The Walleld Flower

by Lorraine Bartlett

  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.

  Sixteen

  “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.

  Andy’s warm hand settled on her shoulder. “Life handed you a pile a crap in this place, but look what you’ve done in only six months. It’s a going concern again. You’ve got happy vendors… well, most of them. No creditors are breathing down your neck, and you’ve got the world’s best neighbor in Angelo’s Pizzeria.”

  Katie uncovered her eyes, turning her head to look at him. Andy’s eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. His jaw bristled with unshaved whiskers. How long had it taken him to make three batches of cinnamon rolls?

  “My ad for the assistant manager’s job will be in tomorrow’s paper,” he said in what sounded like a peace offering.

  Katie had to clear her throat before she could speak. “That’s great, Andy. And it looks like you’ll get to fulfill your dream of Cinnamon Bun King.”

  “And if you’re real lucky, you can be my queen.”

  Katie eyed him speculatively. “The job better come with one hell of a tiara.”

  Andy bowed, took her hand, and gently kissed her knuckles, just like Mark Bastian had done the night before. Katie didn’t feel up to telling him about that right now. “What are you doing for lunch today?” she asked.

  Andy released her hand and straightened. “I’ve got a vendor coming in to give me a dog and pony show. I might need some different equipment if I’m going ahead with a new product.”

  Katie sighed. “Tomorrow, then?”

  “I’ll pencil you in my Day-Timer.” His goofy smile made Katie laugh. “By the way, which of your old lady friends does the crafts? Rose or Edie? I can never keep ’em straight.”

  “Edie, why?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious. Maybe she can tell me who could make me some fake cinnamon rolls to put in my front window. For marketing purposes,” he clarified.

  “Oh, right.”

  Andy nodded at the roll growing cool on her desk. “Eat up. They’re at their peak right now, not unlike their creator.”

  Katie shook her head. “Oh, the power of the inflated male ego.”

  Andy pulled her from her seat, folding his arms around her. “Let’s go out on a real date sometime next week. A movie, dinner, anything you want.”

  Katie pulled back, their gazes locking. “It’s a deal, but with one proviso.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We eat anything but pizza.”

  “Debbie’s gone,” said a cheerful voice in a singsong cadence.

  Katie looked up from her computer screen to find Edie Silver standing in the doorway of her office looking flushed. “So soon?”

  “Today was the only day her daughter had free to help her move out. Is it okay if I start taking my stuff to her booth?”

  Katie glanced at the wall clock. Artisans Alley had opened its doors half an hour before. “I’d rather you didn’t. It doesn’t look good if customers see us restocking during business hours.”

  Edie’s mouth drooped, making her look like a sad, tired bulldog. “I know, but I really want to get away from Polly as soon as I can.”

  Katie stared into Edie’s gray eyes, her willpower draining away. She was a sucker when it came to old people—especially Rose and Edie. She saved her document and stood. “Okay. I don’t have a lot of time this morning, but I could give you a few minutes to help pack.”

  “I’ve already started. I was here when Vance opened this morning. I stacked all my merchandise in shopping hand baskets and have been bringing them down two at a time.”

  “What about your display pieces?”

  “Vance and Billy are going to move those. We should be done before lunch.”

  Katie waved a hand in submission. “Okay, finish up. I’ll be up to help in a few minutes. I need to make a few calls first.”

  Edie beamed. “Thanks, Katie.”

  Katie searched her desk for the list of prospective vendors. Several calls later, she had set up appointments with two crafters and a sculptor to inspect Edie’s old booth. With luck, she’d rent the space within a day.

  By the time Katie made it upstairs, Edie had placed the last of her crafts into a basket. All that remained were five or six display pieces, including a long table covered with a cloth of cheerful Easter bunnies rolling eggs across a pale green background.

  “What do you want me to do?” Katie asked.

  “If you could fold the cloth and knock down the table, I’ll tell Vance we’re ready to move these display pieces.”

  “Will do,” Katie said as Edie picked up the last plastic shopping basket and headed for the stairs.

  Katie grabbed the cloth, which was actually two pieces of carefully matched fabric with a seam down the middle. Edie had hemmed the edges, adding a pretty white ruffle. Katie folded it neatly and bent down to look at the table’s legs. Underneath were a scattering of boxes that Edie had obviously forgotten she’d stashed. Katie nested the smaller boxes into the larger ones. Most were empty, but one was nearly stuffed with handcrafted doll accessories—clothes, shoes, wigs—a darning egg, and a couple of bisque doll arms and legs: most of the missing items from Polly Bremerton’s booth. She dug deeper into the box and found other bits and pieces, most from booth eighty-seven, which was kitty-corner to Polly’s booth. Katie sat back on her heels, the cinnamon bun turning to lead in her stomach.

  Okay, there were two possibilities to consider. Either Polly herself had taken the items, planting them in Edie’s booth to incriminate her or—and this was something Katie did not want to believe—Edie had been stealing.

  Then again, someone else might have done it just to see sparks fly from afar. She gazed at the other booths nearby. This back section of Artisans Alley wasn’t exactly Siberia, but it wasn’t as well traveled as other sections of the upper floor. Was one of the newer vendors vying for a better location, hoping to incite insurrection as a diabolical plot to move up Artisans Alley’s pecking order by eliminating the competition?

  Nah, very few vendors with upstairs booths made much more than their rent on a weekly basis. It wasn’t money but the love of what they were doing that kept them here week after week.

  Katie folded in the carton’s flaps and took the box back to her office. Next she pulled out her list of vendors and traced down to number eighty-seven. This vendor made primitive-looking animal sculptures out of clay. She punched the phone number onto the phone’s keypad.

  “Hi, Joan. It’s Katie Bonner from Artisans Alley. Have you noticed any missing items from your booth?”

  “Off and on. Mostly little things.”

  Katie picked up a horse decked out in a saddle and reins, rocking it back and forth until it appeared to be walking across her desk. “How come you haven’t reported it?”

  “I figured shoplifting was just a consequence of being in business.”

  “Well, I’m happy to tell you that I may have found a bunch of them. I’ll keep them in my office until you can get in to pick them up.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. Just put them in the basket for reshelves.” She laughed. “Who knows, the quicker they’re back in my booth, the quicker they might sell.”

  “Will do,” Katie said.

  “I’ll see you on Monday. Bye.”

  Katie replaced the receiver. Could Polly have put some of Joan’s items into the box so it wouldn’t look so terribly suspicious? Maybe. But then Katie remembered something Rose had said days before. Edie had been confused some months before when her medication had been changed. Could kleptomania be another symptom of a prescription drug interaction, or was Katie just looking for excuses to explain away the truth?

  She replaced t
he items in the box and put it under her desk and out of sight.

  Talk about an act of denial.

  “Miz Bonner?”

  Vance Junior stood poised to knock on the doorjamb. Dressed in dark baggy pants and shirt, with a pink do-rag tied around his cropped fair hair, the boy looked like every other McKinlay Mill High School slouch. Only his keen blue eyes betrayed the intelligence he tried to hide. “My dad says you want that old VCR fixed.”

  “Yes, thank you, Vance Junior.”

  The boy cringed. “Aw, please don’t call me that. It makes me feel like some dorky old country singer. I like VJ better.”

  “Thanks, VJ,” she amended. She grabbed her mug and followed him back into the vendors’ lounge.

  Within a minute, she’d poured herself yet another cup of coffee as VJ stuffed a cinnamon roll into his mouth with one hand and inspected the VCR’s innards with the other.

  “Oh, there you are, Katie,” Edie said upon entering the vendors’ lounge. “Can you give me a hand putting my stuff out? Hi, Vance Junior.”

  VJ winced again and swallowed. “Hi.”

  “Edie there’s something we need to talk ab—”

  “I can see your problem,” VJ said, interrupting her as he bent over the VCR. “The motor’s seized up. You also need some new drive belts—these are shot. Might cost five or six bucks. Is that okay?” He looked up at her.

  “Hurry up, will you, Katie? The customers can’t buy my merchandise if it’s sitting in baskets,” Edie said tartly, and marched off again.

  Katie stared after her, startled by Edie’s sudden brusque demeanor—or rather the return of her usual demeanor. She turned back to the boy who was still awaiting an answer. “Do whatever you need to do.”

  “Uh, my dad said something about pizza later,” VJ hinted.

  “Whatever you want. Do you need the money now?”

  “Nope. You can pay me later.”

  Katie nodded. “I better go help Edie.”