The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Willie's exuberance made me nervous. He might be as insane as Stella and Kyle, only more dangerous. I walked slowly up to Willie, my hands still up in the air.

  He laughed. "Put your hands down, woman. You look ridiculous."

  My arms fell to my side. "Willie, please don't kill them."

  He leaned close to whisper. "I told you I was a thief, not a killer, Odelia. This little dog-and-pony show is to put the fear of God in Stella."

  "Well, it worked on me," I whispered back, not enjoying his little joke at all. If it was a joke.

  I held out the Holy Pail to him. "Trade you," I said, "the box for my cat, like you promised."

  Willie looked puzzled. "Like I promised?" Then he smiled. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

  "You didn't trash my place and hold my cat ransom?"

  "Of course not, little mama. We'd already searched your place. But there is someone you might be interested in meeting a little later."

  He looked at the lunchbox in my hand and frowned. "You didn't have it all along, did you?"

  I shook my head. "Amy Chow took it. Like you first suspected."

  A loud kitty growl came from the wiggling bundle near Willie's feet. I handed him the Holy Pail and bent down to check on Seamus. For my loving efforts, I received a nasty hiss and sharp claws aimed in my direction, fabric or not. Instead of opening the sack, I picked it up by the top and held it at arm's length.

  "I think I'd better open this little package at home."

  Willie lifted up the lunchbox and turned it around, inspecting it. "Looks like you kept up your end of the bargain and destroyed the Holy Pail like I asked." He grinned at me.

  Turning his attention back to the scum on the ground, he asked, "So which of you killed Sterling Price?"

  Neither answered. Enrique pressed the gun hard against Kyle's head. He started whimpering.

  "I don't know who killed my father." He pointed feebly at Stella, careful not to appear to be making a fast move. "But Stella attacked my sister and brother-in-law. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing." He dissolved into tears. But unlike Stella's earlier performance, his were real.

  "Shut up, you idiot," Stella screamed at him.

  Willie squatted in front of her again and held his gun in her face. "Did you kill your sugar daddy?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Why do I not believe you?"

  "I swear I didn't." Stella cleared her throat. "It was Amy Chow. She poisoned the coffee that morning. But it was a mistake."

  "Seems there are lots of mistakes being made," I said, wondering if she was using young Amy as a scapegoat.

  "Well, that one was a doozy," Stella said with a sick grin. "Amy was supposed to put something in the coffee just to make him a little sick, enough for him to go home early so she could steal the lunchbox. But she had no idea how poisonous oleander is or how much to use."

  That wasn't the plan. That's what Amy had said to me.

  A murderer had driven off into the desert, and I had helped her load her luggage.

  THIRTY

  "WHAT ARE YOU GOING to do with them?" I asked Willie.

  He was still squatting in front of Stella, eyeing her miserable, battered face, lost in thought.

  "Leave them with you," he said. "Enrique and I will tie them up. Then you can call the cops." He looked up at me. "Hope you understand if we don't stick around."

  I gave him a tired, small smile. "I'll have to talk to the police about you. You know that."

  Willie stood up and faced me. "Little mama, I wouldn't expect anything less out of you."

  He said something to Enrique in Spanish. Enrique stored his gun behind him and from his pocket pulled something that looked like thin cord. He yanked the sniveling Kyle to his feet and dragged him over to a post attached to one of the buildings, where he dumped him back on the ground. He made quick work out of tying Kyle up to one of the posts. Once done, he moved on to Stella.

  Just as Enrique was trying to get Stella up and on her feet, we heard a loud noise coming from behind the buildings.

  "Steele," I said. I placed the bundled cat back on the ground and rushed to where the scrub area joined with the road.

  Sure enough, it was Steele. He was hanging out of the wagon, trying to get out. Panic filled his face.

  He waved his good arm and shouted at me. "Run, Grey, run!" Then he lost what little balance he had and keeled over the end, onto the ground.

  "Steele!" I yelled.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Stella struck like a cobra. She kicked at Willie's legs, sending him tumbling and his gun sliding. At the same time, her head rammed back and caught the usually diligent Enrique square in his face. A sickening crunch echoed when her skull hit his nose. He slumped to the ground.

  Buoyed by the change of events, Kyle yelled, "The gun, Stella, go for the gun!"

  Willie and Stella both dived for Willie's gun, wrestling in the dirt together as they crawled toward it. The air was populated with grunts and curses.

  I looked in the direction of the wagon. Steele lay motionless on the ground next to it. Torn between helping Steele and helping Willie and Enrique, I stood, momentarily cemented to the ground. But if Stella reached the gun before anyone else, there might not be anyone left to help.

  Decision made, I dashed to help Willie, taking a shortcut across the rickety wooden sidewalk of the small, beat-up building. I had only gone a couple of steps when I felt pain in my ankle and one of my moving legs go taut. I fell sprawling onto the sidewalk, scraping my face on the wood. Something had grabbed my foot, and that something was a hole in the dilapidated planks. I struggled to free my foot, but only succeeded in tangling it further. I tried to slip out of my sneaker, but the hole had swallowed my foot to above the ankle bone. I watched with wide-eyed helplessness at the struggle going on, and cheered on Willie in response to Kyle's shouts.

  The gun was within reach of their fingers. If Stella was the one to reach it first, I was toast, served up hot and fresh on a platter. I had no doubt that she'd kill me and everyone else in her bid to make a getaway. I continued to struggle to free my foot.

  When I saw Stella's fingers touch the gun barrel ahead of Willie's, I started stomping at the hole in the splintered plank like a madwoman, hoping to break it down further and free the trapped foot. I stomped and stomped, using all my weight to work at the already weakened boards. It worked. The old wood gave way. With a desperate yank, I managed to pull my foot out, leaving the sneaker behind. Ignoring the searing pain in my ankle, I flew in the direction of the scuffle. But my ankle wouldn't hold, and I collapsed in the dirt just beyond the sidewalk.

  Willie and Stella both had their hands on the gun. Stella was surprisingly strong. Kyle continued to encourage her. He was screaming for her to look out, letting her know I was free. Enrique was moving slowly, trying to shake off his daze. On my hands and knees, I tried crawling to the scuffle. But it was too late.

  Only one hand had possession of the gun now-a woman's hand. Raising it, she clubbed Willie in the head and untangled herself from his clutches. After struggling to her feet, she put some distance between herself and us and held the gun steady, sweeping between us, looking for a reason to shoot.

  I sat up, breathing heavy, and felt something hard under one of my buttocks. Hoping not to attract attention, I slowly moved one hand under me. It was Stella's gun-the one that went flying when Enrique kicked it. It was the first time in my life I had ever felt the cold and fearsome sensation of gunmetal.

  Willie was sitting up now. About ten feet away in another direction, Enrique, too, was sitting. He seemed to be alert, but the front of his handsome face was bloodied.

  "Way to go, babe," said Kyle happily. "Now come untie me."

  "Seems the tables have turned, Stella," Willie said. "But you can't cover us all. So, who you gonna shoot first?" He gave an ugly chuckle.

  Stella's nervous ball-bearing eyes darted about, taking in each of us in quick succession, weighing who
was her biggest threat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Enrique go for the gun at the small of his back.

  Scared spitless, I braced myself for a gunfight at the OK Corral.

  "Look out," shouted Kyle.

  A shot rang like thunder. Enrique grabbed his right shoulder and fell back in the dirt. Stella aimed the gun again at the young man. Another shot rang out. This time it was Stella who staggered.

  I clutched the gun so hard with both hands, I felt my bones mold themselves to the grip. Stella looked at me. On her face was complete and honest shock, her mouth poised in a silent Oh. With one hand, she clutched her middle, as if trying to staunch the blood that was beginning to flow. The other still held the gun. She aimed it at me and screeched like a banshee.

  Another shot.

  This time she fell, motionless.

  Silence fell so hard it was deafening. We sat there, too shocked to move, until Kyle sent up a shrill shriek of grief like a coyote over its dead mate. It sent shivers up my spine and released me from my trance. Only then did I realize I was holding a fired gun in my hands.

  Willie reached me first and worked to release my fingers from the gun. "Come on, little mama," he cooed. "You can let go of that now." Silently, I let Willie take the gun from me.

  I stared at the fallen body of Stella Hughes and listened to the continued wails of Kyle. A strong hand gripped me under an upper arm and gently encouraged me to my feet. It was Willie. My right ankle couldn't support me, so he put an arm around me and helped me hobble to some steps.

  Once he had me settled, he kissed the top of my head and said, "Be good, little mama."

  THIRTY-ONE

  SITTING ON THE SOFA in the dark, I raised the crystal goblet to my lips and drank deeply of the rich red wine. Merlot-my favorite. The TV was on, the sound off. It didn't matter. Playing onscreen was Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. I knew the dialogue by heart. It was the end of the movie-the part where Morgan Freeman kills the witch and Kevin Costner puts an end to Alan Rickman. Good conquering evil, Hollywood style.

  I wonder. Did Robin Hood feel bad about killing the Sheriff of Nottingham? If he was real, I'd pick up the phone and ask him.

  It will be exactly two months tomorrow since I shot and killed Stella Hughes. Technically, I would have killed two people-a woman and a fetus-but the autopsy showed that Stella wasn't pregnant after all. It was little comfort to me, but it was some comfort. I tipped the goblet again and drained the glass.

  The park rangers may not have heard the first shot fired by Kyle, but they sure heard the last three shots. After depositing me on the steps, Willie grabbed Enrique and the two of them disappeared in the direction of the horse arena. They were hardly gone before two armed rangers came roaring onto the main road in an official vehicle.

  Kyle, still tied to the post, finally stopped wailing and stared at Stella's fallen body in docile silence.

  Kyle, Steele, and I were taken to the local hospital; Stella to the morgue. For hours we answered questions. But mostly it was me they questioned. I told the police everything. About Sterling Price. About the lunchbox and its history. About Willie and Enrique. About my trashed home and Seamus, who I insisted be allowed to come to the hospital with me.

  I was sitting in the emergency room, waiting to have my badly sprained ankle wrapped, when Dev Frye and his partner showed up. After more questions, Dev drove Seamus and me to Greg's house, where Greg waited in a state of anger, frustration, and relief. I wanted to go home, but the doctor said because of the shock and my ankle, I shouldn't be alone. Also, as Dev reminded me, my home was not in a habitable state. Detective Zarrabi drove Steele's Porsche back to Newport Beach. Steele had to remain behind a few days for observation.

  But there's more.

  While the police were combing the area and processing the crime scene, they came across something interesting. Left gagged and tied up in the men's public restroom near the entrance to the park was Joe Bays. Across his white T-shirt, in ink, was scrawled Cat Napper.

  This was the person Willie had said I would be interested in meeting-Joe Bays.

  Before I left for the hospital, the police brought him to me and asked if I knew him.

  My friend Joe had vandalized my home and stole my beloved pet in exchange for the Holy Pail. I wanted to vomit at the sight of him.

  With a puffy, flushed face, he told me and the police that he wanted it to look like the job had been done by the same people who'd trashed Woobie. He said he'd seen an ad on a collector's Internet bulletin board asking for the Holy Pail's whereabouts and offering one hundred thousand dollars for it. Sure I had the lunchbox, he'd turned my home upside down. When he came up emptyhanded, he decided to take Seamus and ransom the animal for the lunchbox. He'd made a date with the person who posted the ad to meet him here at seven thirty. At seven, he would give me the cat and take the lunchbox, then turn the Holy Pail over for quick cash.

  The problem was, it was Willie who had posted the ad. And Willie and Enrique showed up early. When they saw what Joe had in the sack, they sacked him and left him hogtied.

  "I'm sorry, Odelia," Joe said to me over and over, with tears in his eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted the money. A hundred grand is a fortune to someone like me. It could change my life." He sniffed deep. "I would never have hurt you, Odelia. You gotta believe me."

  I was tempted to ask the police to gag him again. Better yet, stuff his mouth with Thin Mints, then gag him.

  In the end, I didn't press charges against Joe. But he did have to pay for damages, including the replacement of two rare and expensive nativity pieces that were broken, and a thorough cleaning of the townhouse, top to bottom. Steele brokered the settlement deal between us and wanted to throw in pain and suffering, but I said no. I knew Joe didn't have much money, and once Woobie got through with him, he was also unemployed. Joe found wrecking my place very costly.

  Karla Blake survived the knifing and is still recuperating. She asked me to visit her in the hospital a few days after the shooting, which I did, seeing that she was a client. She thanked me for saving her life and told me that she planned on taking charge of her father's company as soon as she was well. In parting, she said she looked forward to working with me in the future. I billed Sterling Homes for the time I spent at the hospital, including mileage. Steele told me last week that Woobie is considering dropping them as a client. They'll get no argument from me.

  After the incident at Paramount Ranch, Kyle Price suffered a real honest-to-goodness nervous breakdown. He now resides in the psychiatric ward of the jail pending trial, though Steele doesn't think he'll go to trial, considering his mental condition.

  Steele broke his leg in the fall from the wagon. Now he hobbles around the office with his left arm and right leg in casts, looking like a war veteran. Injured, he's even more insufferable. Which, in a weird way, is comforting.

  Willie and Enrique disappeared like mist on a hot day.

  Dev dropped by tonight, just as he did on the first month's anniversary of my killing of Stella Hughes. He's concerned about me. Says I need to move on. Says it could not have been helped-that I was a hero for what I did. I don't feel like a hero.

  Dev also told me tonight that they finally found Amy Chow, who, after depositing her mother in Phoenix, tried to disappear into the Northwest. He said that she confessed to putting the oleander into the coffee, but claimed Stella Hughes had given it to her, saying it would just make Sterling Price a little sick. Amy also told the police that she saw Jackson's body in the pool. Like me, she had gone inside after getting no response to her knocks and saw the body. She never saw Stella that morning.

  As for Catherine and Les, there wasn't any evidence to link either of them to Chappy Wheeler's murder. The Holy Pail, the supposed murder weapon, disappeared the night of the shooting. No matter what happened all those years ago, I was glad they were cleared. I liked the two of them and they were going through a lot, with the death of their daughter and her connection with the two
murders. As I told the police, my theory about Chappy Wheeler being killed with the lunchbox bearing his likeness was just that, a theory. An idea I got after reading the article in the L.A. Times. Personally, I think it's true, but no one seems eager to pursue it, especially me.

  When I think about Carmen Sepulveda, a smile creeps across my face. Who says good guys always finish last? Carmen Sepulveda, the only one who didn't act upon a selfish motive, inherited the money and stock due her pursuant to Sterling's will. She retired, moved to Henderson to be near her sister, and travels extensively. I just received a postcard from her from Greece.

  I look down at the bare ring finger on my left hand. The day after the shooting, I gave Greg back his ring.

  Reaching for the bottle of wine on the coffee table, I refill my glass. Seamus is curled up on the sofa beside me. He stretches and yawns. I rub him behind his raggedy half ear and he purrs like an electric toothbrush, his time as a hostage apparently forgotten. Lucky cat.

  Do I still love Greg Stevens? Yes. But I also know I'm not the same person I was two months ago. I became someone else the moment I pulled that trigger. But it's not my love for Greg that's changed. It's my capacity for love that seems to have taken a hike.

  He fussed at first, of course. Said we could get counseling, together and separately. He pleaded with me to stick it out, to let him help me through whatever struggle was taking place within my soul.

  Part of me wants to lay my head in Greg's lap and beg him to love me forever.

  Another part of me wants to throw dirt clods at him for his own good, until he goes away and forgets about me.

  He used to call every day. Then it was a few times a week. Then once a week. This week he didn't call at all. Maybe the dirt clods of silence are working.

  I look up at the TV. Robin Hood was marrying Maid Marian. He had killed the Sheriff of Nottingham and now was celebrating his marriage to the cousin of the king. The movie never said, but I wanted to know just how much time had lapsed between the killing and the marriage. Were there rules of etiquette for such things? Would I wake up one morning and have a craving to wear white? Would it be similar to a craving for a waffle?