The Walleld Flower

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “Hello, stranger,” came a voice from her office doorway. Andy Rust leaned against the doorjamb, looking boneless and weary, a dark line of whiskers shadowing his jaw.

  “You’re up early,” Katie said. Anytime before ten was early for Andy, who often worked until one or two in the morning.

  “You didn’t stop by to see me last night, so I thought I’d bum a breakfast cup of coffee from you. I brought doughnuts.” He held up a white bakery bag.

  Katie rose from her chair, paused to give him a quick kiss, then ducked into the vendors’ lounge to scrounge a cup of coffee for Andy and to fill her own mug. By the time she returned, Andy had planted himself in her guest chair and spread out napkins, leaving a powdered-sugar, cream-filled doughnut for her, with a couple of his favorite jelly sticks for himself. Katie was glad she’d eaten only one slice of the banana bread.

  Andy pointed at the papers on the desk blotter. “What’s that?”

  Katie took her seat. “The Webster mansion’s abstract. Janice Ryan let me make a copy. Do you know Burt Donahue?”

  “The guy with the auction house in Parma?”

  “That’s him. He owned the Webster mansion back when Heather died. Seven apartments should have been a gold mine. I wonder why he sold it?”

  “Dealing with multiple tenants probably drove him nuts. That’s why I’m not sure I want to rent out the apartment over my shop.”

  “It’s income, Andy. You really can’t afford not to.”

  “I can manage without it,” he said, and bit off the end of one of his jelly sticks.

  “Your debt burden isn’t anywhere near Artisans Alley’s, but you still owe a lot on all that dough-making equipment.”

  “Look, tenants break bathroom fixtures—not to mention plugging them up every other week. They’re not always good at housekeeping. They destroy woodwork, and ruin kitchen appliances. Then there’re nasty cooking odors, loud sex, or arguments overhead when I’m trying to run a family-friendly business below.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Do you want me to go on?”

  “I’ve been a tenant for years, and I’ve never cooked a stinky meal or plugged a sink yet.”

  “It’s not the sinks you worry about,” Andy said, and sipped his coffee.

  “Maybe you chose bad tenants.”

  He glowered at her. “It’s hard to be picky what with all the antidiscrimination laws. And get this, if my tenant is a drug dealer, I could go to jail for allowing that kind of activity on my property—even if I don’t know it’s going on. Uh-uh, it’s just not worth it.”

  “Seriously, Andy, you know I’d never destroy your apartment. You can trust me.”

  “What if we broke up?” he asked, his expression hardening.

  Katie blinked. The conversation had definitely taken a left turn. “Are you planning on it?”

  “No, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before you get sick of us only having stolen moments together and dump me.”

  “Oh, Andy, do you really think that?” she asked, hurt.

  “You’re an attractive woman,” he said, his voice softening. “You’ve got a business to run, and so do I. Can a relationship survive when we work opposite ends of the clock?”

  “It’s been almost six months. I haven’t gone anywhere.”

  Andy reached to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Katie’s ear. “I know. And I appreciate it.”

  “There is an answer,” she insisted.

  Andy looked away.

  Katie plowed on. “Maybe it’s time you hired an assistant manager.”

  Andy turned his sharp gaze on her. “It’s my business. I need to know what’s going on—all the time.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t eat, sleep, and breathe pizza twenty-four hours a day. You’re a success—you can afford to hire more help.” Inspiration hit. “Otherwise, you’d have to rent out that apartment over the shop. And the perfect tenant is sitting right in front of you.”

  “Let’s not get started on that again.”

  Katie shrugged. “Okay. But I’m sure your personal life”—And mine, she mentally amended,—“would improve immensely if you weren’t always so tired. Chill out, Andy. You deserve a real life apart from work.”

  “That thought’s crossed my mind more than once lately. And I know you’re right. It’s just… I have to do it in my own time. Okay?”

  She gazed into his big brown eyes, her heart melting. “Okay.”

  “Thanks.” Andy’s gaze traveled Katie’s office before returning to her face. “I kinda thought I’d be saying this somewhere more romantic, but…” He took a breath, as though to steel himself. “I’m, uh, pretty sure I love you.”

  Definitely an unexpected admission. Andy’s ex-wife had left him, making it hard for him to trust as well.

  “I think I love you, too,” Katie admitted.

  The look of relief that crossed his face brought a smile to Katie’s lips. Andy reached for her hand, squeezed it, then leaned forward to kiss her mouth, his bristled chin gently scraping her own. “Wow. This is heavy talk for first thing in the morning.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, but kissed him again anyway.

  He rested his forehead against hers, Eskimo kissing her nose. “Next time we talk about this, let’s do it over candlelight with a nice bottle of wine.”

  “It’ll have to be at your place. I’m about to be homeless, remember?”

  Andy pulled back and laughed. “You got it. But that brings up another ugly subject. You keep talking about me having too much on my plate—look at you agreeing to be part of Gilda’s wedding.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s manageable.”

  He picked up his cup. “Then how’s your little murder investigation going?”

  “I’m not investigating anything. Just asking some questions. Finding someone’s remains is pretty gruesome. That the person was related to someone I care about makes me furious,” Katie said.

  Andy drained his coffee. “I guess I don’t associate a pile of bones with a real person.”

  “I’m afraid I can—all too well.” Rather than dwelling on it, though, she told him of her adventures with Barbie Gordon, Detective Davenport’s most recent faux pas, and how she and Rose planned to attend Rick Jeremy’s press conference later that day.

  “Rose is a sweet old lady, but she can’t expect you to jeopardize Artisans Alley to help her.”

  “She’s all alone in the world. Who else can she depend on?” Katie thought of Rose’s sad, determined face and hoped she would grow old with as much grace.

  Andy took a huge bite of his doughnut. “In a moment you’ll have me crying,” he said around his breakfast treat.

  Katie glowered at him, irritated that the surge of love she felt for him was tempered with the sudden urge to throttle him. She picked up her doughnut and took an equally large bite. Powdered sugar rained onto her jeans.

  It was going to be that kind of day.

  Like a new mom leaving an infant with a sitter for the first time, Katie spent nearly an hour jotting down emergency and other information Edie might need later that afternoon while she was in charge.

  But in the midst of her parental concerns for Artisans Alley, Katie also considered how just showing up at the press conference might be construed. It wasn’t her intent to ambush Jeremy Richards—aka Rick Jeremy—but to talk to him about his former, now long dead, girlfriend. Perhaps he was just a jilted suitor. If so, who might Heather have been with just prior to her death?

  On impulse, Katie grabbed the phone book, found the hotel’s number, and punched it in. It rang once. Twice.

  “Hyatt Hotel. How may I direct your call?”

  “Mr. Rick Jeremy’s room, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the hotel operator, “but he isn’t accepting calls.”

  “But I really need to speak to him.”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot connect you with that party. Thank you for calling the Hyatt.”

  The connection was broken.

  K
atie frowned. Rank hath its privileges, she supposed. But what if she’d been an old friend? A relative? Had Jeremy Richards forgotten his roots, or was he so insulated he didn’t have a clue who might want to contact him—be it friend or foe?

  Katie glanced back down at her list of instructions for Edie. Had she covered every possible contingency?

  Rose’s voice over the PA broke her concentration. “Katie, please come to the front counter to speak with a customer.”

  Interruptions were sometimes a good thing, Katie admitted, getting up from her desk. Otherwise she might have written an entire manual for Edie.

  As she approached the cash desk, Katie saw a snowy-haired woman dressed in dark slacks and a hand-knit sweater wild with purple, turquoise, and green swirls. However, it was the Artisans Alley shopping bag clutched in her hand that drew Katie’s attention.

  “I’m Katie Bonner, the manager. How can I help you?”

  “Is there a place where we could talk privately? I’m afraid what I have to say might be construed as… sensitive,” the stranger said.

  Katie’s stomach tightened. Oh, swell.

  She sighed. “Certainly. Follow me.” Katie led the way to her office, offered the woman a seat, then shut the door before she took the chair in front of her desk.

  “Did you want to return something? As you know we have an ‘all sales final’ policy.”

  “I understand that. But I was hoping we could talk about the selling of obvious forgeries.”

  “Forgeries?” Katie asked.

  “I’m afraid so, dear.” The woman opened her trim leather purse, took out a business card, and handed it to Katie. It read:

  THE INTERNATIONAL FOLK DOLL CONFEDERATION MRS. BONITA MEREDITH

  “Our organization is dedicated to the preservation of antique dolls. We also do our best to expose counterfeits.”

  “We don’t generally sell antiques.”

  “One of your vendors does,” Mrs. Meredith insisted.

  “And you believe something purchased here isn’t the real thing?”

  The woman opened the Artisans Alley shopping bag, taking out a tissue-wrapped bundle, removing the paper to reveal a handsome, naked, cloth-bodied doll with a wooden head, hands, and feet. She handed the doll to Katie, who held it reverently.

  “Oh, he’s wonderful,” Katie said, examining the workmanship.

  “Yes, he is,” Mrs. Meredith said. “Such a charming face. Someone did a remarkable job carving, painting, and aging the wood to look old.”

  Katie examined the doll’s cloth body. “The fabric looks antique.”

  “And it probably is. But the doll’s stuffing and construction give away its true age.”

  A small cut along a seam in the doll’s body leaked bright white fibrous material. Even Katie could tell it wasn’t old. “What would’ve been used to fill out the body of an antique doll?”

  “Excelsior.”

  Katie’s brow furrowed. “And what is that?”

  “I’m sorry. Excelsior is actually fine wood shavings. Or they might have been filled with flock—long cotton fibers. Sometimes dolls were stuffed with rags.”

  Katie propped the doll on her lap and stared into its painted blue eyes. “He really is a dear. I almost want to keep him myself. Did you buy him?”

  Mrs. Meredith shook her head. “One of our new members did. I’ve had a look at the merchandise, or what I can see of it in a locked case. The dolls, all similar in appearance, are priced in the two-hundred-dollar range, which probably isn’t an outrageous sum considering the materials and workmanship, but they are being advertised as antiques, and that’s just not the case.”

  “I’ll be sure to speak with the vendor to make sure he or she puts a sign up saying they’re reproductions.”

  “That’s a good first step,” Mrs. Meredith said, “but the dolls themselves should be marked to let future owners know they aren’t buying the genuine article. Ideally we’d like that to occur at the time of fabrication, although we know it’s not likely to happen.”

  Katie bounced the doll on her knee, wondering what he’d look like dressed as a Victorian boy in his finest clothes—velvet britches, a white silk shirt, and a snug blue cap. “Do you have the sales receipt?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Meredith produced the slip of paper.

  Katie frowned. Booth one-twenty. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t remember who it belonged to. She set the doll on the desk and reached for the list of vendors in her right top drawer. Running a finger down the column, she paused at number one-twenty: Polly Bremerton.

  Eight

  A cold wind whistled between the high-rise buildings on Rochester’s Main Street, puffing up Rose’s plastic rain bonnet like a balloon. Katie suppressed a smile and glanced at her watch while they walked. They were late.

  “Remember, Rose, we’ve got to be careful what we say in front of the press. We don’t want to accuse Jeremy of anything. As far as we know, he doesn’t know anything about Heather’s death and may be completely innocent.”

  “Then why did he leave town soon after she disappeared?” she groused.

  “‘Soon’ is relative. The newspaper said he graduated the spring after Heather disappeared. That had to mean he was still in the area for nearly six months. Did your sister and brother-in-law ever talk to him?”

  Rose frowned. “He was hard to track down. But I do seem to remember that Stan cornered Jeremy at the university. They had an angry exchange. Jeremy said Heather had broken up with him, and he no longer cared what happened to her.”

  “Didn’t the Sheriff’s Office think that was suspicious?”

  Rose shrugged. “Apparently not.”

  “I wonder if we can find out who was assigned to Heather’s case.”

  “Maybe Seth can help us,” Rose said.

  “I’ll ask.”

  They entered the Hyatt’s resplendent wood and marble lobby, asked for directions from the desk clerk, and headed for the Regency Ballroom.

  Rose untied her rain bonnet, removed it, and began to fold it. “I don’t think I can do this, Katie,” she hissed.

  “Of course you can.” Katie eyed the burly young man in a suit and tie who was guarding the door. “Just march right up and go in. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The bonnet couldn’t be folded any smaller. Rose shoved it into her raincoat pocket with a trembling hand.

  Katie took the lens cap off Chad’s camera. “Remember the pencil.” She watched as Rose removed it from her purse and placed it behind her right ear. Rose clutched her steno pad and took a deep, steadying breath. With a thumbs-up from Katie, she charged for the ballroom door.

  The security guard straightened, blocking their way. “Sorry, ma’am, this is a private affair.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m Marge Cannon from The Golden Times,” Rose said with authority.

  He stared blankly at her.

  She exhaled as though in exasperation. “Rochester’s own senior citizens’ newspaper.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m not surprised someone of your extreme youth and obvious inexperience hasn’t heard of us. But our readership encompasses almost ninety percent of the area’s mature population. Our award-winning staff—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Can I see your press pass?”

  Rose’s mouth dropped, but she opened the snap on her purse and began to rummage through its contents. “In all the years I’ve covered local events, I’ve never—”

  “All right, already,” the guard said in surrender. He nodded toward Katie. “Who’s she?”

  “My photographer.”

  “But she’s not old.”

  Rose closed her purse with a loud snap. “There are age-discrimination laws, young man. If I were to report this to your management—”

  He waved them forward. “Go in. Now!”

  Straightening, and with her head held high, Rose led the way. Katie followed, giving the young man a weak smile, and the heavy door closed behind them.

  “That was brilliant,”
Katie whispered.

  Rose’s cheeks glowed pink. “My heart’s pounding. Let’s get this over with.”

  The news conference was already in progress. Rick Jeremy sat behind a table at the front of the room, his hands folded before him. His dark Armani suit had been tailored to fit every exquisite muscle on his lean body. Tinted glasses hid his eyes—the epitome of Hollywood cool.

  Katie expected to see a mob, but although there were cameras from the five local television stations, as well as radio microphones grouped on the table before the director, there couldn’t have been more than thirty people in the cavernous room.

  Katie and Rose circled the left bank of chairs to take a position near a table filled with hundreds of empty glasses and five sweating water pitchers—talk about overkill. Still, their location would let them see and be seen.

  “What’s your next project, Mr. Jeremy?” asked a reporter from Channel 9 News.

  “A film in Tuscany, starring Robert Pattinson.”

  “Big deal,” Rose whispered.

  “Do you know who Robert Pattinson is?” Katie asked, amused.

  “No. Should I?”

  “The budget is a hundred million, and worth every penny,” Jeremy said. A laugh rippled through the newspeople.

  Katie noticed a ponytailed man with a full mustache standing across the room from them. He conversed in low tones with another dark-suited man. Were they part of Jeremy’s security force? The ponytailed man looked familiar. Where had she seen him before?

  Rose poked Katie in the ribs. “Ask him.”

  “Got the pictures ready?” Katie asked.

  Rose slipped them from her steno pad and held them out for Katie to see.

  Katie raised her hand, waiting as the director answered another question about his latest deal. Eventually, Jeremy acknowledged her.

  “Do you credit your success to your education here in Rochester?”

  “Yes. The film school was instrumental in teaching me what I needed to know to get my first jobs in LA. Now it’s my turn to repay this fine institution.” He blathered on about the teaching staff, the grounds, and even the quality of the cafeteria food.