The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Detective Frye is a giant of a man. He stands well over six feet tall and is built like a solid, functional building. His age is somewhere in his fifties and he has a full head of curly hair cropped close to his skull, blond mixed with gray. His eyes are blue and his voice deep and gravelly. When he saw me, he stood up and offered me his huge right paw. I was reminded of Wainwright. We shook. Greg and I had gotten to know the detective when he was investigating the suspicious death of our friend Sophie London. We both thought him tops and occasionally ran into him around Orange County.

  "Dev, what a surprise," I said, giving him a warm but slight smile.

  Dev introduced me to the man at his side. "Odelia, this is my partner, Detective Kami Zarrabi."

  Detective Zarrabi and I shook hands. He was a wiry man of average height with olive skin and big, deep brown eyes. His moustache and eyebrows were both bushy, like three black caterpillars marching parallel across his face. His shake was dry and confident.

  Something was wrong. If Dev Frye was here, there must be a problem, a big one. He would not be in Steele's office if it were a social call. To my knowledge, he did not even know Mike Steele. I turned to Steele. He sat silent, his face pasty, brows knitted together. I had never seen him look so upset. I looked back to Dev and widened my eyes in question. Dev Frye worked homicide.

  "We need to ask you some questions, Odelia," Frye said.

  "About Price, Grey," Steele announced in an unusually subdued tone. "About his murder."

  "I-uh ... ahhh ... ," I staggered a couple of feet and planted my behind hard into a chair across from Steele's desk. "But I thought he died from heart failure."

  "It's just a formality, Odelia," Frye said. "About what time did you last see him?" I looked over at him and noted that he now held the small notebook that he kept in his jacket pocket. He was poised to scribble something in it.

  "Murder?" I squeaked out, ignoring the comment about his presence being just a formality.

  Frye continued. "Price was found by a secretary around four thirty. We know he returned from lunch around one."

  "Murder?" I squeaked again, my brain stuck like a needle on an old vinyl record.

  "Actually," Zarrabi chimed in, "we're not sure of the exact cause. We do know that he had a heart attack. He was found slumped in his private bathroom. The coroner's office will do an autopsy, of course.

  Frye pulled up a chair near mine and sat down. Unfortunately, this would not be the first time he had found it necessary to question me about something horrible. I knew the drill.

  "So, tell me, Odelia, when did you see Sterling Price last?"

  I gave the detectives a full verbal report of my visit to Sterling Homes the day before, including the purpose of the visit, and ended with the gift of the lunchbox and my call to Price's office. Frye asked to see the Zorro lunchbox and followed me back to my office. We left Zarrabi with Mike Steele, who was slumped in his chair, staring vacantly out a window.

  "Lunchboxes, who knew," Frye said, looking the Zorro lunchbox over, inside and out. I smiled slightly at the comment and tried to shake off the lingering shock the word murder had produced. "You said Price showed you his collection while you were there?"

  "Yes, after our meeting. It was quite fascinating, actually."

  "So it seems." With a simple hand gesture he invited me to sit in my own desk chair. He closed the door and sat in the visitor's chair across from me. In my small, cramped space, he appeared like a giant in a child's playhouse. "I was a Hopalong Cassidy fan myself," he said without emotion.

  There was a pause in the conversation. He seemed to be thinking of something, but the set of his jaw told me it was not Sterling Price. I saw him glance over at the framed photo on my desk. It was of Greg and me, taken last Christmas.

  "How is Mrs. Frye?" I asked. Dev's wife had been battling ovarian cancer for several years.

  He looked directly into my eyes, then down at his huge hands, which still held the lunchbox. He gently put the box back on my desk.

  "Janet died almost two months ago."

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I had never met Janet Frye but I thought the world of her husband and daughter. I sniffled slightly to keep control and searched my brain for something comforting to say. But there was nothing to say beyond polite condolences.

  "I'm very sorry, Dev. I didn't know."

  He nodded slightly. "It was for the best. Near the end, she was so doped up on pain medication she wasn't really living. She did get to see her grandchild, though." In spite of his still-raw grief, he smiled.

  "A grandbaby! How wonderful for you, Dev. Congratulations."

  "Thanks" He pulled out his wallet and produced a small photo of his daughter holding a very young infant. "Her name is Michelle Janet. She's three months old now."

  Smiling at the photo, I thought about how one life had replaced another in the Frye family. I wondered if anyone would replace Sterling Price in his.

  Dev closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket. "Tell me, Odelia, do you know of any reason why someone would want to see Sterling Price dead?"

  "So it's true-you do think it's murder."

  "I think there are many possibilities. We won't be sure until the autopsy is complete, particularly the toxicology report."

  "Toxicology? As in poison? But I thought you said he had a heart attack."

  "Price was violently ill just before he expired, which, of course, doesn't necessarily mean foul play. And he did have a heart attack. I just want to look into other possibilities while I wait for the report." He brought out his notebook and became all business, putting away his personal sadness as simply as if he had tucked it away in his pocket with the photo of Michelle Janet. "I asked Mr. Steele the same questions," he continued. "In your acquaintance with Price, is there anyone you are aware of that might have wanted to harm him?"

  Leaning back in my chair, I looked up at the ceiling and combed my memory for anything that could be of help.

  "He was always battling the local environmentalists," I told him. "But I'm sure you already know that from the newspapers." Frye nodded. I was about to mention the potential problem with Howser Development but stopped myself short, worried about a breach of client confidentiality. Our client was dead, but the company, also our client, was still active. I wasn't sure what I could ethically say, so I said nothing about the matter. "Any questions having to do with his business affairs," I advised Frye, "will have to come from someone like Mike Steele." "

  I understand," he said simply.

  "You know, Dev," I said, leaning forward, my elbows on the desk. "I knew Sterling Price for many years, but I didn't really know him. He was a client and a friend of my former boss, Wendell Wallace. And except for polite pleasantries, we didn't really get very chummy. I'm not sure I can be of much help."

  "But he did show you his lunchbox collection?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "Is that like showing me his etchings?"

  "I didn't mean it in that way, Odelia," Dev said, chuckling and shaking his head in amusement. "But he did show you the boxes he kept in his office?"

  I relaxed and smiled a little, comfortable with this particular cop. "Yes, in fact, he was very proud of them."

  "And did he show you...," Dev flipped back in his notebook until he located the bit of information he needed. "Did he show you one called the Holy Pail? The box with the picture of Chappy Wheeler, the old TV cowboy star?"

  "Why, yes," I answered. "In fact, he specifically called it the jewel of his collection. Told me he paid nearly thirty thousand dollars for it." I looked at Dev suspiciously. What would a lunchbox have to do with a possible murder? "Why?"

  Dev ignored my question and continued his line of questioning. "So the Holy Pail was there yesterday morning when you left?"

  I nodded, my curiosity rising. "He even took it out of the cabinet so I could get a closer look at it."

  "Did you see Price put it back into the cabinet?"

  "I think so." I closed my eyes a
nd tried to summon up the exact order of events from yesterday morning. My memory played on the back of my closed eyelids like a movie on a screen. I saw the lunchbox and I saw Price replacing it on the shelf inside the glass cabinet. "Yes," I said, opening my eyes. "Definitely. He put it back just before I spotted this box" I indicated the Zorro lunchbox. "Why?" I asked again.

  "According to the family, it's now missing."

  "Missing?" I said incredulously, my mind whirring around the information, trying to quickly process it. "Do you think someone killed him to steal it?" He shrugged noncommittally. My mind kept grinding away like an overloaded hard drive. I heard Dev laugh quietly.

  "You doing my job, Odelia?"

  "Huh?"

  "I can tell you're already trying to piece together the crime, if there is one."

  "Just seems odd, doesn't it?" I shifted my mind into a higher gear. "Maybe someone took the box after he was discovered and before the authorities arrived. After all, it was worth a great deal of money."

  "My job, Ms. Grey," he said, shaking his head slowly once again, "is to ask the questions and formulate theories based on fact. Yours is to answer the questions to the best of your ability."

  I ignored his polite "butt out" and kept working the possible angles. "Was the secretary who found him the only person to enter his office after he was found?" My gray matter shifted upward again and I prayed my middle-aged transmission held out. "I know his personal assistant was out on vacation, but didn't anyone check on him during the whole afternoon? And what about visitors? Did you check with the receptionist to see if anyone logged in for an appointment?"

  Detective Devin Frye stood up and looked at me with concerned amusement. "I'm going to have to call Greg and tell him to keep you under wraps for a few days. Handcuff you to his wheelchair if he has to."

  "Greg's out of town." I said with attitude. "Besides, I'm just trying to help."

  "You've already helped. You answered my questions." He pulled out his business card and handed it to me. "And if you think of anything else, call me."

  We both rose and together walked from my office down the hall to the reception area, collecting Detective Zarrabi along the way. The offices of Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates were tastefully decorated with modern watercolors hung on pastel-hued walls. It gave the offices an overall look of peacefulness, which belied the true hysteria that lurked within the walls of any busy law firm. Along the way, we passed attorney offices on our left and assistant bays on our right and were serenaded by the clack of keyboards. Most of the attorneys had their office doors open, and a glance showed the residents hard at work talking into dictation equipment or on the phone. Steele's office door was one of the only ones closed, but that was normal for him.

  Once at the elevators, Dev looked directly into my eyes. I was wearing flat shoes today and he was so tall he had to tilt his head forward, nearly chin to chest, to accommodate my short stature.

  He spoke sternly, but his blue eyes danced. "You're not to go looking into anything on your own, Odelia. That's an order."

  My attitude about taking orders was clearly stamped on my face, but I answered dutifully. "Don't worry about that. I left my amateur sleuthing behind when I got shot. I've only got one good butt cheek left."

  "Good," he said with finality and gave me a grin. Following a warm shake of my hand, he disappeared with his partner into an elevator.

  The rest of the day went by slowly. No matter what I did to divert my attention, it kept coming back to the death of Sterling Price and the possibility that he had been murdered. Dev said he had been violently ill just before his death, yet he had looked robust and energetic that morning at our meeting. And the missing lunchbox, what about that? Shoot, I forgot to ask Dev if any of the other boxes were missing or disturbed. Now if I ask, he will think I'm snooping. But I'm not. I'm just curious.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  FIVE

  A GIGANTIC OREO COOKIE hung on the front entrance of the Sterling Homes corporate headquarters. I shook my head, removed my sunglasses, and did a double take. This time, I saw a huge, black funeral wreath. I made a mental note to call for an eye appointment. Soon. The black wreath stood sentry. Its full, curving, black satin bows guarded the dignity of the grief contained within the building's walls, warning visitors to subdue their actions and lower their voices.

  At the front desk was the same receptionist I had met two days prior, but today she looked drawn and her eyes were puffy. Her curly dark hair was worn loose and wild around her face. She wore less eye makeup than before, and what little she had was smudged, adding to her stricken appearance. I juggled a large floral arrangement from my right arm to my left and signed the guest sheet. I had taken an early lunch today to bring by the flowers.

  Okay, I know it seems terribly cold-hearted and manipulative to use flowers as a way back into Sterling Homes, and obviously I am not above such trickery, but I really did want to do something nice for Price's staff. I would have done it yesterday, but the corporate offices had been closed down for one day, following the founder's death.

  "I'd like to speak with whoever is filling in for Mr. Price's assistant," I said in a respectful whisper to the receptionist.

  "Filling in?" the young woman asked, her own voice lowered. "But Mrs. Sepulveda is here today."

  "Oh," I said with slight surprise. "I thought she was on vacation."

  "She was, but she came back early because of... ," she let her words drift as she sniffed back the beginnings of fresh tears. "She came back because of Mr. Price, because of what happened."

  I looked at her sadly. "I understand. Yes, if she's here, I'd like to see her. My name is Odelia Grey, I'm a paralegal from Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates."

  While she pressed buttons on her console to announce me to Carmen Sepulveda, I casually thumbed back through the guest register, looking for Monday's page. I kept flipping pages but could not find it; all the sheets were blank.

  "I remember you, you know," the receptionist said quietly, pushing her unruly hair back behind her left ear. "You were here Monday to see Mr. Price. I'm very good at remembering people." She looked at my fingers traveling through the sign-in sheets. "The police took the visitor's list," she told me with a sigh.

  "Yes, I figured as much. They came to see me about my appointment that day." I leaned in closer to her. "Do you remember who else was here Monday to see Mr. Price?"

  "The police asked me that, too. They thought maybe someone had gotten by me without signing in. But you were the only visitor to see Mr. Price on Monday." She looked put out. "I take my job very seriously, you know," she told me, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself and lowered it again.

  "I'm sure you do."

  "The only time I'm not here is for my lunch hour and breaks, and then Amy fills in for me. Neither of us would ever let someone in without them signing the book. It's company policy, you know." Her phone rang and she answered it, still frowning at the suggestion that she might have slipped up on Monday. She said a few quiet words into the mouthpiece of her headset, then tilted her head back up to me.

  "Carmen said she can see you now. Should she come get you, or do you remember the way?"

  "I remember."

  She said a few more words into the mouthpiece, then looked at me again. "You can go right on up. Carmen's desk is directly across from Mr. Price's office." Her eyes began to pool as she spoke his name.

  I started toward the elevators, then stopped and turned back. "Miss ... uh ... I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

  "Rosemary," she answered, giving me a small, sad smile, her even teeth framed in rose with a burgundy wine border.

  I smiled back at her in sympathy. "Rosemary," I repeated, in an action meant to help me remember it later. "I'm very sorry for your loss-for the company's loss." Her mouth bravely tried to continue the smile but failed, and her large, dark eyes threatened to spill. "Who was the unfortunate person to find Mr. Price?" I asked her quickly. "Do you know?"<
br />
  "Sure I know," she answered, my question clearly insulting her. "It was Amy, Amy Chow, the girl who sits here during my breaks and lunchtime. I go to lunch every day from eleven thirty to twelve thirty. Amy has lunch from twelve thirty to one thirty."

  "Does she work directly for Mr. Price?" I asked, trying not to appear too eager for the information.

  Rosemary shook her head. "Not really. Carmen was gone and Amy was sitting at her desk, just in case Mr. Price needed anything. She's sort of a floater, you know. She fills in whenever anyone is out sick or on vacation."

  I nodded slightly at Amy's job description. Law firms often employ individuals as floaters. "I understand Mr. Price wasn't found until after four-that no one saw him after lunch. Didn't Amy find that odd?"

  I kept up with the questioning, asking each question in a soft, soothing voice. Rosemary did not seem to think it strange that I was so curious. The poor girl had probably told her story so many times to the authorities she could repeat it with the monotonous repetition of a pull-string doll.

  "Not really." The young woman gave a light shrug of her slim shoulders. "Mr. Price often told us to hold calls and not disturb him. I think he liked working alone in his office, you know. It wasn't unusual at all."

  "Thank you, Rosemary," I said, then continued to the elevators, digesting the information along the way.

  She was right. A busy executive shutting himself up in his office to work was not all that unusual anywhere. Many of the attorneys at the firm did it, especially when faced with a court filing or trial preparation. Mike Steele did it often. Those were the times I treasured most.

  I had never met Sterling Price's assistant, only spoken to her on the telephone over the years. Her greeting was formal but friendly.

  "Odelia, how nice of you to come," she said softly, greeting me and extending her hand as I exited the elevator.

  Carmen Sepulveda is a formidable, no-nonsense kind of woman pushing sixty. Efficiency glowed from her as if emphasized with a yellow Hi-Liter. Her dark hair was laced with steel gray and worn cropped short, close to her small, tidy head. Her body was trim and fit in her dark, severely cut business suit and durable, low-heeled pumps. She wore half-lens reading glasses that she peered over as she spoke. Only her brown eyes and the curve of her mouth, both surrounded by fine lines, spoke of warmth and kindness.