Free One Hot Murder by Lorraine Bartlett Page B

began jotting down ideas on the newspaper’s margins.
    If Dennis was missing, he had to be the one responsible for firing the bullet that had killed the man found in the shop, and he’d set fire to the place to cover the crime? But why would Dennis need to hide? He hadn’t taken his car. What if he’d taken the dead man’s car in an effort to keep the authorities from identifying the body before he could get away? And where would he go? He did have the money from the sale of his shop. If the murder had been premeditated, could he have escaped to Canada? He’d need a passport to cross the border. Could he have gotten on a plane later that night and escaped to some country that didn’t have a treaty of extradition?
    That was a lot of supposing.
    Feeling mildly depressed, Katie wondered if she should attempt to alleviate it via her favorite pastime—baking—but already the kitchen felt like an oven on low. Still, she hadn’t brought a snack into the Alley in several days and her sweet tooth was hankering for something with chocolate.
    Funny how bringing in a sweet treat could soothe frayed nerves and promote general happiness among the vendors. It worked and she was sticking with that successful formula. And if she had to deal with Ida once again, she was going to need something to settle her own nerves. But instead of making liquor-infused chocolates, she settled on peanut butter buckeyes, which required no baking. She could melt the chocolate and shortening in the microwave. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with cleaning the top half of the double boiler—at least not that morning.
    Half an hour later, the buckeyes were in the fridge firming up nicely.
    As Katie got ready for work, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she now knew about Dennis Wheeler. Was a man who picked on his students—children who wouldn’t ordinarily fight back as Blake had done—as easily capable of murder?

    Katie opened Artisans Alley’s vendor entrance at precisely eight o’clock. Sometimes she found vendors waiting to get in to straighten their booths or add new merchandise, but that morning she was alone. She took her plate of buckeyes to the vendors’ lounge and popped them in the fridge. She’d wait until there was a pot of coffee brewing before she brought them out for everyone to sample.
    In the meantime, she donned her rubber gloves and, armed with disinfectant and paper towels, cleaned the washroom behind her office. Sure enough, the little suitcase was still there.
    Afterward, Katie heard people coming and going in the vendors’ lounge while she got lost in the weekly ritual of printing out the inventories and checks for each of the vendors, adding a note to remind everyone to attend the Christmas potluck on Saturday—and that she’d found the suitcase under the sink. She married the copies of the note withthe checks and inventories, and put them in the proper envelopes—all of which took up far too much of her time. She’d have to start delegating some of the menial work. Putting labels on each of the envelopes was time-consuming. It might be just the kind of job for Ida—that is, if she could tear herself away from her precious sales tags for an hour or so a week. If not, maybe it was something the girls on the register could do between waiting on customers. She should also look into offering reduced rent in exchange for a little clerical work. She’d put that on the list of things to do, too.
    The phone rang at just past ten. Katie picked it up. “Artisans Alley. Katie Bonner speaking. How may I help you?”
    “Katie, it’s Fred.”
    “Hi, Fred. What’s up?” she asked, pleased to hear his voice.
    “The closing on the Webster mansion was this morning. I know I said I’d bring the new owners over to meet you, but something’s come up. They’re already on their way to the house if you want to meet them. They should be there any minute.”
    “Thanks. I’ll go over and introduce myself.”
    “They’re