The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Stella Hughes produced a laugh that bordered on a small snort. Seeing her shoulders relax, I decided to harvest her new comfort level.

  "He was a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," I shared. Stella closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she seemed far away, like her inner self had just departed on a short vacation.

  "It wasn't like that with us," she said quietly. "He was wonderful. Sterling broke up with me."

  "I'm sorry," I said simply, hoping she'd tell me the reason.

  She shook her head. "It's okay. But it's why almost no one is speaking with me today. I'm persona non grata at this shindig."

  She leaned in closer to me, and when she spoke, I could almost feel the low vibration from her deep voice. It reminded me of Seamus' kitty growls.

  "I know I've upset the family by being here today. But I still live in this house, and I'm not going anywhere until I'm damn good and ready."

  As I was listening, I noticed from the corner of my eye Carmen Sepulveda striding purposefully over to us from across the large living room. Her face showed a mix of anger and concern. Stella spotted her, too. When Carmen was within earshot, Stella took my arm.

  "Come, Odelia," she said, her voice back to its normal pitch, "would you like to see the rest of the house?"

  Thinking quickly, I said, "I'd really love to see the rest of Mr. Price's lunchbox collection. I've only seen the boxes at his office."

  EIGHT

  WITH ALL THE FRIENDLINESS of two grizzly bears facing off over a single salmon, Stella and Carmen eyed each other suspiciously before Stella spirited me off down a hallway. We were heading toward the back of the two-story sprawling abode with Stella giving me a mini tour along the way. We passed through a spacious kitchen sparkling with silver appliances and bustling with catering staff. Along one wall were French doors open to the patio. From there, we passed into an enormous family room with a pool table, wet bar, and a large-screen TV on which a Disney video was being played for the children in attendance. The far wall was a bank of more French doors facing the back. I could see a large garden area and a pool beyond the open doors. More people were congregating there, and there was another small buffet set up under the patio covering. A gray cloud hovered over a small group to the right of the pool, announcing the smoking section.

  My guide took me through a closed door near the bar area and up a flight of back stairs. In this part of the house it was quiet and no mourners other than the two of us were present. Stella opened another door and we stepped into a cool and quiet book-lined room.

  "This was Sterling's private study," Stella told me.

  I liked the room instantly and could easily picture Price seated in the leather chair behind the big antique desk. There were large windows beyond the desk with a view of the back yard and pool, and I realized that this room was directly over a portion of the family room downstairs. The walls were paneled in warm, buttery wood the color of caramel and the shutters at the windows were stained to match. The whole space emanated a strong, cultured masculinity.

  A large section of bookshelves had glass doors, and behind those doors were the remaining specimens of Sterling Price's beloved lunchbox collection, displayed much as their fellow boxes were in his office. I walked over and scanned them, recognizing again many of the boxes carried by childhood friends. I laughed when I saw an example of my detested Junior Miss lunchbox.

  I pointed to it. "This was the box I had when I was in school," I told Stella. "Well, not the exact box, but the same. You know what I mean."

  Stella came up behind me and pointed to a box a few shelves above and to the left of the Junior Miss. "That's my favorite." Pictured on the box were Dale Evans and her horse Buttercup-

  I strolled along the glass enclosure slowly taking in the boxes. I saw another Zorro box, but it was different from the one Price had given me.

  "Sterling gave me a lunchbox the day he died," I said, turning to her.

  It was not lost on me that Stella Hughes paled at my words. Although her face was frozen in a polite smile, her eyes widened and lit up as if she had been goosed from behind. She stayed that way for a few seconds and I began to wonder if she had suffered a mild stroke.

  "Really?" she finally said, her face relaxing into a feline grin.

  "Yes, I had a meeting with him that morning. Afterwards, we discussed his collection, and he gave me the one lunchbox I had always wanted as a kid but never got."

  "And that was?" she asked, drawing out the last word. Her upper body leaned slightly toward me in anticipation of my answer.

  "Zorro," I answered matter-of-factly and pointed to the box on the shelf. "Like that box, but a bit different. He sent it over to my office later that day with another box that was filled with corporate documents. I was very surprised and touched by his generosity."

  "You're sure it was a box with Zorro on it?" she asked. "And not one showing Chappy Wheeler? The one called the Holy Pail."

  "I'm sure," I answered calmly. "And I'd be happy to give it back, especially under the circumstances."

  Stella held up a hand, palm out, and waved it gently. "No, no, don't even think about it. It's just-" she started to say something, then stopped herself.

  "It's just that the Holy Pail is missing and you thought maybe he'd given it to me," I said, completing the sentence with my dimestore psychic powers.

  Her cheeks reddened slightly. "Yes, that's exactly what I was going to say." She seated herself in a nearby leather reading chair. "How did you know about the missing lunchbox?"

  "The detective told me when he questioned me about my morning meeting with Sterling," I explained. "He even asked to see the Zorro box when I told him about the gift." I left out that Dev Frye and I were previously acquainted.

  I discretely tried to look Stella over, calculating that she had already seen the big five-o come and go, and not recently. That would make her about twenty years younger than Sterling Price. Franklin had been a lot older than me, but not two decades. At forty-seven, I could not imagine marrying a man in his seventies. I could barely imagine marrying a man in his thirties. Hell, I was 'gator wrestling with the whole idea of being married, period.

  Looking at her sitting in his well-appointed study, it made me wonder about their relationship. How did they meet? How long ago? And the big question-why did they break up? Was she really the gold digger Carmen claimed? I wondered if Stella would discuss such personal matters with me and decided not, at least not at the moment.

  "Sorry, but I can't help you," I told her. "The Chappy Wheeler lunchbox was in Price's office the first and only time I saw it." My pumps were beginning to kill my feet so I dropped myself down in a chair that matched hers. "You ... none of you ... have absolutely no idea where that lunchbox is?" I asked.

  She moved her head side to side, her head down, her thoughts lost in the deep pile of the carpet. "It's just disappeared," she said.

  "Maybe he gave it to someone that day, like he gave me the Zorro box." There was no response. "Maybe he sold it to another collector," I ventured further.

  Both theories sounded hollow coming out of my mouth. I had seen the man's eyes glow when he showed me the prized metal box. The only way someone would ever take possession of the Holy Pail from Sterling Price was to pry it from his dead, cold fingers. Perhaps someone had.

  Something else struck me as odd about this situation. I watched Stella closely. A man had been murdered-and not just any man, but a man this woman supposedly loved and wanted to marry. True, the lunchbox was worth a lot of money, but why was its whereabouts taking the forefront so soon after Price's death? Was the murder the outcome of a theft, or was the murder a convenience for someone to grab the box and run?

  Thinking about it, the first possibility was unlikely. If Price had fallen prey to a thief, he probably would not have been poisoned. Instead he would have been struck or shot, or something similar. Poison was not a weapon of quick convenience or passionate anger, but of premeditation. And most likely Sterlin
g was poisoned by someone who knew him, someone who could get close enough to administer it without suspicion. With this in mind, I was leaning heavily toward the second possibility, and one Carmen Sepulveda also had voiced. Simply put, someone saw an opportunity to grab the valuable lunchbox. Someone in the company, hearing all the commotion, came in to see what was going on and quickly saw an opportunity to make some serious money. I made a mental note to look up Amy Chow, the employee who found the body. Maybe she could recall who had come into the room immediately after she made the discovery.

  "Stella, I know this is none of my business," I began. None of your business, Odelia, my inner voice said. Listen to yourself and pay attention. As usual, I ignored it.

  Stella looked up at me with curious, hard eyes that reminded me of ball bearings.

  "But why is that box so important at this moment? Besides its worth, I mean? It was probably just a simple theft that will be solved soon enough, surely as soon as someone tries to sell it. Don't you and the family have enough to worry about right now?"

  Stella continued to study me. I fidgeted under her gaze and tried hard to determine what was going on in her head. To give my discomfort a break, I cocked my left wrist and checked my watch. It was almost four o'clock.

  "I should check my office voice mail," I said out loud but not particularly to her. When I looked back at Stella, her eyes had softened. Silently, she stood up and went to the window to look out at the pool and the people milling below.

  I opened my purse and grabbed my cell phone. Drat, I said to myself, realizing my battery was dead. I really should remember to recharge it. Greg was always on me about it.

  "Stella, my phone is out. May I use yours?"

  "Of course," she said, turning to me once again with the broad, catlike smile. She pointed to the phone on the large desk. "Use this one." Her words held the same false politeness a youngster uses when his mother has ordered him to be nice to the neighborhood misfit; a tone I remembered far too well from my experience as the fattest girl on Milton Avenue.

  Hmm, interesting, I thought to myself as I straightened my posture and approached the desk, giving her my own fake smile. In the short time I had been with Stella Hughes, she had run the gamut of emotions. But which, if any, did she really feel and mean? I picked up the phone and began dialing the office, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Being somewhat of an underdog myself, a part of me wanted to like this deep-voiced woman with the jutting chin and defiant stance, but another part of me was suspicious and skeptical of her motives. But then, I was also highly skeptical of the entire Price family, not having seen anything even remotely like earnest grief being displayed by any of them.

  "I'm going back downstairs, Odelia," Stella said as she headed for the door. "Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything else."

  "Thanks," I said. "It was nice meeting you, and, again, I'm sorry about your loss." She gave me another plastic smile and left.

  There were four voice mails for me at the office. I listened to them all. The first two were from Mike Steele, asking me questions on some pending work. Hitting the appropriate buttons to leave a response, I answered each dutifully and in order, knowing that he would be both pleased and dismayed at my speedy response; dismayed only because he would not be able to rag on me tomorrow about my absence from the office this afternoon. The last was from a client, who left some information I had requested. The third was from Greg.

  I listened to Greg's message again, coming back to it after hearing the one from the client. The first time, I listened to the content of the message. The second time, I paid attention to his tone, which told me that he was tired and edgy. Even though Greg was strong and athletic, traveling with his disability could be trying and exhausting for him. This trip, he had taken Boomer, his college-aged right-hand man from his shop, Ocean Breeze Graphics. I felt better when Boomer traveled with Greg, knowing that the young man would run interference for his boss. He was devoted to Greg, who had taken a chance on the intelligent yet alternative-looking boy several years ago and mentored him when others only took note of the multiple facial piercings and Kool-Aid colored hair.

  Greg's message was that something had come up and he would not be coming home as planned. He said he would leave messages at my home and on my cell phone to make sure he would catch me.

  I drank in the sound of Greg's voice, slurping down each syllable like a cherry slushy. Even in exhaustion, his voice held a tone of mischief and a promise of forever. Without further delay, I dialed Greg's cell phone. He picked it up on the second ring.

  "Greg Stevens," he answered. The fatigue in his voice was standing at attention.

  "Hi, honey," I said, virtually purring into the phone. What can I say? The man simply had that effect on me.

  "Hiiiiiiiii," he responded slowly, his voice turning sweet but not gaining in energy.

  "Hiiiiiiiii," I said back and giggled like a silly school girl. Franklin Powers never made me giggle.

  "Where are you?" he asked. "I don't recognize the phone number on my display."

  "I'm at Sterling Price's house," I explained. "I went to the funeral and now I'm about to head home."

  "And I bet you forgot to charge your cell, didn't you?"

  I looked down at the dead cell phone on the desk and twitched my nose in annoyance at his correct assumption. "No comment," I said.

  He laughed quietly. Suddenly, I was overcome with the urge to crawl through the phone and lay my head on his chest to feel the vibration.

  "So why aren't you coming home?" I asked, surprised to find the words hard to get out. I missed Greg; missed him right down to the run in the toe of my right nylon stocking. And I wanted him home-now.

  There was a pause before Greg answered me. "Uncle Stu died, Odelia."

  "What? Oh, Greg, no. When? How?" The words gushed from my shocked lips.

  Greg was referring to his mother's brother, Stuart Foster, a retired engineer who lived in Minnesota, in Bloomington, near the Mall of America. Greg had been close to his uncle. His whole family, both immediate and extended, seemed to live in close emotional harmony with each other-a situation I found difficult to believe, given my own dysfunctional family, until I witnessed it on many occasions for myself. Greg's parents were supportive and loving, like the mom and dad from a family values sitcom. According to Greg, they had raised their two sons and single daughter with a very firm but fair hand. My own parents had believed in better parenting through ignorance.

  I had met Greg's uncle Stu four months earlier when he and his wife landed in California during a tour across America in an RV. Greg's mother had hosted a huge barbecue in their honor during their visit, and even Greg and I got into the act by taking them to dinner and the theater in Hollywood.

  Now I was crying in earnest. I liked Uncle Stu and his homey, gentle wife, Esther, who was a retired elementary school teacher.

  "Poor Esther," I said quietly into the phone. "What happened, Greg?"

  "Heart attack, just this morning," he said. "He was fishing with some buddies at the lake. Happened so fast, no one could help."

  "You're flying to Minnesota, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry, Greg," I told him while I located a tissue in my purse and wiped my eyes and nose for the millionth time that afternoon. "It can't be helped. How's your mother doing? Anything I can help with?"

  "No, sweetheart, but thanks. Mom and Dad are already on their way there. The rest of the clan will fly out tomorrow. Mom's hanging in there. Dad's actually more shook up than she is. He and Uncle Stu were the same age."

  His voice was winding down even more. I wanted to put my arms around him to transfer some strength.

  "My plane leaves Phoenix in an hour. I'm at the airport right now. Boomer's putting me on the plane and taking a later flight home. I'll be home as soon as I can." He took a deep breath. "Sorry about sticking you with Wainwright for so long."

  "Don't worry about that, Greg. H
e's a good guest." I made a mental note to pick up more Snausages. Wainwright would be thoroughly, if not irretrievably, spoiled by the time Greg returned. "Be with your family and give them my love. I'll be here when you get back."

  "You promise?"

  "Yes, Greg, I promise," I told him softly. "Unless, of course, Alan Rickman swoops in and kidnaps me. Then all bets are off."

  Greg laughed and gave me a loud, sloppy kiss through the receiver. He knew all about my obsession with Rickman.

  NINE

  AFTER TALKING To GREG, I grabbed my purse and went in search of a bathroom. I didn't have to look far. There was a small one located just a few steps from the study. A couple of quick repairs to my makeup, a little lipstick, and I would be on my way. But to where? My dinner plans had been altered by a family crisis in Minnesota.

  Loneliness for Greg shot through my body like a rampaging fever. I didn't feel like being alone tonight. Maybe I should give Zee a call-might even be able to wrangle a dinner invitation from her. Zee was a great cook, not gourmet, but the type of cooking that stuck to your ribs. And hips. And bottom. And-well, you get the picture. She made a mean chicken and dumplings, my personal favorite of her dishes. The thought of a home-cooked, sit-down meal with people I love almost made me swoon with anticipation. Even the good possibility of being nagged by Seth didn't dampen my hopes for a salvaged evening.

  Before I left the bathroom, I pawed around in my bag for my cell phone. My eyes rolled around in my head at the realization of two problems. One, the phone was dead. Two, I had left it on Price's desk in the study. Taking one last futile look in the mirror, I stepped to the door, stopping short before opening it. Voices were being raised on the other side. Not right outside the door, but in the hallway between the bathroom and the study. I pressed my ear against the cool, white enameled door and made out what sounded like two men arguing in low voices. Not exactly yelling, but I could tell that both were vocalizing with a restrained tenseness, though I could not tell what they were saying. I pressed my ear tight against the door and held my breath.