Katie frowned. The mansion had stood empty for at least five years. Why would Donahue suddenly want to own a property he’d dumped nearly twenty years before?
“Have you spoken with Detective Davenport again concerning Heather Winston’s murder investigation?” Katie asked.
Donahue frowned. “No, and I don’t expect to. That’s ancient history. Besides, I never even met the young woman.”
“We’d better go, dear,” said Donahue’s wife, already pulling on his arm.
“Wait!” Katie pivoted to block the auctioneer. “I have a business proposition for you.”
Donahue raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“We’d like to schedule a time for you to come and appraise our customers’ treasures. I understand you do this as a sideline.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Give Sylvia a call at the auction house on Monday and we’ll set something up.” With that, he walked away, followed by his wife and entourage.
Vance cleared his throat and for some reason looked embarrassed. “Uh… he’s a busy man.”
Katie glared at him. “Nobody’s that busy.”
Vance shrugged and glanced at his watch. “We’re closing in another twenty minutes.”
“Yeah. Would you make the announcement? I need to get back to my office.”
“Sure.”
Katie headed toward the back of the building, but when a voice hailed her, she stopped.
“Katie!” Rose’s eyes were bright as she hurried through the mazelike aisles to join Katie. She clutched a business-sized envelope in one hand. “Fred Cunningham just dropped this off.”
Katie stuffed the basket of silk tulips under her left arm and tore open the envelope. “I’ve got a theory about the need for the renovations in Barbie’s apartment over at the old Webster mansion.” She brandished the three-inch skeleton key. “Want to help me check it out?”
The puddled parking lot and low-hanging clouds framing the decrepit old house did little to dispel the sinister aura that seemed to radiate from it, making it look like the set of a bad horror movie. In all the years Katie had longed to buy it, the mansion had never before affected her that way. Knowing two women had died—no, been killed—there intensified the feeling.
Katie turned the old-fashioned key in the lock, opened the heavy oak door, and allowed Rose to precede her into the gloomy entryway, wondering if anyone on the Square had noticed them enter. She eased the door shut, but the sound seemed to bounce around the dank, empty structure.
She flipped the light switch, but the bare bulb hanging in the naked ceiling fixture shed scant light. Janice and Toby had removed the pressed-foam panels from the suspended ceiling, but the network of white support rods still crisscrossed over their heads.
Katie turned on her flashlight, waving its beam over the ceiling.
“What are you looking for?” Rose asked.
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
“I’ll let you know when I find it.” Katie glanced around the room. She needed a ladder, but Janice had taken all the tools. She could go back to Artisans Alley and get one, but that would draw too much attention to the fact she was poking around the old place.
“Hang on to this, will you?” Katie handed Rose the flashlight and went off in search of a chair—a crate—anything to boost her higher.
A drawer in the old butler’s pantry provided a plastic knife, and one of the upstairs bedrooms provided a rather wobbly paint-specked chair, but together she was sure they’d serve her purpose.
Back in the front parlor, where Barbie’s studio apartment had been, Katie stepped onto the chair.
“Be careful,” Rose admonished.
Katie could almost reach the metal strips. Damn those nineteenth-century architects and their ten-foot ceilings. She looked around. In the corner sat a large plastic bucket filled with plaster debris.
She jumped from the chair, jarring every inch of her body from her toes to her teeth.
Rose frowned. “We should leave—before you kill yourself.”
“Not yet.” Three strides later, Katie was at the bucket. She was tempted to just tip it out, but that would only advertise the fact someone had been in the house. The rented Dumpster was still out back, and she used the rear door to get to it, glad the Ryans hadn’t installed a security system.
The bucket was not a good fit on the old chair. “Hang on to and steady me, will you?” she asked Rose.
Worry darkened the old woman’s creased face, but Rose held Katie’s hand as she climbed the rickety stair. “Be careful. We’ll be in so much trouble if you get hurt,” Rose admonished.
“I’m not going to get hurt,” Katie grated. She took the flashlight back from Rose and panned the beam across the knobby original ceiling above the support rods. The plaster should have been smooth, but the paint had flaked away in a number of places. Clutching the plastic knife in her right hand, she reached up to scrape the ceiling. Old paint chips fluttered down on her face and she had to blink them away. When had the original ceiling last been painted? If her theory was correct, it was after Heather’s death, and therefore the chips would be lead free.
“Do you have an envelope or a piece of paper?” Katie asked Rose.
Rose rummaged in her handbag, coming up with an empty envelope, its backside sporting a grocery list.
Katie handed her the flashlight again, and scraped the knife against the plaster. Again and again Katie repeated the action before Rose helped her down from her perch.
“Why did you do that?” Rose asked.
Katie dumped a few of the white flakes onto her left palm. Using the plastic knife, she turned a few over. “See this black stuff?”
“Mold?” Rose suggested.
“Soot. I think there was a fire in Barbie’s apartment, which is why they had to replace the walls.”
“What’s that got to do with Heather’s death?”
“It’s just a hunch—but I think Heather might have witnessed the fire.”
“I don’t understand.”
Katie studied Rose’s puzzled expression. What she had to say would forever change Rose’s perception of her long-dead niece.
“Katie, please tell me. I have a right to know,” Rose implored.
Katie sighed, and with Rose’s help, climbed down to the floor. “You know that beta videotape I got in the mail the other day?”
Rose nodded.
Katie chose her words carefully. “Heather was the lead in an early Rick Jeremy movie.”
Roses eyes widened, looking pleased—as if being captured on film meant some kind of immortality for the dead girl. “She never mentioned it to her parents or me.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a real low-budget film. They filmed outdoor scenes here in McKinlay Mill. And I’ll bet they used Barbie’s apartment as one of their sets.”
Rose glanced at the floor where the walls had recently come down. “But the space was too small for that. Surely there wasn’t room for more than just a bed.”
“I’m afraid that’s about the only prop they needed.”
Rose’s eyes went wider still as her cheeks flushed. “Are you saying Heather starred in a-a pornographic movie?”
Katie was no critic, but there was nothing stellar about Heather’s performance.
“I’m so sorry, Rose.”
Shaking her head in denial, Rose turned away. “No. You must be mistaken.” Then she whirled on Katie. “I want to see that tape.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I won’t believe it until I see it for myself.”
Katie rested a hand on Rose’s arm. “You haven’t seen your niece—or even videos of her—in over twenty years. Do you really want to remember her like that?”
Tears filled Rose’s blue eyes and she swallowed back a sob. “I-I don’t know. But if her killer forced her into that terrible lifestyle, it’ll only make me more determined to see him brought to justice.”
&nb
sp; Katie placed what she hoped was a comforting hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Okay, but I must warn you, you won’t like what you see.”
“Heather is dead. I’ve already faced the worst. How can this be more upsetting that that?”
Katie wasn’t sure how to reply.
Heather had been dead for more than two decades. But could Rose face the death of her sweet memories of her only niece?
“Turn it off,” Rose moaned, her voice shaking, and buried her face in her hands.
Katie hit the old VCR’s stop button and squeezed her friend’s thin shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rose. It was stupid of me to mention it to you. I shouldn’t have put you through this.”
Rose let out a long, shuddering breath. “No, I needed to see this. I needed to know—” But she didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she rubbed at her eyes, still refusing to meet Katie’s gaze. “You said you had a theory about Barbie’s apartment.”
“Half-baked, but—”
“Please tell me,” Rose implored.
Katie felt as though she’d already hurt the old woman enough for one day, yet she took a breath to steel herself before answering. “The backdrop behind the bed appeared to be some kind of metallic paper. It wavered during some of the more”—she choose her words carefully—“energetic scenes. The lights they used to film are very hot. I wouldn’t be surprised if it caught fire and—”
Rose nodded. “The soot you showed me on the back of the paint chips pretty much explains what happened.”
Katie nodded. “The walls had to be replaced. Mark Bastian told me he and Jeremy started the work but didn’t finish it. I believe him. Whoever did complete the job must’ve walled up Heather.”
Rose’s expression hardened. “Burt Donahue said he couldn’t remember who actually did the work. Do you think he’s lying?”
“Not necessarily. He could’ve hired anyone out of the Penny Saver to do the work. It’s been so long, I’m not sure we can track down the people or company who actually did the work.”
“It’s a job for the Sheriff’s Office. If we could ever get that tactless Detective Davenport to show a little interest in the case.”
“I’ve got a call in to him, but it’s a Saturday night and Heather’s case is about as cold as you can get.”
“But Heather’s best friend died in the same building only days ago. She knew something about Heather’s death. She had to. You said she was about to tell you something important back at Del’s Diner, but that was before someone scared her off.”
“Yes. If only she’d trusted me,” Katie said and sighed.
“Then again, why should she? Barbie didn’t know you any more than she knew me.”
“Exactly. Until that last day, I don’t think Barbie really believed Heather’s killer would come after her. She’d kept silent for twenty-two years.”
“But isn’t it odd that Jeremy Richards comes back to town and then Barbie’s murdered? Someone sent you that tape. Someone wanted you to make the connection between Heather and Jeremy and Barbie. Who could it be?”
Katie was determined not to air her suspicions. Not without more proof. Instead, she shrugged.
Rose pushed back her chair from the table, struggling to get to her feet. Katie lunged forward to help, but the old woman waved her off. “I’m going home. Heather’s memorial service tomorrow will make it a difficult day. I need to get some sleep.”
Katie watched as Rose gathered her beige raincoat from a peg on the wall, then carefully tied the white plastic rain bonnet under her chin.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” she asked.
Rose’s smile was devoid of wattage. “No, dear. But thank you for asking.”
Katie walked Rose to the side exit. “You don’t have to come in to work tomorrow.”
“But I want to. At least for a few hours. It’ll help me bide time before Heather’s service.” Her voice broke on the last word. Rose pursed her lips, struggling to control her ragged emotions. “I’m so glad Iris and Stan never knew about that.” Her acid glare raked across the ancient Betamax. “It would have killed them.” She turned away and shuffled toward the back door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Katie.”
Katie made sure Rose got safely into her car and drove away before she went back into her office to retrieve her purse and keys. Showing Rose that videotape had been one of the hardest things Katie had ever done. Despite her claims to the contrary, would Rose ever be able to forgive her for spoiling her image of Heather as a sweet young girl?
Yet, as Katie thought about it, she’d seen no hint of humiliation in Heather’s face. Instead, she thought she’d seen… triumph. Could Heather have deluded herself into thinking she could be some kind of porn queen? Or perhaps she believed that it might launch a career that would lead to bigger and better things… and make her rich.
Twenty-two years after the fact, they’d never know.
Katie donned her jacket and retrieved her purse from her desk drawer. Patting the pockets, she located her key ring. She glanced down at the desk, looking for the envelope and the key to the Webster mansion. Pawing through the papers didn’t reveal the envelope either.
Katie turned off the office light and stepped into the vendors’ lounge. No key on the old Formica table either.
She’d lost it. Good grief. How was she going to explain that to Fred Cunningham?
“Oh, swell.”
Twenty
With his arms crossed, and his face twisted in a scowl, Andy looked more than a little annoyed. “Vance’s kid ordered a sheet pizza with double cheese, double pepperoni, double sausage, double bacon, double—”
“Why don’t you just say he ordered double everything?” Katie sat atop the wooden counter that separated the customers from the workers at Angelo’s Pizzeria. She stared out the window at the darkened Webster mansion across Victoria Square, swinging her feet and smacking them into the wainscoting.
“Because he didn’t want pineapple and anchovies. And will you stop banging the counter?” Andy ordered from his pizza-making station.
Duly chastised, Katie stilled her feet. “How much do I owe you?”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Nothing. I’ll charge it to overhead. Do you want a calzone or a slice of pizza?”
It was all Katie could do not to flinch. “Have you got any of those cinnamon buns left?”
“Nope. I’ll bring you one for breakfast. I’ll make you a small veggie pizza.” Andy grabbed a mound of dough from the rack to his right. “How goes the apartment hunt?”
Oh, dear. Another sore subject.
“Lousy. I meant to call every complex in a ten-mile radius, but instead I frittered the whole day away.” Andy didn’t roll his eyes, but he looked like he wanted to. “And no,” she said before he could speak, “I’m not going to beg to rent your apartment upstairs. I’ve decided it’s much too small for my needs.”
“Lucky for you it’s not available, then.”
Did that mean that despite his complaints about tenants he’d already rented it?
Katie sighed, deciding not to give him the satisfaction of asking. She turned to face him. “What’s your big news of the day?”
Andy tossed the dough in the air with the skill of a vaudevillian juggler, his grin as wide as Katie had ever seen. “The salesman assured me I really don’t need much new equipment to start making cinnamon buns on a large-scale basis. It’s more a matter of timing and logistics.”
“And?” she prodded.
“I made an appointment for Monday morning to talk to the manager of the McKinlay Mill Big M. I’m going to take samples, too. If he likes them, he promised me a minimum daily order of two dozen a day to start. He’ll give me a one-month trial.”
“And after that?” Katie asked.
“We’ll see. If I could get into the larger chains in Rochester… well, then I could buy your English Ivy Inn for you.”
Katie’s breath caught in her throat. It would never happen. Oh, but what fun it was to dream… Co
uld Andy step into the role Chad was supposed to have played? What would that do to their budding relationship?
And why was she even pinning her hopes on a flip remark made in jest.
Still…
“Do you think you can cook as well as you bake?” she asked.
“I can follow a recipe. Why?”
“Because you could be the English Ivy Inn’s chef.”
Andy threw out his plastic-gloved hand, striking a theatrical pose. “Why zen you’d haf to call me Chef Andeeeee,” he said with a bad French accent.
Katie giggled. “Ooh la la!”
Andy squinted and looked beyond her. “Hey, what’s that?”
“What’s what?” Katie asked.
“Either my eyes are going bad, or there’s a light on over at the old Webster mansion. I thought you said the Ryans had abandoned it.”
Katie’s head spun around so fast she was in danger of whiplash. “Ohmigod, you’re right.” The place had been dark only minutes before. Had Toby and Janice returned? No, Janice had been adamant: She no longer wished to even be inside the old building.
Katie jumped down from the counter, panic churning her insides. “Andy, the real estate agent let me borrow the key today and I lost it. If someone found it and vandalizes the place—”
“Slow down—slow down!” Andy cautioned.
“Oh, please, you have to come with me in case—”
“Okay, okay,” Andy said. “Keith—” He turned to the boy manning the pizza oven. “Cover for me, will ya?”
“Sure thing,” the kid said, straightening with a sudden air of authority.
Andy pulled the plastic gloves from his hands and hopped over the counter with the grace of a gymnast. He grabbed Katie’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Let’s go!”
The brisk April night air stung Katie’s cheeks as she and Andy jogged the length of the Victoria Square parking lot to the old Webster mansion. Katie had a stitch in her side by the time they made it up the creaky steps. The old oak door was ajar and Andy plunged ahead, throwing it open and bounding inside. They bolted into the front parlor and Andy stopped dead, throwing out an arm to stop Katie from venturing farther.
The Walleld Flower Page 19