The Walleld Flower (9 page)

Seth frowned. “You really should inform Detective Davenport about Jeremy and his relationship with Heather.”

“Why?” Katie asked. “He gets paid to investigate. I’m willing to let him do it.”

“That’s my point.
He
should be the one to talk to the man. Especially if you consider him a suspect in Heather’s death.”

“We’re certainly not about to accuse Jeremy of anything as heinous as murder,” Rose said, although Katie doubted her sincerity on that account.

Seth wasn’t easily fooled. “Are you sure showing up Davenport isn’t part of your motivation?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Katie said.

“Because he’s treated you, and now Rose, badly.”

Betty, the portly night waitress, reappeared and hovered with a carafe of coffee. “Can I get you folks anything else?”

Rose pushed back her thick white coffee mug. “Any more and I won’t sleep tonight.”

“Same here,” Seth said. “Can we have the check?”

Katie, too, felt bloated and ready to explode, but needed an excuse to linger. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to stay
for another cup.” She proffered her cup as Betty handed Seth the bill.

“I’ll wait with you,” Seth volunteered.

“Andy said he might take a break and meet me here right about now,” Katie lied.

Rose’s smile was conspiratorial. “We don’t want to stand in the way of romance,” she said and winked at Seth as she slipped out of the booth. Seth helped her with her coat. As Rose fastened the row of buttons, he peeled several bills from his wallet, setting them under his empty water glass.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Katie,” Seth said, and leaned down to plant a brief kiss on her cheek.

Rose waved good-bye, letting Seth escort her out.

Katie watched as her two friends left the diner, then painfully got to her feet. “I’ll be right back,” she told the waitress, and hightailed it to the back of the restaurant and the ladies’ room.

When she returned, Katie found the table wiped clean and occupied. One of Del’s large faux red-leather menus hid the person’s face.

“Barbie?” Katie asked.

“Shhh!” The menu sank to half-mast, revealing Barbie Gordon’s wan face. “About time. I’ve been standing outside for almost ten minutes waiting for your friends to leave.”

Katie resumed her seat with her back to the door. “Sorry, but I couldn’t exactly throw them out. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Can I get you anything?” the waitress asked Barbie.

“Yeah. A cheeseburger and fries to go. Add a slice of pie, too—whatever travels best.”

“Sure thing.”

Instead of replacing the menu on the tabletop stand, Barbie raised it to cover her face up to her eyes once again, keeping watch on the door across the way.

“What did you want to tell me?” Katie repeated.

“Just talking to you could get me killed. You have no idea what I’ve been going through.”

No doubt Barbie had read about Rick Jeremy being in town, too. Did he already know Heather’s murder had been discovered? Had he contacted Barbie?

“Keeping a secret can be wearing. Especially for as long as you’ve carried this one,” Katie said.

For a moment Barbie looked confused. “Oh, yeah, sure. I can handle being threatened, but now that lunatic says my granddaughter is in danger. In case anything happens to me, I’ve arranged for certain evidence to be delivered to you.”

“What kind of evidence?” Katie asked.

“I’m not proud of my part in this whole mess, but I really didn’t have a choice.”

“No, I can see that,” Katie bluffed. “Why don’t you just give me the evidence now?”

“Then I’d have nothing to bargain with. I could go to jail for what I know,” Barbie insisted.

Betty appeared with a brown paper sack in hand, setting it and the check on the Formica table. “I’ll take that when you’re ready.”

“Fine,” Barbie said, her curt tone one of dismissal.

Betty shrugged and walked away.

“You haven’t really told me anything about Heather,” Katie reminded Barbie.

Barbie tore her gaze from the doorway and for a moment looked confused. She shook her head as though to clear her thoughts. “Everybody thinks Heather was such a sweet little Goody Two-shoes. They didn’t know the
real
girl. Not like I did.” Barbie looked over Katie’s shoulder once more. “Oh, hell.” The menu popped back up to hide her face again.

Katie turned her head to see what—or who—had spooked Barbie.

“Don’t draw any attention this way,” Barbie pleaded.

Katie’s head whipped forward again. She was tempted to
blurt that Barbie’s handling of the menu had already done that, but decided against it.

In seconds, Barbie slid across the booth’s shiny synthetic leather, scrambling to her feet. She grabbed the food sack and bolted for the kitchen. “Later.”

“Wait!” Katie called, but the swinging door had already whooshed shut behind Barbie.

Betty reappeared and picked up the check from the table. “I have to cover for patrons who stiff on checks, ya know.”

Katie grabbed her purse, dug for her wallet, and plucked out a couple of bills. “Does this cover it?”

Betty nodded. “Thanks.” She stuffed the money in her apron pocket and turned away.

Katie slid from the booth and donned her sweater. As she headed for the door she passed a number of familiar faces—Artisans Alley vendors and customers—and more than a few unfamiliar ones, and wondered which of them had scared Barbie Gordon half to death.

Barbie Gordon’s frightened face haunted Katie’s slumber. So much so that she hauled herself out of bed long before dawn’s early light to search the stack of boxes for Chad’s camera. The cats thought it was terrific fun and practiced daring dives into opened cartons filled with breakables. It was only extra rations that distracted them long enough for Katie to find the correct box. She wished she’d been more diligent about labeling each container.

Katie assessed the piles, deciding she ought to start moving some of the boxes to Artisans Alley—just in case she didn’t find a new apartment and had to stay at Andy’s for a while. Not the best solution, but marginally workable.

She restored order and longed for some semblance of home. The aroma of baking always did that for her, but she didn’t have time for that. Instead, she rummaged through the foil-wrapped packages in the freezer. She liked to keep a couple of loaves of frozen quick breads on hand for just
such an emergency, and took out a some banana bread to thaw while she filled the back of her car with cartons and the things she didn’t think she’d need right away.

After that, she lingered an extra five minutes in the shower, but still ended up trucking into Artisans Alley an hour earlier than usual. She was sweating by the time she’d carted the boxes up to Chad’s pad. She’d have to call a couple of movers to get estimates on moving the furniture. There was enough room in the north storage room to fit all of it… she hoped.

Her thoughts trailed back to Heather. What had she left behind? She’d still lived with her parents at the time of her death. Did they take her belongings with them to Florida or leave them with Rose in hopes Heather would one day return, or had they disposed of them?

On that depressing note, Katie closed and locked the door to her husband’s last place of residence and went back downstairs.

The coffee had finished brewing and she sat down at her desk with a mug and cut herself a slice of banana bread, deciding to shun work for a little research. Even the old Webster mansion property abstract wasn’t enough to keep her thoughts from straying to the bones she’d discovered days before. Her questions about Heather’s death were multiplying at an alarming rate—uncomfortable questions Rose may or may not have answers for, and might not want to consider.

“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.”