"A more important discussion," Zee continued, "is what you're going to tell Greg when he gets home. Seems to me you're more concerned about this silly lunchbox and those crazy people than you are about your own problems."
I took another bite and washed it down with iced tea before answering. Okay, I'll admit it: I was using the whole Price thing and Uncle Stu's tragic death to buy me more time to obsess about Greg's proposal. And I seriously doubted if this extra time was a good thing.
"I think Greg and I need to have another heart-to-heart talk before I give him my answer," I told my best friend. Zee nodded, her big, soulful eyes beacons of understanding in her dark brown face. "I won't be able to say yes until I know for sure he's okay about not having kids. I mean, truly okay with it."
I started playing with my remaining rice with the tines of my fork, looking at them and concentrating on the individual grains. "When I heard his voice today on the phone, I knew I couldn't bear to lose him." I put my fork down and looked up at Zee. "But I'm not sure I'm ready for marriage. Maybe we should just live together, try it out."
Zee sighed. "Well, you know my thoughts about couples living together before marriage. But that aside, do you really think that will give you the information you need to make a decision? Don't you know Greg well enough by now?"
"Yes, Zee," I said, feeling tears start to well up in my eyes. "I do know him well enough. And that's the problem. I know that I want him in my life. But I also know that having a family is a big dream of his. But it's not my dream. I'm forty-seven years old. I don't want children at this point in my life." Suddenly, Stella Hughes crossed my mind, and I wondered if she wanted the baby she was carrying. Odds were, she didn't.
I wiped at an escaping tear with one hand. "It's just the onions," I told Zee quickly when I noticed her own eyes begin to pool.
"Don't you see;" I said, continuing, my voice strained, "for Greg and me to get married, one of us is going to have to sacrifice what we want or don't want on this issue. One of us will always feel like they settled or gave in. Is that how a marriage should start out?" I paused and waited for Zee to answer, but she just looked at me in helpless frustration. "This isn't a difference over whether the bathroom towels should be green or beige," I continued, "this is about children, other human beings."
"So what are you going to do?" Zee asked in a small voice.
"Right now," I said, motioning to our waitress, "I'm going to order flan."
I INSPECTED MY NAILS as the phone on the other end of my call rang-one, two, three times. A manicure was clearly in my future. On the fourth ring I would be automatically kicked into Mike Steele's voice mail. It was eight o'clock in the evening. I was full of enchiladas, flan, and questions, and I needed to digest them all.
Steele often worked late. I was calling him in the hope that he could give me some answers tonight, before I had to resort to Pepto-Bismol. The fourth ring began. I was about to hang up, thinking I would ask Steele my questions in the morning, when someone answered just before it rolled over into voice mail. It was Steele, and he sounded a tad winded. Probably ran in from another office or the library, I thought.
"It's me-Odelia," I announced to him.
"Jesus, Grey," he said impatiently, "what do you want at this hour? Another half-day off?"
I kicked myself for even thinking of calling, but now that I had him on the phone, I might as well go ahead. "I have a few questions about Sterling Homes and didn't want to wait until morning," I began. "But if you're busy, it can wait."
"Of course I'm busy," he responded with irritation. He paused. I almost said goodbye and hung up. Then he added, "Talk to me, Grey. What's on your mind?"
"Well," I began, "I met Jackson Blake this afternoon."
"Goody for you," Steele said sarcastically.
I rolled my eyes and continued. "I don't remember him being elected as a senior vice president of Sterling Homes. But I could be wrong." I waited, knowing that Steele was thinking this over before answering.
"You're correct, as usual, Grey. You wouldn't have remembered the minutes from that board of directors meeting, because our firm didn't prepare them." Steele cleared his throat. "Jackson Blake was recently elected senior vice president by unanimous consent of the board. Sterling told me this just a few days before he died. About two weeks ago, his assistant drafted the consent using one of the previous consents we prepared as a form. She was supposed to send the original to us for the corporate minute book as soon as it was signed by all of the directors."
Okay, now it made sense to me why I didn't remember the directors of Sterling Homes electing Jackson Blake. A corporation's board of directors is allowed to approve decisions and take action on them without a formal meeting, as long as all of the directors approve and sign a document to that effect. The document is usually called something like "Unanimous Consent By Board of Directors in Lieu of Meeting." Normally, it's a fairly short document that can be easily prepared using a previous one as a guideline.
I moved on to my next question. "So who is Jackson Blake, besides Karla's husband? And why have I not heard of him before? It's not that big of an organization, and I've worked with most of the upper management over the years."
Steele chuckled. "You answered your own question, Grey. He's Karla's husband. Originally, Blake was a field manager, an engineer, for Sterling Homes. Been with them for years. He and Karla met just over a year ago, a year and a half maybe, and married quickly. Daddy found his little girl's hubby a corporate desk job starting as a department head, and-whammo-senior VP almost overnight. He does seem to be highly competent, though. In fact, Jackson Blake has spearheaded some of the company's better decisions in recent months.
"And here's another bulletin for you, Grey," Steele said, continuing.
I took note that his tone had switched from annoyance to interest. He seemed to forget whatever he was involved in when I called and was really getting into the juicy gossip concerning Sterling Homes.
"At that same time, Jackson Blake was also elected as a director to replace Kirby Baylor, who retired from the board about two months ago."
"Is he in charge now that Price is gone?"
"Seems that way," Steele said. "At least for now and probably with the full backing of his wife."
I thought about this last bit of information. The board of directors of Sterling Homes had only five members. The chairman of the board was Sterling Price, and now with him gone there would be only four members, one of them Karla, another Jackson. They would hold fifty percent of the voting power on the board, and without the fifth board member there could be possible deadlocks on board decisions.
"But Karla's an officer," I pointed out to Steele, "and a capable one. Why didn't she just take the reins? Why her husband?"
"Because he pees standing up, Grey," Steele said in an amused tone. "The remaining board members are as old as Price. I've attended some of those board meetings and, believe me, those old guys don't always see eye-to-eye with the young, ambitious daughter of their business partner. One of Blake's considerable talents is wooing the board and smoothing the way for new ideas. Until Blake got on the board, Sterling Homes was fast becoming stuck in a time warp. Good thing Price liked him and listened to him, or the company might have sunk into a pool of stagnation. They would never have listened to new ideas from Karla."
I stored all this away for later consideration and followed up with my next concern. "What about Kyle Price? Do you know what ,the Center' is?"
Steele sighed, his signature sign of impatience, and I heard the squeaking of his chair. I was losing him, his interest in the topic wearing thin in his fickleness. Soon he'd cut me off, telling me he had to get back to work. "The Center is the Good Life Center-a touchy-feely spa where Kyle is the manager."
"Were you aware that Price recently bought the Center for Kyle?"
"Jesus, Grey, what's with all the questions?" Steele asked. Almost immediately, the high-pitched squeaking of his chair stopped. "Shit, no! You're
playing amateur detective again, aren't you?"
"Uh-" I began, but he interrupted me.
"You think you're going to solve Price's murder, don't you?"
"Well-" I began again.
"Damn it, Grey, stay out of it. You got lucky with that porn queen's murder, but you almost got yourself killed, too."
"Awww, gee, Steele," I said in a sing-song voice, "I didn't know you cared."
He hung up with a bang.
ELEVEN
GREG CALLED JUST AFTER nine thirty to let me know that he had arrived safely in Minnesota. As with that afternoon, the sound of his voice caused me both sadness and pleasure; a common occurrence, which made me wonder if one could ever experience one emotion without the other. Were sadness and pleasure joined together like Siamese twins, never to be separated without the risk of loss?
He was staying at a hotel just a few miles from his uncle's place. Greg usually stayed in hotels when he traveled, even when visiting relatives. It was easier for him to maneuver in the specially equipped hotel rooms for wheelchair guests than in private homes. He gave me the hotel's phone number and the number at his uncle's house and promised to call again tomorrow night.
When Greg called, I was up to my elbows in the information about Chappy Wheeler and the Holy Pail that Joe Bays had provided. After we talked, I went right back to the task at hand, using the activity to keep my mind off my loneliness for Greg and my indecision about our future.
According to the various articles, The Chappy Wheeler Show was first broadcast over the radio in the mid 1940s and made the historic jump to television in 1948. The TV show was into its second season when Wheeler was killed. Charles Borden had changed his name to Chappy Wheeler in 1942 when he had taken up the guitar, learned to ride a horse, and headed to Hollywood to make his fortune as a musical cowboy. He was thirty-one years old when he was found dead in his private bungalow on the studio lot. The cause of death was a couple of hard blows to his right temple with a heavy object. Neither the killer nor the weapon was ever found. There had been evidence of a struggle but nothing pointing to any particular individual. No one saw anyone or heard anything.
Armed with a pot of chamomile tea, I sat at my kitchen table and read each article carefully. Small sticky flags were placed on the edges of pages I felt held important information. I also had a trusty yellow legal pad at my side and jotted down tidbits of information that I hoped, when carefully folded together like ingredients for a souffle, would yield some clue as to the Holy Pail's curse and its eventual connection to Sterling Price's death, if there was one.
Included in several articles were photographs of the cast of The Chappy Wheeler Show. Like most TV cowboys, Chappy Wheeler was portrayed as a mysterious and soft-spoken loner with a sometimes sidekick; in this instance, a dwarf named Hiram Miller, better known as Hi. Hi's character, I learned from reading further, had given up circus life and settled in the fictitious town of Cold Water to run the local newspaper. Chappy Wheeler was the sheriff of the small town of Cold Water, which was supposedly situated on the edge of the desert in Arizona. There was also the requisite lady friend whose relationship with Chappy was purposely kept ambivalent to maintain sexual tension, such as it was depicted in the late 1940s, and to keep the audience guessing and returning. Her name was Lorna Love and she was the town's schoolteacher. Figures. The women who loved the cowboy in the white hat were always either teachers or saloon keepers and were considered old maids for their time. If this show had been broadcast today, Lorna and Chappy would have been humping in the dirt under the bored gaze of his trusty horse. Or having a threesome with the dwarf. Or both.
There were bios and information about some of the other regular cast members, but it was very obvious that the three main principals of The Chappy Wheeler Show were Chappy, Lorna, and Hi.
I studied one publicity photo of the cast taken on the set. Charles Borden had been, as they say, a tall drink of water. At least he appeared so in the photo. But after considering he was standing between a dwarf and a petite, rosy young woman, I decided that he was probably in actuality only average in height. He was a slim golden boy with blond hair, a strong chin, and deep, dark eyes. His fair skin was pulled tight over his lean face, and his look was one of serious contemplation. Lorna Love and Hi Miller were smiling for the camera.
Lorna Love was also blond and fair skinned. According to one old fan magazine, she was played by an actress named Catherine Matthews and was only twenty when the show was last broadcast. She looked docile and proper in her costume with the long, dark, heavy skirt and white blouse buttoned to the chin. Looking first at her face and then scanning Borden's, I couldn't help but wonder how much skin cancer had gone undiagnosed in the scorching heat of the real Old West, especially considering all those pale faces arriving from the East and Midwest.
The character of Hi was portrayed by Lester Miles. He was darker than Chappy and Lorna, with dark hair and a full beard. No age was given for Lester Miles, but he looked middle-aged.
Chappy Wheeler had been killed more than fifty years ago. Catherine Matthews would be in her seventies today and Lester Miles somewhere in his eighties or even nineties. I wondered if either was still around.
I continued rummaging through the stacks of articles, looking for more tidbits about this once-popular show. The goal was to complete my initial review before going to bed. To my surprise, I noted that many articles and magazines were not copies, but originals dating back over the past fifty years and kept in protective plastic slip sheets. I handled each carefully by the edges, touching them only as much as I needed. Joe told me that most of the information about Chappy Wheeler had come from a friend of his who was primarily interested in old television westerns. Holding a magazine from 1951 in my hand, I wondered about its monetary value to collectors of such memorabilia.
I was about two-thirds through the large pile of information when I noticed something odd. I had sorted the articles into three stacks-one for articles still needing to be reviewed, one for articles containing information I wanted to revisit, and the third for articles that contained nothing useful to my purpose. This was how I usually reviewed documents at my job.
I stopped and studied the third pile with curiosity. Pushing aside the other two mounds of documents, I moved the third stack, the cast-off pile, in front of me and started re-reading the articles. From that group, I created a sub-pile, which grew surprisingly fast. Almost all of these articles were about one, and only one, cast member of The Chappy Wheeler Show, and it was not Chappy Wheeler. When the documents had been mixed together, I had not noticed it.
I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was 10:20, too late to place a call. It would have to wait until morning. Go to bed, Odelia, I told myself. Nothing is going to happen between now and nine A.M.
I picked up my teacup and matching two-cup-size teapot and carried them to the kitchen sink. Midway, the phone rang. Only three people called me this late-Greg, Zee, and my father. Greg had already called. Zee, knowing my usual bedtime was eleven, sometimes called when she had trouble getting to sleep. I prayed the caller was not my father or stepmother, because it would mean something was very wrong. Please let it be Zee, I thought as I put the teapot and cup down on the counter and picked up the phone.
The man's voice on the phone threw me for a loop. It was Joe Bays, the very person I was thinking of calling a few minutes earlier.
"Odelia," he said in a hurried voice as soon as he heard my hello, "did you hear?"
"Joe?"
"Yeah, it's me. I hope I didn't wake you."
"No," I said, "in fact, I was just thinking of calling you, but thought it might be too late."
"Did you hear yet?" he asked again.
"Hear what?"
"About the office. About Steele."
I felt my eyes widen and almost pop out of my head with concern. "What about the office and Steele?"
I carried the cordless phone into the living room and sat down heavily on the sofa. Wainwright f
ollowed me from a snug corner of the kitchen and stretched out at my feet. Seamus meowed, hopped up on the sofa next to me, and began butting my free hand for attention.
"What, Joe? What?" I asked impatiently when he hesitated.
"Someone broke into Woobie tonight," he said.
"What?" I asked in a pitch loud enough to make the dog lift his head in alert.
"Someone broke into the firm tonight. Tina just called me to come down now 'cause they ransacked the file room pretty bad." Tina was the firm's office manager. "She said the police are there. She said they messed up some of the offices, too."
"What?" I said again in the same high pitch. Now Wainwright was on his feet and looking worried, no doubt scouting for something from which to protect me. "And Steele? What about Steele?"
"Mike Steele was taken to the hospital," Joe announced excitedly. "Tina said he must have surprised the intruder and was knocked unconscious."
My mind was spinning at the news. I had just talked to Steele a couple of hours ago.
"Who found him?" I asked.
"Dunno," Joe said. "Tina was real closed-mouth about details."
My call waiting beeped. "Hold on, Joe," I said to him and hit the flash button on the phone.
"Hello," I said to the other caller.
"Odelia, it's Tina Swanson. Thank God, you're still up. Something terrible has happened."
"Hold on, Tina, I was on the other line." I clicked back over to Joe. "Joe, I have to go. Tina's calling me."
"Okay. I'm on my way to the office now. But don't tell Tina I told you anything, okay?"
"No problem," I assured him and clicked back to Tina.
"What's up, Tina?" I asked, trying to sound relaxed.
"Odelia, someone broke into the firm tonight."
"What?" I asked, but this time the word lacked the hysterical surprise of a moment ago.
"Someone broke into Wallace, Boer tonight," Tina said in a rush.
Christina Swanson never referred to the firm as Woobie. She was a tall, nervous woman close to my age who had come on board as our office manager about six years ago. She managed the staff professionally, fairly, and competently, which was not easy with all the different personalities housed at Woobie, and half of them attorneys at that. But in spite of her expert handling of her job, Tina never seemed relaxed. Her eyes always displayed a bit of wild fright, not unlike a small animal trapped on the edge of a high cliff by a pack of hyenas.
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