Yule Be Dead Page 5

  “You still get together for lunch at least every other day, don’t you?”

  Katie shook her head. “More often than not, one of us gets caught up at our job and can’t make it. And now I’m considering assuming ownership of the tea shop.” Her shoulders slumped. “Maybe at this point in our lives, our careers are more important to us than our relationship.”

  “Aw, come on. Don’t say that.” Seth reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “The guy’s crazy about you. I’m sure you’ll be able to carve out more time together after the holidays.”

  “I hope so,” Katie said. “But please, if you meet Margo, don’t mention Andy in front of her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want her to know I’m involved with anyone. She’ll only be in town for a day or two—”

  “You hope . . .”

  “—and what harm will it do to let her think I’m still being faithful to Chad’s memory?”

  “Katie, it could do a lot of harm,” Seth said. “You’re a strong, healthy woman who lost her husband almost two years ago. It’s perfectly natural for you to move on.”

  A clipped female voice came over the intercom announcing the arrival of Flight 4021.

  “That’s my client,” Seth said, gathering his trash onto the black serving tray. “Promise me you’ll be up-front with Margo.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She would . . . for about thirty seconds. Margo Bonner was devoted to her only son. She’d never forgive Katie for . . . well, for moving on with her life.

  Sometimes Katie felt the same way.

  * * *

  • • •

  Katie’s first thought upon seeing Margo stride through the security barrier was that the woman still carried herself like a 1950s movie star. She wore a black ankle-length coat and patent leather pumps. Her shoulder-length silver hair was pulled up on one side and secured with a pearl-encrusted clip. She clutched her red—or, rather, her rouge—Hermès Kelly bag in her left hand.

  A handsome younger man—in his early to mid-thirties—pulled a cheetah-print carry-on bag as he walked beside Margo. Katie strode forward to meet them.

  Margo turned to the man, smiled warmly, and patted his arm. “Thank you for being such a darling. Katie can take it from here.”

  “My pleasure,” the man said. He winked at Margo and transferred the handle of the suitcase over to Katie. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Katie watched his retreating back as he headed off to luggage claim.

  “I know. Handsome, isn’t he?” Margo asked, her smile just a tad smug.

  “Yes. Who is he?”

  “Doug something-or-other. He sat beside me on the plane.” She raised a brow. “Oh. Did you want me to introduce you? He’s single.” She looked Katie over with an appraising eye. “Although I think I might be more his type. Still, I can call him back here if you’d like to meet him.”

  “Of course not. I just wondered how you knew him,” Katie said. No one she’d ever sat near on a plane had offered to lug her carry-on around for her. “Do you have additional luggage?”

  “No. I packed light.”

  “You look fantastic,” Katie said. “I’m sorry I haven’t done a better job of keeping in touch.”

  “Well, neither have I. So . . . what have you been up to?”

  On the drive back to Victoria Square, Katie told Margo all about Artisans Alley and its transformation and how proud she thought Chad would be of it. Margo was noncommittal, but Katie had expected as much. Margo wouldn’t comment on whether Chad would be proud of something until she saw it for herself.

  Katie also told her about the tea shop and indulged herself in a little rant about how she’d been treated at the bank that morning. Margo didn’t comment on that, either. Her lack of conversation made a million and one thoughts tumble through Katie’s mind. Among them: Was the woman tired from her flight? Feeling sad to be visiting Victoria Square knowing her son wasn’t there? Did she already regret coming to visit? What was she thinking about Katie? Did Margo resent her for being the one alive? Did she wonder why her son had to die instead of Katie?

  When they parked in front of the pizzeria, Margo frowned. “Oh, I’m not hungry, dear. But if you are . . .”

  “Um . . . no. My apartment is above the pizzeria.”

  “Oh.”

  That tiny oh. How could the woman say so much by saying practically nothing?

  * * *

  • • •

  After showing Margo the apartment—which took all of about five minutes—Katie got her former mother-in-law settled into the bedroom and then took her over to Artisans Alley. At least, that was something of which Katie was proud.

  As they toured the Alley, Margo met Rose, Vance, and Ida Mitchell. Naturally, they were taken with Chad’s charming mother. Godfrey Foster, whose copies of fine art paintings rendered in colored dryer lint sold at ridiculously high prices, stuttered like a schoolboy and offered Margo any of his works free of charge. Margo tactfully declined the offer, saying she wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of his generosity in such a way. When he insisted, she said she’d be back to look them over later in the week.

  “Right now,” she said to Katie, “I’d love to see Chad’s studio.”

  Katie had left Chad’s Pad—a storeroom Chad had stayed in illegally during their brief separation—as it was. She never sold any of his paintings, though. They were there as a tribute. She showed his mother the studio and then stood by the door as Margo went from one painting to the next, lovingly caressing each frame.

  Chad painted mostly florals and landscapes, but Margo paused in front of a depiction of a woman with her back to the viewer. The woman wore a long white dress and stood in the midst of a wheat field, her dark hair falling to her waist in bouncy curls.

  Hearing Margo’s muffled sob, Katie hurried over to put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders.

  “It’s me,” Margo said softly. “I used to tell Chad about standing in the wheat fields when I was a teenager watching for Daddy to come home.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I never knew he painted this.” She turned and clung to Katie while she wept.

  A moment later, the sound of a throat being cleared from the doorway got the women’s attention. Embarrassed, Margo, turned away.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting,” Ray said. “Rose told me you were up here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “That’s all right, Ray,” Katie said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No . . . not at all.” He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and took it over to Margo. “I promise, it’s clean.”

  She laughed. “I’ll take your word for it.” She dabbed at her eyes and then extended her hand. “Margo Bonner.”

  “Ray Davenport. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you . . . and to find out that chivalry is alive and well in McKinlay Mill.”

  This from the woman who had Doug from the plane carrying her suitcase. Did every man end up eating out of this woman’s hand?

  “So, why were you looking for me, Ray?” Katie asked, more sharply than she’d intended.

  “Oh . . . yeah. Sophie’s coming home tomorrow, and she wants to prepare a meal for the family. She specifically asked me to invite you. I think she’s hoping you’ll take over the tea shop and will consider her as an intern.”

  “I appreciate your asking, and I’m flattered that Sophie thought of me, but Margo just arrived in town and—”

  “Would your wife mind the extra company?” Margo asked.

  “Sophie’s my daughter,” Ray explained. “I’m a widower.”

  Margo pressed Ray’s handkerchief back into his hand, caressing the back of his hand briefly with her other hand. “Thank you again. Katie, we don’t have plans for tomorrow evening, do we?”

  “No. Are you sure you’ll be up to going out for dinner?”

  “Of course!” She beamed at Ray. “Tell your darling daughter that Katie and I will be there. Is there anything I can bring?”

  Before Ray could answer, Katie said, “Well, I’ll leave you in Ray’s capable hands. I need to change into my Dickens costume.”

  Why did it irritate her so much that Margo and Ray were hitting it off? Margo was close to Ray’s age, and Ray was bound to be lonely for female companionship. As far as Katie knew, he hadn’t dated anyone since Rachel died. And if he had, she’d certainly have heard about it—Francine had been absolutely right about there being no secrets in Victoria Square.

  At least, not for long.

  Five

  Katie had barely gotten back to her office and changed into her costume when Nona Fiske, owner of the Square’s The Quiet Quilter shop, barged through the door.

  “You’ve absolutely got to do something about this!” The seventy-something woman stood there, arms akimbo, face looking like the tragedy theater mask, and not a dyed brown hair out of place. How did such a petite woman manage to look so formidable?

  “About what?” Katie asked as she took a peppermint from the glass jar on her desk and sank into her chair.

  “About Rhonda Simpson! She’s stealing my patterns and putting them on her dish towels and pillowcases!”

  Rhonda Simpson was one of the Alley’s newest vendors. A crafter, she sold embroidered pillowcases, dish towels, bath towels, bibs, napkins, and other household items. Whether she was stealing Nona’s patterns—could one even own a quilt pattern?—remained to be seen. Still, Katie didn’t feel like arguing with Nona. She ran a hand over her brow. “I’ll talk with Rhonda about it.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate your taking care of this as soon as possible. She won’t want to see me in court.” With that, Nona spun around, and the tail of her black wool coat clipped the edge of Katie’s desk.

  Katie gasped as her favorite bone china teacup fell to the floor. “Oh no!” she wailed, and hopped up from her chair, tears already pricking her eyes. The “Black Magic” patterned cup and saucer—sole survivor of beloved Aunt Lizzie’s wedding china—had been given to her by a distant cousin mere weeks before. It had arrived broken—and then been inexpertly repaired. And now—thanks to Nona’s carelessness—was hopelessly smashed. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the deep pink roses set against a band of black shattered on the floor.

  “Now, don’t worry about that,” Nona said cavalierly.

  Katie opened her eyes to see the older woman sweeping the pieces of the broken cup and saucer into her purse. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking this to my nephew. He used to work for a fine porcelain, ceramics, and pottery repair and restoration firm in Manhattan.” She shook her head. “Now, due to circumstances he had no control over, he tends bar over at The Pelican’s Roost. He can have this fixed up in no time. He’s great at repairing bone china, porcelain . . . anything like that really.”

  “But—”

  “One of us will let you know when it’s done,” Nona said, and hurried out the door.

  Katie sank back into her chair and tried not to cry.

  Rose rushed in and closed the door. “Goodness, what went on in here? I thought I heard glass breaking. Did she throw something at you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you throw something at her?” Rose asked, eyes widening.

  “No. She knocked my teacup off the corner of my desk.”

  Rose’s face crumpled in sympathy. “Oh no. Not the one that belonged to your great-aunt.”

  “Yeah. I knew I should have taken it home, but I like looking at it during the day. It reminds me of my aunt every time I see it.”

  Rose nodded sympathetically. “Speaking of tea and such . . . have you thought any more about taking over the tea shop?”

  “I don’t know.” The words emerged on the tail of a sigh. “The bank doesn’t seem to think I’m a worthy loan candidate.”

  “Oh, what do they know?” Rose sat down and smoothed her blonde curls.

  “They know they aren’t going to give me very good loan terms.”

  “Well, then we’ll just have to figure out something else . . . that is, if you decide you want the tea shop.” She paused. “Do you want it?”

  “Until I was turned down by the bank, I was very enthusiastic,” Katie said. “Now I’m not sure I want to take on more than I can handle.”

  “True. But you might be able to handle more than you think.”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “Talk to me after Margo leaves.”

  “That bad?” Rose asked.

  “Not yet. But, then, she hasn’t been here a full day.” Katie frowned. “And what’s up with Godfrey? He nearly tripped over his tongue when he met Margo. He even offered to give her one of his pieces of dryer lint art.”

  “Are you serious?” Rose raised her hand to her chin. “I knew he was trying to date, but I never thought the stingy fellow would resort to giving away his art.”

  Katie frowned. “He’s trying to date? Since when?”

  “Didn’t you know? His wife left him about a couple of months ago.”

  “That was one piece of gossip I hadn’t heard,” Katie said. “Maybe Francine is wrong about all of Victoria Square knowing everyone’s business in a matter of hours.”

  “Yeah, but you keep to yourself more than the rest of us do,” Rose said. “Godfrey has been trying to keep it quiet, but it’s old news around here. It seems, though, that he wasn’t the only one interested in your former mother-in-law.”

  “Really?”

  Rose nodded, her mouth quirking into an odd smile. “Ray took Margo over to Wood U to give her a personal tour of his shop.”

  Katie felt her face tighten, but she said, “Good for him. They’d make a nice couple.”

  “Wouldn’t they, though? I’d like to see Ray find himself a new love. It seems like Margo could be perfect for him.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to work. Sorry about your cup.”

  “Me, too. Nona took it with her. She seems to think her nephew can fix it, but I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well . . . let’s hope he can.” Rose didn’t sound as though she held out any more hope for that than Katie did.

  After Rose pulled the door closed behind her, Katie took another peppermint from the jar, unwrapped it, and bit it in two.

  Margo, Margo, Margo!

  She felt like Jan from the old television show The Brady Bunch, saying, “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” And she could really sympathize at that moment with poor little Jan, the middle sister who felt that she couldn’t compare to her older sibling. Katie had always felt second-rate around Margo. She hadn’t thought she’d feel that way after all this time, especially given the fact that she and Margo were no longer “family.” But she did.

  Margo came sweeping into town looking elegant and vulnerable, and she immediately won over everyone she met. Katie certainly hadn’t won over the residents of Victoria Square that quickly—especially not Ray Davenport. It seemed to have taken him forever to warm up to her. And vice versa. She finished crunching the mint.

  Feeling disheartened, Katie woke her PC. Nona could be a bitter pill. Katie knew where her loyalties lay—with her new vendor, Rhonda—and started researching copyright law pertaining to quilt patterns.

  * * *

  • • •

  Near the end of the day, Katie went looking for Rhonda Simpson. Rhonda was a pleasantly plump married mom of two young boys. Her long blonde hair was piled onto her head and tucked beneath a red bonnet. Her Dickensian dress was red and trimmed in white lace and red-and-green plaid, and she wore a plaid caplet trimmed in faux fur. She looked darling, and Katie told her so.

  Rhonda gave her a wide smile. “You look lovely yourself in that green velvet. Didn’t someone write a song about that once?”

  “I believe that was blue velvet. My aunt Lizzie used to listen to it.”

  “Ah . . . right.” She spread her left hand out to encompass her table. “Are you looking for something?”

  “I might come back later and find something for my mother-in-law—former mother-in-law, I mean.”

  “Oh, Margo! Isn’t she a treasure? She’s as sweet as she can be.”

  Of course. Another person conquered by Margo the Magnificent.

  “Have you seen her lately?” Katie asked, realizing she hadn’t seen Margo since she’d disappeared with Ray shortly after they’d arrived.

  “Not for about an hour or so.”

  A flurry of pink came by the booth, and a group of ballerinas twirled past. One got dizzy and slammed into Katie, causing her to stumble into Rhonda’s table.

  “Sorry!” came an unapologetic voice.

  Giggles trailed in the wake of the sugarplum fairies . . . or whatever they were supposed to be.

  Katie righted the things she’d upset when she slammed into one of Rhonda’s tables, and her eyes dropped to a set of tea towels with a little Dutch girl pattern. “There’s another reason I came up to talk with you.”

  “Let me guess. Nona Fiske?”

  Katie nodded.

  “Rose told me she’s been complaining about me,” Rhonda said. “I’ve been nothing but nice to that woman, and I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.”

  “I know. Nona can be so difficult. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I researched quilt pattern copyright. Basically, there’s no such thing.”

  Rhonda breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear.”

  “In the article I read, it quoted the Copyright Act of 1976, title 17 of the United States Code.” Katie took the scrap of paper upon which she’d jotted her note from her pocket. “‘Section 102: (b) In no case does copyright protection for an original work of authorship extend to any idea, procedure, process, system, method of operation, concept, principle, or discovery, regardless of the form in which it is described, explained, illustrated, or embodied in such work.’ The quilting site where I read the article emphasized that the majority of patterns are not copyrighted and that patterns are generally not copyrightable.”