The Walleld Flower (17 page)

Rose was in a talkative mood as Katie drove them to Donahue’s auction house. “She reamed me, as the kids would say.”

Katie tore her gaze from the road to throw a surprised look at Rose for her choice of words. “When was this?”

“Right after you spoke to her. I guess you were talking to Edie in your office. According to Polly, there’s no fouler demon on earth than Edie Silver. I had to bite my tongue to keep from giving her a piece of my mind. I was so glad when you showed up and I didn’t have to listen to her vicious ranting another second.”

“I’m sorry you had to take that abuse. Hopefully the tension will lessen once Edie takes Debbie Weston’s booth.”

“Debbie’s leaving?” Rose asked, surprised.

“She’s just not earning enough money to make staying at Artisans Alley worthwhile.”

Rose sighed. “I feel bad for Debbie—I always liked her—but I’m glad Edie will get to move. What with everything else, Edie’s been having problems with her knees. Climbing all those steps doesn’t help.”

Katie’s stomach growled, and she tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “You did say pizza and burgers would be available at the auction house, right?”

“Oh, sure. Coffee, doughnuts, cookies, and sometimes
ice cream, too. It’s not healthy food, but it’ll take the edge off. Oh, it’s just up ahead on the right.”

Donahue’s Auction Barn wasn’t the haystack-shaped wooden structure Katie had imagined. Instead, the squat, concrete-block building looked like it might have started out as a gas station half a century before. Multiple extensions had been added on in every direction in the decades since. The parking lot was clogged with U-Hauls, minivans, and pickups, and Katie ended up leaving her Focus parked on the roadside just north of the building.

Rose practically jumped from the car, the spring in her step conveying her excitement. Katie wasn’t sure if it was the thought of speaking to Donahue or the auction itself that had Rose all riled up. Katie’s immediate concern was finding something halfway palatable to eat.

Rose held the heavy glass door for Katie. A whoosh of warm air, laden with the stench of stale cooking oil, swamped Katie, making her stomach roil. Maybe she wasn’t so anxious to eat from the bill of fare after all.

The hubbub of scores of people talking lent the vast space a carnival atmosphere, and Katie’s own spirit of adventure kicked into high gear. Hundreds of cardboard boxes littered tables and the floor. Furniture in every style imaginable crowded the area in front of parallel rows of scuffed wooden folding chairs.

Rose clasped her hands together, reminding Katie of a child in a toy shop. “I love the thrill of the hunt. You never know what treasures you’ll find.”

Katie frowned. “We’re here to uncover clues about Heather’s murder, remember?”

Rose seemed to shrink. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. Burt may not remember anything about those days. Or he might
choose
not to remember. He can be ornery when he wants to be—like a big bully.” She gazed around the room. “Burt isn’t the auctioneer, so it might be best to wait until the auction starts before we try to talk to him. He
usually stays on the floor, but sometimes you can find him in his office making arrangements to take on new merchandise for future sales.” Her gaze darted around the room. “I think I’ll take a peek at what’s on offer tonight. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

Rose glanced around before she homed in on a table covered in rhinestone jewelry. Katie watched as Rose examined a sparkling piece or two. Looking small and stooped, with her shoulders rounded, Rose looked every bit her seventy-five years.

Katie spied a battered, rust-speckled sign hanging from the ceiling over in the corner—Joe’s Java.

The coffee was strong and hot—French roast? She settled for a stale fried cake, as the sight of the grill’s greasy buildup made her shudder. A trip to McDonald’s—where the kitchen conditions weren’t as visible—was definitely on the agenda for later that evening.

Katie wandered the aisles, sipping coffee and nibbling her napkin-wrapped doughnut as she took in the box lots of miscellaneous odds and ends. It seemed like half of Artisans Alley’s vendors had turned up, and she was pleased to find she could greet them all by name.

“Did you sign in?” asked a voice from behind her.

Katie turned to find Vance Ingram. “What for?”

“You can’t bid if you don’t have a card,” Vance said, waving his own placard with the number one hundred seventy-four stamped in red ink.

Minutes later, Katie had given her tax-exempt number and business information to a gray-haired woman with saggy jowls, and had received her own bidding card. Not that she planned to use it. Katie’s gaze lingered for a moment on the woman’s name tag: Sylvia Donahue. She looked far too old to be the owner’s wife. Could she perhaps be his mother?

“So this is your first auction, huh?” Vance asked.

Katie nodded. “I always had night classes, so my husband, Chad, would go to auctions alone. He was a regular at these things.”

“I remember seeing him here,” Vance said.

“He had a good eye. We’d discuss what we wanted to buy for the English Ivy Inn, and he would get it.” She sighed. “I suppose I should arrange with the owner to sell it all for me—it’s not doing me any good in storage. But there’s no way I’ll ever be able to afford to open my own B and B.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Vance said and winked at her. “You have a way of making good things happen.”

Katie blushed, too embarrassed to acknowledge the compliment. “Have you already looked at everything?” she asked, changing the subject.

Vance nodded. “I got here right at five o’clock. I just hope the pieces I want come up early. There’s a movie I want to see on TV later tonight. Although Janey will record it for me if I’m late.”

That was just the opening Katie had been hoping for. “You wouldn’t happen to have an old Betamax video player, would you?”

Vance frowned. “Maybe down in the basement. What a dinosaur. It weighed a ton—not like the DVD players of today.”

“Do you think it still works?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Why?”

Katie brightened and briefly explained about the videotape that had arrived in the afternoon mail.

Vance shrugged. “I’ll haul it up and bring it into Artisans Alley in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

Rose strode toward them like a woman on a mission. “Hi, Vance. They’re just about to start.”

He nodded a hello, but his attention was focused on the front of the room where a crowd had begun to gather.

“Do you want to get a seat up front?” Katie asked Rose.

“The lots I’m interested in won’t come up for at least an hour.”

“I’m going to bid on that Victorian bedroom set. See you later, ladies.” Vance gave them a quick salute before leaving.

The first item for sale was a marble-topped chestnut commode. Katie watched the bidders raise their cards, amused at the auctioneer’s rolling babble as he pitched for higher prices. It sold for ninety-five dollars. “A bargain,” Rose declared.

A tall, heavyset man in a dark Old Navy sweatshirt, whose jeans hung low under a beer gut, watched from the edge of the crowd. Rose gave Katie a nudge. “That’s Burt Donahue.”

“Do you think it’s too soon to try to talk to him?”

Rose shrugged. “It can’t hurt to try.”

They edged their way down the side aisle, waiting until an intricately carved sideboard sold for fifteen hundred. Before they could speak, the auctioneer had already gone on to the next item. “Does it always go this fast?” Katie asked.

“They have over four hundred items to sell tonight. It’s better if your stuff goes on the block early. Come the finish, they practically have to give it away.”

Katie and Rose watched another three or four items sell before Rose edged close enough to tap Donahue on the shoulder.

“Hey, Rose,” he said, barely tearing his gaze from the action up front.

“Burt, I’d like you to meet Katie Bonner. She owns and manages Artisans Alley in McKinlay Mill.”

Donahue gave them a sideways glance, his eyebrows rising as a smile lit his face. “Some of your vendors are my best customers,” he said, shoving a calloused hand in her direction.

Katie clasped it but noted that Donahue’s attention was divided between her and the iron bedstead up on the block.

“Mr. Donahue, do you have a few minutes? We’d like to talk to you about—”

“Heather Winston,” he finished for her, his expression going grim.

“Why, yes,” Katie said, surprised.

Donahue held up a hand, indicating the back of the room. “It’s too noisy here. We’d better go to my office.” He led the way.

“He must’ve spoken to Detective Davenport,” Katie told Rose, as they struggled to keep up with Donahue’s longer strides. She noticed Sylvia staring at them as they entered the office.

Donahue’s headquarters was even more cluttered than Katie’s office had been the day she took over Artisans Alley. Stacks of files teetered and spilled around the edges of the cramped room where three army surplus file cabinets could no longer contain them. A large, dry-wipe board held a calendar filled with notations in various colored inks. Newspaper clippings, flyers, and a large map of the area covered the other walls, almost obliterating a framed photo of a gown-clad graduate. Donahue’s son? The room’s lack of windows made Katie feel claustrophobic once Donahue had shut the door. He ushered them into metal folding chairs before taking his own.

“I already talked to the police,” Donahue began. “I don’t remember who I rented the place to, and I didn’t keep the records past seven years, which is all that the IRS demands. I really don’t know what else I can tell you.”

Then why had Donahue brought them to his office to talk? Was he worried about bad publicity for the auction house? That didn’t seem likely.

Katie shot a look in Rose’s direction. “Were you aware that Heather was Rose’s niece?”

“Not until the detective told me. Sorry, Rose.”

He didn’t sound it.

“Thank you. We were hoping you might know something. Heather was murdered. I
have
to find out who killed her.”

“Is there anything you remember about that time? There were renovations going on at the mansion,” Katie prompted.

Donahue tipped back in his office chair, lacing his fingers and leaning his head back against them, then blew out a breath through puffed cheeks. “I hired a couple of college kids to do the work. One of ’em had a father in the construction business. I figured he probably knew more about drywall than me, but they did a lousy job. I had to call in professionals to finish the work. That old house was nothing but a money pit.”

Katie had been bluffing her knowledge of the renovations, but it had seemed a reasonable conclusion and she’d hit pay dirt. “Do you remember the names of the boys?”

Donahue shook his head. His belly jiggled, as did the NRA buckle strapped around it.

“Could one of them have been Rick Jeremy?”

“The famous movie director?” Donahue asked. “I heard on the news that he was in town.”

“He was known as Jeremy Richards back then. He was also Heather’s boyfriend at the time of her death.”

“I don’t remember the names of the kids I hired, but I’m pretty sure Jeremy wasn’t one of them.”

“Do you remember the name of the boy’s father’s construction company?” Rose asked.

Donahue picked at his bottom front teeth with a thumbnail. “We’re talking over twenty years ago, ladies. It wasn’t important then—why would I remember it now?”

“Anything you might come up with could help us bring Heather’s killer to justice,” Rose insisted. “Please, Burt, please try and remember.”

“I’m sorry, Rose, I just
don’t
.” Donahue got up from his seat, as abrupt a dismissal as Katie had ever received.

Katie stood, rummaged in her purse, and located one of her business cards. “If you remember anything, please give me a call.”

Donahue took it from her and placed it on top of the messy desk. “Sure thing.”

Katie gazed down at the cluttered work space, knowing it would soon swallow the card. “Thank you for talking with us. C’mon, Rose.”

Rose muttered a thank-you and followed Katie back to the main auction hall. The auctioneer was looking for another ten dollars for an oak rolltop desk but was disappointed when no other bids came through. “Sold, for one hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Do you want to stay?” Katie asked Rose.

“My box lot of rhinestones hasn’t come up yet. Not that I really want to give Burt another nickel of my money. But I
am
in business, and he only gets a cut of the profits.”

“That’s the spirit,” Katie said, and patted her friend’s shoulder.

“Do you think he was lying about Heather?” Rose asked.

“The fact that he wanted to get rid of us so fast says a lot. But we can’t make him talk. We’ll just have to find another way to get the information we need.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” Katie watched the auctioneer stroll over to a walnut armoire. “The woman up front who took my tax number—”

“Sylvia?” Rose prompted.

“Yeah. Is she Donahue’s mother?”

Rose shook her head. “She’s his wife. But I think she’s at least five or six years older than him. And she looks it, too.”

“She’s not the most cheerful woman I’ve ever met.”

“She had a career before Burt made her quit to help run the auction house. That made her kind of bitter.”

“What kind of career?”

Rose nodded. “She was an RN. They say she started as an army nurse, assigned to a MASH unit—just like on the old TV show, only she was in Vietnam. I guess she loved it.”

“Being a nurse or being in the army?”

“Both. Come on, let’s go sit up front,” Rose said, and grasped Katie’s elbow.

They wormed their way up to a couple of empty seats in the third row as the last of the furniture up front was being hauled away.

“Let’s pick up the pace—we’ve got two hundred box lots to get rid of,” the auctioneer said. “This first is a bunch of old toys—must be six or seven.” He grabbed something at random, holding it over his head. “Lookin’ for a dollar, now-a-dollar, now-a-dollar—who’ll gimme two, gimme two, gimme two?”