Shut up and let me ask another question, Katie mentally implored, waving her hand in the air again.
“Do you keep in touch with old school friends?” she tried, once he’d run out of steam.
“As much as possible. I have a busy schedule.”
“Do you remember Heather Winston?” Rose called out, her voice thin and nervous.
Dead quiet enveloped the room. Every reporter spun to stare at her. They hadn’t forgotten McKinlay Mill’s most recently revealed murder victim.
Jeremy looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Sorry, never heard of her.”
“That’s odd,” Katie said, “because we have at least twenty pictures of you with her. Of course, back then you were known as Jeremy Richards. Why did you change your name?”
Reporters and cameramen swarmed to Katie and Rose, microphones at the ready. A cacophony of questions bombarded them while still and video cameras whirred. Beyond the sea of heads, Katie saw Jeremy gathered up by his entourage, including the ponytailed man, and fleeing for the room’s side exit.
Extricating themselves from the press had taken more than half an hour. Not content with “ask the Sheriff’s Office” and “no comment” answers, the reporters had followed Katie and Rose to the nearby parking garage, still asking questions all the way. Katie was glad to steer her car toward the expressway’s entrance ramp and head for home.
“Maybe crashing the news conference wasn’t such a good idea,” Rose said, her voice quavering, apparently still rattled by the confrontation.
“If nothing else, linking Heather to a prominent movie director will force Detective Davenport into action. He can’t claim it’s a cold case now.”
“I suppose,” Rose said faintly, turning to look out the window and the roadside flashing past.
Katie kept glancing to her right. Rose’s pale, wrinkled face was reflected on the passenger-side window. Katie wondered if she ought to hold off questioning the elderly woman about Heather, but now that Davenport was sure to devote more time to the case, it seemed best to prepare Rose with the same kind of questions the investigator was likely to ask. And she couldn’t forget Barbie’s remark from the previous night, that Heather wasn’t the Goody Two-shoes everyone thought.
“Rose, you told Detective Davenport that Heather was a good girl. But she wasn’t a girl. She was a young woman with a boyfriend.”
Rose’s gaze swiveled toward Katie. “Are you implying she had a sexual relationship with Jeremy Richards?”
“It’s a real possibility.”
Rose’s pursed lips betrayed her distaste at the thought. She probably still thought of Heather as a little girl needing protection. Protection she didn’t get when she really needed it.
“Rose, when I found Heather, there was no trace of fabric. That implies—”
“That she was naked?”
“It’s possible she died…” Oh, how to put it delicately.
“During sex?” Rose asked.
Katie nodded.
“I can’t deny that I haven’t thought of that myself. But was it consensual or forced?”
“Either way, it’s possible she had a seizure. The pillbox locket had no medication in it. It could just be that whoever she was with didn’t know what to do when she lost consciousness.”
“So they walled her up behind plasterboard?” Rose asked, incredulous.
“I know. The thought gives me the creeps, too.”
That explanation also sounded too simple. There was malice attached to Heather’s death. And yet, why hadn’t the person responsible removed the locket from the body? He—and Katie was sure it had to be a he—should have known it would help identify her. Unless whoever had done it wanted Heather to eventually be identified.
Rose remained pensive for the rest of the ride to McKinlay Mill. Katie found her thoughts wandering to Artisans Alley and the possible consequences of leaving an inexperienced Edie Silver in charge. Those thoughts were soon eclipsed by a different anxiety when Katie saw the cluster of Sheriff’s patrol cars gathered around the front of the Webster mansion once more.
“Now what?” Rose asked, vexed.
“Maybe they discovered something that will help solve Heather’s murder,” Katie said and parked the car close to Artisans Alley. She jumped out and jogged across the lot.
Vance Ingram, Katie’s right-hand man and one of Artisans Alley’s vendors, had stationed himself at the fringe of the crowd.
“More bones?” Katie asked, breathless.
Vance shook his head, smoothing a hand over his trimmed, Santa Claus white beard. “A body.”
Katie’s stomach lurched. “Not Janice Ryan?”
“No. Some woman named Gordon.”
Detective Davenport’s face was nearly purple with outrage. “Why didn’t you tell me this before now?” he thundered, and paced the creaking wooden floors in what had once been the Webster mansion’s dining room.
“When did I have the chance?” Katie asked.
“Have you ever heard of voice mail?”
“Do you ever return my calls?” she countered.
Davenport snorted, his indignation palpable.
Katie huddled in her raincoat, wishing the mansion’s heating system had been first on the repair list. Fixing the loose and missing clapboards and adding insulation wouldn’t have hurt either.
“When I think back on it, Barbie really didn’t say much,” she said at last. “Except that some lunatic had threatened her granddaughter. Barbie must’ve seen whoever frightened her while we were at the diner, because she scooted out the back door in a hurry.”
“And she gave no indication of who that might be?” Davenport asked.
Katie shook her head. She glanced behind her to an uncurtained window. It had been almost an hour since she’d arrived. Barbie’s body still lay where Janice had found it in back of the house. It looked like she’d fallen—or more likely been pushed—over the porch railing, landing on a pile of construction rubble. Had she died of a broken neck, or was she impaled on some sharp instrument?
Katie’s fists clenched. She should’ve done something the previous evening. After Barbie had escaped from the diner, she should have called Davenport or gone to Barbie’s home. Maybe if she had…
“When did Barbie die?” she asked, responsibility weighing heavy on her soul.
“The ME figures sometime last evening. We found your business card on the ground near her body. Since you’ve got your sticky fingers all over the Square, I was surprised it wasn’t you who found her.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“I can’t be everywhere at once,” Katie replied. “You knew, of course, that Barbie was Heather Winston’s best friend.”
“Yes. She wasn’t very helpful when I interviewed her yesterday.”
“Well, you might also want to know that Mrs. Nash and I found Heather’s old boyfriend for you.”
Davenport’s bushy eyebrows nearly joined as his eyes narrowed.
“His name was Jeremy Richards. He changed it to Rick Jeremy, and he’s staying at the Hyatt downtown.”
“Rick Jeremy the movie director?” Davenport asked, disbelieving.
“The very same. Rose has pictures of him with Heather. I’m sure she’d be glad to give you a few.” Katie told him about the press conference, and how she and Rose had disrupted it.
Katie frowned. “I wonder…”
“What?” Davenport asked.
“One of Rick Jeremy’s bodyguards looked familiar to me. Did I see him at the diner last night?”
“You tell me,” Davenport said.
Katie thought about it. There were a number of unfamiliar men and women sitting in booths in the diner. She hadn’t noticed a ponytail at the time. Still…
“Maybe.”
Davenport nodded and jotted down the information in his small notebook. “Mrs. Bonner, I know you think you’re being helpful, but I’d appreciate it if you’d just report what you think you know and then butt out of my case.” He looked up at her. “The Sh
eriff’s Office is quite capable of solving this itself.”
So far he wasn’t batting a thousand. And he wasn’t finished with his rebuke either.
“Mrs. Bonner, may I remind you that people who kill often kill again. Mrs. Gordon is a prime example. I don’t want you or Mrs. Nash to get hurt.”
Damn him for sounding so sincere. She wanted to dislike him.
“We’d hoped confronting Mr. Jeremy would push you into making Heather’s case a priority.”
“Mrs. Gordon’s death has done that.” He sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded weary. “Please, please let me do my job. That means doing everything by the book. Screwups during an investigation can cause roadblocks for the district attorney. You wouldn’t want Heather Winston’s—and perhaps Mrs. Gordon’s—killer to avoid prosecution because you were in a hurry to see an arrest made, now would you?”
Katie couldn’t argue with that logic. “I apologize, Detective. We only wanted to help.”
Davenport sighed again. “Next time, talk to me first. And try to be a little patient. I’m juggling three other homicide cases and I need my downtime during the eight or nine hours a day I’m not on the job.”
Duly chastised, Katie nodded. What else could she do?
“If you’ll excuse me, Detective, I need to get back to Artisans Alley. We close in a few minutes.”
“Go,” Davenport said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turned and left the room to rejoin his deputies, leaving Katie standing alone in the mansion’s dismantled parlor.
The sky had darkened and speckles dotting the asphalt warned Katie it had started to rain. She crossed the parking lot and entered Artisans Alley just as Rose gave the standard five-minute warning over the PA that the store was about to close.
Several customers stood at the register, baskets filled with items, ready to check out. Anne and Joan were taking care of them with friendly professionalism.
Katie saw Polly Bremerton standing at the top of the stairs to the balcony. Catching sight of Katie, the woman made an abrupt about-face, hurrying away.
Katie frowned and quickened her pace, heading for her office. She found Rose standing over a distraught Edie. “Is everything okay? Did you have any problems while I was gone?”
Edie wiped her nose with a tissue. Her usual tough-as-nails facade had cracked, and her eyes were red-rimmed and watery. “I’ve never met such a-a mean-spirited, terrible person in all my life.”
“Polly?” Katie asked.
“She was picking on poor Edie,” Rose said, “telling her she was incompetent, and how stupid you were to leave a thief in charge of Artisans Alley.”
“Was this in front of customers?”
“No, at least she showed some intelligence,” Rose said.
Edie sniffed. “I can handle just about anyone, but I thought she was actually going to hit me!”
At least six foot tall, Polly was an intimidating figure. Edie couldn’t be more than five foot one or two. And yet, on occasion, even Katie had been cowed by Edie’s sometimes forceful presence. Still—
“I will not stand for that,” Katie said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the peg behind her door. “I saw Polly heading for her booth. I’ll take care of this. Rose, will you help Edie cash out?” She turned her gaze back to Edie. “That is, if you feel up to it.”
Edie stood, cleared her throat, and regained her composure. “Thank you for trusting me to take care of Artisans Alley, Katie.”
Katie placed a hand on Edie’s arm. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Katie’s anger stoked itself as she headed up the stairs to the loft, now empty of customers. She charged for the back wall and Polly’s booth.
Polly was bent over, straightening the white christening dress on one of her handmade bisque dolls that sat in a vintage doll pram. Katie fought the urge to kick the older woman, who was becoming a lot more trouble than she was worth.
“Polly?”
Polly straightened. “Katie,” she gushed, as though addressing a long-lost friend. “Will you look at this mess? I don’t know why customers have to leave the booths in such a state.”
Katie wasn’t taken in by her show of friendliness. “I understand you had an altercation with Edie Silver a few minutes ago.”
Polly blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t believe I’ve even seen her today.”
“Not according to Rose Nash.”
Polly’s expression hardened, a look of contempt twisting her features into a scowl. “Are you accusing me of lying?”
“Edie has my complete trust, as does Rose, who heard the whole conversation.”
Polly pursed her lips. “That woman is stealing from my booth, and you won’t do anything about it.”
“I’ve told you that your word alone is not ample proof of anything. I’m putting you on notice: If you verbally abuse any of the vendors—including Edie—I’ll have to ask you to leave Artisans Alley.”
Polly’s mouth dropped. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m afraid I can, and I will. There’s also another problem that needs to be addressed. We’ve had a complaint that the dolls in your locked case aren’t antiques—that they’re reproductions.”
Polly’s eyes bulged. “That’s impossible. My source has impeccable credentials.”
“Not according to The International Folk Doll Confederation. One of their representatives came to see me this morning. She showed me the fiberfill stuffing inside one of them. It was definitely new material.”
Polly flushed. “I-I don’t believe it.”
“The Folk Doll people want us to at least post that these are reproduction dolls.”
“I’m sure these dolls are antiques and I’ll prove it.” She unlocked her cabinet, where an entire family of similar dolls sat primly on a purple velvet tufted cushion. Polly grabbed what looked like the mama doll. Next, she borrowed a pair of scissors from a sewing box she had for sale. She pulled the doll’s clothes aside and made a small incision along a seam. A gush of wood shavings escaped the small hole. “This doll is genuine. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“The doll I saw this morning definitely was not.”
“Can you produce it?” Polly demanded.
“No.”
“Then it’s your word against mine.”
“Polly, as the manager of Artisans Alley, I cannot allow you to sell the dolls as genuine antiques. I have the reputation of Artisans Alley to consider.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you let in crafters.”
Katie ignored her outburst. “You’ll either have to post a sign saying the dolls are reproductions, or remove them from your booth.”
“I’ve never been so insulted,” Polly said.
You ought to get out more, Katie thought.
Polly straightened to her full imposing height and stepped forward, forcing Katie to step back and stagger against a shelf jammed with replacement doll parts. The shelf tottered, its contents threatening to fall.
As Katie stumbled against the toy carriage, a large, bald doll’s head whizzed past her cheek, crashing on the wooden floor and smashing.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Polly scolded. She reached out, and Katie jerked back, expecting a blow.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Polly demanded, and picked up a jagged chunk of porcelain from the floor, holding it in her fist as though it was a weapon.
Katie swallowed and realized she was trembling. Was it her imagination, or had Polly been ready to clock her?
Nine
Vance Ingram scowled as he handed Katie a cup of coffee. “It’s the dregs, I’m afraid.”
Katie reached for the cup and noted her hands were still shaking. “Thanks. I need something to sooth my jangled nerves.” She took a sip, feeling its warmth course through her. Hopefully the caffeine would soon kick in.
Like her predecessor, Ezra Hilton, Katie considered Vance to be her right-
hand man. Behind gold wire-framed glasses, the retired gentleman’s bright blue eyes took in everything that went on in Artisans Alley. And as the former manager’s second-in-command, Vance knew every vendor by name and reputation.
“Strange as it seems, Edie’s terrified of Polly. I have to admit, for more than a moment, I thought she was going to hurt me.”
Vance leaned against one of the file cabinets. “Ezra didn’t like that woman, but he needed to rent the booth.”
“We’re not that desperate anymore.”
“I admit she’s disagreeable, but she didn’t cause any real trouble until just the last few weeks.”
Katie nodded. “By the way, I hope my asking Edie to babysit Artisans Alley today didn’t bother you. I thought she needed a shot of confidence. Polly’s been riding her hard.”
Vance shook his head. “It’s a good idea to have more than one backup. Janey’s been feeling good lately, but on her bad days I’d prefer to stay close to home.”
Katie nodded. Vance’s wife suffered from multiple sclerosis and, quite naturally, he was devoted to her. “I should let you get back to Janey now.” Katie polished off her coffee and tossed the cup into the wastebasket. She took her purse from the desk drawer and got up to retrieve her coat from the peg behind the office door.
“I’ll help you shut down,” Vance offered, and the two of them split the tasks of killing the lights and setting the security system for the night, and then locking up.
The drizzle had escalated to a downpour, and Katie gave Vance a quick wave before she pulled her coat up over her head and made a dash for Angelo’s Pizzeria. As she neared, Katie noticed the apartment window above the pizza shop was open. Andy had probably forgotten to close it the last time he’d been up there.
The brass bells jangled on the back of the plate glass door as Katie opened it. “Hi, Katie,” chorused a couple of Andy’s teenaged employees. A new face among the blue T-shirted crew tonight looked up at her.
“Hi, guys. Is Andy around?”
“Right here,” Andy said, coming in from the back room with a stack of empty pizza boxes. “I’ll be right with you.”
Katie took one of the white plastic lawn chairs Andy kept for customers and watched as he removed steaming pizzas from the oven, deposited them in the boxes, and loaded them into the warming bags for the deliveries. The addresses were on Post-it Notes, which he stuck to each bag. “Head on out,” he told the two waiting boys, who waved to Katie before exiting for their cars.
The Walleld Flower Page 8
