A Killer Collection

by J. B. Stanley

  "Well, I don't collect stuff, unless you count my beer bottle collection or my jar of wine corks. Does that mean I have to marry someone who likes beer bottles?"

  Molly laughed. "I don't think that all married couples have that problem. After all, it's much more economical if only one person is spending money on eBay."

  "I'm a cheapskate bachelor, so no problem there." He grinned and returned his attention to his legal pad.

  A bachelor! Did he say that to let her know he was available? Molly tried to decipher the glimmer in Matt’s light blue eyes but he was concentrating on his notes.

  "Okay," he began, still looking at what he’d written. "I’m going to call in a favor from a friend over at Asheboro General. I'll find out the medical details. If there is something suspicious about this guy's death, and I'm not saying there is, medical science will bring it to light. Swanson wants this piece out on Monday, so why don't you start the article and I'll give you the filler you need by tonight? We could ..." Molly watched as Matt stumbled for words and a ruddy blush crept up his cheeks.

  "Order Chinese," she suggested quickly.

  "Great." He smiled, and Molly returned to her desk and began typing up her article with a zippy rhythm.

  ~~~~~

  By dinnertime, Molly was growing tired. Matt stopped by her desk as she was stifling a yawn.

  "You'd better knock off for tonight," he said kindly. "We can go to that fondue restaurant next door. I'll write it off as a business expense."

  "Yes, please. I can finish this up in the morning," she agreed gratefully.

  After the waiter took their order for spicy cheese fondue, house salads, and an entree of meat and seafood fondue, Matt seemed to grow fidgety. He crumpled and smoothed his napkin and glanced around the room, looking everywhere but at Molly.

  "Did you talk to your friend at Asheboro General?" Molly asked, hoping to make him comfortable by sticking to work topics.

  "Yes. Turns out that is the hospital where your collector was taken. My friend was doing his rotation in the ER when they brought him in, DOA."

  Molly looked at him blankly. What did that string of acronyms mean?

  "DOA?"

  Matt laughed. "Oh, sorry. It means Dead On Arrival."

  "George-Bradley didn't even make it to the hospital?" Molly was surprised. So the customer at C. C.'s who’d said that an ambulance leaving without its sirens blaring meant the patient was already dead had been correct.

  "No. And guess what his cause of death was?"

  "I don't know. Heart attack?"

  "No."

  Molly thought about what else might have afflicted an overweight man. "Stroke?"

  "No."

  "Brain aneurysm?"

  "Nope." Matt shook his head, his blue eyes smiling.

  Molly lifted a skewered piece of bread dripping cheese onto her plate. Was Matt being playful with her? To test him, she replied in an exasperated voice, "Intensive probing by aliens?"

  Matt raised his brows. "I'll give you a hint. It relates to the condition that you mentioned."

  "Diabetes?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know anything about diabetes, except that you have to take insulin, right?" Molly said.

  "Right."

  "So his death has something to do with insulin?"

  Matt nodded. "Now you're getting warmer. Too much insulin, in fact."

  "I don't get it."

  "He died," Matt informed her proudly, "from an insulin overdose."

  Molly stared at him. "An overdose? But don't people take insulin in pill form? Or injections? Can you give yourself too much? Explain, please."

  "George-Bradley had Type Two diabetes. People with this condition produce some insulin, but not enough. Or the insulin they produce doesn't work right. You need a certain amount of glucose to keep your body running. Insulin gets the glucose into your cells. Following me so far?"

  "Yes, and thank you for putting this into layman's terms for me."

  Matt took a breath and continued. "Usually, people who have Type Two diabetes are middle-aged and overweight. Their cells can't absorb glucose because they don't have enough insulin to let the glucose in, so it's kind of hanging around in their bloodstream. Lots of people with Type Two can control this by following a careful diet and exercising on a regular basis."

  "Something George-Bradley didn't do. He was clearly out of shape, and when I saw him at the kiln opening, he was smoking too. He totally reeked of tobacco."

  "And since he didn't maintain a healthy lifestyle, he needed to take insulin shots to regulate his glucose levels. Considering he was an overweight smoker, it's amazing he didn't have problems before this."

  "How do people know how much insulin to take?" Molly asked.

  "They have portable instruments that measure their blood glucose, or blood sugar levels, as most people say, then they know if it's time for a dose. Most diabetics can sense when they're in need of insulin. They start feeling weak or dizzy. Some people give themselves shots at regular intervals, like before breakfast and dinner. But diabetes patients can be really different, and there are several different types of insulin. It really depends upon the individual."

  "What happens if you get an overdose of insulin?"

  "That's called hypoglycemia. Too much insulin makes the body lose its sugar, or its energy. George-Bradley's body just shut down. He was probably comatose before the ambulance even left the garage."

  "But I still don't understand. If he gave himself regular shots, how could he give himself too much?"

  Matt shrugged. "It's not common, but I guess he could have forgotten that he already had a shot or misread his blood glucose level. By the time that rope was cut, his adrenaline was pumping, he had eaten a bunch of sugary foods, and he had taken a double dose of insulin to boot. I don't know how it happened. All I know is that it was a mistake that cost him his life."

  "Wow." Molly tried to absorb all of the medical details. "That's awful. Did you find out anything else?"

  "I didn't really ask. I mean all this stuff is confidential, remember? And all you can put in your article is what has been officially released to the press, which isn't much."

  "It’s a start.” Molly thought for a moment. “But his cause of death will be made known to his wife and the insurance company, right?"

  "Yes, why?"

  Molly wiped the condensation off the surface of her water glass as an idea struck her. "What if the insurance company views George-Bradley’s death as a suicide?"

  "Did he seem like someone on the verge of committing suicide?"

  "Not at all! He was in his element, according to my mother, and when I met him, be was as pleased as a pig in mud." Molly hesitated, recalling the image of George-Bradley staggering off behind the barn. "The last time I saw him, he was acting dazed, confused. He was rubbing this spot of skin on his stomach. Something was completely wrong about the way he was moving, too. If he had given himself an extra dose, why would he look so surprised about a sore patch of skin?" Molly paused, remembering another detail. "I think I remember a tiny bloodstain on his shirt too. What could that mean?"

  Matt dunked a piece of lobster in a bowl of seasoned butter and shrugged. "Sounds like he was examining the place where he gave himself his last injection. Did you see a syringe?'

  "No, but I know he didn't kill himself. He was definitely not the type. He was having the time of his life. There was nothing but anticipation in his eyes until that moment behind the barn. Something else happened at that kiln opening. Something that caused George-Bradley’s death. I’m certain of it."

  "In that case, I doubt anyone else will think it's a suicide either." Matt paused, not wanting to offend her. "I'm sure everyone will think that his death was an thoughtless accident. Just a stupid, but fatal mistake."

  ~~~~~

  Molly thanked Matt for dinner and they parted in the parking deck. She had hoped he would ask to see her again, but then she remembered that they hadn't been on a date, just a w
orking dinner. Tired to the bone, she drove home and phoned her best friend Kitty before turning in for the night.

  Kitty and Molly had once taught together at the same private school. To earn extra money, Molly used to help out at Lex Lewis's antique sales, serving as a runner, a clerk, or as floor manager. During an important quarterly sale, Lex had needed another person to help with registration and checkout and Molly had brought Kitty along. Sparks flew the moment Lex and Kitty met, and now they were married and living a few streets away from Clara. They were known in Hillsborough as the town's most outwardly affectionate couple. At any given time, one could witness what Clara called, "one of their nauseating displays of kissing and pet name calling."

  "Chicken!" Kitty screeched the nickname she had given Molly years ago. "What's going on?"

  "Girl, you have no idea." And Molly told the story yet again. Kitty wanted to hear every detail, down to what Clara and Molly had eaten for brunch. Because Kitty saw many of the collectors at Lex's auctions, she knew some of the names Molly mentioned.

  "That George-Bradley was a regular louse!" she exclaimed, then lowered her voice. "I tell you, every time he came over to my desk to checkout after a sale he would just stare at my chest. No shame at all—just stare, stare, stare. I couldn't stand the man!"

  "You don't seem to be alone there. The good news is, I got to discuss the whole event with Matt over dinner."

  "THE Matt? Oh, do tell."

  "It was just a working dinner, nothing romantic. Still, we got along well together I think. I certainly enjoyed it."

  "Did you talk about anything personal? Like whether or not he has a girlfriend?"

  Molly hesitated. "He’s not married, but I don’t know if he’s dating anyone. I did learn that he almost finished med school but..."

  "But what?"

  "I don't know. I got the feeling that it wasn't a safe subject to discuss. Obviously he dropped out for a reason, and I didn't think I should pry."

  "Maybe not about that, but you'd better talk to that boy. Now that you've had dinner, the door is open for all kinds of possibilities!" Kitty trilled.

  "Oh, do I wish. He’s smart, hard working, and mighty easy on the eye. Anyway, I've got to listen to a message from my editor before I pass out from exhaustion so I’ll talk to you tomorrow."

  "I can't wait to tell Lex about the kiln opening. You know he and your mom will be aching to get their hands on George-Bradley’s pottery. Sweet dreams of Matt," Kitty said and hung up.

  Molly reluctantly listened to the rough voice of Carl Swanson growl through the speaker of her answering machine.

  "I have another collector for you to see. Hope you've got a pencil," he said, his voice convulsing into a cough. "We're going to print a series on Asheboro collectors. Kind of 'the prime cache of pottery in the middle of the state' theme. Once you're done with the George-Bradley piece, go see a man named Hillary Keane. Yeah, I know, what kind of man's name is Hillary? Must be a sissy. I'll e-mail you his number and address. According to my sources, this guy has an incredible collection. I called him to see if he'd be willing to do the interview, and it's set up for Tuesday at noon. Find out how he got started, where he buys, and photograph his best pieces. We want lots of pictures and he hates having his stuff photographed, so wear something pretty and kiss his butt a little, whatever it takes."

  Great. There’s nothing I like better than a hostile interviewee, thought Molly as Swanson's voice ceased. She’d had experience with men and women like Keane, snobs who wanted to brag about their collection, and yet didn't want anyone to know too many specifics. On the other hand, Keane had been at the kiln opening and George-Bradley had cut in front of him in line. Perhaps this was her chance to begin her detective work.

  Molly looked around at her pile of unread mail and sighed. She usually took Sundays and Tuesdays off as she worked Saturdays, but she could see that arguing with Swanson would get her nowhere in view of his current circulation obsession.

  A furry body rubbed against her leg, then trotted off toward the kitchen of Molly's tiny house. She followed the darting shadow in time to see Griffin jump up to a sitting position on the inside of the dishwasher door. His eyes were large and expectant.

  "You need a treat, I suppose."

  The coddled feline meowed in agreement.

  Rummaging in the fridge, she pulled out a can of whipped topping and made a rippled cream heart on the dishwasher lid. Griffin happily lapped at her design. Molly stared at the flimsy heart and thought of Matt. She wondered if their dinner together had caused her name to cross his mind as he settled in for the night. And though she expected to dream of him, she fell into a deep sleep filled with visions of the wicked grins of pottery face jugs.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 5

  I say, you look upon this verse,

  When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

  Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

  But let your love even with my life decay.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet LXXI

  The coffeemaker gurgled and bubbled as the aroma of French vanilla filled the little kitchen. The television was set to the Weather Channel, and Molly missed the local forecast for the third time as she responded to a chorus of cat cries. As she was popping two blueberry waffles in the toaster, the phone rang. Molly knew that a call at this time of the morning could only be from one of three people: her mother, grandmother, or Kitty. She examined her caller ID. It was Clara.

  "’Morning, Ma."

  "How did you know it was me? Oh, that's right, you've got that ID thing ... Listen, I have very exciting news."

  Molly knew from the way her mother's voice dropped to a stage whisper that this news had something to do with antiques or pottery and that it was big.

  "Guess who called me this morning?"

  "Grandma," Molly guessed.

  "Yes, but guess who else," Clara demanded impatiently.

  "Lex."

  "Yes!" Clara exclaimed. "And guess who called him?”

  Molly paused. Who could have sent auctioneer Lex Lewis and her mother into a complete tizzy? After closing her antiques shop, Clara started working part-time at Lex's auction gallery in Hillsborough. Months later, Lex found he couldn't survive without her and Clara became a silent partner. Though she still ran her own pottery business, Clara found she couldn't bear to sell any of the rare pieces she’d acquired. Her house became more and more crowded and her "shop" remained rather thin in the inventory department. She put pieces on her Web site every now and then for good measure.

  At the auction company, Clara set her own schedule and salary. She often used her flexible workday to drum up interest in Lex’s pottery sales. Clara had a good eye for what was saleable and often accompanied Lex when he viewed estate sales or a private collection.

  Judging by her mother’s exuberant tone, a well-known collector must have called Lex to look over his or her goods. Whose house would Clara love to be invited to visit?

  "Was it Bunny Staunton?"

  "You got it, Madam!" Her mother was bursting at the seams with anticipation. "The funeral is scheduled for Monday, and she already left a message on the auction gallery's answering machine early this morning asking Lex to drive right out to Asheboro and look at the collection."

  "The funeral is scheduled for Monday? As in the day after tomorrow?

  "Yes."

  "And she wants you guys over there today? Isn't this all a bit sudden?" Molly asked incredulously. Funerals were a big thing in the South. And if George-Bradley’s body was being released, the the police must not consider his death suspicious.

  Molly could sense her mother shrugging over the phone. Clara was too busy fantasizing about pottery to worry about Bunny's motives. Impatiently she replied, "Oh, Bunny must be dying to get rid of that pottery. She's always hated the stuff. Get over here this minute! We're leaving at eleven and you don't want to miss it."

  Her mother's excitement was contagious. Molly was going to have the chan
ce to see one of the finest collections in the region, intact, before it was sent to auction and the feeding frenzy began.

  "No, I don't want to miss it," she assured her mother. "Be right over."

  ~~~~~

  Kitty waited out in the driveway of Clara’s house. A traditional North Carolina "shotgun" home, the decrepit structure was on the list of endangered houses when Clara spotted it in her Preservation Society magazine. At the time, she was living in a cookie cutter neighborhood, where every third house was exactly the same except for the hue of the vinyl siding. The builder had cut corners wherever possible. The house had looked fine from the outside, but little details like cheap light fixtures, sparse landscaping, and the lack of wainscotings made Clara long for a residence with more character.

  When she read that an 1830s farmhouse was soon to be torched as practice for the local fire department, she hopped in the car and drove out to the site. With her ability to envision the potential in things, Clara knew that her desire for a house with personality was about to be fulfilled. She bought the house and its three outbuildings for a total of $1,500.

  Of course, it cost many times that amount to move it to its new lot. Builders had to load the structure in two halves on the beds of two tractor trailers in order to deliver it to Hillsborough.

  Then chimney was also dissembled and reassembled brick by brick, and the log cabin outbuilding rebuilt by a pricey expert.

  Surrounded by perennial gardens, tulip poplars, and crepe myrtles, the house looked like it had always belonged on the gentle rise where it peered down upon the a quiet street. At the time, Molly thought her mother had gone completely mad. Who would deliberately embark on such a complicated and risky project? But once the house was rebuilt, Molly was proud that Clara had saved a piece of history and had restored the farmer's home to its simple beauty. It was doubtful, however, that the original owners had as many cats as Clara.