“I agree,” Katie said. “Under normal circumstances, Edie would never take anything that didn’t belong to her. But she might if she had Alzheimer’s disease.”
Rose’s eyes widened with indignation. “Don’t tell me Polly’s spreading that vicious, ugly rumor?”
“She hinted that might be Edie’s problem.”
“Edie was confused when her doctor changed her medication back in January. Now she’s fine. And she has never taken anything that didn’t belong to her.”
Katie nodded. “Shoplifting has increased dramatically in the past few months.”
“That’s because we have more customers than we ever had before. Every retail establishment has to deal with it.”
“I know. But as manager, I’m the one who has to address it.”
Rose straightened. “You’re not going to confront Edie based on one person’s accusations, are you?”
Katie shook her head. “Of course not. Not without proof, and so far Polly hasn’t given me any.” She rose from the table. “If you want to use the phone in my office to make your calls, you’re welcome to.”
“Thank you, Katie.” Picking up her coffee cup, Rose headed for the eight-by-ten-foot room that comprised Katie’s workspace. It would be cramped quarters for a few days until Rose realized just how fruitless the search for her niece’s killer would be. Somehow she’d find the patience to stand the intrusion.
Katie lingered over her coffee and picked up the newspaper. Heather’s murder was, of course, the top story. Inevitably, Ezra’s murder the year before was mentioned as well. The McKinlay Mill Chamber of Commerce would no doubt see this as a public relations dilemma.
Katie’s frown deepened as she scanned the story.
An unnamed source indicated the body was entombed before death.
Katie’s ire flared. Detective Davenport’s assertion that Heather was dead when entombed didn’t match what Katie had seen for herself at the mansion. There’d been holes in the plastic where Heather’s hands would have been. Grooves were dug into the drywall that had been removed from the studs. How long had Heather clawed at the drywall in a futile effort to escape before she’d suffocated—or more likely, died of a seizure? Either way, it had been pure stupidity for Davenport to lie to Rose. Katie hadn’t figured the detective was that dumb. Had he actually been trying to show Rose some compassion? That stab at courtesy was bound to blow up in his face when Rose learned the truth.
Katie folded that section of the paper, tossing it aside and opening the local section. The headline read: famed UR Alumni Sponsors Hi-tech Studio. She skimmed the local-boy-makes-good—remembers-his-roots—story. Well, good for him.
She studied the stock-shot handsome, lightly lined face. Gray laced the man’s hair and the close-cropped beard, reminding her of a younger Sean Connery. Hot stuff. Maybe she should try to convince Andy to grow a beard. He’d make a fine Jack Sparrow wannabe.
Nah. He’d never go for it.
Glancing at her watch, Katie decided it was time to get to work. She folded the newspaper and tossed it into the recycle bin. Rose would eventually learn the truth about Heather’s death, but Katie vowed she’d do her best to keep it from her until she figured out a way to break the bad news gently. That would take some creativity, and right now she didn’t feel up to it. The question was, how long could she stall, and would Rose be angry with her, too?
She’d have to risk it—and suffer the consequences either way.
Cool lake air whipped through the open windows of Katie’s car. Rose had tied another knot in her plastic rain bonnet, but Katie refused to feel guilty for enjoying the gale. The long, dreary winter was over and the fresh spring air revitalized her. Sunshine glinting off the car hood felt like a good omen, too. She’d find her new home soon. Maybe today. But first, they’d attend to Rose’s quest.
Leaving Vance Ingram in charge at Artisans Alley, Katie had packed up Rose, her box of mementos, and Heather’s yearbook, and headed for County Route 8. Ezra Hilton’s house had been near the rental property Katie was scheduled to inspect. Katie had inherited half of Ezra’s estate. In order to go to probate, she’d had to sell the old man’s house and property, effectively buying out Ezra’s nephew, Gerald, and leaving her the sole proprietor of Artisans Alley. That felt good until the realization had sunk in that all the Alley’s debts fell on her shoulders alone.
Too bad Ezra’s house was gone. She could’ve lived there temporarily. The five-acre site would soon be developed for low-income senior housing, which, as Katie was only thirty, she was ineligible for.
“It should be coming up soon,” Rose said.
Katie braked, taking in the numbers on a solitary mailbox. This portion of Route 8 consisted of small farms, but McKinlay Mill and the surrounding area were not entirely immune from urban sprawl.
“There it is,” Rose said.
Katie slowed even more, activating her turn signal. She pulled into the remnant of a gravel drive, now two ruts cut through a sea of long, matted grass. A single-wide trailer stood on concrete block pylons, wind-scrubbed of paint and charm.
“Oh my,” Rose muttered, taking in the sight.
“And I thought I had housing problems,” Katie said, cutting the engine. “Looks like someone’s at home.” She pointed at the rusting Chrysler K car parked at the side. It had current plates, so it wasn’t just a derelict.
They got out of the car, treading carefully to the trailer’s front—only?—door. The tips of several tulip points stood timidly near weathered, pressure-treated wooden steps, someone’s halfhearted attempt at beautification.
Mounting the steps, Katie banged on the aluminum outer door, its window frame devoid of glass or screen. She waited for what seemed like a minute before trying again.
Thumping feet from within halted. The door was wrenched open by a prematurely gray-haired, dowdy woman, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip, a toddler in pull-up training pants and a faded pink T-shirt straddling her left hip. “Yeah?”
“Barbie Jackson Gordon?” Katie asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Katie Bonner, and this is my friend, Rose Nash. Rose was Heather Winston’s aunt.”
“We tried to call, but it seems your telephone has been disconnected,” Rose chimed in.
“What do you want?” Barbie asked, none too kindly.
“Did you know Heather’s remains had been found in the old Webster mansion?” Katie asked.
Barbie’s lips pursed, but she said nothing.
“We came to ask you if you knew anything about Heather’s last few weeks before she was reported missing,” Rose said.
“I heard on the radio about them finding her. I guess I thought like everybody else—that she was just another runaway.” As an afterthought, she said, “I’m sorry she’s dead.”
An awkward silence followed.
“Could we come in and talk for a few moments?” Katie asked. Barbie threw a quick glance over her shoulder, pondered the question for a moment, then shook her head. “Now’s not a good time. Besides, it was a long time ago. I don’t even remember what I was doing back then, let alone what Heather was into.”
“Gramma, I want a cookie,” the little girl in Barbie’s arms whined.
Katie’s mouth dropped open. Gramma? The woman before her was only eight years older than herself.
“Heather was murdered,” Rose said. “I want to find out who killed her. You must remember something.”
“Hey, Heather and I parted company after high school. She went on to college. I had to go to work. I don’t know anything about who she hung with, where she went, or what she did.”
“Gramma, I’m hungry,” the tot wailed.
Katie dipped into her purse and took out a business card. “If you remember anything—anything at all—that you think might be of some help, would you please give me a call?”
Barbie took the card, scrutinized it, and shoved it in her shorts pocket. “Sure.”
Katie
nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
Without a word, Barbie turned and slammed the door.
Rose blinked, confusion shadowing her eyes. “You’d think she’d want to help. After all, Heather was her best friend.”
Katie sighed, directing Rose down the steps. “It was a long time ago. I’m afraid the people Heather knew have gone on with their lives.”
Rose frowned, taking in the shabby trailer with a sweep of her hand. “What kind of a life is this?”
Katie was tempted to agree with her. Instead, she said, “We knew digging into Heather’s past would be difficult.”
Rose pursed her lips and nodded. “You’re right. And I refuse to be discouraged so quickly.” Straightening her shoulders, she marched for the car.
Katie looked back at the trailer. A pale face peered through the crack between the faded curtains at the window. Was it just her imagination, or did Barbie Gordon look downright scared?
Four
With her pen already poised over the lease agreement’s signature line, Katie paused to read one of the document’s small-print paragraphs.
The apartment—half a house, really—was absolutely perfect, and the price was unbelievably reasonable. The freshly painted, large sunny kitchen, with its sparkling clean appliances, begged to be filled with the scents of baking. The old-fashioned claw-footed tub in the spacious bathroom would be a heavenly haven to soak in while sipping wine and reading steamy romance novels. The detached garage was the icing on the cake. No more scraping snow from frozen windshields.
“I don’t understand your pet clause, Mrs. Hildebrandt,” Katie said. “It says here that—”
“‘Pets permissible per approval of the landlord,’” the grim-faced, hefty woman recited.
Something about her starched demeanor put the fear of God in Katie. But the rental price was so attractive…
“I don’t allow snakes or other reptiles, large-breed dogs, ferrets, or other rodents.” Mrs. Hildebrandt shuddered at the thought.
“So that leaves fish—”
“Tanks must be five gallons or less.”
“Birds—”
“Small, caged only, with clipped wings. They must never be allowed to fly free.”
“And cats.”
“Must be neutered, declawed, and female only.”
Katie straightened, knowing her cat Mason fit only one of the three criteria. “Females only?”
“Male cats stink. They spray the walls and make the house unlivable. I won’t have that.”
“My cat is neutered, and has always lived inside. He doesn’t spray.”
“That’s what they all say, Mrs. Bonner. You did say you were a widow, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Katie said.
“I prefer widows. I don’t allow hanky-panky in my home. Male visitors must leave by eleven o’clock at night.”
“Mrs. Hildebrandt, the apartment would be my home, not yours.”
“If you’ll check the lease, you’ll see that you are incorrect. Paragraph thirty-four, section two, says that I may restrict visitation between the hours of eleven at night through seven in the morning.”
Katie scanned the page. Sure enough, what Mrs. Hildebrandt said was true. She set the pen down on the counter. “I think I’ve wasted your time, Mrs. Hildebrandt. I’m obviously not the type of person you want as a renter.”
Mrs. Hildebrandt threw out her ample bosom, her nose rising in the air. “I think you’re probably right, Mrs. Bonner. My tenants must have high moral codes, and I see now that you don’t fit that category.”
Rose, who’d been quietly standing in the doorway, gasped. “How dare you!”
“Rose—” Katie cut her off. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hildebrandt. I hope you’ll find exactly the right person to rent your apartment.” And may she be just as bitchy as you.
Katie and Rose trundled down the stairs and walked back to the car in silence.
“It was almost perfect,” Katie said, wistfully, as she got behind the wheel.
“You wouldn’t want to live in the same house with that—that—” Rose paused, buckling her seat belt. “I just don’t have the words.”
Katie buckled her own belt and started the car.
“How soon do you have to move?” Rose asked.
“Ten days.” Katie palmed the wheel, pulling onto the highway. “I’ve been living out of boxes and eating off of paper plates for weeks.”
“If you don’t find something soon, you could come stay with me,” Rose offered.
“That’s very kind, but I don’t want to inconvenience you. I’ve got a contingency plan and I can put everything but the cats in storage,” she kind of, sort of lied.
“Oh, yes. The cats.” Katie was well aware that Rose was not a feline fan. The older woman was quiet for a minute or more. “This isn’t a good time for you to help me find Heather’s killer, is it?”
“It’s the best time,” Katie said, if only to spare Rose’s feelings. Although there was that little problem of Gilda’s wedding to fit into the schedule, too. “And I have a lot of ideas,” she continued. “First, I want to talk to Toby and Janice.”
“What for?”
“When they bought the Webster mansion, they got the property abstract. That chronicles all the past owners. We need to find out who owned the property at the time Heather disappeared, who was renting the apartments, and if Heather knew any of them.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “That’s a great idea. Can we go there now?”
“We’re on our way.”
Rose settled back in the Focus’s bucket seat, looking more relaxed. Meanwhile, Katie clenched the steering wheel. One apartment down—only two more prospects to go.
“That awful man wanted to take the original,” Janice said, pawing through an accordion folder filled with papers.
“I’m assuming you mean Detective Davenport,” Katie said innocently.
“He creeps me out,” Janice said.
“He could at least try to be more personable,” Katie agreed.
“Do you know how much these things cost? There was no way I was going to just give it to him. I made him follow me to the post office and pay for his own copy.” Janice plucked out a sheaf of papers. “Ah, here it is.” She handed the property abstract to Katie, who paged through it.
“Would you mind if I take it to Artisans Alley to make a copy? It will only take a few minutes.”
“Sure. Go right ahead.”
“I’ll do it, Katie,” Rose said eagerly, taking the document and heading for the door.
Katie waited until Rose was out of earshot to speak. “I appreciate your helping my friend. We’re pretty sure it was her niece that was found in your wall.”
“I’m willing to do anything I can to speed up the investigation.” Janice collapsed into a battered, paint-speckled metal folding chair. “Detective Davenport won’t let us continue the demolition until his investigation is complete.”
“That could take months,” Katie blurted.
From the woman’s expression, Katie deduced the thought was not new to Janice.
“Toby went back to his regular day job, but I already quit mine, and we’ve got a deadline to get the preliminary work done before the contractor shows up next week. We really can’t reschedule without throwing our whole timeline off. And all I can do is sweep the floor and strip paint.”
Katie remembered from past inspection visits—when she’d hoped to buy the property herself—that the attic had contained a vast amount of junk, including cartons of papers. If the owner had lived on-site, perhaps something in those boxes, such as old tenant receipt books, might help them in their search for Heather’s killer.
“If you can’t do demolition, surely there are other chores that need to be done. Scraping paint and puttying the windows. Replacing the newel posts… cleaning the attic.”
Janice looked thoughtful. “Yes, the attic is in a mess. There’s tons of stuff up there. Davenport didn’t say I couldn’t em
pty it. The ceiling is too low to make it into guest quarters. We were thinking of making it into a study for Toby. Would you like to see it?”
Katie smiled. “I’d love to.”
She followed Janice up the creaking staircase, past the empty bedrooms, their painted doors off the hinges waiting to be stripped of multiple layers of paint.
“You can see all of Victoria Square from the widow’s walk. I was thinking of putting a telescope up there,” Janice said.
“That would be nice,” Katie agreed. She’d had the same thought. She’d even priced the cost of a spiral staircase to reach the space.
Janice grasped a piece of rope and pulled opened a trapdoor in the ceiling. A wooden ladder unfolded. “It’s a bit steep, so watch your step.”
The steps were treacherous, and the rope rail was almost ineffectual. Katie steadied herself on the adjacent wall, finally hauling herself into the dim space above. Janice pulled a string hanging from the room’s sole light fixture—a bare bulb. Even during daylight hours, forty watts of light couldn’t dispel the gloom in that vast space.
“I’d better install a hundred-watt bulb next time I come up here,” Janice said. “Maybe I’ll run some extension cords and work lights up here, too.”
The attic was two years dustier than Katie remembered. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and spiderwebs with petrified prey inhabited the corners of the small, dingy windows. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of dull light that managed to penetrate the grime. Clustered around the edges of the room were cartons filled with the debris from past tenants, old chairs, their caned seats rotted and sagging, a box of chipped dishes. There was no treasure here.
Katie lifted the folded-in lid of a box marked “receipts.” Her heart picked up speed when she saw the year written on the top—a three-year span surrounding Heather’s disappearance.
The Walleld Flower Page 4
