A Killer Collection

by J. B. Stanley

  Clara was still doubtful. "He’d be taking a significant risk to hoard away a bunch of stolen pieces. Someone would know."

  "Maybe he was selling them."

  "That's possible." Clara thought for a moment. "He could be selling up north to buyers wouldn't know the provenance of the pieces. They’d had no idea they were writing checks for stolen goods. But Keane couldn't use an online auction or anything on the Internet; people around here would recognize every jug and pitcher and know whose collection they belonged to."

  The two women mused over their theories. Riddles circulated like pesky summer flies.

  'The real question is"—Molly paused for emphasis— "Who would know more about the relationship between George-Bradley and Hillary Keane? If one of them bore a grudge against the other, maybe we can link this all up."

  "I'll call Donald." Clara signaled the waitress for the check. "He knows everyone in the pottery circle. If there’s a person alive who knows the intimate details of the connection between George-Bradley and Keane, it’s Donald."

  Without a doubt, Clara's friend Donald had the largest and most valuable southern pottery collection of the region. His collection was even larger and more impressive than George-Bradley's. Unlike his former rival, Donald also supported the potters in other ways in addition to buying their wares. He helped them market their pieces and even lent them money to open their own shops after completing an apprenticeship.

  Donald attended almost every area kiln opening, bought at auction, and made deals with other collectors. His trade was in the jewelry business, but his real love was pottery. He and Clara had met over ten years ago at a sale and had become fast friends. Now they helped one another track down unusual pieces for their collections and often invested in pieces together that were later sold at the region's largest pottery show for a tidy profit. When Donald wasn't selling jewelry, he was out "beating the bushes" for pottery. He knew everyone who owned so much as a clay ashtray.

  "Will you call him tonight?" Molly asked hopefully.

  Clara looked at her watch. "No, it's too late. Donald’s an early to bed, early to rise type of gentleman. It will have to wait until tomorrow. By then, Lex will have found out if the pottery is somewhere else in the Staunton’s house and maybe we can tie up some loose ends."

  "I'll have to settle for tomorrow then." Molly sighed, getting up. "Just think, Ma. If we could solve this mystery I could write the best article Collector's Weekly has ever seen. It would make my earlier pieces about ghost bidding and online fraud look like small change! On the way to the car she put her arm around her mother's waist and squeezed. My coworkers would look at me in a whole new light."

  Molly was especially interested in impressing a particular coworker. It was about time she did something to make Matt Harrison notice her.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 7

  Brother, stay here;

  Are we not brothers?

  So man and man should be,

  But clay and clay differs in dignity,

  Whose dust is both alike.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Cymbeline

  Molly was scrubbing the bathtub when the phone rang.

  She turned off the water, wiped her hands hastily on the bath mat, and grabbed the receiver, water dripping down her arm and onto the carpet.

  "Hello?" she asked abruptly.

  "My, my, aren't we crabby? And what are you doing home on a Wednesday?"

  "Sorry, Mom. I was just bleaching the bathtub. Griffin peed in it again last night. That cat is so lazy. It’s not like he doesn’t have a cat door! Can you hold on for a sec?" Molly peeled off her yellow rubber gloves and wiped her arms with a cloud-white bath towel. "I'm using the time I wasted yesterday to clean house and run errands. What's up?"

  "Lots, and it cost me lunch."

  "You saw Donald today?" Molly asked.

  "Yes. I took him to his favorite Chinese place and mercilessly pumped him for information." Clara laughed mischievously.

  "And?"

  "Well, he didn't want to tell me anything at first. Hillary, George-Bradley and Donald—all these guys grew up together so they’re often reluctant to tell stories about one another."

  "Even to you? You and Donald gossip about everyone. You’re like two senior citizens at the hair salon."

  "I know, that's why it was strange that he was so reticent, but don't worry, I finally wormed some juicy tidbits from him." Clara paused, obviously baiting her daughter.

  "Go on!" Molly prompted excitedly.

  "Well, back in the early days of George-Bradley's collecting, he and Keane used to go to kiln openings and auctions together. They knew each other during their junior high days, drifted apart during college, and were kind of reacquainted through pottery. Problem was, they both liked the same pieces. George-Bradley could afford them. Keane could purchase a good piece every now and then, but more often than not, he had to watch as George-Bradley bought up all the best pieces."

  "So he began getting jealous."

  "Yes. But according to Donald, it took a few years to bubble to the surface. From the outside, you'd never know that those two weren't the perfect buddies. They went to one another's parties, traveled to shows out of state together, and were generally thought to be best friends."

  "What happened?"

  Clara sighed. "This is the part where Donald got fidgety. Apparently, Keane started dropping by George-Bradley's house—often when his friend wasn't at home. Keane would tell Bunny that he’d wait in the living room for her husband to return. Sometimes he was still there when George-Bradley got back from work or wherever, but other times, he wasn't."

  "Because he was stealing pottery!" Molly exclaimed.

  "That's what George-Bradley thought too. He noticed a piece missing after one of Keane's visits.

  "Donald was at a swank party given for members of the

  Southern Pottery Collector's Group when he overheard the two friends go at it. George-Bradley accused Keane of taking some of his pieces while he was out of the house—pieces that Keane had always coveted."

  "Did Keane make a scene?"

  "Not really. Donald said Keane got really red in the face and told George-Bradley in an outraged whisper that their years of friendship obviously meant nothing if he was being called a thief by the one man he thought of as a brother."

  "How dramatic."

  "Exactly. George-Bradley didn't bother apologizing. They just stared daggers at one another. Then Keane downed his drink and left the party."

  "But they still must have run into each other all the time after that. The world of pottery collectors is fairly small and intimate."

  "Donald says you couldn't tell they even knew each other from the way they acted after that party. He only knows the truth because he was standing close enough to overhear their argument."

  "How long ago did they stop being friends?" Molly asked.

  "A couple years now."

  Molly tried to picture the scene at the party. "So after he stopped bumming around with Keane, did George-Bradley start finding women to accompany him to sales and shows instead?"

  "I guess."

  "There you have it. Keane's a prime suspect!" Molly declared. "However, there's a detail that I need to discover in order to confirm my suspicions."

  Clara cleared her throat. "What's that?"

  "Well, I've been thinking. Matt told me that George-

  Bradley suffered from an insulin overdose at the kiln opening. But I wonder, with all that sugary food, plus sweet tea, wouldn't he have had enough sugar to balance out the insulin even if he gave himself an extra dose? If he had taken two shots, he must have had the second one well before he arrived and ate all that sugar."

  Clara considered this. "So you need to find out where George-Bradley was before the kiln opening?"

  "If he was only with Bunny then she's my number one suspect," Molly continued. "Though it's pretty suspicious that Keane flew the coop right after George-Bradley's death. Perhaps
Keane and Bunny were in it together," Molly added, though she didn't really subscribe to this theory. "She hated the pottery. Keane coveted it."

  Clara ignored the latter bits of her daughter's speculations. "You'll have to ask Bunny if George-Bradley was home right up until the time he left for the kiln opening. I don't know how you'd bring that up in conversation with her."

  "Me either," Molly confessed. She thanked her mother and then dialed Matt's extension at the office.

  "I am so glad you're in," she gushed when he answered.

  "Wow, thanks," Matt replied happily.

  "I've got a medical question for you."

  "And here I thought just the sound of my voice made you weak in the knees," he teased.

  Molly took a deep breath and threw caution to the wind, "It does," she recklessly admitted. And then, she hastily continued before he could reply. "Listen, if George-Bradley had taken two shots of insulin, wouldn’t a handful of cookies and a big glass of sweet tea negate the overdose?"

  "Depends on how much extra insulin we're taking about. It could certainly slow down any negative side effects—enough to get him to the hospital for treatment."

  "So that's a 'yes?'"

  "It depends on how many units he took with each shot. If that second shot were a much higher dose, there'd be a bigger risk of death."

  "And who would know how many units he regularly took besides his doctor?" Molly asked.

  Matt paused to think. "His pharmacist, I suppose."

  "His pharmacist," Molly repeated.

  "Are you still playing detective?" he asked breezily, and she related all of her suspicions to him while trying not to sound like a fool.

  "The biggest hole in my theory revolves around the question of how could Keane give George-Bradley the extra insulin." Molly was grateful that Matt was taking her seriously. "And why kill his former friend now? Did Keane want to steal more pottery? Was he having financial problems?"

  "George-Bradley took a shot to get his insulin. I'd think he'd notice if someone stuck him with a needle," Matt pointed out.

  Realization hit Molly on the head like a flying brick. "But that's it!" she shouted excitedly. "That's why he was rubbing his stomach. He wasn't doing that because he had just given himself a shot. Bunny always did that for him at home. No. Someone stuck him at the kiln opening! There was such a rush of people bumping into one another ... it was the perfect opportunity. Keane was there, and he has access to insulin."

  "Molly, it would have to be a huge dose to cause the reaction that it did. Do you have any other evidence?"

  "Not yet. I'm going to interview my friend Sam Chance tomorrow. I'll see if he can tell me anything we don't already know about George-Bradley or Hillary Keane. Plus, he was at the kiln opening and he always has his ear to the ground."

  "Is he a potter or collector?"

  Molly smiled over the phone. "A potter and one of the nicest people I've ever met."

  "Have a good trip," Matt said warmly. "And let me know if... um ... if you get stuck... I could be your Watson."

  "Well, Doctor," Molly replied coyly, her heart singing, "you may just get the job."

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 8

  And life is much faster now than ours was. It's harder for young people to get into this business because they don't have the time to apprentice long enough to learn it. They've got to start earning a living right away and have a big paycheck to apply to the expenses of rising prices.

  — LOUIS BROWN, ARDEN, N.C. POTTER from Foxfire 8

  Chance’s Ware was in Seagrove, off the beaten path. Molly had plenty of time to spare, so she took a detour before her interview. Donald had told Clara over a bowl of steamed dumplings that Keane worked at the pharmacy downtown. That could only mean downtown Asheboro. Molly looked in the phone book and discovered only two pharmacies within city limits. She figured she could find the right one.

  Her strategy was simple: find out exactly when Keane took

  off and if anyone had noticed him acting strangely before he left the area. She planned to pretend to be a friend delivering a piece of pottery who hadn't heard a thing about Keane's disappearance. Molly had a weak poker face, so she prayed she could carry this off or her detective work would meet a quick end.

  The pharmacy closest to the highway was a small brick building on the comer. Urns of pink petunias turned their faces up to greet the rays of sun bouncing off the store windows in a wash of white light. The parking lot was swept clean and a little bell trilled out her arrival as she opened the paneled door.

  She spotted a red and white sign reading Prescriptions in the back of the store. A girl who looked as though she should still be in high school filed orders into alphabetical bins. She crackled bubble gum in time to the store’s jazzy elevator music, blowing large, pink balloons and then sucking them back into her mouth with a series of snaps and pops. Her dirty blonde hair, held back in a ponytail, swung back and forth like a pendulum as she moved from bin to bin.

  Molly took a breath and approached her. "Excuse me."

  The girl swung around, her hair whipping over her shoulder. Her nametag read Brandy.

  "Yeah?" She looked at Molly blankly.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Keane," she said in her most sugary voice.

  Brandy's eyes immediately narrowed and her jaw froze mid chew. "He's not here," and then she added reluctantly, "Can I help you with somethin'?"

  "No," Molly assured her. "I've come to deliver a piece of pottery to him."

  "Sorry, he's not in," the girl replied flatly.

  "But we were supposed to meet today," Molly insisted gently. “I drove all the way from Durham as a favor to him.”

  Brandy digested this bit of information while indecision played across her freckled face.

  "Look." Her voice became strained. "He hasn't been to work for over a week. I don't know what else to tell you."

  Molly dropped her eyes to the counter and frowned, doing her best to act worried. "Is he all right?"

  The conspiring whisper and the concerned face drew

  Brandy in. "We don't know," the girl admitted, leaning closer. "He's missing."

  "What?" Molly asked breathlessly, looking around the room wildly and hoping she wasn't overacting. "Since when?"

  "Friday afternoon, I guess." The girl closed up again. She obviously cared for her boss on some level and wasn't willing to expose her feelings to a stranger.

  Last Friday had been the day of the kiln opening. Molly swallowed her excitement She reached across the counter, patted the girl's forearm, and replied tenderly, "You poor thing. You must be worried sick."

  Brandy's anxiety washed over her face, making her appear even younger and more vulnerable. "I am," she confessed. "I worked with him that afternoon. He took the morning off to go to some pottery thing. But I was the last one to see him."

  "You must have to get in here awfully early," Molly sympathized.

  "Yeah, 'bout 7:00 to get all the orders ready by openin' time," she sighed. "The cashiers don't have to be here 'til 8:30, but we, I mean, Mr. Keane and me, we gotta be here early every single day."

  "Do you always have the same shift?" Molly asked, an idea forming.

  Brandy blew an enormous bubble and sucked it back into her mouth as she studied Molly. "Yeah. There's a pharmacist's assistant who works evenings, but he’s always here by himself."

  "Then you and Mr. Keane must be close, working side by side every day..." Molly suggested. She was hoping that showing a willingness to listen would get Brandy to confess something more intimate about her working relationship. Her intuition paid off.

  The girl hesitated and her shoulders slumped. Finally,she said very softy, "We are. He hired me after I got... after I had some trouble. Not many people would do that. I really need this job."

  "He is a good man," Molly agreed with false enthusiasm. She suddenly felt guilty about pumping this girl for information. Brandy might look young and innocent, but she had clearly had to grow up sw
iftly. Now her benefactor had disappeared, and the town was probably rife with rumor.

  "I wouldn’t worry," Molly said brightly, trying to ease the girl's mind. "Maybe he took a last-minute trip to get away from it all... did he seemed stressed to you?"

  The girl shook her head, her mind elsewhere.

  "Well, these pottery people are always running off to some show or another." She felt another pang of guilt. "Did he act like he was excited about an upcoming event or... maybe worried about something?"

  Brandy looked at her like she was the village idiot. "He's always worried! He has a good reason to be!"

  What did that mean? Suddenly, an image flashed before Molly's eyes. She remembered Keane at the kiln opening, struggling to clean his glasses. Those hands. They had been so gnarled and his face had been filled with embarrassment and frustration. Molly had seen hands like that before. Her grandmother's sister, an accomplished pianist, had developed such bad arthritis in her early sixties that she could no longer play. Molly recalled a faint memory of the swollen knuckles, the disobedient fingers, and the agonized flush on her great aunt's face as she attempted to peel an apple over the sink.

  "Of course," Molly whispered, more to herself than to the girl. "What pain he must have been in all the time."

  Brandy responded to the genuine sympathy in Molly's voice. "He was. Even though he takes medicine, he can hardly open the pill bottles anymore." She looked around to make sure no one could overhear a confession that could ruin her mentor’s career. "I have to use all the keys for him. It's too hard for him to fit them into the lock. The whole thing isn’t fair, either. It's not like he's an old man, but he has such a serious case and he’s afraid he’ll have to retire if anyone reports him to the district manager."

  Molly realized that Brandy was a little bit in love with her employer. "It's good of you to give Mr. Keane a hand," she said kindly. "He helped you, so now you keep his arthritis a secret. You make it so that he can still do his job. That’s admirable, Brandy."

  But Molly had gone too far in voicing Keane's affliction. Brandy gave her a guarded stare, mumbled, "Yeah," and returned back to her work and defensive gum chewing.