The Walleld Flower (22 page)

“Did you have recent contact with Barbie?” Seth asked.

Bastian shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen or talked to her in what—twenty-two years?”

“Did she tell you who fathered her baby?” Katie asked.

Bastian shook his head once again.

Katie dug into her purse, unearthing the envelope of Rose’s pictures. She offered them to Bastian. He took them from her, shuffling through them, pausing on one of Barbie in her cheerleader’s outfit. The lines around his eyes relaxed a bit. “I’d forgotten how pretty she was.”

The waitress arrived with a big tray that not only contained the second round of drinks, but also their dinners. Bastian pursed his lips, shoved the pictures back in the envelope, and handed it to Katie as the waitress distributed their plates.

Seth tucked right into his entrée, but Katie pushed a grape tomato around her heaping plate of greens. “What do you remember about Barbie and Heather’s friendship?” she asked.

Bastian shrugged. “There seemed to be a kind of rivalry between them.” He laughed. “For a while, Rick thought Barbie might be hot for him.”

“Was that what caused Heather to break up with Rick?”

“They had a nasty argument about another guy. It sounded like Heather had had a thing for this guy since high school.”

“Did she tell Jeremy the man’s name?”

“Not that I know of.”

Barbie must have known. Could the best friends have been interested in the same man—someone other than Richards? “When did Heather break it off with Jeremy?”

Bastian stabbed his fork at a piece of bell pepper. “A couple of days before she disappeared. It was already over between me and Barbie. I didn’t care.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, but Katie had one other loose end for Bastian to tie up.

“Did you and Jeremy work on the renovations at the old Webster mansion?”

Bastian abandoned his fork for his martini glass. “Yeah.
The owner hired me because of my father’s reputation. We did a pretty good job. Certainly worth what he paid us—which was jack shit.”

“What kind of repairs?” Seth asked.

“A drop ceiling, some woodwork, and a little drywall.”

“Was this before or after Heather disappeared?” Katie asked.

“Before. And no, we didn’t wall her up.”

Katie frowned. “Did you tell Detective Davenport any of this?”

“I haven’t been questioned,” Bastian said.

“Did Jeremy volunteer that information?”

“I don’t know. We don’t talk much.”

“But you work for him. I thought you said you’re his personal assistant,” Katie said.

Bastian didn’t blink. “Yeah, but when we talk, it’s just business.”

Seth cleared his throat, interrupting the uncomfortable moment. “Did you ever meet any of Heather’s other friends?”

Bastian shook his head. “I don’t think so. McKinlay Mill was a backwater. Its only redeeming quality was Barbie’s apartment and the availability of cheap beer.”

The waitress reappeared. “Is everything all right here?”

Seth smiled. “Just fine.”

The conversation turned to other subjects, with Seth taking the lead. As Katie listened to Bastian talk about his work and career, she got the impression he led a pretty empty life. How sad he never found anyone to share it with.

She found her thoughts wandering. Was the whole Jeremy Richards/Rick Jeremy angle a bust? There were other sources of information she could tap, and she’d make sure she found time to look into it in the morning.

Katie had intended to pay for the dinner, but Seth, the dear, picked up the check. “You’ve got moving expenses coming up,” he whispered and gave her a wink as, true gentleman that he was, Seth pulled out Katie’s chair for her.

Bastian followed them from the restaurant. He gazed over the parking lot before turning to offer Seth his hand. “This evening ended differently than I thought it would. Thanks for the conversation.”

He turned to Katie. “It’s a pity we’ll never meet again.”

“Who says we won’t?”

Bastian’s answering smile was sly. “Then again, maybe we will.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “Until then.” With a final curt nod, he stepped off the sidewalk and into the gloom.

Katie watched his silhouette until it merged with the shadows and was gone.

“What do you think of him?” Seth asked.

Katie still stared into the darkness. “He missed his calling. He should’ve been an actor.”

“You think he was lying?” Seth asked, and started for his car.

Katie kept pace. “You don’t have to lie to not tell the whole truth.”

Katie was up before dawn on Saturday morning and baked the last of the peanut butter cookie dough in her freezer, filling the apartment with a heavenly aroma—and she ate only two of them for her makeshift breakfast.

After piling them onto one of her two unpacked dinner plates, she filled the back of her Focus with boxes and lamented that her life had fallen into a rut. She should’ve spent more time looking for somewhere to live rather than chasing the shadows surrounding Heather’s death.

She was down to just six days, with still no replacement apartment in sight. Her own apartment had been grabbed the moment she’d informed the complex manager of her intention to vacate, so staying another month was out of the question. She could land somewhere for a week or two, but it was the cats’ fate that worried her. If worse came to worst,
she could always board them with her vet. Expensive, inconvenient, and certainly nothing the cats would enjoy, but it was a viable alternative.

“First things first” was beginning to be her motto. Once she opened Artisans Alley for morning setup, she’d surf the Internet for background info on Rick Jeremy. Perhaps she’d find the key to his relationship with Heather in the body of his work. And she’d see what she could find on Mark Bastian, too. She’d spend an hour on the project—no more, because if she had to, she’d call every apartment complex in a twenty-mile radius to find an opening.

That decided, Katie headed off to work.

She pulled into Artisans Alley’s parking lot, eased the gear shift into park, and shut off the engine. With a brief glance to her rearview mirror, she saw a flash of red behind her, breaking the gray morning monotony. “What the—”

Katie grabbed her purse and keys, hopped out of the car, and slammed the driver’s door. The sign in front of the Webster mansion was larger than last time. Big red letters proclaiming For Sale.

Katie jogged the hundred yards or so, her purse thumping against her side. The sign must have gone up the night before, after she’d left Artisans Alley. She’d have seen it otherwise.

She topped the mansion’s stairs and pounded the door, not that she expected anyone to answer this early in the morning. There wasn’t a light on in the place. She shaded her eyes to look inside the mansion’s foyer. Nothing but the demolition detritus, although the floor looked freshly swept. She didn’t know Janice and Toby’s home phone number—didn’t even know where they lived so she could go over to talk to them.

Katie turned away, feeling dejected as she walked down the wooden steps. She didn’t pause to write down the real estate agency’s phone number—she had it committed to memory from all the times she’d called Fred Cunningham
about the property during the years she’d hoped to buy and renovate it.

“You can’t afford it,” she said out loud, her cheeks hot with—what, anger? That wasn’t right. Frustration, more likely. “You can’t buy it,” she said more firmly.
Ahh, but what if you could,
said an insidious little voice inside her.
What if some bank manager somewhere had a creative plan that would allow you to—

That would sink her deeper into hock than she already was. Buying was one thing. Renovating was another. And without Chad, how could she hope to run an inn on her own?

You could get a partner,
the little voice taunted.
Someone with the capital to get the project moving, someone to—

No! Then it wouldn’t be
hers
.

Katie approached Artisans Alley, noting that the downspout on the southeast corner had come loose again. She fumbled with her key, stabbed it into the lock, and fought the urge to kick something.

“I wouldn’t go in there, if I were you,” Katie heard Vance warn someone. “She’s in a bit of a snit.”

That was an understatement. Katie leaned back in her office chair. From there she could just see the vendors’ lounge coffeemaker, where Vance was pouring himself a cup. Still Katie’s curiosity had been piqued. It had better not be Polly Bremerton outside her door, or else she just might—

“Katie?” Andy’s cheerful face appeared in the doorway. The delight in his eyes dimmed when she turned a glower on him.

“Nobody should look so happy this early in the morning,” she growled.

“I’ve got something wonderful for you,” he taunted, his body half hidden from view by the door frame.

“It had better be,” she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

Andy popped into the office, holding a towel-draped
tray. With the skill of a magician, he whipped it off and proclaimed, “Voilà—breakfast.”

The heavenly scent of cinnamon buns enveloped the office. Stacked pyramid style, each squared-off spiral of dough and spices was thickly coated with a shiny white glaze, looking good enough for a spread in
Martha Stewart Living
.

Vance moved to stand behind him. “Whoa-hoe. Food.”

“They’re—they’re gorgeous,” Katie stammered, her bad mood almost forgotten. Almost.

“It’s my third batch, and I think it’s the best.” Andy breathed almost reverently. “I’ve been playing with the mix of spices. See if you can guess my secret ingredient.”

“I’ll get napkins,” Vance volunteered. He disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a handful.

With exaggerated care, Andy transferred rolls onto separate napkins and presented one to Katie and Vance as though bestowing the sacrament.

Katie took a bite of the still-warm concoction, letting it lie on her tongue to better savor the flavors. “Mmmm,” she groaned, mouth still full, reluctant to swallow, yet eventually she had to. “These are to
die
for.”

Vance swallowed. “I’ve never tasted a cinnamon bun quite like this. What’s the difference?”

“A hint of cardamom. It’s a delicate balance,” Andy explained.

Vance licked icing from the fringe of his moustache. “You’ve got a winner here, Andy. When can I buy a dozen?”

“Not quite yet. But why don’t you share the rest of these with the other vendors. It might spark interest for future orders.”

Katie made a grab for the plate, snatching another sticky roll, glad she’d eaten only two of the peanut butter cookies before leaving the apartment. “Not until I get my fair share.”

Vance also took an extra roll, placed it on a napkin, and set it on the vendors’ lounge table. “For Vance Junior. He’ll
be here in a while to look at that old video recorder, Katie. If he ever gets out of bed.” Vance disappeared around the corner with the plate and a fist full of napkins.

“They’re even better with a cup of joe. Buy you one?” Andy offered.

“I get mine for free,” Katie said.

“Then how can you miss?” Andy grabbed her cup from the desk, returning in seconds with steaming coffee, doctored just the way she liked it.

“Thanks.” Katie took a sip and nibbled on her cinnamon roll, feeling the tension within her ebb.

Andy perched on the edge of her desk. Speckles of flour dotted the rolled-up sleeves of his sweatshirt. His muscled forearms seemed rigid with anxiety. Not what Katie expected after his culinary presentation.

“I saw them put up the for-sale sign on the mansion late yesterday,” he said quietly. “I thought about calling you but knew it would just upset you. I figured you deserved a good night’s sleep.”

“I didn’t get that either, but what else is new?”

“Katie, why do you torture yourself over that wreck of a place?” Andy asked.

“Because it was supposed to be
mine
. We almost had enough to close the deal when Chad invested in this—this”—she held off from swearing—“money pit,” she finally spat. “It’ll take me five years just to get out of debt. I’ll never get to open the English Ivy Inn. Never.” She covered her eyes to hide stinging tears.