The Walleld Flower

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “Holy crap,” he murmured.

  “What, what?” Katie asked, then saw the prone figure stretched out on the Masonite subflooring. No mistaking the beige coat and the white rain bonnet. “Ohmigod! Rose!”

  “Is that better, Mrs. Nash?” asked the dew-eyed young nurse in blue scrubs as she adjusted the ice bag against Rose’s temple. Katie couldn’t help but wince when she saw the gold stud that gleamed on the nurse’s pink tongue.

  “Yes, thank you.” Rose looked ancient and frail propped against the raised emergency room bed.

  “As soon as the resident signs the papers, you can go home. I’ll go check on it,” she said and patted Rose’s arm.

  Rose glanced askance at Katie, who stood close beside the bed. Her lips pursed. “Go on. You’ve been dying to say it.”

  “Say what?” Katie asked in all innocence.

  “‘I told you so.’”

  “But I didn’t tell you not to go to the mansion on your own, simply because it never occurred to me that you’d do something so—”

  “Stupid? No, but you would have.”

  “I haven’t even asked you what you were doing there.”

  Rose folded her arms across her chest like a petulant child. “Not yet, but you will.”

  Katie sighed. “If nothing else, I need a good story for the real estate agent as to why you got hurt—and if you’ll be suing. Fred Cunningham gave me that key so I could look the place over. He’ll be furious if he finds out you were there on your own.”

  “But you were there.”

  “Not until after someone conked you on the head. Did you see who did it?”

  “That’s a good question,” came an annoyed rumbling voice from the split in the makeshift curtained wall. Even with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shabby raincoat, pudgy, balding Detective Davenport bore absolutely no resemblance to TV’s Columbo.

  “Detective, what’re you doing here?” Katie asked.

  “The dispatcher told me about a nine-one-one call from the old Webster mansion. I’m investigating two murders there, remember?”

  Katie spoke through clenched teeth. “We’re not likely to forget. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, but first things first.” He turned his attention to Rose. “What were you doing at the mansion, Mrs. Nash?”

  Katie glanced at her friend. Rose looked every day of her seventy-five years.

  “This will sound silly to you, Detective, but my niece died in that building. I just needed to be alone there.”

  Davenport’s scowl deepened. “Did someone hit you or did you fall?”

  Rose sat up straighter in the bed. “I most certainly did not fall. I was just standing in the middle of the room, lost in thought. I heard a sound behind me but before I could turn, someone hit me.”

  “And you didn’t see who it was?” he asked.

  Rose shook her head and winced. Katie gently patted the old woman’s shoulder.

  “But I got the impression the person was tall,” Rose said.

  Davenport grunted and turned toward Katie. “What’s all this about a porno movie?”

  Katie explained about receiving the beta tape, its stars, and the production people listed in the credits of the early Rick Jeremy production.

  “I want that tape,” he growled.

  “And you can have it. But you have to give us a ride back to Artisans Alley. I rode along with Rose in the ambulance and now we’re stranded.”

  “Don’t you have friends you can call on?” Davenport grumbled.

  “Didn’t you just say you wanted that tape?” Katie countered.

  The detective sighed. “Okay, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Good, because I have another theory and more evidence to turn over to your department. That is if you want it.”

  Davenport’s eyes narrowed. “What evidence?”

  Katie told him about the hot lights needed for filming and the reason for the renovations in Barbie’s apartment just prior to Heather’s death.

  “I’ll grant you, it’s plausible,” Davenport admitted.

  “I’ll bet whoever killed Heather came after Barbie. My guess is Mark Bastian and Rick Jeremy will be the next targets.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “Because they were originally hired to do the renovation work at the mansion.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I had dinner with Bastian last night. He told me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before now?” Davenport barked.

  “I assumed Jeremy would’ve told you.”

  “Well, he didn’t.”

  “And I suppose you never bothered to question Bastian?”

  “Why should I? No one told me he knew the dead woman.”

  Katie shrugged. “You got me there. But I definitely think it would be in your best interest to look out for Bastian and Jeremy’s welfare while they’re here in town.”

  “It’s too bad you waited so long to tell me about all this,” Davenport grumbled.

  “Why?”

  Davenport frowned. “Don’t you ever listen to the news?”

  “When do I have the opportunity?” Katie asked. As she studied the detective’s dour expression, her stomach did an uneasy twist. “Why?”

  “Because someone shot and killed Rick Jeremy earlier this evening.”

  Twenty-one

  “He’s dead?” Katie cried, panic coursing through her. “Are you sure?”

  “I didn’t see the body, but Chief O’Brien of the Rochester PD assures me the man was the proverbial doornail.” Davenport scowled. “Am I sure? Of course I’m sure! I am in charge of the Winston and Gordon homicide investigations. I’ve had some experience in these matters.”

  Well, duh!

  “Any idea who’s responsible?” Rose asked. She didn’t sound all that sorry, probably because she was still thinking Jeremy was the villain in this whole mess.

  Davenport shook his head. “But O’Brien will keep me informed.”

  “Where did it happen?” Katie asked, shock still rippling through her.

  “Just outside the Dryden Theater. Jeremy was there to rehearse for the awards ceremony. A marksman got him with one shot to the head.”

  “My God—what about Mark Bastian? If someone is killing off Heather’s friends—”

  “Calm down, Mrs. Bonner. Chief O’Brien may have already taken measures to protect the man. I’ll give him a call to make sure.” Davenport pulled a cell phone from his inside breast pocket and exited the cubicle.

  “Good Lord. Three down.” Rose’s already pale face had blanched. “I was so angry at Jeremy for dragging Heather into such a sordid lifestyle, but I’d never have wished him dead.”

  Katie remembered her last sight of Bastian only a day before—his shoulders slumped with an air of defeat. He hadn’t been totally open with her, yet what he had revealed seemed to come from the heart. Had he been acting then, too?

  “Jeremy and Bastian were supposed to leave town tomorrow. I wonder if Mark is at the hotel or if he’ll go stay with relatives?”

  “And put them in danger?” Rose asked.

  “He may just want to get away from the press.”

  “I couldn’t blame him for that.” Rose craned her neck. “Have you seen my shoes?”

  Katie retrieved Rose’s pumps from under the bed and helped her put them on.

  Rick Jeremy was dead, and just hours before he was to receive his lifetime achievement award from his alma mater. The impact of his death—perhaps assassination—made Katie cringe. She considered sorting through the mishmash of emotions washing through her, then reconsidered. Numb about covered it all, which was about all she could handle right now.

  The nurse returned with a wheelchair and a file folder. “Just sign this paperwork and you’ll be free to go, Mrs. Nash.”

  Judging by the formidable stack of forms, Rose would have writer’s cramp by the time she finished.

  Katie’s thoughts wande
red back to Bastian. Had he ultimately been a friend or foe to Rick Jeremy? They were no longer friends. Bastian has practically said that. And he’d sent Katie the tape knowing she’d suspect Heather’s boyfriend of killing the young woman. Had Bastian done it in hopes she’d be the key to Jeremy’s downfall? Had he hated Jeremy enough to kill—or arrange to kill—the man?

  “It just doesn’t wash,” she said aloud.

  “Sure it will,” the nurse said, indicating the smudges on Rose’s raincoat. “Just use one of those enzyme detergents. Gets blood and all kinds of gunk out of my scrubs every time.”

  Rose smiled sweetly as the young woman helped her into the wheelchair.

  Detective Davenport showed up at the curtained opening. “A detective from the RPD will have another talk with your buddy Bastian, and I will, too. But first I want that videotape.”

  “Bring the car around and we’ll be right out,” Katie said, shrugging into her own jacket.

  “I am not your chauffeur,” Davenport retorted.

  Katie glared at the man. “Stretch your imagination, Detective.” At his puzzled look, she clarified. “Pretend.”

  The drive back to McKinlay Mill would’ve been a silent one, at least concerning Davenport, who never uttered a word. Katie used the time to call Edie and arrange for her to stay the night with Rose. Edie agreed without hesitation, as though eager to please Katie after their encounters earlier in the day.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” Rose bristled.

  “Someone came after you tonight. I want to make sure they don’t try again.”

  Edie’s ancient blue Ford Escort was sitting in Rose’s driveway, its lights off but its motor running. The Sheriff’s Office’s cruiser stopped and Davenport got out to open the rear passenger door before Edie emerged from her car. She held a small suitcase in one hand and a plastic grocery bag swung from her other wrist. She shoved that at Davenport and, with her now free hand, snagged Rose. “This’ll be so much fun! I brought over the kinds of stuff my granddaughter trucks around with when she goes on sleepovers.”

  Katie led the way to the house. The motion detector light went on. She slipped Rose’s house key into the lock and opened the door.

  “Microwave popcorn and nail polish—we can do each other’s toes. Won’t that be fun?”

  Katie turned on the kitchen light and the others trooped in behind her. Davenport rolled his eyes but complied with her request that he check out Rose’s house to make sure it was secure.

  “You’ve got my home phone number. Give me a call at home if you need anything,” Katie said as Davenport practically pushed her out the door.

  They listened for the click of the deadbolt lock before heading for the cruiser.

  Katie didn’t bother to try to initiate conversation with the dour cop until after they arrived at Artisans Alley. She disabled the security system, unlocked Artisans Alley’s vendor entrance door, and switched on only enough of the lights so that they could navigate to the back of the building in safety. “This’ll only take a moment.”

  Katie circled the big chrome and red Formica table, stopped in front of the hulking Betamax, hit the power switch, then pressed the eject button. The metal cage popped up, but it was empty.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Davenport, who’d been staring at his shoes, looked up. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “It’s gone,” Katie said.

  “The tape? Maybe you put it away.” He was being too nice.

  “No. It was in the machine when I locked up earlier this evening.”

  “Who besides you has keys to this place?”

  “Vance Ingram. But he had no reason to take the tape. And if he did, he would’ve at least left me a note.”

  “Call him.” It wasn’t a request.

  Katie did, and apologized profusely for interrupting Vance’s family time. As expected, he hadn’t taken the tape or returned to Artisans Alley since he’d left just after closing.

  “And now it’s my turn to apologize,” Vance said contritely. “I had no idea VJ would order the world’s most expensive pizza.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad he could fix the player.”

  “Well, tell Andy I’ll make up for it in future sales.”

  “I will. Good night.” Katie hung up the phone.

  Davenport’s glower deepened.

  “I don’t know what to say, Detective. I don’t know where the tape could’ve gone.”

  “Nobody tripped the alarm, and nobody else is supposed to have keys to this place. Have you had trouble with any of your vendors lately?”

  Only Polly Bremerton. But why would she take the tape?

  Davenport squinted at her. “You’re hesitating.”

  “One of the vendors has accused another of stealing things from her booth. But I found the missing items this morning and I’ve taken steps to remedy the tension.”

  Davenport stared beyond Katie to the cavernous main showroom behind her, where only sporadic safety lighting broke the gloom. “This is a big building. There are a lot of places a person could hide. Someone could have waited until you locked up, taken the tape, and either left the building—”

  She finished his thought. “Or is still here? But why?”

  Davenport actually looked concerned. “Mrs. Bonner, you may have a bigger problem on your hands than just petty theft.”

  “He walked through Artisans Alley with me—twice—poking around dark corners and everything.” It felt surreal to be surrounded by bare walls in what used to feel like home. Katie leaned back against the couch and put her feet on the bare coffee table, then repositioned the phone at her ear. With her other hand, she scratched her cat Mason’s large, flat head. He purred contentedly at her side on the couch. Despite her efforts, she was still encircled by boxes. It wouldn’t be hard to leave this place. Too bad she had nowhere to go.

  “Gee, that doesn’t sound much like the cop you’ve come to despise,” Andy said.

  “I don’t hate the man—he just annoys me,” she clarified. “He was almost nice. It was kind of spooky.”

  A cacophony of voices and the ringing of a telephone filtered over the airwaves.

  “Oops—gotta go, babe. The shop phone’s ringing off the hook.”

  “Don’t forget you penciled me in for lunch tomorrow,” Katie said.

  “See you then.”

  “Love you,” she said, but Andy had already clicked off his cell phone. Katie frowned and replaced her phone on its receiver. “Well, the other day he told me he loved me,” she told the cat. Mason stretched and rolled onto his back, exposing his furry white tummy. Not to be outdone, Della, the little tabby cat who sat on the back of the couch, swished her tail so that it thumped against Katie’s neck. “Don’t worry. I love you guys, too.”

  The phone rang and Katie snatched it up, expecting Andy once again to declare his undying love.

  “Katie? It’s Mark Bastian.”

  Oh, well.

  “You called?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry about Rick. More than sorry,” she admitted. “Shocked and terribly upset.”

  “Yeah, it isn’t every day you see your employer’s head blown apart,” Bastian grated.

  Hadn’t Jeremy’s death tempered Bastian’s bitterness even a little?

  “Did he still have family in the area?”

  “His parents. Rick was divorced—three times. Thank God he never had kids. His folks are planning the funeral. It’ll look like the Academy Awards when all the actors he worked with over the years come to town for the service.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “I’ve been Rick’s Mr. Logistics since college. It’ll be just another Rick Jeremy production. Hey, it’s my job.” For all his cynicism, Bastian’s voice broke on the last words.

  Katie traced her fingers along Mason’s belly, wishing she had some words of comfort to give the man on the phone. She gave him a few moments to pull himself together.

  “Did
Rick have any enemies?” she asked.

  “No. Like I said, we haven’t been friends for years, but he always took care of me. He felt a sense of obligation to all his friends—and former friends.”

  “Did that include Heather?”

  “Honest, Katie, she did dump him. Like everybody else, Rick figured she’d bugged off for New York and her modeling career. It was a pretty nasty breakup. When she said she didn’t want or need him, he believed her.”

  Mason nipped at Katie’s wandering fingers, warning her to leave his tummy alone. “I know about the fire in Barbie’s apartment. And so do the police,” Katie said.

  “I figured you for a sharp lady.”

  “You sent me the Star Whores tape, didn’t you?”

  He laughed. “I wondered why you didn’t ask me about it last night.”

  “Because beta machines aren’t all that common anymore. I only got to see it this morning. You look so much more handsome without the cheesy wig.”

  “It wasn’t one of my more sterling moments,” he admitted.

  “Why did Heather agree to do it?”

  “Agree?” He sounded incredulous. “It was her idea.”

  Oh, dear. Was that what Barbie meant when she’d said Heather was no Miss Goody Two-shoes?

  “If you think Heather was some innocent young girl corrupted by a couple of film students, you’ve definitely got the wrong impression,” Bastian said. “She convinced Rick that he could finance the rest of his college education by making porn films. And damned if she wasn’t right.”

  “How many films did the four of you make?”

  “Only two. But that was enough. We distributed them to mom-and-pop video shops and some adult bookstores in Western New York. You saw the quality of that tape. We didn’t have the equipment to make professional copies. As it was, we borrowed the machines at the university, doing the work in the middle of the night. About ten years ago, Rick became obsessed that someone would link them to him. He had me try to locate and destroy them all. The one I sent you is probably the only one in existence. Make no mistake, it was a real risk for me to send it to you.”

  Risk for whom? “Where’s it been all these years?”