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Authors: Lorraine Bartlett
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any alternatives, I’m going to rent out that space.”
A wave of grumbling rolled through the loft.
“What do you think, Vance?” Peter Ashby asked.
“Better to have crafters come in than to have to shut down,” he said.
Katie silently blessed him for backing her up.
“Then let them make up the shortfall,” Ashby said. “Let’s see a show of hands. Who votes for the crafters to pay more in rent?”
“Aye,” went the collective voice.
Katie waved them quiet. “This isn’t a democracy, Mr. Ashby. For now, at least, everyone will pay the same rent per square foot.”
Again, a rumble of disapproval rolled through the crowd.
“There’s also the problem of late rents. In checking Ezra’s books, I’ve found that some twenty percent of you are between two and six weeks late. Several people haven’t paid their booth rental in months. There’ll be an amnesty period of two weeks, then I’m afraid those still in arrears will have to vacate their booths.”
Silence and shocked expressions greeted that grim statement. Ida continued to smile blandly.
“I realize that a lot of you barely make your rent, let alone a profit, and raising the rent would be a financial hardship. The solution to all our problems is bringing more artists into Artisans Alley. Advertising costs money, something we’re in short supply of. As you saw in the entryway today, Edie Silver found plenty of customers ready to buy her merchandise.”
“Yeah, and she took away our customers,” someone said.
Edie glared at the jerk.
“I checked Ezra’s records for last Saturday. Today’s take was forty percent higher,” Katie said. “I can’t say that was entirely due to Edie’s merchandise, but she nearly sold out, and that didn’t hurt Artisans Alley’s bottom line.”
“The Merchants Association has an advertising budget and the Christmas push is about to start,” Gilda Ringwald volunteered. “That always brings in customers.” Her voice faded. “Ezra always took care of that.”
“What’s wrong with word-of-mouth advertising? It’s free,” came another voice.
“That’s important, too. But we have to have something special to draw the crowds in,” Katie said. “I propose we set up a committee to explore ways of enticing new customers to come visit. Any volunteers?”
Several hands rose above the sea of heads. Katie recognized Rose Nash and Edie Silver as belonging to two of them. “Rose, could you take down the names of those interested? Thank you. What we also need to think about are long-term strategies for keeping Artisans Alley going—to bring in customers, and to get them to spend money.”
“All this is irrelevant,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. Katie hadn’t seen the distinguished, middle-aged gentleman enter. Clad in a three-piece suit, with slicked-back black hair and a debonair manner, he elbowed his way through the assemblage.
“And you are?” she asked.
Without asking, the man jerked the microphone from her hand, then turned toward the crowd. “My name is Gerald Hilton. Ezra Hilton was my uncle. I want you all to know that once probate is finished, there isn’t going to be an Artisans Alley.”
“So much for allaying the fears of our artists,” Katie began, once the crowd had cleared out and she and Gerald Hilton were alone in what she already thought of as her office. She’d wanted Vance to sit in on the discussion, but Hilton was adamant that it be just the two of them.
“It doesn’t do any good to encourage them. Or you, for that matter. I’ve made up my mind. We’re selling Artisans Alley.”
“I agree.”
Hilton blinked, obviously not expecting that answer.
“In order to get a good price, we need to offer a going concern,” Katie continued. “The business as it stands is in imminent danger of failure.”
“That’s immaterial. We’re not selling it as a going concern.”
“Then what’s the point—”
Hilton shook his head in a condescending manner.
A wave of grumbling rolled through the loft.
“What do you think, Vance?” Peter Ashby asked.
“Better to have crafters come in than to have to shut down,” he said.
Katie silently blessed him for backing her up.
“Then let them make up the shortfall,” Ashby said. “Let’s see a show of hands. Who votes for the crafters to pay more in rent?”
“Aye,” went the collective voice.
Katie waved them quiet. “This isn’t a democracy, Mr. Ashby. For now, at least, everyone will pay the same rent per square foot.”
Again, a rumble of disapproval rolled through the crowd.
“There’s also the problem of late rents. In checking Ezra’s books, I’ve found that some twenty percent of you are between two and six weeks late. Several people haven’t paid their booth rental in months. There’ll be an amnesty period of two weeks, then I’m afraid those still in arrears will have to vacate their booths.”
Silence and shocked expressions greeted that grim statement. Ida continued to smile blandly.
“I realize that a lot of you barely make your rent, let alone a profit, and raising the rent would be a financial hardship. The solution to all our problems is bringing more artists into Artisans Alley. Advertising costs money, something we’re in short supply of. As you saw in the entryway today, Edie Silver found plenty of customers ready to buy her merchandise.”
“Yeah, and she took away our customers,” someone said.
Edie glared at the jerk.
“I checked Ezra’s records for last Saturday. Today’s take was forty percent higher,” Katie said. “I can’t say that was entirely due to Edie’s merchandise, but she nearly sold out, and that didn’t hurt Artisans Alley’s bottom line.”
“The Merchants Association has an advertising budget and the Christmas push is about to start,” Gilda Ringwald volunteered. “That always brings in customers.” Her voice faded. “Ezra always took care of that.”
“What’s wrong with word-of-mouth advertising? It’s free,” came another voice.
“That’s important, too. But we have to have something special to draw the crowds in,” Katie said. “I propose we set up a committee to explore ways of enticing new customers to come visit. Any volunteers?”
Several hands rose above the sea of heads. Katie recognized Rose Nash and Edie Silver as belonging to two of them. “Rose, could you take down the names of those interested? Thank you. What we also need to think about are long-term strategies for keeping Artisans Alley going—to bring in customers, and to get them to spend money.”
“All this is irrelevant,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. Katie hadn’t seen the distinguished, middle-aged gentleman enter. Clad in a three-piece suit, with slicked-back black hair and a debonair manner, he elbowed his way through the assemblage.
“And you are?” she asked.
Without asking, the man jerked the microphone from her hand, then turned toward the crowd. “My name is Gerald Hilton. Ezra Hilton was my uncle. I want you all to know that once probate is finished, there isn’t going to be an Artisans Alley.”
“So much for allaying the fears of our artists,” Katie began, once the crowd had cleared out and she and Gerald Hilton were alone in what she already thought of as her office. She’d wanted Vance to sit in on the discussion, but Hilton was adamant that it be just the two of them.
“It doesn’t do any good to encourage them. Or you, for that matter. I’ve made up my mind. We’re selling Artisans Alley.”
“I agree.”
Hilton blinked, obviously not expecting that answer.
“In order to get a good price, we need to offer a going concern,” Katie continued. “The business as it stands is in imminent danger of failure.”
“That’s immaterial. We’re not selling it as a going concern.”
“Then what’s the point—”
Hilton shook his head in a condescending manner.
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