The Walleld Flower by Lorraine Bartlett

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