The Walleld Flower (25 page)

“I promise, I promise.”

Fred sighed, sounding weary. “Okay, I’ll be there a little after four. See you then.”

Katie hung up the phone, jubilation coursing through her. Her feet did a jig under her desk until someone cleared his throat to her right. VJ stood in her doorway, trying hard not to laugh—but not entirely succeeding.

“Miz Bonner, I got the video recorder going. Ya wanna see an old episode of
Dragnet
my dad taped years ago? I’ve already tested it and it’s working fine.”

“Wow, that was quick. But
Dragnet
doesn’t interest me. Let me get my own tape.” In seconds she’d retrieved the beta tape from her desk drawer and was standing next to VJ at the venders’ lounge table. The TV was on but showing only electronic snow. A harsh hiss issued from its speaker. Vance ambled up as VJ shoved Katie’s tape into the machine.

“Ya wanna push the ‘play’ button?” VJ offered.

“Sure.” Katie hit the switch with perverse delight. A loud hum replaced the static as the TV screen went a murky green. Was the tape a duplicate of a duplicate? Tinny music began before a picture formed. Fuzzy titles appeared and Katie’s mouth dropped open as she read them:

JER-MARK PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS
STAR WHORES—Episode 3
Starring Sleazy Galore
Once upon a time, in a suburb far, far away…

“A porn flick?” Vance asked, aghast.

“Yeah!” VJ said with obvious relish.

A tall, thin woman decked out in a cheap-looking, silver lame catsuit strutted across the screen. Her short, Clara Bow wig might have been purple—it was hard to tell through the distortion. The audio was so lousy Katie couldn’t make out what the woman was saying to a stringy-looking guy in a Luke Skywalker karate suit. There was something familiar about the man’s stance, but his appearance was all wrong. The hair should’ve been darker. He, too, was wearing a bad wig. The flesh tones bled into the predominantly green background.

The woman spoke again, and the camera angle changed to give her a close-up. She simpered, her pouting lips a garish green.

“Holy smoke,” Katie breathed, “it’s Heather Winston.”

VJ hit the video recorder’s stop button. The TV let out a blast of white noise and the screen went back to snow. “Let’s fast-forward it. Maybe it gets better.”

He pressed the appropriate button and the bulky machine’s innards whirred with renewed vigor as the analog counter spun forward.

Katie’s only knowledge of movie production had been gleaned from magazine articles, but even she could tell the difference between video and film, and Heather’s movie debut had been made on film. The movie’s opening scene had been staged at the McKinlay Mill town park. Could the rest of it have been shot in town as well? It took hot white light to properly film indoor scenes. And if so…

VJ hit the play button and the TV glowed green once again. A large, creased, rounded object bounced up and down on the screen, and Katie squinted to make sense of the image. The camera pulled back and she goggled at a man’s bare backside as a woman’s exaggerated groans of pleasure issued from the TV’s speaker.

Vance whipped a hand in front of his son’s eyes. “You shouldn’t watch this. Your mother would kill me if she knew.”

VJ pulled the hand away. “This is tame compared to HBO. Let’s fast-forward it some more to see—”

Vance hit the stop button. “No!”

“Dad, I’m sixteen. In another three months, I can go see any NC-17–rated movie I want.”

“Yeah, well, until that day—”

“Your father’s right, VJ,” Katie piped up, but she, too, wanted to watch—not the movie, but the end credits. “I don’t want to be responsible for—” For what? Corrupting the boy? At sixteen, VJ was probably a lot more worldly than she’d been at the same age—her great-aunt Lizzie had seen to that. Thanks to TV, violent video games, and rap music, kids were exposed to more of the seamier side of life than Katie had ever been—or probably ever would be.

“Anyway, thanks for fixing this old video recorder. What do I owe you for the parts?” she said.

“Seven dollars and four cents. Uh… and a large pizza with double cheese, pepperoni, onions, peppers, mushrooms, sausage, bacon, and ham.”

Cholesterol city! Katie bit back a smile. “That, too. Hang on, let me get the money.” As she stepped into her office, the phone rang. She answered it. “Artisans Alley. How can I help you?”

“Mrs. Bonner. It’s Kevin Hartsfield.”

The man with the wrecked apartment. What could he possibly want?

“Oh, hello.”

“I wanted to thank you for putting me onto the high school’s work-for-credit program. The senior boys’ Industrial Arts class will start repairing my house on Monday.”

“Oh, that’s terrific. I’m so glad I could help.”

An awkward silence fell until Hartsfield cleared his
throat. “I… uh… saw in the morning paper that Heather Winston’s memorial service is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes. I hope you’ll be able to make it. It would mean a lot to Heather’s aunt.”

“Have the police had any luck finding out what happened to her?”

“Detective Davenport never tells me anything,” Katie almost blurted but stopped herself in time. “Not that I know of. It happened such a long time ago.”

“That’s too bad.” Hartsfield’s voice had an odd inflection. Did he actually sound relieved?

Keep him talking—keep him talking
.

“I know Heather’s aunt would love to hear anything you remember about Heather from her high school days.” Especially once she found out about Heather’s post–high school antics.

“I don’t know what I could say except that she was a good student.”

Stall, stall!

“Was she involved in any after-school activities? Perhaps the Drama Club?”

“Not that I recall. As you said, it was a long time ago. We all moved on.”

Only, thanks to whoever placed her body between sheets of drywall, Heather hadn’t.

That wasn’t entirely true. Heather had lived another eighteen months after high school graduation. Long enough to get involved with Jeremy Richards and make at least one porn film—maybe more.

Stall, stall!
something inside Katie implored

“I met Barbie Gordon’s daughter the other day.”

“Oh?” Now Hartsfield sounded interested.

“Without her mother to help out, Donna is in desperate need of financial as well as emotional support.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asked.

“I was thinking… you’re probably the only person around who knew Barbie back then. Do you have any idea who Donna’s father might be?”

“It’s been over twenty years,” he said, mildly reproachful.

“Yes, but circumstances change. Perhaps her biological father might welcome contact from his daughter.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bonner, but I was Barbie’s math teacher, not her guidance counselor. As I recall, she was very independent—not the type to confide in just anyone.”

Katie sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

Just then, VJ poked his head into her office, looking hopeful. Katie held up her right index finger, signaling him to wait a moment.

“I do hope you’ll be at the service tomorrow, Mr. Hartsfield,” she pressed.

“I can’t promise—but I’ll try. Good-bye, Mrs. Bonner.”

Katie hung up the phone. She stepped back to open the safe, doled out money from petty cash, and handed it to a smiling VJ.

“Is it okay if I order the pizza tonight, Miz Bonner? Some friends are coming over and we’re going to play Xbox.”

“Sure. I’ll let the owner over at Angelo’s know to expect your order.”

He pocketed the money. “Thanks, ma’am. See ya.”

Ma’am!
No way could Katie ever get used to being called
that
!

She followed the boy out and watched as he disappeared into Artisans Alley’s main showroom. Vance was packing up the tools his son had left behind.

“VJ’s a good kid,” Katie said.

“Yeah. He gets good grades, helps around the house, and never gets in trouble. He’s just about the perfect son.” Vance closed his toolbox. “Now if we could just teach him to pick up wet towels and take out the garbage on a regular basis, life
would
be grand.”

Katie smiled. “Oh, I almost forgot. Can you close for me tomorrow night? I need to be at the funeral parlor for Rose’s niece’s service.”

“No problem. It’ll give you a break from dealing with Polly.”

“Isn’t it a sad commentary to prefer to attend a funeral than dealing with that woman. But she does have some good ideas for placating the artisans here at the Alley.”

Vance’s eyes crinkled. “I’m an artisan. Why don’t you try to placate me?”

Katie smiled and told Vance of her conversation with Polly several days before.

Vance nodded. “We could ask Burt Donahue to come in and give appraisals. He specializes in antiques, but he’s knowledgeable about a lot of specialty items, too. I think he charges by the piece, but that’s pretty standard.”

“Damn, I could’ve asked him the other night at the auction house. I’ll have to give him a call.”

Vance glanced down at the recorder. “What are you going to do about the videotape? Will you tell Rose what’s on it?”

“If it ends up helping to solve Heather’s murder, she’ll have to know. I want to watch the credits at the end before I do anything else.”

“I thought you might. I fast-forwarded it for you and reset the counter in case you want to see them again.” Vance hit the play button.

Tinny music issued from the TV’s speaker as a long list of blurry names scrolled past, none of them familiar. Katie watched the credits two more times before she noticed a pattern. She jotted down a few of the names and the copyright year.

“All the names have similar initials. MB, BJ, JR, and a couple of HWs.”

“Is that supposed to be significant?” Vance asked, closing his toolbox.

“Probably not to anybody but me.”

“What do you mean?”

Katie doodled boxes on the edge of her pad. “Well, you could see the production values were shoestring at best. I’ll bet only four people worked on the film, taking on phony names in the credits.”

“You think you know who those people are?”

“Betty Jasper the costumer had to be Barbie Jackson. Hilda Wentworth could’ve been Heather Winston.” She frowned. “I guess I should share my suspicions with Detective Davenport.”

Vance’s laugh was mirthless. “Better you than me.”

Katie removed the tape from the machine and hit the power button to switch it off. Then she grabbed her pad and went back to her office and dug out the creased business card Detective Davenport had given her months before.

His voice mail picked up on the first ring. She waited for the beep and spoke. “Detective, it’s Katie Bonner. I have a piece of—” She couldn’t call it evidence—it wasn’t part of Heather’s crime scene. But it did represent a Pandora’s box of questions pertinent to the case. The great Academy Award–winning director Rick Jeremy would not want the world to know how he’d started his now-illustrious career. Katie studied the Roman numerals on the paper before her. The film’s copyright had been for the year of Heather’s death. She’d been the film’s star, while Barbie and Bastian had apparently done most of the grunt work.

Barbie said she had evidence for Katie, but she’d also indicated she was holding on to it for leverage. She’d been killed that night. The tape had been mailed the day before her death. Count Barbie out.

Bastian had to be the one who’d sent it to Katie. By his own admission, his relationship with Jeremy was strained. Did he always travel with a bad copy of
Star Whores
, just waiting for an opportunity to let someone know of its existence?

Yet why kill the cash cow? He hadn’t seemed the vengeful type. Or despite his claims to the contrary, he was more of an actor than he professed to be. The bad wig hadn’t changed his appearance enough to hide his identity as Heather’s costar. And why send the tape to her, not Rose or the police?

Too many things didn’t add up.

Davenport’s voice mail beeped and disconnected.

Damn!

Katie dialed again, left another message and her phone number. Eventually Davenport would get back to her. If he didn’t call before Jeremy’s award ceremony that evening, she’d make more of an effort to track him down tomorrow.

“I understand you found my property,” said a voice from the open doorway. Polly Bremerton’s fierce blue-eyed gaze bored into Katie.

She put the phone down. “I beg your pardon.”

“I saw Joan MacDonald at the grocery store a few minutes ago. She said you’d found a number of her missing items. I assume you found mine as well.”

Katie’s gaze darted to the floor and the box under her desk. “Yes, but—”

“Where did you find them?”

“Inside Artisans Alley.”

“Where, specifically?” Polly demanded.

Katie bent down to retrieve the box and mumbled a reply.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Upstairs.” Katie set the carton on her desk and opened the flaps.

Polly stepped forward to rummage through the contents. “Nearly all of this is
my
property.” She faced Katie. “Did you find this in Edie Silver’s booth?”

“Yes, but—”