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yesterday and the Alley was closed?” Ida asked.
    “Yes,” Katie said.
    “Whatever will we do without Mr. Hilton?” the older woman cried.
    “We’re going to carry on. Ezra, er, Mr. Hilton would’ve wanted that.”
    Ida sniffed. “Yes, he would.” Despite her conviction, her eyes still swam with tears. “Oh dear, oh dear.”
    Katie reached out, gave the woman’s shoulder a hesitant pat.
    Ida threw back her head, her body stiffening. “Despite this setback, I must not shirk my duty. Would you like me to turn on Artisans Alley’s main lights, or do you want to do it yourself?”
    “I think I can handle it,” Katie said gently.
    “Very well.” Ida turned and marched off in the direction of the cash desks.
    Okay. And how many more times that day was she going to have to break the news to artists, customers, or creditors?
    Katie’s stomach growled, reminding her of her cooling, uneaten breakfast, and she turned for Ezra’s office. She pushed Ida from her thoughts, but not the problem of the deadbeat artists. She’d have to address that—and soon.
    Shrugging out of her coat, she settled it on the back of Ezra’s grubby office chair and sat down at the desk to contemplate the breakfast before her on top of her newspaper. Now that the vendor entrance was open, she expected more of her dealers would begin to show up and she hoped most of them would bypass the transformed entryway. She wasn’t up to arguing about the inclusion of a crafter on the premises.
    As she ate her breakfast sandwich, she decided it might be a good idea to greet the artists as they showed up for work. She tossed the grease-stained paper wrapper into the trash, grabbed her coffee and the newspaper, and went back to the main staircase. Perching on the bottom step, which faced the side entrance, she sipped her coffee, reading the paper’s top story as she waited for the next vendor to arrive. The report made Ezra’s death sound so . . . sensational. She’d heard it said there was no such thing as bad publicity, and hoped it was true for Artisans Alley’s sake.
    The rest of the paper held no interest for her so she folded it and set it aside. Her gaze strayed to the missing patch of carpet at the base of the stairs. Was that blood or dirt that stained the concrete? She’d have to do something about it. The simplest solution would be to add a strip of new carpet from the bottom step back to the wall. That would also take care of the messy coffee spill. She’d add calling a carpet installer to her list of things to do today.
    The outside door opened and a tall figure was silhouetted in the dim light of the short corridor leading into the main showroom. He pushed a heavy-duty dolly ahead of him, and then closed the outer door.
    Katie stood, reminding herself that retail was like show business, and the show must go on. “Hi!” she called cheerily.
    “Are we open today?” the man asked.
    “We sure are.” She shoved her hand forward. “I’m Katie Bonner, Chad Bonner’s wife. I’m sort of in charge for now.”
    “Peter Ashby.”
    She shook his large, callused hand. Tall, blond, and ruggedly handsome, Ashby looked like he’d just walked off a movie set ... or maybe an old Marlboro billboard. His plaid flannel shirt and padded vest didn’t hide his muscled arms and torso. The word “hunk” lingered in Katie’s mind.
    He looked down at the floor and the missing carpet. “Is this where it happened?”
    She nodded. “The sheriff’s detective cut up the rug. It’s just as well. We’d have never gotten the blood out of it.”
    He shook his head and frowned. “It’s a damn shame about Ezra. He really kept this place together.”
    “Where’s your booth?” Katie asked, glad to change the subject.
    “Upstairs on the balcony.” He pointed up to his right.
    She looked up. A balcony ringed the cavernous room; its five-foot wooden railings overlooked the main showroom. “I guess it’ll take me a while to put faces to names, and