The Walleld Flower (19 page)

My, that was blunt.

“This is Katie Bonner; you might remember me from the press conference the other day. I’d like to speak to Mr. Jeremy. It concerns Heather Winston. I’d really rather not talk to the press about this. I’m sure Mr. Jeremy would rather I didn’t, too.” She left her number and hung up.

Rose clutched her damp tissue. “Do you really think he’ll call?”

“No, but at least we’ve tried.”

Rose nodded, resigned.

“Would you like me to call Mr. Collier at the funeral parlor?” Katie asked.

Rose shook her head. “That’s my duty as Heather’s aunt. What kind of funeral do you plan when there’s no body—just bones?”

“I’m sure Mr. Collier will have all the answers. I’ll let you have some privacy,” Katie said, rising and giving Rose’s shoulder a pat. She stepped toward the door but
paused. On impulse, she grabbed the box of dolls before she closed the office door behind her.

Vance had swiped a fire-glazed ceramic lamp from booth eighty-eight—its price tag dangled from under the shade—and more of the video recorder’s insides were now lying across a newspaper he’d spread across the table.

“Will it live?” Katie asked.

Vance peered at her from under the head loupe, his blue eyes magnified and menacing.

“I think I’ll just leave you two alone for a while,” she whispered, hefted her box, and headed for the cash desks.

Booth twenty-two featured reference books on just about every craft or aspect of collecting. Katie borrowed two volumes, one on doll values, one on repairs, and took them to the cash desk. According to the first book, the Barbie dolls might actually be worth some money. She patted bubble blonde Barbie’s hair and remembered Barbie Gordon from days before at the diner—wide-eyed and frightened for her little granddaughter. And now very much dead.

Katie picked up amputee Raggedy Ann. The clothes were in good shape, albeit in need of a wash and iron. Maybe she could sell them on eBay. The thought of throwing away the armless doll brought an unexpected gush of anguish, so she set it aside. It was the handmade wooden-and-cloth doll that really drew her attention. The poor thing had probably suffered terribly, locked in the jaws of a West Highland terrier or a poodle.

Okay, so she was a sucker for the quaint painted face, but did any little girl really outgrow her love for dolls? This one she’d dress and name. This one she’d keep.

“Where did you get that?” asked a menacing voice

Katie looked up. Eyes bulging, head lowered like an angry bull, stood a red-faced Polly Bremerton.

“Polly, you’re here early.” That was a dumb thing to say. Polly
always
arrived at Artisans Alley before opening.

“I said, where did you get that?” Polly demanded.

Katie handed Polly the doll, only then noticing that little Hannah stood beside her grandmother. “I bought this last night at the Auction Barn.”

Polly’s mouth dropped open, her face going ashen as she thumbed the snipped label hanging from the seam. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m so sorry, but it looks like your supplier has cheated you.”

Polly’s gaze darted from the doll to Katie’s face.

“If it’s any consolation, the woman from the Folk Doll Confederation did say the dolls were worth the price you’re asking for them.”

Polly’s face contorted, and for a moment Katie thought she might cry. But when she spoke, her voice was steady. “Thank you, Katie. I only wish I could offer them for sale. Without their clothes, they’re simply not worth as much.”

“Jean Selkirk sews doll clothes. She may be able to help you out.”

Polly scowled. “I could make them myself. I was a seamstress for over thirty years. It’s just that…” Her words trailed off, and she swallowed whatever else she’d meant to say, and instead managed, “Thank you for the suggestion.”

She was taking this much better than Katie had anticipated.

Hannah tugged on Polly’s jacket. “Mine, mine, Grandmama.”

“No, dear, this belongs to Mrs. Bonner.” She handed the doll back to Katie. “Your dolls are at home. You can play with them later.”

Hannah’s lower lip trembled and she bowed her head.

Suddenly Katie wanted to stuff the doll under the counter to get it out of sight. Instead, she replaced it in the box and moved it aside. Since Polly seemed to be in a better mood than usual, it looked like the best time to broach a more difficult subject.

“I’ve had a talk with Edie Silver. You two just aren’t compatible neighbors. So, in the interest of vendor harmony, I’ve decided to move her to another location.”

“Where?” Polly demanded.

“Downstairs.”

Polly’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair. I’ve been here longer than she has. I should be the one who gets the better booth.”

“I realize that. That’s why I’ve decided to give you two weeks free rent as compensation. And I’ll also move you to the top of the list. The next time there’s an opening, you’ll be the first I offer it to.”

“It’s still not fair,” Polly muttered, but her anger wasn’t as intense as Katie had anticipated. “When? When does she move?”

“Monday.”

Katie could almost see the wheels turning in Polly’s brain as she mulled over that piece of information. “Very well,” she said at last, and turned her attention to the little girl. “Come along, Hannah. Grandmama has to straighten her booth.” She clasped the girl’s hand and strode toward the stairs, small Hannah struggling to keep pace with Polly’s brisk gait.

The phone rang twice before stopping. Rose must have finished her conversation with the funeral director and answered the call. Katie dove back into the book on doll values.

“Katie, pick up line two,” said Rose over the public address system.

Closing the book, Katie stepped over to the wall phone. “Katie Bonner.”

“Ms. Bonner—it’s Mark Bastian.”

“Oh. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

“Well, your message did sound rather like a threat,” he grated.

One point for Bastian. “Mr. Jeremy doesn’t pick up his award until tomorrow evening. I’m sure you—and he—would like the day to go smoothly. Another story in the paper wouldn’t help.”

“No, it wouldn’t. What do you want?”

“Just an opportunity to talk. To refresh Mr. Jeremy’s memory about Heather Winston.”

“You said you had pictures of them together.”

“Yes, and we’ve shared them with the police.”

A long silence followed. “Rick doesn’t deny he knew Ms. Winston. He just didn’t remember her at first. There’s nothing sinister about that.”

“It
was
a long time ago,” Katie admitted, “but he’s had two days to remember. Would he be willing to talk about Heather with her family?”

Another long silence. “Mr. Jeremy’s already spoken to
the police about it.” At least Heather was now an “it” instead of a nobody to Jeremy. “What’s to be gained by talking with the dead girl’s relatives?”

“Closure. Mr. Bastian, Heather was murdered. As one of the world’s great directors, Rick Jeremy coaxes believable emotion from all his actors. I’m sure if he tried he could muster a little show of sympathy for Heather—his former girlfriend.”

Silence. Then, “Touché.” Was there a hint of amusement in Bastian’s voice?

“Then he’d be willing to speak to Heather’s aunt?” Katie pressed.

“I don’t know.”

“If not Mrs. Nash, then how about me?”

“I’ll ask. Will you be at this number later today?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

Katie heard a click, and then the line went dead.

She hung up the phone. Two surprises in one morning: Polly’s lack of anger, and perhaps an audience with the world-renowned Mr. Rick Jeremy.

The day was looking up.

“He’s dead, Jim.”

Katie blinked at Vance, who hovered over the vendors’ lounge table like a surgeon in an operating room. “I beg your pardon.”

“Doctor McCoy on
Star Trek
always said that to Captain Kirk when one of the red-shirted security guys got nailed by a Klingon or some other alien.” Vance looked down at scattered parts of the video recorder. “It might not have been quite dead before, but now I’ve killed it.”

Katie let out a disappointed breath.

“I’m not giving up,” Vance assured her. “It’s just time to call in an expert.”

“Oh, no. How much is that going to cost?” she asked. She didn’t even know if the tape had anything worth watching on it. Maybe whoever sent it to her just wanted to taunt her.

“Cost?” he mused. “Maybe a pizza.”

“How’s that?”

“Vance Junior’s a wiz at fixing just about anything electronic and is more than willing to work for food. Tomorrow’s Saturday—no school. He can probably look at it then. I’ll ask him about it when he gets home this afternoon.”

Katie smiled. She’d met Vance’s son on a number of occasions and liked the bright-eyed teenager. “A pizza I can handle. And I know just where to get it.”

Angelo’s Pizzeria was closed at this early hour, but Andy liked to make his own dough—he often said he liked the feel of working with it. It was likely he’d be in back, watching in rapt attention as his heavy-duty mixing machine pulled on the elastic mix of flour, water, and yeast.

Since his car was parked out front, Katie figured he’d come into work early on that bright sunny morning. She pressed the bell, letting it ring for a full twenty seconds before Andy appeared in the darkened shop.

“All right, all right, all right already.” He unlocked the door, letting Katie in.

“Have you ever thought of making cinnamon buns with your beloved dough?” She gave him a kiss. “I’m starved.”

Andy stood, openmouthed, looking blank. Katie gave him another kiss, softer this time, but he stood stiffly in her arms. She leaned back. “Earth to Andy.”

He gazed into her eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Take me out to breakfast. I’ve used up or packed all the food in my house, and I’m hungry.”

“No, no—about cinnamon buns.”

Katie shrugged. “Make me one?”

His smile broke into a devastating grin. “Oh, the benefits of having a girlfriend with a marketing degree. Do you think I could handle it?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, confused.

“Cinnamon buns—making and selling them.”

Katie threw her arms into the air in defeat. “Why not—you’re here almost twenty-four hours a day anyway.”

Andy looked thoughtful. Was it a trick of the light, or were dollar signs actually dancing in his eyes?

“Hey, I was joking.”

“Not me. I wonder…” he murmured, and he was off, heading for his back room, which contained his dough-making equipment and resting racks.

Katie followed. Sure enough, Andy was thumbing through a recipe book he’d taken from a shelf. “All I’d need is sugar, cinnamon, butter—”

Katie’s felt the weight of the world suddenly upon her. “Does this mean I’ll get to see you even less?”

Andy waved a hand to shush her while he continued to read. His face went slack for at least ten seconds. Was he having some kind of seizure?

“Andy?” Katie whispered.

He shook himself back to awareness. “Before you arrived, I was standing here making the dough and thinking about how much I still owe on all this equipment—wondering how the hell I could pay it off sooner.” He nodded toward the king-sized mixer with its evil-looking bread hook. “If I could bring out another product… I don’t even have to bake it myself… I could premiere it with local grocery stores, starting right here in McKinlay Mill, and build a following—”