“I realize that. That’s why I’ve decided to give you two weeks free rent as compensation. And I’ll also move you to the top of the list. The next time there’s an opening, you’ll be the first I offer it to.”
“It’s still not fair,” Polly muttered, but her anger wasn’t as intense as Katie had anticipated. “When? When does she move?”
“Monday.”
Katie could almost see the wheels turning in Polly’s brain as she mulled over that piece of information. “Very well,” she said at last, and turned her attention to the little girl. “Come along, Hannah. Grandmama has to straighten her booth.” She clasped the girl’s hand and strode toward the stairs, small Hannah struggling to keep pace with Polly’s brisk gait.
The phone rang twice before stopping. Rose must have finished her conversation with the funeral director and answered the call. Katie dove back into the book on doll values.
“Katie, pick up line two,” said Rose over the public address system.
Closing the book, Katie stepped over to the wall phone. “Katie Bonner.”
“Ms. Bonner—it’s Mark Bastian.”
“Oh. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
“Well, your message did sound rather like a threat,” he grated.
One point for Bastian. “Mr. Jeremy doesn’t pick up his award until tomorrow evening. I’m sure you—and he—would like the day to go smoothly. Another story in the paper wouldn’t help.”
“No, it wouldn’t. What do you want?”
“Just an opportunity to talk. To refresh Mr. Jeremy’s memory about Heather Winston.”
“You said you had pictures of them together.”
“Yes, and we’ve shared them with the police.”
A long silence followed. “Rick doesn’t deny he knew Ms. Winston. He just didn’t remember her at first. There’s nothing sinister about that.”
“It was a long time ago,” Katie admitted, “but he’s had two days to remember. Would he be willing to talk about Heather with her family?”
Another long silence. “Mr. Jeremy’s already spoken to the police about it.” At least Heather was now an “it” instead of a nobody to Jeremy. “What’s to be gained by talking with the dead girl’s relatives?”
“Closure. Mr. Bastian, Heather was murdered. As one of the world’s great directors, Rick Jeremy coaxes believable emotion from all his actors. I’m sure if he tried he could muster a little show of sympathy for Heather—his former girlfriend.”
Silence. Then, “Touché.” Was there a hint of amusement in Bastian’s voice?
“Then he’d be willing to speak to Heather’s aunt?” Katie pressed.
“I don’t know.”
“If not Mrs. Nash, then how about me?”
“I’ll ask. Will you be at this number later today?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.”
Katie heard a click, and then the line went dead.
She hung up the phone. Two surprises in one morning: Polly’s lack of anger, and perhaps an audience with the world-renowned Mr. Rick Jeremy.
The day was looking up.
“He’s dead, Jim.”
Katie blinked at Vance, who hovered over the vendors’ lounge table like a surgeon in an operating room. “I beg your pardon.”
“Doctor McCoy on Star Trek always said that to Captain Kirk when one of the red-shirted security guys got nailed by a Klingon or some other alien.” Vance looked down at scattered parts of the video recorder. “It might not have been quite dead before, but now I’ve killed it.”
Katie let out a disappointed breath.
“I’m not giving up,” Vance assured her. “It’s just time to call in an expert.”
“Oh, no. How much is that going to cost?” she asked. She didn’t even know if the tape had anything worth watching on it. Maybe whoever sent it to her just wanted to taunt her.
“Cost?” he mused. “Maybe a pizza.”
“How’s that?”
“Vance Junior’s a wiz at fixing just about anything electronic and is more than willing to work for food. Tomorrow’s Saturday—no school. He can probably look at it then. I’ll ask him about it when he gets home this afternoon.”
Katie smiled. She’d met Vance’s son on a number of occasions and liked the bright-eyed teenager. “A pizza I can handle. And I know just where to get it.”
Angelo’s Pizzeria was closed at this early hour, but Andy liked to make his own dough—he often said he liked the feel of working with it. It was likely he’d be in back, watching in rapt attention as his heavy-duty mixing machine pulled on the elastic mix of flour, water, and yeast.
Since his car was parked out front, Katie figured he’d come into work early on that bright sunny morning. She pressed the bell, letting it ring for a full twenty seconds before Andy appeared in the darkened shop.
“All right, all right, all right already.” He unlocked the door, letting Katie in.
“Have you ever thought of making cinnamon buns with your beloved dough?” She gave him a kiss. “I’m starved.”
Andy stood, openmouthed, looking blank. Katie gave him another kiss, softer this time, but he stood stiffly in her arms. She leaned back. “Earth to Andy.”
He gazed into her eyes. “What did you just say?”
“Take me out to breakfast. I’ve used up or packed all the food in my house, and I’m hungry.”
“No, no—about cinnamon buns.”
Katie shrugged. “Make me one?”
His smile broke into a devastating grin. “Oh, the benefits of having a girlfriend with a marketing degree. Do you think I could handle it?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, confused.
“Cinnamon buns—making and selling them.”
Katie threw her arms into the air in defeat. “Why not—you’re here almost twenty-four hours a day anyway.”
Andy looked thoughtful. Was it a trick of the light, or were dollar signs actually dancing in his eyes?
“Hey, I was joking.”
“Not me. I wonder…” he murmured, and he was off, heading for his back room, which contained his dough-making equipment and resting racks.
Katie followed. Sure enough, Andy was thumbing through a recipe book he’d taken from a shelf. “All I’d need is sugar, cinnamon, butter—”
Katie’s felt the weight of the world suddenly upon her. “Does this mean I’ll get to see you even less?”
Andy waved a hand to shush her while he continued to read. His face went slack for at least ten seconds. Was he having some kind of seizure?
“Andy?” Katie whispered.
He shook himself back to awareness. “Before you arrived, I was standing here making the dough and thinking about how much I still owe on all this equipment—wondering how the hell I could pay it off sooner.” He nodded toward the king-sized mixer with its evil-looking bread hook. “If I could bring out another product… I don’t even have to bake it myself… I could premiere it with local grocery stores, starting right here in McKinlay Mill, and build a following—”
“Whoa, whoa! How about making one batch before you build an empire?”
He looked up at her, as though disoriented. “Huh?”
“You don’t even have a bulk recipe,” she reminded him.
“So, I could find one—or adapt one.”
“It’ll take a lot of experimentation,” she pointed out.
“You could be my guinea pig.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“No, I’m serious.” He dropped the book on the work table and grabbed her in a joyful hug, kissing her hard.
“You’re welcome,” she breathed, coming up for air.
“What a team we’d make. If only—”
“Yeah, if only I liked to make pizza and you liked running an artisans arcade.”
“I can dream, can’t I?”
“So can I. And right now I’m dreaming about breakfast at Del’s Diner. Toast and h
ome fries.”
“What about a cinnamon bun?”
“I’ll need my palate clear when I sample one of Angelo’s world-famous buns.” She pinched his left buttock.
Andy straightened proudly, jerking a thumb at his chest. “No way. I’m naming them after me, not the shop.” He grabbed her hand, leading her through said shop. “Come on, I’ll buy you that breakfast. And we can make plans for the future.”
She smiled. The day was indeed looking up.
Toast, eggs, and home fries never tasted so good, but best of all, Andy’s expansion plans meant one more thing. “I’m going to have to hire help,” he said, shaking his head and looking down at the scribbled notes on his napkin.
“Like an assistant manager who’ll free you up in the evenings,” Katie hinted, pushing away her empty plate.
“Definitely. I’ll need to devote all my time to developing and marketing my new product. I’m putting a help-wanted ad in the paper as soon as I get back to the shop.”
Katie sank into her booth seat. Maybe they wouldn’t get to spend more time with each other.
Ten minutes later, Andy dropped her off at Artisans Alley’s front entrance. The parking lot was beginning to fill—always a good sign.
Rose was at cash desk one, taking care of a customer, and Katie slipped behind the counter to help her wrap the order. “Can you go with me to the funeral parlor this evening?” Rose asked as she rang up a collection of ceramic butter stamps.
“Of course. What time?”
“About six?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and some guy called. Mark somebody or other—started with a B.”
“When?” Katie asked, her eyes growing wide.
“About an hour ago. But he left a number.”
Katie wrapped the rest of the order with more speed than skill and hurried to her office to return the call. The video recorder was still spread across the vendors’ lounge table, but Vance had covered the deceased with a cloth, no doubt to keep out the dust. On it was a folded piece of paper with a drawing of a tombstone. Some smart aleck had written “RIP” on it.
Katie closed her door, found the message, and dialed. Bastian answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Jeremy will see you, but not here in Rochester,” he said, his voice cool.
“McKinlay Mill?” she suggested.
“Considering what happened there, that wouldn’t be a good idea either. How about somewhere in between. Someplace quiet, but public. A restaurant perhaps?”
They settled on The Golden Fleece in the town of Greece, at eight.
“Come alone,” Bastian said, and hung up.
Come alone? Fat chance. Not that Katie expected any trouble. All she wanted to do was talk. What were they expecting, blackmail?
She realized with a start that they probably were.
Katie picked up a pencil and doodled boxes on the message pad next to her phone. Andy would be working, and Jeremy didn’t want to see Rose. Besides, whatever Jeremy had to say might upset the old woman.
On impulse, Katie grabbed the receiver and dialed Seth Landers’s office number. The secretary put her right through. “Any chance you’ll be hungry around eight o’clock tonight?”
“No date on a Friday night, huh?” Seth asked and laughed.
“I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Delicious Greek food. Roasted rack of lamb smothered in… something. Feta? Yogurt?”
“And what do you get out of this?” he asked suspiciously.
“A supper other than pizza.” It was the truth!
“And?” he prompted.
“Okay, I’m meeting Rick Jeremy. We’re going to talk about Heather Winston. His bodyguard slash secretary said to come alone. I don’t want to.”
“So, you want me to act as your bodyguard?”
“You did once offer to be my big brother when I needed one,” she reminded him.
“Yes, I did. Okay. Toss in a bottle of wine and you’ve got a deal.”
“Thanks, Seth. You’re a peach. And, uh, from your quick acceptance, it looks like you don’t have a date tonight either.”
The sun was still high in the sky, with another two hours until it set, when Katie followed Rose’s little red car into Collier’s Funeral Home’s parking lot. Katie got out, locked her car, and waited for Rose. There were no tears tonight. Rose was composed and resigned.
The panel of stained glass lilies on the ornate oak door flashed as Luther Collier held it open for them. He’d apparently been waiting for them. The pudgy, elderly man was somber in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and muted tie. “I’m so sorry we have to meet again under these circumstances, Mrs. Nash. It must be six years now since your husband passed.”
“You have a phenomenal memory, Mr. Collier,” Rose said, sounding touched.
Collier shrugged, looking pleased. More likely he had a halfway decent database filled with the names of all his past customers. “Please step this way to my office.”
Katie glanced into the various rooms, breathing a sigh of relief that there wasn’t a coffin in sight.
They took seats before Collier’s polished cherry desk. “After we spoke this morning I called the medical examiner’s office. I’m afraid your niece’s remains have not yet been released. It’s possible that may not happen for several more days, perhaps even weeks.”
“Detective Davenport did mention that. And although Heather lived her whole life here in McKinlay Mill, I think her parents would want her to be buried where they were, in Florida. And as she died such a long time ago, I thought a memorial service would be more appropriate than a funeral.”
Collier’s gaze dipped to his folded hands on top of the desk blotter. No sale. “Very well.”
“But I would like to hold the memorial service here. It’s such a lovely place.”
That cheered the funeral director.
Katie found her thoughts wandering as Collier gave his pitch for the services he could provide. Foremost on her mind was her meeting with Rick Jeremy. What was she going to say to him anyway? “Did you kill Heather?” Like he would admit to it. Would he be angry to see her arrive with Seth in tow? Maybe she could convince Seth to sit in the bar while she had her meeting.
Today was Friday. That meant she had only three days to buy a gift for Gilda Ringwald’s bridal shower. Or could the trouble and expense she’d incur to pull off the affair be considered a gift in itself?
Had she been out of her mind when she suggested Andy bake cinnamon buns? Would the heady odors of cheese, sauce, anchovies, and garlic that permeated his ovens contaminate the sinfully delicious cinnamon buns he hoped to make a killing on?
She winced at that last thought—remembering why she was here at the funeral parlor—and surfaced from her reverie to hear Collier sum up the arrangements for Heather’s memorial service. “When I receive Ms. Winston’s remains, they’ll be placed in a plain but dignified wooden box. I’ll make arrangements for their shipment to the Florida cemetery. The death notice will appear in tomorrow’s paper, and the service will be Sunday afternoon.”
Rose nodded. “I’d like you to officiate, Mr. Collier. You did such a nice job at Ezra Hilton’s service last fall.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nash. Is there anything else I can do to ease your pain at this difficult time?”
Rose shook her head and stood. “No, thank you.”
Katie and Collier rose to their feet, and Collier walked them to the door. He offered Rose his hand. “I’ll see you on Sunday. Good evening.”
Rose nodded and turned to leave.
“I have a few more questions for Mr. Collier,” Katie said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Artisans Alley, Rose.” She waited until Rose got safely in her car and waved as the car pulled out of the lot, then turned back to Collier, who waited patiently by the door.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Bonner?” Collier asked at last.
“I didn’t see any
notice in the newspaper of the arrangements for Barbie Gordon. Do you know when the service will be?”
He shook his head, his gaze downcast. “I don’t expect there will be one.”
“No funeral? But what will happen to her—her…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“I got a call from Mrs. Gordon’s daughter inquiring about my… er, rates. I’m afraid we weren’t able to come to an agreement on price and the services she requested.”
“But that seems so… so callous to not even acknowledge that she once walked this earth.”
“Poverty often precludes observing all the amenities of life… and death.”
Katie sighed. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“I did suggest a competitor from Rochester.” He pursed his lips. “Cheap and Cheerful Funerals, although I’m not even sure Miss Gordon can afford them either.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Bonner?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Collier.”
Katie headed for her car. She’d expected to meet Barbie’s daughter at a wake of some sort. Katie had been one of the last people to see Barbie alive. She owed it to Barbie’s survivors to tell them what she knew. And the sooner the better.
Fifteen
Instead of heading straight home, Katie steered her car in the direction of Route 8. Some ten minutes later, she knocked on the single-wide trailer’s aluminum storm door and waited. Maybe no one was at home, yet if she concentrated, she was sure she could hear a television. She glanced at her watch: It was time for Wheel of Fortune.
She knocked again and the front door was wrenched open by a purple-haired, sullen-looking young woman in her early twenties. “Yeah, wha’ddya want?”
“My name is Katie Bonner. I knew your mother.”
The woman lowered her head. Her lower lip trembled and she swallowed. “Yeah, well… she’s dead.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I came to pay my respects.”
The woman sighed and held the door open, beckoning Katie to enter.
The dim interior smelled like stale grease. The heat was set to stifling. Katie navigated a narrow path through stacked boxes to what resembled a living room. The woman moved a sewing basket from a chair so she could sit, then resumed her place on the couch and went back to folding a stack of laundry.
The Walleld Flower Page 14
