The Walleld Flower

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “It’s all junk,” Janice said. “It’ll have to go. I may as well toss it now, since I’ve got to pay for the Dumpster anyway.”

  “Don’t be so hasty,” Katie warned, hoping she’d kept the excitement of her find out of her voice. “You ought to get a professional up here to give you an estimate of what everything’s worth. There’re several vendors at Artisans Alley who also deal in antiques and offer that service.”

  Janice bent down to open a box. She withdrew a yellowed magazine that otherwise looked brand new. “Look at this. It’s dated 1947.”

  “See, that could be worth a few bucks.”

  Janice’s eyes widened. “Do you think so?”

  “Sure. Rose is very knowledgeable about ephemera.”

  Janice frowned. “How’s that?”

  “Old paper products. If you’re short of money, selling some of this stuff could improve your bottom line. You might even make enough to pay for some of the demolition you’re unable to do yourself right now. It could help you with your tight deadlines.”

  Janice flipped through the old magazine. “I’d welcome anything about now.”

  “I’d be glad to give you a hand taking some of this downstairs.”

  “Thanks,” Janice said. “I guess we’d better start by the ladder.”

  Katie grabbed her box and made for the makeshift stairs.

  Within five minutes, she knew her seemingly altruistic offer to help had been a big mistake. Janice seemed determined to make up for lost time. Stationed on the wobbly ladder, Katie staggered beneath the weight of the boxes Janice handed down to her. She carried them into the first empty room she found and dumped them. Then it was back to the ladder, grab something, and repeat the process. Soon she was sweating and her hands and clothes were covered with grime.

  They worked steadily for over twenty minutes, and Katie wondered just what was taking Rose so long to make those copies.

  As though in answer to her silent pleas for release, a voice called up the stairs. “Yoo-hoo, Katie—Janice!

  “Up here! Janice, Rose is back.” Katie hoped Janice would take the hint and knock off for the day.

  Rose appeared in the open doorway and did a classic double take at Katie’s rumpled and dirty clothes. “What happened to you?”

  “I’ll explain later,” she whispered. “I think I found something we can use to track Heather’s connection with this house.”

  “I did, too,” Rose said. “Wait ’til I tell you—”

  “Katie!” Janice called.

  “Shhh! Go along with everything I say, will you?” Katie hissed.

  Before Rose could answer, Janice popped up behind her. Somehow she didn’t look half as grubby as Katie felt.

  “Here you are,” Rose said, handing Janice the property abstract. “Fascinating reading. The house was built in 1897. For nearly five decades, the surrounding land was a peach orchard.”

  “Interesting. I’m looking forward to reading it myself later. Rose, I told Janice that you were a bit of an expert at ephemera and that you’d be glad to take a look at some of the papers here and give her an estimate on their worth.”

  “Er… yes,” Rose said, sounding quite unsure of herself. “Of course.”

  “Would you mind if we took a couple of cartons to Artisans Alley to study the contents?” Katie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Janice said, sounding suddenly wary.

  “I assure you, I’ve dealt with hundreds of customers when liquidating estates,” Rose said. “It’s standard procedure to have time to study the goods when trying to estimate the value of the property.” She sounded so sincere, even Katie wanted to believe her.

  “Well, maybe if you just took one carton and we could talk about the other stuff later.”

  “Certainly,” Katie said. “We’ll just take—” She bent down, picking up the carton she’d chosen up in the attic. “This one.”

  Katie bent her knees as she hefted the box, wishing a few longshoremen had perched in her family tree. Of course, Detective Davenport would probably wring her neck if he found out what she was up to, but she was willing to take the chance.

  Feeling smug, Katie forced a smile as she faced Janice. “We’ll let you know tomorrow morning if there’s anything of material worth in here.”

  “I’ll be here all day,” Janice said with resignation.

  Katie nodded and headed for the stairs, with Rose following in her wake. She passed through the soon-to-be-restored entryway, stepped over the threshold, and stopped dead. A sharp-eyed Detective Davenport was making a beeline for her, his gaze focused on the box.

  Five

  “What are you up to, Mrs. Bonner?” Davenport demanded as he charged up the Webster mansion’s wooden porch stairs.

  Katie swallowed. The detective’s normally ruddy complexion had darkened considerably. “Just visiting Janice—Mrs. Ryan,” she amended, hoping her voice didn’t convey the guilt she felt.

  Davenport eyed the box in her arms. The very heavy box, which she was sure must contain lead ingots. She shifted its weight, leaning the carton against the doorjamb to ease the ache already building in her arms.

  “And what have you got there?”

  Katie worked at a bland expression. “Just some ephemera. Janice needs a quote on their value.” She leaned closer, whispering to Davenport, “You have no idea how much antique Valentines can be worth. Especially if they’re three-dimensional.”

  “I’m not that stupid, Mrs. Bonner. That looks like papers to me. Papers that might be instrumental to my investigation.”

  Katie glanced at an agitated Rose standing beside her. She shifted her gaze back to Davenport. “Do you really think you might find something of use in this old box of junk?”

  “I won’t know that until you hand it over.” He held out his arms.

  Katie gave him the box, hoping its dusty surface would leave indelible marks on Davenport’s raincoat. “We’ve got first dibs on buying them, so please handle them carefully,” she admonished, but Davenport wasn’t taken in by her innocent act.

  “I always handle evidence carefully.” He turned to glower at Janice. “Mrs. Ryan, don’t let anything of this nature leave the building without the Sheriff’s Office’s permission.”

  Janice’s cheeks flushed. “Well, you might have said so before this, Detective. And I want a receipt for anything you take.”

  Good for you, Katie silently cheered. She glanced at her watch. “Artisans Alley closes in half an hour. We’d better get back, Rose. See you later, Janice.”

  Rose glared at the detective and obediently followed.

  They were halfway across the lot before Rose spoke. “Bad luck, him showing up like that.”

  “Yes. We’ll have to concentrate on the property abstract for now.”

  “It’s a gold mine of information, too. One of the former owners was Burt Donahue.”

  “Who?”

  “Just the biggest auctioneer in the county. I had no idea he’d dabbled in real estate all those years ago.”

  “Tell me more,” Katie said as they entered Artisans Alley via the back door into the vendors’ lounge.

  Before Rose could utter another word, Polly Bremerton’s shrill voice cut the air. “Katie!”

  Katie didn’t even slow down, continuing straight to her office. Rose was smart enough to head in the opposite direction. If Polly didn’t rant and rave over some imagined slight or petty infraction of Artisans Alley’s loose set of rules, she’d harp about Edie, and Katie was determined to keep Polly’s gripes behind closed doors and beyond customers’ ears.

  But before Polly could corner her, Vance intercepted Katie in the vendors’ lounge. “Gilda Ringwald stopped by while you were out. She left a box on your desk,” he said with disdain.

  Katie’s heart sank. No doubt the favors Gilda had mentioned. And what was she supposed to do with them anyway?

  Katie approached the cardboard carton as though it were filled with deadly rattlesnakes. She disentangle
d the interleaved flaps and looked inside. Nestled on top of a big wad of lilac-colored tulle was a roll of ivory satin ribbon and two large bags of deep purple Jordan almonds. Katie frowned. She’d never been fond of the candy-covered nuts—especially after cracking a tooth on one several years before. And purple?

  She dug through the box, looking for some kind of list or instructions. Nothing. How many little sachets did Gilda expect her to make? It was then she caught sight of the plastic-enshrouded garment that hung from the pull on the top drawer of her file cabinet.

  “Purple?” she cried, horrified. “The dress I’m supposed to wear to this wedding is purple?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Vance said, standing in the doorway. “I forgot to mention she dropped off something else, too.”

  Katie lifted the dress from the pull and whisked off the plastic to gaze at the monstrosity. First of all, it was sleeveless—and this was April in Western New York. She’d surely freeze to death wearing this. The color—that of a ripe eggplant—was bad enough, but while the front was scoop-necked, the back of the dress was entirely missing. The skirt seemed to go on and on and on. Had Gilda’s friend with the broken leg been a giantess?

  Before Katie could make sense of this new development, Polly stormed into her office and bellowed, “She’s at it again!”

  “Please close the door—and lower your voice,” Katie said, then returned the dress to its makeshift hook and opened her desk drawer, pawing through the contents until she found a small bottle of liquid hand sanitizer. She should’ve thought of using the cleaner before she touched the dress—not that any dirt would show on the deep purple color.

  The door banged and an impatient Polly stood before Katie, her face twisted in a scowl.

  Katie took her time, rubbing the solution into her palms. It was then she noticed the property abstract on the blotter and wished she could examine it instead of listening to Polly vent her paranoia. Taking a Kleenex from her desktop box, she wiped off some of the dirt before tossing the tissue into her wastebasket.

  She pulled her chair away from the desk, sat down, and studied the stern, solid woman before her. In a crisp white blouse, dark wool skirt, heavy support hose, and brown, lace-up sensible shoes, Polly probably would’ve made an excellent librarian—half a century ago. She prided herself on her knowledge of dolls, the arts, and anything to do with the craft and history of sewing, looking down on anyone who wasn’t as savvy. Katie counted herself among that crowd.

  “What can I do for you, Polly?” Katie asked at last, using every ounce of patience she could muster.

  “It’s that crafter. She’s stealing my merchandise again!”

  Katie sighed and grabbed a toffee from the jar on her desk. “What’s missing?”

  “Several vintage darning eggs, antique pincushions, antique buttons—”

  Sewing items! Polly could sew.

  Katie glanced at the dress that needed to be shortened—thought about asking Polly for a favor, and then abruptly changed her mind. Polly might ruin the dress out of spite… and then she’d be forced to wear something different at the wedding. Ah, a plan! But Gilda probably loved the dress. Why else had she picked it? Or did she want to make sure that her matron of honor couldn’t take center stage on her special day?

  Buttons, buttons, Katie reminded herself. “Were these buttons on cards or loose?”

  “On cards, of course. They’re handmade and very expensive.”

  Katie frowned. “The items you’ve mentioned are all small, things that can easily be concealed in a pocket or purse. It sounds more like a shoplifter to me.”

  “I know it’s that Silver woman,” Polly asserted.

  “What’s your proof?”

  Polly straightened in indignation, as though her word alone should sentence poor Edie to years in the slammer. “She’s always hanging around when I come in to straighten my booth.”

  Katie unwrapped her candy. “Well, her booth is next to yours.”

  “And I’d like that to change. I’ve been a vendor here ages longer than Edie—”

  “According to Ezra’s records, your booth was assigned only three months before Edie came in.”

  Polly’s eyes bulged. She hadn’t expected to be caught in a lie. “My merchandise is superior quality goods. Hand-crafted bisque and fabric dolls of exquisite quality, not crap from China.”

  “Now, Polly, you know why we had to let crafters into Artisans Alley. It was either that or raise the rent so that nobody made a profit. Or I could have let the business go under. Since those crafters came on board, Artisans Alley has averaged a substantial increase in sales, for the fine-arts pieces and small craft items. Almost everyone has made more money in the past six months.”

  “I haven’t!”

  “Have you considered lowering your prices or participating in the sales events we’ve held?”

  “I want a new booth location,” Polly demanded.

  Katie forced herself to keep a level voice. “As I’ve explained in the past, there’s a waiting list. Vendors who’ve been here a lot longer want the same thing.”

  “Are they willing to pay extra for the privilege?”

  Katie raised an eyebrow. Giving Polly preferential treatment, even for a fee, would cause an uproar with the rest of the Artisans Alley dealers. It wouldn’t be worth the hassle.

  “I’m sorry, Polly, you’ll just have to be patient. In the meantime, I’ll ask those walking security to pay special attention to your booth.”

  Polly’s face flushed with anger. “It’s not fair. It’s just not fair!”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can do without proof.”

  “You’ve bent over backward to accommodate those new people. You could do a lot more for those of us who’ve been here for the long haul.”

  Katie sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Invite someone famous in to give a free talk. Some of the professors from the Rochester Institute of Technology.”

  “That’s a bit beyond our budget—unless they’re willing to do it for free.”

  “Then call in an appraiser who’ll tell customers what their works of fine art are worth.”

  Katie thought about it. “That might be workable.”

  “We could also do special displays out in the lobby, showing customers how to decorate their homes with our products.”

  “Another good suggestion. Thank you, Polly.”

  Polly scowled. “I see no reason for you to patronize me, Mrs. Bonner.”

  Katie’s jaw clenched. “I’m serious, Polly. And I’ll do what I can to make your suggestions happen.”

  Polly’s mouth tightened, but before she could speak, a sharp, insistent knock sounded—just the disruption Katie could’ve hoped for. She abandoned her toffee, and rose, sidling past Polly to open the door. Standing with a hand poised to knock again was Edie Silver. A marked contrast to prim and proper Polly, Edie looked like somebody’s grandma, from her pink polyester pantsuit to her Velcro-clasped sneakers. Only now her face was twisted with agitation.

  “Oh, Katie—it’s Rose. You’ve got to do something!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She found this morning’s newspaper and…”

  Katie had forgotten all about the headline story indicating Heather had been alive when she’d been entombed in the old Webster mansion’s walls. “Where is she?”

  “In the cloakroom crying her eyes out.” Edie caught sight of Polly standing behind Katie, and her cheeks reddened.

  Before Polly could explode, Katie placed a hand on Edie’s shoulder, turning her around. “Come with me,” she said, and hurried the older woman along.

  “We haven’t finished our conversation,” Polly called after them.

  As ever, the cloakroom’s brown-painted walls exuded a depressing aura. The sounds of racking sobs did nothing to lighten the gloom. Rose sat hunched over, elbows on the card table, her head resting on her hands, the morning newspap
er spread out before her.

  Katie paused in the doorway, unsure if she should venture farther. “Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry. I was hoping you wouldn’t see the newspaper article.”

  The older woman raised red-rimmed eyes toward Katie. “You knew? All day long you knew about this and said nothing?”

  “How could anyone tell her friend news like that?” Katie said, braving a step forward. But she knew, hard as it would have been, that she should have somehow found the courage to do so.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again, stepping forward to rest a hand on Rose’s shoulder, knowing her excuse was as inadequate a defense as she’d ever heard. “But I promise we’ll find out why Detective Davenport misled you.”

  Anger tightened Rose’s face. “Do you think he’s still over at the mansion?” she asked, pushing her chair from the table and rising. “Let’s go confront him now.”

  “That mean old cop is gone,” Edie said. “I saw him dump some boxes in his car and take off a few minutes ago. Must’ve left half an inch of rubber on the tarmac.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” Katie suggested.

  Rose wiped her eyes, then gathered up the newspaper, folding it. Mouth slackening, she stared at the teaser photo in the upper-right-hand corner. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered.

  “What is it?” Katie asked.

  Rose pointed to the picture. “That man, he’s—he’s—”

  “He’s that famous movie director, Rick Jeremy, who’s giving money to the university,” Edie said.

  “Oh, no, his name’s Jeremy Richards—he was Heather’s boyfriend!”

  Six

  Katie bent down to take a closer look at the muddied color photograph. “Are you sure?”

  “See for yourself,” Rose said, and rummaged through the box of mementos she’d shared with Katie that morning.

  Katie thumbed through the newspaper until she found the feature story with a larger version of the director’s portrait. She placed it on the card table. Rose selected a photograph from the box—Heather and Jeremy smiling—and set it next to the newsprint picture.