The Walleld Flower

by Lorraine Bartlett

  The woman spoke again, and the camera angle changed to give her a close-up. She simpered, her pouting lips a garish green.

  “Holy smoke,” Katie breathed, “it’s Heather Winston.”

  Eighteen

  VJ hit the video recorder’s stop button. The TV let out a blast of white noise and the screen went back to snow. “Let’s fast-forward it. Maybe it gets better.”

  He pressed the appropriate button and the bulky machine’s innards whirred with renewed vigor as the analog counter spun forward.

  Katie’s only knowledge of movie production had been gleaned from magazine articles, but even she could tell the difference between video and film, and Heather’s movie debut had been made on film. The movie’s opening scene had been staged at the McKinlay Mill town park. Could the rest of it have been shot in town as well? It took hot white light to properly film indoor scenes. And if so…

  VJ hit the play button and the TV glowed green once again. A large, creased, rounded object bounced up and down on the screen, and Katie squinted to make sense of the image. The camera pulled back and she goggled at a man’s bare backside as a woman’s exaggerated groans of pleasure issued from the TV’s speaker.

  Vance whipped a hand in front of his son’s eyes. “You shouldn’t watch this. Your mother would kill me if she knew.”

  VJ pulled the hand away. “This is tame compared to HBO. Let’s fast-forward it some more to see—”

  Vance hit the stop button. “No!”

  “Dad, I’m sixteen. In another three months, I can go see any NC-17–rated movie I want.”

  “Yeah, well, until that day—”

  “Your father’s right, VJ,” Katie piped up, but she, too, wanted to watch—not the movie, but the end credits. “I don’t want to be responsible for—” For what? Corrupting the boy? At sixteen, VJ was probably a lot more worldly than she’d been at the same age—her great-aunt Lizzie had seen to that. Thanks to TV, violent video games, and rap music, kids were exposed to more of the seamier side of life than Katie had ever been—or probably ever would be.

  “Anyway, thanks for fixing this old video recorder. What do I owe you for the parts?” she said.

  “Seven dollars and four cents. Uh… and a large pizza with double cheese, pepperoni, onions, peppers, mushrooms, sausage, bacon, and ham.”

  Cholesterol city! Katie bit back a smile. “That, too. Hang on, let me get the money.” As she stepped into her office, the phone rang. She answered it. “Artisans Alley. How can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Bonner. It’s Kevin Hartsfield.”

  The man with the wrecked apartment. What could he possibly want?

  “Oh, hello.”

  “I wanted to thank you for putting me onto the high school’s work-for-credit program. The senior boys’ Industrial Arts class will start repairing my house on Monday.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific. I’m so glad I could help.”

  An awkward silence fell until Hartsfield cleared his throat. “I… uh… saw in the morning paper that Heather Winston’s memorial service is tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes. I hope you’ll be able to make it. It would mean a lot to Heather’s aunt.”

  “Have the police had any luck finding out what happened to her?”

  “Detective Davenport never tells me anything,” Katie almost blurted but stopped herself in time. “Not that I know of. It happened such a long time ago.”

  “That’s too bad.” Hartsfield’s voice had an odd inflection. Did he actually sound relieved?

  Keep him talking—keep him talking.

  “I know Heather’s aunt would love to hear anything you remember about Heather from her high school days.” Especially once she found out about Heather’s post–high school antics.

  “I don’t know what I could say except that she was a good student.”

  Stall, stall!

  “Was she involved in any after-school activities? Perhaps the Drama Club?”

  “Not that I recall. As you said, it was a long time ago. We all moved on.”

  Only, thanks to whoever placed her body between sheets of drywall, Heather hadn’t.

  That wasn’t entirely true. Heather had lived another eighteen months after high school graduation. Long enough to get involved with Jeremy Richards and make at least one porn film—maybe more.

  Stall, stall! something inside Katie implored

  “I met Barbie Gordon’s daughter the other day.”

  “Oh?” Now Hartsfield sounded interested.

  “Without her mother to help out, Donna is in desperate need of financial as well as emotional support.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” he asked.

  “I was thinking… you’re probably the only person around who knew Barbie back then. Do you have any idea who Donna’s father might be?”

  “It’s been over twenty years,” he said, mildly reproachful.

  “Yes, but circumstances change. Perhaps her biological father might welcome contact from his daughter.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bonner, but I was Barbie’s math teacher, not her guidance counselor. As I recall, she was very independent—not the type to confide in just anyone.”

  Katie sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Just then, VJ poked his head into her office, looking hopeful. Katie held up her right index finger, signaling him to wait a moment.

  “I do hope you’ll be at the service tomorrow, Mr. Hartsfield,” she pressed.

  “I can’t promise—but I’ll try. Good-bye, Mrs. Bonner.”

  Katie hung up the phone. She stepped back to open the safe, doled out money from petty cash, and handed it to a smiling VJ.

  “Is it okay if I order the pizza tonight, Miz Bonner? Some friends are coming over and we’re going to play Xbox.”

  “Sure. I’ll let the owner over at Angelo’s know to expect your order.”

  He pocketed the money. “Thanks, ma’am. See ya.”

  Ma’am! No way could Katie ever get used to being called that!

  She followed the boy out and watched as he disappeared into Artisans Alley’s main showroom. Vance was packing up the tools his son had left behind.

  “VJ’s a good kid,” Katie said.

  “Yeah. He gets good grades, helps around the house, and never gets in trouble. He’s just about the perfect son.” Vance closed his toolbox. “Now if we could just teach him to pick up wet towels and take out the garbage on a regular basis, life would be grand.”

  Katie smiled. “Oh, I almost forgot. Can you close for me tomorrow night? I need to be at the funeral parlor for Rose’s niece’s service.”

  “No problem. It’ll give you a break from dealing with Polly.”

  “Isn’t it a sad commentary to prefer to attend a funeral than dealing with that woman. But she does have some good ideas for placating the artisans here at the Alley.”

  Vance’s eyes crinkled. “I’m an artisan. Why don’t you try to placate me?”

  Katie smiled and told Vance of her conversation with Polly several days before.

  Vance nodded. “We could ask Burt Donahue to come in and give appraisals. He specializes in antiques, but he’s knowledgeable about a lot of specialty items, too. I think he charges by the piece, but that’s pretty standard.”

  “Damn, I could’ve asked him the other night at the auction house. I’ll have to give him a call.”

  Vance glanced down at the recorder. “What are you going to do about the videotape? Will you tell Rose what’s on it?”

  “If it ends up helping to solve Heather’s murder, she’ll have to know. I want to watch the credits at the end before I do anything else.”

  “I thought you might. I fast-forwarded it for you and reset the counter in case you want to see them again.” Vance hit the play button.

  Tinny music issued from the TV’s speaker as a long list of blurry names scrolled past, none of them familiar. Katie watched the credits two more times before she noticed a pattern. She jotted down a few of the
names and the copyright year.

  “All the names have similar initials. MB, BJ, JR, and a couple of HWs.”

  “Is that supposed to be significant?” Vance asked, closing his toolbox.

  “Probably not to anybody but me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Katie doodled boxes on the edge of her pad. “Well, you could see the production values were shoestring at best. I’ll bet only four people worked on the film, taking on phony names in the credits.”

  “You think you know who those people are?”

  “Betty Jasper the costumer had to be Barbie Jackson. Hilda Wentworth could’ve been Heather Winston.” She frowned. “I guess I should share my suspicions with Detective Davenport.”

  Vance’s laugh was mirthless. “Better you than me.”

  Katie removed the tape from the machine and hit the power button to switch it off. Then she grabbed her pad and went back to her office and dug out the creased business card Detective Davenport had given her months before.

  His voice mail picked up on the first ring. She waited for the beep and spoke. “Detective, it’s Katie Bonner. I have a piece of—” She couldn’t call it evidence—it wasn’t part of Heather’s crime scene. But it did represent a Pandora’s box of questions pertinent to the case. The great Academy Award–winning director Rick Jeremy would not want the world to know how he’d started his now-illustrious career. Katie studied the Roman numerals on the paper before her. The film’s copyright had been for the year of Heather’s death. She’d been the film’s star, while Barbie and Bastian had apparently done most of the grunt work.

  Barbie said she had evidence for Katie, but she’d also indicated she was holding on to it for leverage. She’d been killed that night. The tape had been mailed the day before her death. Count Barbie out.

  Bastian had to be the one who’d sent it to Katie. By his own admission, his relationship with Jeremy was strained. Did he always travel with a bad copy of Star Whores, just waiting for an opportunity to let someone know of its existence?

  Yet why kill the cash cow? He hadn’t seemed the vengeful type. Or despite his claims to the contrary, he was more of an actor than he professed to be. The bad wig hadn’t changed his appearance enough to hide his identity as Heather’s costar. And why send the tape to her, not Rose or the police?

  Too many things didn’t add up.

  Davenport’s voice mail beeped and disconnected.

  Damn!

  Katie dialed again, left another message and her phone number. Eventually Davenport would get back to her. If he didn’t call before Jeremy’s award ceremony that evening, she’d make more of an effort to track him down tomorrow.

  “I understand you found my property,” said a voice from the open doorway. Polly Bremerton’s fierce blue-eyed gaze bored into Katie.

  She put the phone down. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I saw Joan MacDonald at the grocery store a few minutes ago. She said you’d found a number of her missing items. I assume you found mine as well.”

  Katie’s gaze darted to the floor and the box under her desk. “Yes, but—”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Inside Artisans Alley.”

  “Where, specifically?” Polly demanded.

  Katie bent down to retrieve the box and mumbled a reply.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Upstairs.” Katie set the carton on her desk and opened the flaps.

  Polly stepped forward to rummage through the contents. “Nearly all of this is my property.” She faced Katie. “Did you find this in Edie Silver’s booth?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I told you that woman was stealing from me, but you wouldn’t listen. I want her arrested, and I expect you to call the police right now.”

  “Now, Polly, be reasonable. I don’t know that Edie hid these items in her booth. They were behind a lot of other empty boxes. For all I know, you may have put them there to implicate her.”

  Polly’s cheeks glowed pink. “How dare you accuse me!”

  Katie stood her ground. “Since the day Edie arrived, you’ve done nothing but snipe at her.”

  “You’re just sticking up for her because she’s your friend—and she does you lots of little favors. I saw her working on those wedding favors, and then pinning up that dress.”

  Katie couldn’t argue with that.

  “I’ve been taken advantage of one time too many,” Polly continued. “I’m not going to stand for this kind of treatment any longer. I just can’t take any more!”

  Katie shied back from her. “If you feel strongly about it, feel free to call the Sheriff’s Office and make a complaint.”

  “Me, call them?” Polly looked absolutely horror stricken.

  “It’s doubtful they’d even write up a complaint, as you’ve already recovered your missing property, but you can give it a try.”

  Polly’s breaths were coming in snorts once again. “Well, I-I… I’ll think it over,” she said at last. She hefted the carton into her arms and stormed from the office.

  “Please put Joan’s items back in her booth,” Katie called after her, but Polly continued on without a backward glance.

  Katie frowned after her. Polly’s overreaction to the whole situation was puzzling. There had to be more on her mind than just Edie and the trinkets missing from her booth. And why did she balk at the thought of calling the Sheriff’s Office?

  What did she have to hide?

  Nineteen

  “I didn’t do it,” Edie said, her eyes bulging in indignation.

  “I don’t think you did either, but Polly does, and we may have to deal with the repercussions,” Katie said reasonably.

  Edie turned back to a table display of floral arrangements in her new booth, tweaking a bit of silk greenery. The muscles in her face did odd gyrations before she spoke again.

  “I’m sorry I was so short with you earlier, Katie. It was unfair of me to expect you to drop everything to help me this morning.”

  “Edie, I—”

  “No, no,” she continued, her voice growing softer as she plumped up a basket of artificial peach-colored tulips. “I know you don’t like us setting up while Artisans Alley is open, but I just bulldozed through the rules to get down here today.” She turned back to Katie. “Dealing with Polly these past few weeks as been unbearable. No one’s ever pushed my buttons the way she has, and I’m ashamed of how I reacted.” Her gaze was hopeful. “No hard feelings?”

  The corners of Katie’s mouth twitched. “Not from me.”

  Edie picked up the basket of cheerful tulips. “Then I hope you’ll accept this arrangement as an apology.”

  Katie held out a hand to rebuff the offer. “Oh, Edie, you don’t have to—”

  “They’d sure cheer up your office.”

  That was asking a lot, as despite all Katie’s efforts to redecorate the place, it still looked terribly shabby. Still, she accepted the offered gift. “Thank you.”

  Pounding footsteps caused both women to turn as Vance charged up the aisle, pausing at the edge of Edie’s booth. “Burt Donahue’s out front. Now might be a good time to ask him about coming in to appraise customers’ treasures,” he puffed, slightly out of breath.

  “Good idea,” Katie said. “Where is he?”

  “The main showroom.” Vance beckoned her with his hand. “Come on.”

  “Thanks again, Edie,” Katie said and, still clasping the basket of silk flowers, hurried off in Vance’s wake.

  Burt Donahue stood near Rose’s downstairs booth, examining a glass display case filled with gleaming gemstone pins and necklaces. A number of people seemed to be clustered around him, reminding Katie of Rick Jeremy’s entourage. Unlike Jeremy’s minions, the two men and one woman brandished the same almost-sneer as their esteemed leader.

  Katie marched up to the auction house owner, extending her hand. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Donahue.”

  Donahue shook her hand, rather too firml
y, and glanced around the cavernous showroom, his flinty gaze landing on a pyramid of handcrafted teddy bears dressed in Easter bunny outfits in the next booth.

  “I haven’t been here in years. It was just after Ezra opened the place.” He glanced down at the basket of silk tulips in Katie’s hand, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “Looks a lot different. Your influence, no doubt.”

  Katie flexed her fingers and figured the gibe referred to the crafters who now shared space in what had once been a fine-arts-only arcade. “What brings you to Victoria Square, Mr. Donahue?” she asked in her most cheerful voice.

  “The Webster mansion. I heard it was back up for sale. I may want to purchase it again.”

  “Oh?” Only days before he’d declared the mansion to be a money pit.

  “I’ve been following the progress the Square’s Merchants Association has made these last few months. The time may have come for an upscale B and B to join the mix. I’ve been looking for a good investment opportunity,” Donahue explained.

  Katie’s stomach took a tumble. Not that she could ever hope to buy the place, but Donahue, with his brusque personality, was all wrong for the role of innkeeper. “Would you run it yourself?”

  “My son has a degree in hotel management from Cornell. He and his wife would take charge.” That explained the framed photo of the graduate in his office.

  “Which means our grandchildren would be much closer to us,” said the older woman at his side. Katie recognized the nondescript, wrinkled, and saggy-jowled woman as having taken her tax information at the auction house days before. She still looked more like Donahue’s mother than his wife.

  “Will you put in an offer today?” Katie asked.

  Donahue shook his head. “Sylvia and I just did a walk around the outside. We’ll wait until Paul gets here. Our decision will be based on the degree of renovation the place needs.”