The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  "Yes," he said. "Two months later. As soon as we were released from our contracts for the show." He turned to look at us. "You see, Catherine and I were dating before her marriage to Chappy."

  "We wanted to get married," Catherine added quickly, "but the studio wouldn't allow it." She looked at Les and reddened again. "They said it would be bad publicity if I married Les."

  "Bad publicity?" I asked.

  "What they said exactly," Les said, with a deep frown across his snowy brow, "was that the public wouldn't like it if the pretty schoolteacher married the freak."

  I gasped at the hideous statement. Next to me, I heard Zee say in a low voice wrought with scorn, "Uh-huh, sounds about right"

  "When we did finally marry, one tabloid referred to us as beauty and the beast." Les's voice was bitter. "Other reports were that Catherine was so grief stricken, she didn't know what she was doing. That I had drugged her. Had even killed Chappy for her. You wouldn't believe the hate mail I got."

  Catherine laid a hand over his. "Now, dear, don't get yourself worked up over it." She smiled at us, but her eyes were cold and angry. "That was fifty years, two children, four grandchildren, and one great-grandchild ago," she announced proudly. I half expected her to tack on "so there!"

  Zee and I both congratulated them.

  I thought about Greg's proposal. These people had made it work for fifty years and under a shroud of negativity. Did I have the right stuff to attempt the same under good circumstances?

  "Do either of you have any idea why someone would be so obsessed about that lunchbox?" I asked, returning to my main topic.

  Both shook their heads.

  "And what about Chappy Wheeler's murder? I understand it was never solved."

  "Unfortunately," Les said, "that's true. We were all questioned, especially Catherine and me." He glanced at her briefly and squeezed the hand resting on her arm. "Everyone at the studio knew how we felt about each other. And everyone knew she was having a tough time with Chappy. He was abusive, verbally and physically."

  "Physically?" I asked. "You mean he beat you, Catherine?"

  Catherine got that cold, unfocused look again. She looked beyond us, once more at the roses. "Not really, just pushed me around. Especially if he'd been drinking."

  "He hit her," Les said firmly. Looking at his wife, he added, "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but let's be honest about it. The bastard's been gone more than fifty years. No need to protect him now."

  Catherine gave no indication that she heard him, just continued to stare at the roses.

  Les sighed and patted her arm. "The studio made them share a house and a bungalow on the lot," he told us. "Said it wouldn't look right if they were seen separately. Chappy was an unhappy man and an angry drunk. Sometimes, if the shoot didn't go well or he didn't like an episode, he'd tie one on and smack her around. It was the same if the studio bigwigs gave him a hard time. By the start of the second season, anything and everything gave Chappy an excuse to drink and beat on her."

  Catherine got up abruptly and started to clear the table. The maid popped up magically and assisted.

  "I'll help you, Catherine," Zee said, rising and picking up our plates. She gave me a solemn, wide-eyed look.

  I wanted to help, too. Anything would be better than sitting here, listening to the details of violence. But this was part of the history of the Holy Pail, part of The Chappy Wheeler Show background. My butt stayed in my chair, though I squirmed a bit.

  "Did it happen often?" I asked Les.

  "Once is too often, Odelia." "

  I agree, Les." I sipped my tea, lost in thought. I despised men who beat on women emotionally and physically. Actually, I despised bullies of any kind, of any age or gender. "But why didn't the studio step in? They put Catherine in that situation."

  Les tugged on his beard. "There was a lot of stress on the set, on all of us. TV was still in its infancy. The Chappy Wheeler Show was a pioneer. People had invested big in Chappy and the show and were banking on its success.

  "And viewers were more naive than they are today, less tolerant. In those days, a star with a publicized penchant for assaults on women would have been shunned by the viewers. The studio did its best to keep Chappy under control and people from talking. Stories in fan magazines were carefully edited, people paid to keep their mouths shut. I'm sure it's still the same today, but to a lesser degree. Actors today flaunt their bad behavior, like they're proud of it"

  "How did you cope? I can't imagine how you must have felt. And not just about the violence."

  His dark eyes grew shiny. "As much as possible, I tried to make sure Catherine was never alone with him. I became the third wheel. But I couldn't be with her all the time."

  Thinking back about the articles about the show and its cast members, I did recall seeing a lot of photographs with the three of them-Catherine, Chappy, and Lester.

  "But what about the baby?" I asked. "Didn't Catherine have a child by Chappy Wheeler?"

  Les' cheerful countenance drooped considerably. "Yes, she did. The pregnancy happened during one of his drunken rages."

  "You mean he raped her?"

  "Our eldest child, Charles Borden's daughter, doesn't know anything about his drunken violence. She thinks he was a prince-a famous TV personality loved by everyone. She's very sensitive and, well, often given to instability. We feel it best she not know about that side of him. I'm sure you understand."

  "Fifty years is a long time to keep a secret," I said to him.

  "Like I said, people were paid to keep their mouths shut."

  "But aren't you afraid she'll find out her father was gay and start asking questions?"

  Les looked at me in astonishment, as if I had kicked the chair out from under him.

  He said nothing, just looked at me like a frozen garden gnome. A bee buzzed nearby.

  "Les, I just heard that yesterday, from a reliable source." I groaned inwardly, never imagining I'd ever think of JJ as a reliable anything.

  "Like I said," he finally answered, breaking his silence, "times were different." He took a sip of his beverage. "It's true. Chappy's drinking and brutality weren't the only things the studio was hiding. They were also covering up the fact that he was a homosexual.

  "That was probably one of the reasons for his uncontrollable anger and self-abuse. He wasn't allowed to be himself and live his life openly, any more than Catherine and I were. In fact, the marriage to Catherine was planned to quell surfacing rumors about Chappy."

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair. Even under the shade of the patio cover, I could feel the afternoon sun baking my body like an oatmeal cookie. It felt good, reassuring. All this new information made my brain feel like a locomotive about to jump the tracks. I got up and stretched my legs by wandering around the yard and enjoying the flowers. Les accompanied me. We walked toward the back of the property. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. It roused me from my attempt to re-center my thoughts.

  "Personally," he said, once he had my attention again, "I always believed Charles was murdered by a gay lover. And that the studio knew it and covered it up."

  "But a murder?"

  "Why not?" he asked with a shrug. "They certainly covered up a lot of other things."

  I thought about this while I watched a bird nibble at a nearby feeder. A possibility had occurred to me over lunch-just a fleeting thought that was now insisting on a closer look. Maybe the studio wasn't the only one covering up. I decided to take a shot and see if I hit a bull's-eye, or at least a nerve.

  "The child is yours, isn't she, Les?"

  At first, he looked at me in astonishment. That was followed by offended sputtering. Eventually, Les melted into resignation, ending with a big sigh. I had definitely hit on something important.

  "You and Catherine were dating before her marriage to Chappy Wheeler, and I'll bet you continued after the marriage. You married quickly once he was gone." I bent my head down to look at Les. His eyes were sad, but his chin wa
s held high.

  "Things were different then, Odelia." He looked at the patio area, where Zee and Catherine were busy setting out dessert and coffee. "I couldn't very well have the world thinking Catherine was an adulteress, a common tramp, could I?" he whispered. "Chappy did get drunk and beat her. But that was his only interest in her. He never had any sort of physical relationship with her outside of the beatings."

  "So you adopted your own child?"

  "Yes. And the birth certificate says that she is the natural child of Charles Borden."

  I started back to the patio, but Les put a hand on my arm to stop me.

  "God forgive me, Odelia," he said in a husky whisper, "but although I understood Chappy's frustration, more than he probably realized, I'm not sorry someone killed him. If he hadn't died when he did, who knows what would have happened to Catherine or to the child. I feared he would beat it out of her if he ever found out."

  Before sitting down to dessert, I asked for the location of the powder room. Catherine gave me directions and off I went to freshen up. Along the way, I passed a table loaded with framed photographs. I glanced at them briefly. There were pictures of children of all ages and sizes, including several older photographs of a boy and girl in various stages of growth, from toddler right up to college age. Must be their two children, I thought, and the rest the grandchildren. I picked up one of the photos and studied it. Stunned, I picked up another framed photo, and another. Holding my breath, I hurriedly ran my eyes over them all.

  Looking over my shoulder, I made sure I was alone. Secure in my privacy, I plucked the smallest of the photos from the table and stashed it in my tote bag.

  TWENTY-THREE

  "You DID WHAT?" ZEE yelled at me as we sped down the freeway back to Newport Beach.

  After our lunch with Catherine and Les, we stopped briefly in the downtown area of Glendora. Zee bought some hand-painted glassware in one shop and a silk floral wreath in another. Being eager to get on our way, I bought nothing and tried not to let Zee see my foot tapping while she shopped.

  Once we put some distance between us and Glendora, I filled Zee in on Chappy Wheeler's lifestyle and told her about the photo I pinched. I ignored her inquiry into my sanity, but she wasn't to be deterred.

  "Did you just tell me that you stole something from those nice people?"

  "I'll give it back," I assured her.

  "This I want to see," she said with mild sarcasm. "What are you going to do, Odelia? Mail it back with a note that says `oops, look what jumped into my purse'?"

  Had to admit it, she had a point.

  "Stealing and peeping. Good Lord, what's next?" she ranted.

  "Zee, the photo is important. I think the girl in the picture is Stella Hughes."

  Zee shot me a side glance. "You mean Price's gold digger?"

  "Yes. I'm not entirely sure, but pretty sure. I think she's their daughter. And if so, Stella thinks she's Chappy Wheeler's daughter, not Les's."

  "Providing it is her," Zee added.

  I didn't share Zee's skepticism. After all, I knew Stella, and I was almost one-hundred-percent positive the girl in the photo was her. "Why else would they have photos of her growing up?"

  Zee just shrugged and continued driving.

  "I was thinking about talking to Stella this afternoon after we got back," I told Zee. "Now I'm definitely heading over there."

  "What about dinner?" Zee asked. "Seth's doing chicken on the grill tonight."

  "I'll be back in time," I assured her. "The Price house is in Newport Coast, not far from you. I just want to ask Stella some questions."

  My plan was to simply drop in on her, like she did me, and catch her off-guard. Maybe Kyle would be there, too. I wanted to talk to him as well. It being a Saturday evening, I was afraid if I didn't get there soon, they might be off for dinner or something.

  "Something about Catherine and Lester didn't sit right with me," I told Zee after a while. "But I can't quite put my finger on it. One thing, I think they did know who Jasper Kellogg was, but I'm not sure they knew he had the lunchbox the whole time. They don't even seem to care about the lunchbox, which surprises me, because Les is a big collector of Chappy Wheeler and other TV Western memorabilia. If he found out about the lunchbox's existence, even a few years ago, it would be natural for him to try to track it down. I can't help but think he's the cast member Kellogg contacted prior to his death."

  "But, if that's true, why didn't Les come forward and contact the Kelloggs later," Zee added, "after jasper's death? If he had agreed to buy the box, wouldn't he have followed up on it?"

  "You'd think so. But Kellogg's son said they didn't know who the potential buyer was. Otherwise, they would have sold it to that person instead of running the ad that Fisher answered."

  I tilted my head back against the leather headrest and closed my eyes as I spoke.

  "And I still don't know if the lunchbox is tied in with Sterling Price's murder. But the more I learn about the Holy Pail, the more convinced I am that there's something sinister about it; something that only a few people know or knew, like maybe Lester and Stella, or even Jasper Kellogg."

  Something Stella said to me the night before suddenly came to mind like a photo flash.

  "You know what, Zee?" I turned halfway on the seat to look at her. "Stella said that her father's dream was the Holy Pail. That he was very interested in it, and that he's dead. If Stella believes Chappy Wheeler was her father, it could explain why she's so obsessed with it. What do you want to bet Stella is the mystery buyer with the hundred grand?"

  Zee twisted her mouth around as she chewed on my theory. "I thought you said she was a gold digger. That she wanted to marry Mr. Price for security, and that's why she has her hooks into his son now.

  "She could be lying. And it sure wouldn't be the first time, either. And just because she's offering a hundred thousand dollars doesn't mean she actually has it or plans to fork it over."

  I thought about the deal Stella made with Amy. It was for twenty-five thousand. And once again I wondered what scared Amy off from collecting it.

  "You know, Zee, she could be doing both. Stella could be marrying for security and be hunting the box down on her own behalf." I thought about her initial hesitancy with Kyle that afternoon in the study. "She also could be stringing Kyle along to get to the box. After all, it would be part of his and his sister's inheritance once it's found."

  "I wonder where that silly box is," Zee said almost absently.

  "Probably closer than we think," I said as casually as throwing away a used tissue.

  Zee laughed. "Wouldn't surprise me."

  We continued our drive home, passing between the two sports venues once again as they stood like sentries on either side of the freeway. Rummaging through my tote bag for some breath mints, I discovered the newspaper article Joe had given me. I pulled it out, unfolded it, and read it. It was just a couple of short paragraphs in a question and answer column on collectibles, and it gave a very brief history of children's lunchboxes. I read it several times. It contained nothing I hadn't seen recently in my research, but one sentence did catch my eye. I was mulling it over and exploring new possibilities when Zee cleared her throat.

  "Odelia," Zee began in a serious tone, "I want to ask you something, but I don't want you to get mad."

  Uh-oh. Whenever someone starts off like that, I just know I am not going to like what follows. After I refolded the newspaper and tucked it back into my bag, I closed one eye as if in pain, scrunched up my mouth, and looked at her. With any luck my evil stare would discourage her from going further. It didn't.

  "I've been thinking that maybe your obsession with this lunchbox thing is pure avoidance." She talked while she drove, every once in a while casting a look my way. "Maybe you're using Mr. Price's murder to avoid making a decision about Greg."

  Who? Me?

  "Zee, did you not notice that my office was broken into?"

  "I didn't say that this matter didn't involve you in so
me way. I just made an observation that maybe you're getting so involved because you don't want to think about Greg's proposal. After all, the Newport Beach police and Detective Frye are more than capable of handling this."

  She concentrated on changing lanes before continuing. "In fact, are you even communicating with Detective Frye? Are you telling him any of what you're finding out?"

  I looked out the passenger's window, my lips compressed in a pout. Sterling Price had been killed less than a week ago. Looking back, I pinpointed the funeral as the starting block for the frenetic race I was running, a treadmill of crazy and bizarre events all packed into three days-technically two, if you're counting true twenty-four-hour increments.

  During this time, I had communicated very little with Dev. But, I told myself, it was only two days, and most of the action had taken place last night and this morning. When was I supposed to call him? Let's face it-in choosing between a manicure and pedicure or making a call to a cop you know will nag you, it's a no-brainer. And I didn't want to bother him when I had nothing concrete to offer. Although, my little voice nagged, you do have the lunchbox.

  As for avoiding my answer to Greg, Zee was wrong. In spite of appearances of avoidance, it was very close to the front of my crowded mind. Not an hour went by without my thinking of him and our possible life together, for better or for worse.

  "Actually, Zee, I have made up my mind about Greg"

  She glanced at me, her saucer eyes bugged in anticipation. "And?"

  "How do you feel about wearing a taffeta banana yellow matron of honor dress with huge mutton sleeves and a bustle?"

  "SOMETHING'S WRONG," I TOLD Zee as we stood on the doorstep of the Price home.

  We had rung the bell several times and followed up with raps to the front door. Two cars were in evidence. A Jeep sat parked in the semicircular driveway and a Lexus was in the garage, which was open. We had pulled in behind the jeep.

  "Maybe they're out back and can't hear us," Zee offered.

  "Could be," I said, but I didn't feel it in my gut. My nervous stomach, which had settled somewhat following lunch, was threatening to gear up again. A rancid taste oozed into my dry mouth. Most people in Southern California did not leave their garage doors wide open, not even in good neighborhoods.