The Walleld Flower (18 page)

The auctioneer waved the doll around by its cloth body.

Katie gasped and clutched Rose’s arm. “Hey, that’s one of Polly’s dolls!”

The hypnotic sound of the auctioneer’s voice was all that registered in Katie’s startled brain. “Four-gimme-four—gimme-four—” he called.

“Four!” Katie blurted, and stood to wave.

Heads turned in her direction.

“You’re supposed to raise your card,” Rose said.

Katie looked around her in panic. “I don’t know what I did with it!”

Rose raised her own card, giving the auctioneer a nod.

“Five-gimme-five-gimme-five—”

Katie looked for the other bidders, but it was hard to see with so many bodies jammed into the sales area.

“Ten-gimme-ten-gimme-ten—”

“Who’s bidding against us?” Katie asked anxiously, glancing around them.

“Fifteen—fifteen—fifteen—”

“Do you want it?” Rose asked.

“Yes!”

Rose calmly raised her card.

Within a minute, the bids skyrocketed from fifteen to fifty dollars. Frantic, Katie perched on the edge of her seat, her stomach doing flip-flops until the auctioneer yelled, “Sold!” She sagged on the hard wooden chair. “Did we get it?”

But Rose was already on her feet, handing her card to one of the attendants. She waited for him to sign it, then she returned to her seat, carrying the box of dirty toys and plunking it onto Katie’s lap.

Rose shook her head in disgust, lip curling. “You were robbed.”

Katie pawed through the contents. A filthy, naked Cabbage Patch baby, whose sparse hair had been chopped close to its vinyl head, two vintage, naked Barbie dolls, one with molded plastic hair, and another with a dirty bubble cut, a Raggedy Ann whose left arm was missing, and the cloth-bodied doll with the carved wooden head, which looked like it had been chewed. On its right hip seam, a machine-embroidered blue tag read “Handmade by”—but the name beneath had been snipped off.

“Poor Polly,” Rose said, her voice hushed.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, obviously she—”

“Do you mind,” said an annoyed voice behind them. “I’m trying to bid!”

Rose glared at the woman but clasped Katie’s arm, pulling her up. “Come on.”

They headed for the Joe’s Java sign. A number of people had taken a break from the auction and sat on the black paint-chipped chairs at tiny metal ice cream tables, but they had no trouble finding a couple of empty seats. “You were saying, about Polly?” Katie reminded Rose.

“It’s obvious to me that her supplier has been ripping her off.”

“What do you mean?” Katie asked, puzzled.

“While I was picking up the glass in her booth, she went on and on about the missing doll clothes and how much they were worth, that they were antiques—and that you had said they were all fakes. I had a look at one of her dolls. I’m no expert, but it looked real to me.”

“That’s the problem. The woman from the Folk Doll Confederation said the doll clothes were made from antique cloth. So were the bodies of the dolls. Even the stuffing in the one Polly showed me was old.”

“I’ll bet that’s why Polly was taken in. She knows all about antique fabrics, but she’s not the expert she thinks she is when it comes to folk dolls. This tag proves the dolls really are fakes.”

“Where would someone get this kind of label?” Katie asked.

“Most of the fabric stores sell them—at least, they stock the more popular names. It might’ve even said, ‘Handmade by Mother.’”

Katie looked back toward the action at the front of the cavernous room. “Did you see who was bidding against us?”

“No, why?”

Before Katie could answer, she saw Vance hurrying toward them. His voice cut through the buzz of conversation. “Rose, your jewelry lot’s about to come up.”

“Gotta scoot!” Rose said, and dashed back for the auction area.

Katie turned her attention back to her purchase and examined the doll’s wooden neck and shoulders. They’d probably been gnawed by a puppy. She ran her thumbs over the indentations. How could someone let an object made with such craftsmanship be destroyed? And yet, as she studied the doll, she could see that the detailing wasn’t as refined as on the dolls Polly sold. The fabric looked old, but that could be achieved by tea-dying. No doubt about it, this doll was an earlier incarnation of the ones Polly Bremerton sold as
antiques. As much as Katie disliked Polly, she’d have to let her know about the deception.

She shook her head. “Poor, poor Polly.”

Despite her best efforts to persuade him, Burt Donahue wouldn’t disclose the name of the person who had previously owned the box lot of dolls.

“This isn’t doctor-patient confidentiality,” Katie argued.

“No, but I have an obligation to my clients. I
know
her. I just met
you
.”

Swell
.

Rose bought three box lots of jewelry, a Delft vase, three Doulton figurines, and a vintage glass coffeepot, all of which looked like a lot more value for the money than Katie’s box of sorry-looking dolls. Still, as the evening wore on, Katie found herself growing more and more attached to the pathetic group, determined to fix them up and find them a good home… or… maybe keep them.

It was then she realized she’d contracted the same disease her late husband had acquired some years before: collectoritis. Well, there were worse things for someone in the retail business to suffer from. And she had to admit how right Rose had been about the thrill of the hunt. This would not be her last auction.

The next morning, Katie loaded her car with as many boxes of her belongings as she could squeeze in before heading for Artisans Alley. The box of dolls had the honor of riding shotgun in the passenger seat.

With all the added weight, the Focus rode low to the ground. At this rate, it would take another seven days to empty the apartment of its stash of cartons. And she still had to deal with the furniture.
One thing at a time,
she told herself,
one thing at a time.

Katie pulled into Artisans Alley’s lot ten minutes late. Vance Ingram’s pickup was already parked in its usual spot.
It wasn’t uncommon for him to arrive before her and open the building for vendor setup, although it looked as though no one else had shown up so far. Katie grabbed the furniture dolly that stood inside the door, loaded it with boxes, and trucked them in until she had three piles, four boxes high, plus the dolls. She took the first load back to her office and found Vance in the vendors’ lounge.

“Morning, Vance. Sorry you didn’t get the bedroom suite last night,” she said in greeting. “It looked really nice.”

“It was too rich for my blood,” he muttered.

The twelve-inch analog color TV from Katie’s office sat on the table beside a behemoth of a video recorder.

“Wow, those old VCRs were big,” Katie said, easing the dolly to a halt.

“Nearly ruptured myself bringing it in,” Vance admitted.

“You should’ve waited for me.” Katie watched as he hooked coaxial cable from the player to the TV. “Let me get my tape.”

“Hold on, we don’t even know if it works yet. I brought an old tape I found in my basement. We’ll test it with that.” Vance hit the power switch and a red light glowed on the front panel. “So far, so good.” He pressed the eject button and a metal cage popped up. He placed a tape into its maw and pushed the apparatus back down, then reached over to turn on the TV and change the channel to three.

“Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.

Katie stepped forward, pressing the play button. Immediately, the TV screen went from snow to black. They watched expectantly, but nothing appeared on the screen. The old machine began to whine. They peered through the plastic window on top of the machine to see the tape winding onto the spool in jerky movements.

“Ah, hell.” Vance stabbed the stop button.

“You tried,” Katie said, but her tone didn’t hide her disappointment.

“I haven’t given up yet.” Vance stared at the machine for
long seconds. “This is gonna take some thought—and maybe a pot of coffee.”

“I’ll make it,” Katie offered.

Vance waved her off. “No. You finish with your boxes. I think better when I’m doing something mundane.” He grabbed the empty pot and headed for the tap in the washroom.

The coffeepot was gurgling as Katie finished piling the boxes in her office, which was beginning to look like a warehouse, and a very cramped one at that.

“First things first,” she told herself. She put the box of grubby dolls on her guest chair, pulled them into sitting positions, and thought about covering their nakedness.

Katie sighed. Now she was just getting silly.

She opened the safe, counted out money for the cash drawers, and thought about vacuuming the front entry before opening. She found she actually liked doing that task. Like Vance, occupying herself with something mundane helped her clarify her thoughts. She had a lot to think about: her fruitless apartment hunt, Heather, Polly’s dolls. And something Donahue had said the night before was niggling at her brain. But what?

After filling the cash drawers, Katie dragged out one of the Hoovers. As she pushed the vacuum back and forth across the carpet, she reviewed her short conversation with the auctioneer. Donahue had hired college boys to do the renovations at the Webster mansion. Jeremy had been a college student. Was it possible he had helped with those renovations? He wouldn’t even admit to knowing Heather, so it wasn’t likely he’d own up to being on the premises where, years later, her bones were found.

No, it wasn’t that. Whatever Donahue had said had been about Heather herself. But what was it?

Then it hit her. She’d asked him if he’d known that Heather was Rose’s niece. “Not until the detective told me.” That meant they’d identified the bones as being Heather’s.
Yet she couldn’t remember Rose saying she’d been officially notified.

That aggravating Davenport.

Katie unplugged the vacuum and wound up the cord. It was time to get some answers.

Before she made it to her office, however, Rose intercepted her at the side entrance. Her face looked bleached of color, every line etched deeply. Katie reached for Rose’s elbow to steady her. “What’s wrong?”

Rose dabbed her eye with a tissue. “Detective Davenport paid me a visit at home this morning to tell me—”

“They’ve identified the bones as belonging to Heather.”

Rose looked up. “Yes. He told me…” She hiccupped on the word. “He said I could start planning her funeral.”

“Oh, Rose.” Katie hugged her. “I’ll be glad to help you. Come back to my office and sit down, have a cup of coffee, and we’ll talk.”

Katie led the older woman to the back of the building, where Vance was now seated at the vendors’ lounge table. The cover was off the old video machine, and its guts were exposed. A variety of tools were spread across the table, and Vance wore a head loupe like a crown, its twin magnifying lenses giving him owl eyes. “Hi, Rose,” he said offhandedly, picking up a screwdriver. “You ever think of installing more light in here, Katie?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said and directed Rose to her office.

The box of dolls was soon relegated to the top of the file cabinet. A sniffling Rose sat in Katie’s own desk chair. Katie hightailed it back to the lounge to pour a cup of coffee, then closed her office door for privacy. She sat down in the other chair. “What else did Detective Davenport say?” she asked gently.

“Not much. I asked him if he’d spoken to Jeremy Richards, and he said he couldn’t talk about the case. I’m Heather’s only living relative and he won’t tell me anything.”

Katie sighed. “Well, if he won’t tell us, there’s no reason we can’t ask ourselves.” She rolled her chair over to the file cabinet, opened a drawer, and took out the phone book. She thumbed through the yellow pages until she came to the hotels section. Grabbing her phone, Katie punched in a number. It rang.

“Hyatt Regency, this is Margot. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Jeremy’s room.”

“I’m sorry. He isn’t taking calls.”

“I’m a family member and I must speak to him. Is anyone taking calls for him?”

“Please hold.”

Unlike Katie’s experience days before, this operator hadn’t immediately cut her off. The phone rang three, four times. Why hadn’t she thought of that ploy days before? Voice mail picked up. “You have reached Mark Bastian. Leave your name, number, and a short message. I may or may not return your call.”
Beep!