe me, that’s not what I want. Unfortunately, to stay afloat, I’m going to have to run the place like a business—not a hobby. That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun and socialize, but it’s imperative that we rent out all the vacant booths as soon as possible.”
“We don’t want crappy crafters here,” another unidentified male voice declared.
“The area where we’re standing can accommodate up to twenty artists,” Katie said. “I’ve already spoken to six crafters who are eager to start paying rent immediately. Unless you have
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