The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  It was my intention to take a hot, scented bath as soon as I got home. It would be as good a place as any to think about the new information Gigi and JJ had provided. I could take the portable phone into the bathroom with me in case Greg called while I was soaking. I giggled, knowing that it would turn Greg on to tell him I was in the bath while we talked.

  Half a man, my big behind.

  Pulling up in front of my townhouse, my hot, soapy indulgence dissolved into a symphony of popped bubbles. Sitting on the low step to my front door was a woman-Stella Hughes, to be precise.

  A very unladylike belch escaped my lips as I thought about driving by and going somewhere-anywhere. For all I cared, Stella could just sit there and ponder the mystery of my intelligence until her butt ached from the cold concrete. Unfortunately, she spotted me and waved. Crap. I waved back, gave her a slight smile, and hit the automatic door opener to my attached garage. While she watched, I pulled in. There was a door leading from the garage into my townhouse, and I wanted desperately to escape through it and pretend she wasn't there. I took another swig from the pink bottle instead.

  "I'm sorry I just popped in on you like this, Odelia," Stella said in her low, sexy voice as I unlocked my front door.

  Wainwright seemed eager to get inside. Surprisingly, I didn't hear Seamus on the other side of the door raising a fuss as usual. As soon as the door opened a sliver, the big dog pushed his way in and started sniffing the premises. No cat in sight.

  "That's odd," I said to Stella. "Usually my cat is waiting for me."

  "Maybe it's the dog."

  I shook my head. "No way, they're pals."

  Wainwright circled and sniffed, covering every inch of the downstairs like a Hoover vacuum. Still no Seamus.

  "Seamus," I called out. "Seamus, come on out. Here, kitty, kitty." I turned to Wainwright. "Find Seamus, boy. Find Seamus." The dog took off upstairs.

  "Please have a seat, Stella," I told her. "I'll be with you in a minute."

  Upstairs, in my bedroom, I found Wainwright flattened on my bedroom floor, his long snout buried under the bed. I crouched down and peered under the bed next to him. Two glowing eyes peered back at us.

  "Seamus," I said to the cat. "Come on out. We have company, nothing to be afraid of."

  The cat stayed put and gave off a pathetic whine.

  I stood up. "Oh well, come down when you're ready."

  Stella was looking at the items in my curio cabinet when I returned. Wainwright came back downstairs with me.

  "Cat's under the bed," I explained.

  "You collect nativity scenes?" Stella asked, indicating the pieces in the cabinet. "How extraordinary." There was a touch of amusement in her voice.

  "Not really. More people than you realize collect them. I have just over fifty different ones now. They're scattered about the house."

  "Uh-huh," she murmured and continued scanning my collection, moving to those displayed on my bookshelves.

  I didn't like the way she was scrutinizing my things. Unfortunately, nervousness makes me gabby.

  "I like to see how different people express their faith through this common theme," I explained. "It's amazing how many ways the birth of Jesus is depicted around the world, from true art pieces," I pointed to a simple but elegant pen and ink drawing, "to what some would consider sacrilegious." I moved my hand to indicate a beer bottle with a label showing a manger scene and the words "Savior Suds" hanging on the staircase wall.

  Stella turned to me. "No lunchbox?" she asked with one eyebrow cocked.

  "Haven't come across one yet," I answered. "But I do have a nativity cookie jar. Bought it recently from someone on eBay."

  I made a gesture inviting her to sit. "Would you like something to drink? A Coke, coffee, iced tea?"

  "Iced tea would be nice, if it's no trouble," Stella said, taking a seat on the sofa.

  I returned a few minutes later with a tray of two tall glasses of iced tea, wedges of lemon, sugar, sugar substitute, and spoons. There was also a small plate of Thin Mint cookies, fresh from the freezer.

  While I was in the kitchen, Seamus had ventured downstairs. I found Stella trying to coax him out from under the rocking chair.

  "He's not user friendly," I said, putting the tray down on the coffee table and sitting across from her. "A few years ago, he was living wild, and he's adopted me but still isn't comfortable around many people."

  Wainwright moved in closer. Usually mellow, the dog seemed edgy and obviously did not like a stranger making advances on Seamus.

  "Wainwright, down," I commanded gently. The big golden dog dropped to the floor, but not before putting his snout in the path between Stella and Seamus.

  Stella laughed nervously. "Very protective, isn't he?" She took her tea, added sweetener, and stirred before sipping.

  "Yes, they really are quite close. Wasn't that way at first, though." I added only a lemon slice to my tea before taking my first sip. "Wainwright is actually my boyfriend's dog. I'm keeping him while he's out of town."

  I thought about reaching for a cookie, but changed my mind. I was nervous, and nerves made me eat. Buzzing through the cookies like a woodchuck would hardly add to an appearance of calmness, and I did not want this woman knowing I was anything but cool and calm.

  "How did you find out where I live?" I asked.

  "The phone book," she answered quickly.

  "But I'm not in the phone book."

  "The online phone book." Stella hesitated when she caught my skeptical glance and looked embarrassed. "Actually," she confessed, "I used People Search."

  "Oh?"

  I took another sip of tea. I didn't like the fact that someone who hardly knew me could find me that easily. In my opinion, lack of privacy was one of the potholes on the information highway. And People Search charged for their searches. I studied Stella and not shyly. This woman had paid money to find me. She must have had a good reason and I was dying to know what.

  The cookies were calling my name.

  Stella was dressed in jeans, tight and fitted to her curvy hips and thighs. Her top was knit, worn off the shoulder, with the cleavage of her large breasts mounded slightly at the neckline. On her feet were sexy high-heeled sandals. Good-size hoops of gold hung from her ears and a thin gold chain caressed her neck. All were of excellent quality, even her designer handbag and fancy watch. Her hair was curled today, worn fluffy around her face. She looked like a lot of women in Newport Beach: like an aging, expensive tart, except that she didn't look half-starved. She was also very tan. Somewhere between the funeral yesterday afternoon and today, Stella had found time to sunbathe. I took a guess that she probably hung around the pool this morning at Price's. After all, she no longer had to spend her time moving.

  "Why did you pay for People Search when you could have reached me at my office?" I asked.

  "I called, but you were already gone," she explained. "I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I really needed to see you." Her deep voice was beginning to sound strained. "I couldn't wait until Monday."

  In less than twenty-four hours, my office had been vandalized and I had had to deal with Carmen, Willie Porter, my family, and now this-not to mention a wounded Mike Steele. Couldn't someone have waited until Monday? Was everyone into instant gratification at my expense?

  "What's so important?" I asked.

  She hesitated. "May I smoke?" she asked, pulling a package of Virginia Slims out of her purse.

  "Sorry, not in here. But you're welcome to go out on the patio."

  She put the package back. "No, that's okay. I really don't smoke much, just when I'm nervous." She picked up a cookie instead and bit it in half.

  Wait a minute. Smoking? And she was supposedly pregnant? I looked at her and waited. When she didn't say anything more, I rephrased my earlier question. "So why are you here tonight?"

  "They think I killed Sterling," she said matter-of-factly while dabbing cookie crumbs from her lips with a painted fingertip.

  Geez, where had
I heard this before? I looked at her with what I hoped was a blank expression.

  "Of course," she continued, "why shouldn't they? I'd even suspect me." She gave a gravelly laugh and popped the rest of the cookie into her mouth. "I love these things frozen," she said when she was finished chewing. She reached for another.

  "Did you poison him?" I asked directly. A mutual taste in cookies did not make us friends, or her innocent.

  "Of course not."

  "Convince me," I challenged her. "You had motive and opportunity. You lived with him, could have easily added ground oleander to a bag of his favorite coffee. How you slipped it into his office is still a mystery. I imagine after the breakup you weren't welcome there."

  She gave a short snort of laughter. "Hardly. Between Karla and Carmen, I wasn't welcome there even when we were together." She narrowed her eyes at me. "You seem to know a lot about the case."

  It was my turn to snort. "For some reason, people can't seem to leave me alone about it. And for some reason, people seem to think I have the Holy Pail. My office was even vandalized last night. Not to mention, I was one-half pot of coffee away from being poisoned along with Sterling Price. Believe me, my interest in this matter has gone way beyond mild curiosity."

  "But you don't, right? Have the lunchbox, I mean?"

  The fact that I was almost poisoned went right over Stella's wellcoiffed blond head like a summer breeze. I twitched my nose in annoyance. I was doing that a lot lately, I noticed-twitching my nose when something bothered me. Maybe I should cut carrots out of my diet.

  "I don't, I assure you," I told her firmly. Finally giving in, I picked up a cookie, took a bite, and washed it down with iced tea. "And I still don't understand why that lunchbox is so important to you. To anyone.

  "Odelia, that lunchbox is worth a great deal of money."

  "I know, thirty thousand." I reached for another cookie. I loved them frozen, too.

  "Try one hundred thousand."

  I dropped the cookie and barely had time to swoop it up before Wainwright came in for the kill.

  "One hundred thousand dollars!" I said, turning my attention back to Stella. "Who in the world would pay that for a lunchbox? Obviously," I said, immediately answering my own question, "someone with more money than brains."

  Stella smiled. Pushing the hair on the left side of her head back behind her ear, she leaned forward across the coffee table in my direction. Her posture encouraged her brown 'n serve boobs to say howdy. Too bad Greg wasn't here. He would have loved the view.

  "Let's just say," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, like the dog and cat might overhear something they shouldn't, "that there's someone who's been trying to get his hands on that box for a long time."

  This tidbit of information struck me as odd. If another collector had been willing to buy the box for one hundred thousand dollars, how did Sterling Price get away with only paying thirty thousand? Talk about a blue-light special.

  Listen to me, only thirty thousand! I was starting to worry about my perspective on cash.

  "A long time, you say?" I asked, still half lost in my thoughts.

  "Yes, several years. Just before Sterling bought it the price jumped to one hundred grand."

  I put down the cookie and slouched in my upholstered chair. I looked up at the ceiling while thoughts and questions sloshed around in my brain like laundry in a washer. I only hoped the right thoughts matched up with the right questions like pairs of socks.

  "Okay," I began, sitting up straight and resting my hands on the arms of the chair. "So tell me, if this person was offering one hundred thousand dollars, why was Sterling Price able to buy the box for thirty thousand dollars? Why didn't the previous owner-a Mr. Proctor, I believe-sell it to this mystery collector?"

  She sat back up and looked at me in amusement, her dark eyes locking onto my green ones. "Mr. Proctor? My, my, Odelia, seems you're not the lunchbox novice you'd like us to think."

  "Occupational hazard, Stella," I told her, staring back. "I'm trained to do research. The history of the Holy Pail was the first thing I looked into after Sterling's death."

  "I'm impressed," she said, turning her eyes away from mine.

  My question still had not been answered. I asked it again. "But why didn't William Proctor sell the box to this other collector when he could have gotten a lot more money?"

  Stella looked away nervously, pretending to study the cookies. My last question had hit a nerve. Something to do with the last sale of the Holy Pail had made her balk internally.

  Stella looked at me again, her third cookie in hand. Secrets were definitely lurking just beyond her brown irises like predators in a swamp. Then it occurred to me that she seemed to know an awful lot about the Holy Pail's history herself. I straightened up even more and scrutinized her unspoken words and body language while waiting for an answer.

  "Sterling got the box by sheer default, Odelia. Or maybe it was luck." She spoke evenly, without emotion. Only her eyes told me she was cautiously editing the information as she went. "From what I understand, Proctor didn't like the person offering the hundred thousand. You see, Proctor didn't sell it through an auction. He simply put the word out and decided himself who would get it. It was more like a popularity contest. Sterling won."

  "He sold it before he disappeared?"

  "Apparently so," she said, forcing a casual tone. "From what I understand, it was sold but not yet delivered to Sterling when Proctor and his wife were killed. Boating accident, wasn't it?"

  "Lost at sea is what I read," I told her simply, sure her question was a test to see how much I knew on the subject. "I saw no mention of whether their bodies were ever recovered."

  She seemed to settle momentarily on my last remark; her hesitation short but still noticeable. "Sterling told me he received it from the estate after the paperwork on the sale was verified," she told me, moving along with no further mention of Proctor.

  Hmm, this was interesting. I was getting excited about my morning appointment and thinking I should definitely keep it. If Porter was, in fact, Proctor, I had a lot of questions for him. Stella's sudden appearance on my doorstep wasn't annoying me as much anymore.

  "Tell me, Stella," I began, watching her carefully, hoping she'd squirm a bit, "did you know about the Holy Pail before you met Sterling?"

  A slow, hesitant smile crossed her face, but her eyes moved rapidly. "Yes, I did," she said. She put the cookie down on a napkin and wiped her fingertips. "It was one of the things that brought us together. When we met, he was impressed that I knew so much about it. You see, my late father was interested in it."

  I dug through my tired brain for the Holy Pail information filed deep in my gray matter. Who were the men who owned it before Price? Proctor, of course. Kellogg and Fisher, those were the names-Jasper Kellogg and Ivan Fisher. But I couldn't remember their personal details. Was one of them Stella's father? Proctor wasn't old enough. He would be a bit younger or about the same age as Stella. Of course, there could have been other owners of the Holy Pail besides those. Also, Stella never said her father owned the box, just that he was interested.

  I didn't think she was lying outright, but she continued to be cautious, choosing words and details carefully as she dished them out for my consumption. Not lying maybe, but definitely playing fast and loose with the truth.

  Many possibilities crossed my mind. Was she marrying Sterling for the lunchbox? Was she marrying Kyle for it? What about Jackson? Added to the pile now was this nagging suspicion that she might have contacted Proctor about the box when he owned it. Maybe her father was the mystery shopper.

  "Did your father own the Holy Pail at one time?" I asked her.

  She laughed. "No. But it was a big dream of his."

  "`Was' as in he's no longer around, or that he's given up?"

  She cast her eyes toward the carpet briefly, then brought them back up to connect with mine. "My father died a long time ago," she said, simply and quietly.

  The dutiful da
ughter fulfilling daddy's dreams? Nah. Looking at Stella, I couldn't make that leap. This had to be about the money. What else could it be? I decided to bring out the claws.

  "You've cut a wide swath through the Price family," I said bluntly. "Sterling, Kyle, even Jackson." At the mention of Jackson, Stel la's head snapped to attention and her eyes blazed into mine, but she said nothing. "I understand you're now engaged to Kyle-that you're going to have his baby. Or is it Jackson's baby?"

  She sat ramrod straight on the sofa across from me, defiant and challenging, every muscle and ligament tense and taut, about to snap. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wainwright sniff the air and go on alert. Stella noticed the dog's slight change, too. She willed her shoulders to relax. Her posture eased up, along with her facial features. She looked tired, as well as edgy.

  "How do you know so much?" she asked with annoyance. "What are you doing, spying on me?" Her deep voice was strained, like her vocal cords were wrapped tight with a rubber band.

  I said nothing. Inside I burned with embarrassment, remembering the two of them on the desk. I hoped my face wasn't flushed to match.

  "Must've been that bitch Carmen who told you," she said. "She's like a spook the way she knows all, sees all-sneaking around silently on orthopedic shoes."

  Stella measured me with her eyes, and I could tell she was deciding something. Finally she sighed. "Want to know the ugly truth?" she asked.

  "The truth would be nice," I said, giving her a half smile. "I'll take it ugly, pretty, or just pretty ugly."

  Stella gave me a wry half smile. It made me wonder if I should get out a shovel just in case.

  "I'll admit it. I got close to Sterling to get my hands on the Holy Pail. I knew about the standing hundred-grand offer. It was common knowledge among the collectors. And I thought I could convince Sterling to sell it."

  "What was in it for you?"

  "If I could get Sterling to sell it to this particular buyer, I would get a bonus-a sort of broker's fee-a big one." She took a sip of tea and fiddled once again with her cigarette package. "But after Sterling asked me to marry him, I changed my mind. After all, he was offering me a lifetime of security, something that doesn't come along every day at my age.