The Walleld Flower

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “I see.”

  “But if you’re not doing anything—”

  “I would love to attend,” Katie said, genuinely pleased.

  Gilda gave an embarrassed laugh. “I was hoping you’d do more than just attend. I wondered—would you be my matron of honor?”

  Katie’s jaw dropped. Matron of honor? Was she kidding?

  She closed her mouth, unsure what to say. “I’m—I’m—flattered,” she finally came up with. Matron of honor? she thought again with dread. The timing was not good. She had to be out of her apartment the day before the wedding. There was no way she could move and participate.

  Gilda didn’t give her a chance to speak. She clasped her hands together. “Oh, good. Then it’s all settled.”

  “But, Gilda,” Katie protested, thinking of her promise to Rose to help find Heather’s killer and the rest of the things on her list of things to do during the coming week. But Gilda seemed so excited about the impending nuptials. Could Katie dash her hopes? Surely she could take off one evening from work and packing to devote to helping out a friend—well, a business acquaintance—on her special day.

  “I-I,” Katie stammered again. “I guess so.”

  It wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic acceptance, but Gilda hardly seemed to notice.

  “Wonderful. I already have the dress—”

  “Dress?” Katie asked with trepidation.

  “Yes.” Gilda’s blush deepened. “My best friend, Cindy Marie, was all set to fly up from Brooklyn for the wedding. We picked out the dress from a catalog and she had it shipped here. But then two days ago, Cindy tripped over her dachshund, Daisy, and broke her leg. It took the surgeon three hours and several pins to put it back together again. It broke Cindy’s heart to tell me she couldn’t participate in the wedding, but she can hardly navigate with a hip-to-ankle cast.”

  “No, I don’t imagine she can,” Katie said, perturbed that she was second (or worse—third or fourth?) choice for the honor. Or was it just that she would more or less fit the dress already bought for the occasion?

  As though reading her mind, Gilda said, “I’ll bring the dress over later today. You might want to have the hem taken up before the ceremony.”

  “Okay,” Katie agreed, disconcerted she’d have to wear something that might not be to her taste.

  Gilda stood. “I’ll be in touch with things as they develop. And thank you for letting me count on you.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” Katie said, but without much enthusiasm.

  “And I’ll drop off the stuff for the favors later,” Gilda said as she headed out of the office.

  “Favors?” Katie called after her, but Gilda was already out of earshot, heading for the exit.

  Katie collapsed into her chair. If she’d felt stressed before, that factor had just doubled. Then again, how much time could it take to help Gilda with her wedding favors and have a dress altered? She’d just have to make the time.

  As she turned back to her spreadsheet, she realized she’d forgotten to ask Gilda about the Victoria Square Easter newspaper ad.

  Swell. Just swell.

  Not many hours later, Andy Rust handed Katie a paper plate laden with a slice of Angelo’s deep-crust pizza, swimming in sauce, meat, and veggies. “And this body—skeleton… whatever—wasn’t gross or anything?”

  “Not really,” Katie admitted. She paused to take a bite. Having a boyfriend who owned a pizzeria had been a great perk. For the first week or so. Not that Katie didn’t like pizza, but she ate it more for sustenance than enjoyment these days. And because it was free.

  Seated next to Andy on the lumpy lime green couch, Katie gazed around the tiny living room. The apartment over Angelo’s Pizzeria had been empty since Andy evicted the former tenants for nonpayment of rent some six weeks before. It gave the two of them a quiet place to share a meal away from the watchful eyes of Andy’s teenaged employees, who probably thought they used the place for romantic purposes.

  As if!

  Along with the former occupant’s couch, the place contained only a rickety Formica cocktail table that had to be at least four or five decades old. At Katie’s insistence, Andy had pulled up the stained, blue-tweed shag carpet to reveal hardwood floors in remarkably good condition. But the sickening yellow enamel walls—that had been painted years before Andy took possession of the building—would not inspire a Martha Stewart award. Maybe Martha would find it a challenge to decorate such a dingy place. The apartment was unoccupied only because Andy didn’t want the hassle of dealing with tenants. Meanwhile, Katie hadn’t renewed the lease on her apartment and needed a cheap place to live that was close to Victoria Square.

  “Rose wants me to help her solve Heather’s murder,” Katie said, and took a bite of pizza, pulling the crust away while a string of mozzarella followed. She yanked at it until it broke and tossed it back on the slice.

  Andy stopped chewing, swallowed, and glared at her. “And you told her no, right?”

  Katie sighed. “Not exactly. The poor girl’s been dead twenty-two years. The trail’s cold. I’ll give Rose some extra attention for a few days, and hopefully that’ll be that.”

  Andy didn’t look convinced.

  “Besides,” Katie said, examining a round of pepperoni on her pizza, “I need to concentrate on apartment hunting. I’ve got to be out of my place by the end of the month, and I haven’t had any luck so far.” Her voice sounded innocent, but she knew Andy wasn’t taken in.

  “We’ve had this conversation before, and I’m not renting you this place.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. I’m just updating you on my situation.”

  “You can move in with me,” Andy said.

  “We’ve had that conversation before, too. I have two cats. You don’t want to live with them, and I’m not about to give them up.”

  “You’re using that as an excuse,” he countered. “You don’t trust me. Or any man.”

  “That’s not true. It’s just—” It’s just that she’d trusted her late husband with their financial future, and he’d squandered their savings, and then died and left her virtually penniless.

  Katie recognized the set of Andy’s mouth. He was primed for an argument. Andy was right to some extent. She wasn’t yet ready for the kind of commitment he was offering.

  “I’ve got some leads,” she said to diffuse the tension. “And I’ve got an appointment to look at a place tomorrow afternoon. That is, if I can get Vance to cover for me at Artisans Alley.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  She shrugged.

  “What if you don’t find a place by the end of the month?” Andy asked.

  “There’s always Chad’s pad.”

  Andy scowled. Chad’s pad had been a dismal, airless little room in Artisans Alley’s loft. Chad had lived there illegally for two months after he and Katie had separated. They’d been close to a reconciliation when Chad’s car had careened into a tree one icy March night the year before.

  “And if you do that, what happens to the cats?” Andy asked.

  “They can wander around Artisans Alley.”

  “And if they destroy the vendors’ merchandise?”

  “They won’t.”

  “You hope.”

  “I hope,” she repeated and sighed, knowing her cat Mason’s fondness for capturing and “killing” anything made of fabric. He was known to drag around pot holders, dust rags, and washcloths. In cat parlance, he was known as a “wool eater,” and Katie knew if left to wander Artisans Alley, Mason would zero in on Gwen the weaver’s handmade place mats, napkins, and bookmarks.

  She would find somewhere else to live, she told herself firmly.

  Andy took another slice of pizza from the box.

  Katie used her paper napkin to wipe a spot of sauce from the crummy little table. Still, she wasn’t about to let Andy get the last word in. “Besides, it’s been proven that having a cat on the premises encourages people to spend. It makes any retail establishment more homey.”


  “And if your customers are allergic?” he asked.

  Katie pondered another piece of pizza, decided against it, and closed the lid. “I’m not worried. I’ll find a place soon, and it’ll be perfect for all three of us.”

  Still skeptical, Andy took another bite of his pizza.

  Katie again studied the apartment’s putrid yellow walls. Not a chance of a skeleton behind any of them. Some peachy paint, some crown molding near the ceiling, a few plants, her overstuffed chintz-covered furniture, and two cuddly cats would make the place into a snug and comfy home.

  Katie smiled at Andy. He looked wary but manufactured a facsimile of a smile.

  The poor, dear boy would cave in.

  Eventually.

  “Anything new in pizza land?” she asked and reopened the lid on the pizza. After all, in the grand scheme of things, what was one more slice? She chose a piece with cheese that actually touched the edge of the crust and took a bite.

  “I might change cheese distributors,” Andy said. “I wasn’t happy with this last batch.”

  Katie’s chewing slowed and it took real effort to swallow that last bite. She looked at her slice of pizza and wondered if she ought to continue eating it. But then Andy took another bite of his own piece and she figured what the heck.

  “Oh, something else interesting did happen this afternoon,” she said and reached for a fresh napkin, dabbing it around the corners of her mouth. “I was asked to be the matron of honor at Gilda Ringwald and Conrad Stratton’s wedding.”

  “Lucky you,” he deadpanned.

  “Will you be free a week from Saturday to escort me?” she asked.

  “Sure. But I got an invitation, too. Probably because I’m a member of the Merchants Association.”

  “That makes it even better.”

  He squinted at Katie over his pizza slice. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now. Have you got time for everything that’s involved in participating in a wedding?”

  “All I have to do is show up in the dress she provides, and hold her bouquet. It’ll be a piece of cake.” She laughed. “Wedding cake.”

  “I dunno,” he said and shook his head. “When my cousin Diane was a maid of honor, she was expected to do all kinds of piddly tasks for bridezilla. It’s been three years, and I don’t think she’s spoken to her former best friend since.”

  “What kind of tasks?” Katie asked, suspicion growing in the pit of her stomach.

  He shrugged. “Girl stuff.”

  Katie bit her lip thoughtfully. “Gilda did mention something about favors.”

  “Bingo!” he said, and took a huge bite of pizza.

  “Gilda knows I’m tied up with Artisans Alley, and though I didn’t mention my house hunt to her before now, I will the next time we talk.”

  “Or you could just save time and move in with me,” Andy said and waggled his eyebrows à la Groucho Marx.

  “Let’s not start that again,” she chided and put her pizza down, completely turned off by the idea of it after Andy’s comment about his cheese distributor.

  “But don’t you see how much easier it would be for both of us? And we could split the chores. You could do the laundry and cleaning, and I could do the cooking.”

  “That’s hardly an even split,” Katie protested.

  He shrugged. “Sounds good to me. I wouldn’t even ask you to contribute to the household expenses.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not ready for that step quite yet.” And certainly not under those conditions.

  Andy sank back against the couch’s back, looking smug. “Suit yourself. But I predict in another week or so those terms will sound pretty good to you.”

  Katie frowned. Only if hell freezes over.

  Three

  Katie recognized Rose’s tiny red Mini Cooper as soon as she drove into the Square’s parking lot the next morning. She parked her white Focus and sorted through her collection of keys, then picked up her unread newspaper before getting out to open Artisans Alley’s vendor entrance.

  “Rose, what are you doing here so early?” Katie called.

  Impeccably dressed, as always, in a tailored polyester suit coat and slacks, apricot today, with a rope of amber beads dangling down her white-bloused front, Rose was the epitome of determination. She held a large, flat book in one arm and a shoe box tucked like a football under the other.

  “I’m here so we can start working on Heather’s case. Where do we begin?”

  Katie paused, brass key hovering near the lock, and her heart sank as she read a note taped to the door: She’s at it again. Katie recognized the handwriting. She looked back at Rose. “What did you say?”

  “Heather’s case,” she said impatiently.

  “Oh, well… I haven’t decided on an approach. Let’s make some coffee and talk,” she said to stall.

  Katie unlocked the door and entered the ante/storeroom, disarming the security system before venturing into Artisans Alley’s main showroom.

  Six months before, the artisans arcade’s cavernous main hub had been a depressing sea of dark Masonite Peg-Board. Katie hit the main light switch and the room came alive with beautiful displays of sparkling blown-glass goblets, vases, and bowls on a backdrop of dainty floral wallpaper, Victorian-inspired stained glass windows, cards made of handmade papers, and too much else to take in at one glance. Every day a crowd of vendors came in, changing their displays, making a walk through the aisles like a treasure hunt.

  Rose headed straight for the vendors’ lounge and its commercial coffeepot. That room, too, had recently undergone a total transformation. Gone were the woppy-jawed wooden table and chairs, replaced by a chrome and red Formica table for ten (complete with two leaves), straight out of the 1950s. The vendors had pitched in to paint and decorate the lounge to look like a Happy Days set, with appropriate 1950s kitsch for accent.

  Katie went straight to her office, where she set the note down. She’d deal with it later. She stowed her purse in her desk drawer and opened the safe. She counted out the money for the tills, shut and locked it, then headed for the cash registers, placing cash in each drawer. Register two needed more quarters, she noted. She’d bring them up later. By the time she made her way to the back of the store, she could smell coffee brewing.

  “There’s some apple Danish in the fridge. Do you want a piece?” Rose called out.

  “No, thanks. Just coffee,” Katie said and took a seat at the table.

  Rose had already assembled two legal pads, pencils, and pens, along with the mysterious shoe box. She plunked a steaming mug down before Katie and took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

  “Looks like you’ve made a good start,” Katie said, indicating the notes on one of the pads.

  “I spent last evening writing lists and gathering some of Heather’s things. This box,” she said, removing the lid, “has pictures and certificates, things a young girl keeps.” She pushed it toward Katie.

  Katie peered inside, flipping through the assorted odds and ends. She withdrew several photos of Heather and a shaggy-haired, bearded young man.

  “That’s Heather and her boyfriend, Jeremy Richards. They went together for almost a year before she disappeared.”

  Katie replaced the photos, reaching for the creamer. “Is that a high school yearbook?” she said, indicating the tome by Rose’s elbow.

  Rose nodded. “From Heather’s senior year. Some of her classmates still live in McKinlay Mill.” Her gaze drifted. “Most of them got married and had families. I want to find the bastard who cheated Heather out of her future,” she said, her voice hardening.

  Katie wasn’t sure how to comfort the old woman. Finally, she said, “What we need to do is backtrack Heather’s last days. That’ll mean locating the people she knew, which could take time—a very long time.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” Rose said, determination once again entering her voice.

  “Who was her best friend?” Katie said, and took a sip of coffee.r />
  “Barbie Jackson.” Rose opened the yearbook, flipping pages until she came to a shot of the McKinlay Mill High School cheerleading squad. She pointed to the only brunette in a sea of bleached blondes. “That’s Barbie. They were inseparable as children, but I don’t think they were quite as close by the time Heather disappeared. But then, I only knew this secondhand from Heather’s mother.”

  “Seems like finding Barbie would be a good place to start.”

  “I’m pretty sure she married Joe Gordon. They live somewhere on the outskirts of town. I’ll look in the phone book. If she’ll talk to me, will you go with me to see her?”

  “Of course. I’ve got an errand of my own to run this afternoon. If Vance will take over here, maybe we can combine them.”

  “Are you going apartment hunting?” Rose asked.

  Katie nodded.

  “Why doesn’t Andy just let you live above his shop?”

  “That’s a good question.” Katie took another sip of coffee. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Detective Davenport.”

  “He never even took down my phone number,” Rose groused.

  Katie shook her head. Davenport had been just as close-mouthed during Ezra Hilton’s murder investigation. Either he was the laziest detective on the planet or the shrewdest, letting others solve all his cases—and no doubt taking the credit. Katie’s successful efforts to find Ezra’s murderer had never made it into the newspaper or other media accounts. In retrospect, she’d preferred it that way.

  Rose stirred more sugar into her coffee. “I saw Polly’s note on the door. She isn’t picking on Edie again, is she?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Katie said.

  “Edie wouldn’t steal,” Rose declared.

  Edie Silver was the first of the low-end crafters to rent space in Artisans Alley after Katie had taken over as manager. She’d convinced Katie that her type of crafts—dish towels with crocheted hangers, silk flowers, and the like—could bring in customers, and she’d been right. Since admitting Edie and her friends, Artisans Alley was averaging twenty percent higher sales per week. That average had shot up to fifty percent during the holiday buying season. But fine-arts craftsmen (and women) vendors like Polly Bremerton were averse to change, and opening Artisans Alley to the low end of the spectrum was still a bitter pill. Still, Polly’s creations were dolls made with molded bisque heads, arms, and legs, with stuffed and sewn bodies, not masterpieces on canvas.