A Killer Collection

by J. B. Stanley

  She frowned. "Older" was age thirty? She would already be considered an older bride. Ridiculous. Molly sighed, thinking of her mother's persistent nagging fear of her daughter becoming a spinster. Molly didn't want to be a spinster either, but she certainly wasn't going to settle for Mr. So-So just to become a Mrs. So-So.

  The former gloom of the day settled back on her shoulders like a cloak. First, there was Sam's warning to stay away from Jack Graham. Now, in a haven of books and caffeine that usually formed a comforting setting, Molly felt out of place. The pile of bridal magazines pointedly reminded her of her single status, and the magnificent sparkle of her neighbor's ring caught her eye with each excited wave of the girl's manicured hand. Every table in the cafe seemed to be occupied by chatting couples or smug women with wedding bands. Molly sighed. It was time to go.

  Perhaps a connection with Matt was in order. If she could just get him out of the office again, they might have a chance to get to know one another better. Molly envisioned a candlelit table with Matt listening raptly to her witty conversation. Yes! She could take charge and ask him out. Molly had never asked a man on a date before and she was terrified, but why not give it a shot? After all, women now performed all kinds of feats once reserved for men. Gender roles were being redefined all the time.

  Driving back to the newspaper’s office building, she pictured Matt's laughing blue eyes and his easy smile. She thought about his calmness and the way he listened so attentively to everything she said. Fueled by determination, she checked her flawless complexion in the lobby mirrors, ran her fingers through her dark hair, and made her way to her desk with brisk, confident strides.

  She decided to quickly check her voice mail before sailing off into the evening's sunset with Matt. She only had one message, and it was from Susan Black.

  "Miss Appleby?" Susan's cool voice hummed through the receiver. "I received your message about doing an interview on my collection. Of course"—she made an effort to sound less frosty—"I would love to oblige, but I'd like to wait until after the Lex Lewis auction this weekend. You see, I plan to enhance my collection by adding several notable pieces from that sale. So let's plan on the week after, all right? I'll get in touch with you as to when I'll be available."

  "Yes, Your Highness." Molly smirked, replacing the receiver. Then she made her way to Matt's office. Rapping lightly on his closed door, her insides churning, Molly could hear the sound of giggling coming from inside. Matt was not alone.

  Suddenly, footsteps moved toward the door. Molly beat a hasty retreat to the nearest cover: a large fichus tree next to the water cooler. Peering between the leaves, Molly prayed that her green shirt would provide enough camouflage to avoid being spotted by Matt and his visitor.

  Still giggling, a young, long-legged blonde stepped out of Matt's office with a smile on her full lips. She wore a pewter blouse in shimmering silk tucked into a short, brown suede skirt. High heels that came to a sharp point at the toe accentuated her trim legs. Her body was long, lean, and sinewy. She was like a beautiful, blonde lioness. Swinging her long mane flirtatiously over one shoulder, she turned back to Matt and laid a graceful hand on his shoulder.

  "You and I make such a great team," she purred.

  Matt's cheeks reddened as he agreed. "I'm glad you had a chance to stop in today."

  "Me too!" Blondie oozed, leaning into Matt's chest a little.

  "Well, um..." Matt stammered, looking exactly as he had when Molly suggested they have dinner together the other night. What a fool she had been! Did he perform his Mr. Shy routine on all women?

  "Well nothing, darling." Blondie gave him a playful poke in the chest. "I'll see you tonight. Bye for now." She turned and sashayed down the hallway.

  Matt stood rooted to the floor, watching the sultry figure sway away. Molly caught a whiff of a strong, citrus-scented perfume. Who was that woman? Was Matt dating someone after all? From the way they’d been talking to one another, they obviously weren't strangers. Molly felt crushed. She could never hope to compete with someone who had the body of a Barbie doll and the fashion sense of Audrey Hepburn. Even the woman's heady perfume created a glamorous signature in the air around her.

  Feeling she was going to be sick from the overwhelming scent and her own humiliation, Molly waited until Matt went back inside his office and closed the door behind him. Then she moved out from her hiding place, took a deep drink from the tepid water cooler, and fled.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 10

  The kiln is a constantly changing personality, from the lag/ quiet beginning to the dramatic climax of full fire, flame issuing from all ports, and greedy demands for fuel.

  —HARRY MEMMOTT, from Discovering Pottery

  Molly woke the next morning hoping that the sultry figure she had seen yesterday had belonged to a dream. Surely, that long-legged sex goddess wasn't Matt's girlfriend. Walking blearily into the bathroom, Molly turned on the shower and took a hesitant look in the steamy mirror. She examined her curvy, big-boned body and compared herself to the thin, lithe blonde. She felt totally depressed.

  "Apples and oranges," she muttered to her foggy reflection. "No, not even. More like celery and pears."

  Molly dressed in loose, comfortable clothes, stuck her hair in a ponytail, and went downstairs to eat breakfast.

  The kitchen was strategically bare of comfort food, so she absently chewed on some nutritious cereal that was strongly reminiscent of the mulch she had recently put down around her bed of daylilies. Her sweltering car and an accident blocking both lanes leading to the office did nothing to improve her sour mood.

  At work she sat listlessly at her desk and avoided looking in Matt's direction. It didn't take much of a sleuth to see how dejected she was, and when Clayton sat down opposite her later in the break room, he wasted no time in bringing up Matt.

  "I can tell you saw our boy with that vixen yesterday," Clayton began, grimacing as he struggled with the wrapper of a banana MoonPie. "Did you smell that perfume? Ugh! Eau Du Tramp."

  Molly smiled despite herself. "It was awfully musky, but she's still a stunning woman."

  "Sure, if you like giggling twigs who smell like the cosmetic counter at JC Penny," Clayton said, closing his fingers over his nostrils as if the scent was still present.

  "Do you think she's Matt's girlfriend?"

  "I didn't think he had one and I know everything about everyone's love life." Clayton paused to think, his forefinger tugging at his bottom lip. "Still, I can find out."

  "How?" Molly asked cautiously.

  Clayton took a dainty bite out of his MoonPie and dusted a smattering of crumbs from his shirt as if each one were a poisonous insect. "He's got an appointment book. If she was his girlfriend he won't have her written in. Heaven forbid if she is! I will have totally misjudged the man for having good taste. Or," he taunted, "I could just ask him."

  "No!" Molly started. "Don't do that. He'll guess I put you up to it."

  "Honey, you just leave it all to little ole Clayton. I'm not the Queen Bee around here for nothing. Go get yourself busy with your next scintillating article and I'll be in touch." Clayton winked and blew her a theatrical kiss as he walked out of the room.

  As she was ahead of schedule at work, Molly decided to shut down her computer and spend the rest of the day at home in her sweatpants, napping with her cats. Swanson was out, no doubt enjoying the fine weather by playing eighteen holes of golf, so there was no one to question her absence.

  Her late afternoon snooze session on the deck surrounded by birdsong and perky geraniums in terra-cotta pots was interrupted by a call from her mother. "Why aren't you at Lex's preview party?" she demanded.

  Molly plucked a red gummy bear from its bag underneath her plastic chaise and dropped it into her mouth. "Because, " she said, chewing, "I'll see all those people tomorrow."

  "But you always go when you're covering an auction. And we managed to work in a dozen of George-Bradley's best pieces into tomorrow's sale by making
an addendum to the catalogue. It's mobbed here already. So why aren't you coming?"

  Molly hesitated. She was upset about the discovery of Matt's possible girlfriend, but she also didn't feel like getting dressed up in order to talk shop. She felt like an evening of TV, her two cats snuggled like book ends on her sofa, and a good sulk.

  "I'm just tired," Molly told her mother.

  "Fine. Listen, there's another reason I'm calling. I heard something on the radio today about Hillary Keane. Apparently he's been found, whatever that means. I couldn't hear anything else because Lex was on the cell phone extolling the virtues of an empire chest to a client. I did hear that there's going to be a report on the six o'clock news. I thought you'd be interested."

  "He's been found?" Molly asked in wonder, the candy on her palm forgotten. "As in his body or as in discovered holed up in some seedy motel room with two kilos of coke?"

  "I don't know. In between all the description of the carvings and the details of the chest’s provenance all I heard was Hillary's name and full details at six. You'd better watch," Clara said.

  "Wow! Listen, I have to tell you what I discovered about him when I stopped by the pharmacy." Molly quickly filled Clara in on her conversation with Brandy. "I am going to be glued to that TV tonight, aren't you?"

  "No. I came over to the gallery early to give the boys some directions for tomorrow. I'm running the floor and that means it's my responsibility to make sure they hold up the one-drawer stand instead of the umbrella stand during the sale. Lex couldn't have hired people who knew less about antiques if he picked them blindfolded."

  Molly laughed, imagining her mother henpecking the four young men employed to haul furniture during sales. True, they weren't the sharpest tools in the shed, but at least they were capable of carrying huge wardrobes and heavy chests of drawers to people's cars. Those old pieces of furniture were solid masses of wood, awkward to carry and even harder to cram into backs of minivans and SUVs.

  "Their lack of knowledge gives you the opportunity to educate them about the world of antiques. A world that’s very important to a group of teenage boys," she teased her mother, feeling revived by the news about Keane. "Not only that, but you are a natural at bossing people around."

  "Hmph," Clara snorted. "Any more educational opportunities and I'll be starting my cocktail hour right after lunch. 'Night dear."

  Molly stretched out on the couch and leafed through an antiques magazine while she waited for the news to come on. She mulled over her motives for not attending the preview. Normally, she lined up a future interview during this time—someone she was sure would spend a lot of money at the auction the following day. Now, she would have to cover the auction and acquire an interview candidate at the same time.

  She admitted to herself that another reason for avoiding the party was that she hoped to receive a phone call from Clayton.

  Popping several more candies in her mouth, she switched to the local news. The leadoff story concerned a national kidnapping case that, for once, had resulted in a happy ending. The little girl who had been taken to an abandoned house and tied to a pipe with duct tape had chewed through the tape and shouted for help from a broken window. The footage showed her safely at home with her parents and grandmother, being hugged tightly and given flowers and plush animals from the neighbors.

  Molly was pleasantly surprised to see a positive story leading off the nightly news. She never watched it anymore because the focus of every piece was celebrity gossip, a grisly crime, or political scandal. After a teaser about a possible baseball strike and a long commercial break, the anchorwoman lifted her shiny crown of platinum blonde hair and announced the capture of an antiquities thief in the western part of the state.

  "This afternoon in Hendersonville," she intoned in a voice of dried up honey. "Authorities arrested forty-four-year-old Hillary Keane on charges of theft and driving under the influence. Sources say Keane swerved off the road, nearly hitting a jogger, before colliding with the guardrail and coming to a stop. Here's Phil with more."

  The screen switched to a mountain road winding its way through a small town. The reporter, frowning in well-rehearsed consternation, stood before a curve in the road where the guardrail had buckled beneath the weight of Keane's van. The van was being removed on a flatbed tow truck behind Phil as he gave his report:

  "This is the scene of what could have been a serious tragedy. Hillary Keane, a pharmacist from Asheboro, was swerving all over this twisted stretch of road when he almost hit Hendersonville's Clyde Farmer. Farmer was out jogging, hoping to get in a midday run before heading back to work at the post office. He almost didn't make it. When he saw Keane's oncoming vehicle, Farmer leapt over the guardrail in an attempt to avoid the oncoming car. He missed being hit by a matter of seconds. Farmer suffered minor injuries from his fall and is being treated at the local hospital."

  Phil gestured at the guardrail and continued, "As if driving under the influence weren't enough, Keane is in even more hot water. Authorities report that several bins of stolen pottery were found in his battered vehicle. The pieces belong to different collectors across the state and are thought to be extremely valuable. Keane admitted that he was planning to sell them to an unknown buyer from Pennsylvania. Fortunately, none of the valuables were damaged in the crash. Authorities are now trying to discover who else was involved in the resale of the stolen goods. Keane is currently being held without bail. This is his second offense for driving while impaired." Phil produced a judgmental frown. "Marion, back to you."

  "Hmm." Marion shook her shingled hair in disdain. "Looks like someone has a lot of explaining to do. Thanks, Phil. Up next, a Raleigh man gains much more than a pet when he visits his local animal shelter. Stay with us."

  As the commercial break began, Molly frantically dialed the number to Lex's gallery. When Kitty answered, she asked her to fetch Clara to the phone right away.

  "What's going on?" Kitty asked.

  "Mom will tell you, just find her!"

  When Clara heard the news, she was astounded. "A thief! I never would have guessed. I've seen him at sales for years. He seemed like a complete gentleman."

  "I think he was to some people." Molly told Clara about the girl Keane had helped at the pharmacy. "Still, I bet Keane was stealing George-Bradley's pottery and he was found out. And now we know that he had a prior conviction for drunk driving. He probably had a hell of a time driving with those hands even when he was sober. Do you know what I'm thinking?"

  "You still believe there's a connection to George- Bradley's death?"

  "Maybe he just supplied the insulin. With such advanced rheumatoid arthritis, I don't think it's possible for him to have directly given George-Bradley the shot, but he's still a shady character."

  Clara paused. "Keane was after pottery. He was greedy, but I don't see him aiding a killer. And why help someone kill George-Bradley now? Who else would benefit from his death?" Molly heard a crash in the background. "Listen, I can't think about all this detective stuff right now. I've still got so much to do here and Tweedledee and Tweedledum aren't getting any smarter."

  Molly grinned. "I assume those are your new helpers. How's the crowd?"

  "It's been super-busy. This should be a terrific sale. Lex is going to rake it in."

  "Good for him. He works so hard for it."

  "So do I!" Clara pretended to be hurt.

  "And you do, too, Ma. See you in the morning."

  Molly cooked chicken in a creamy mustard sauce for dinner and then watched the ten o'clock news to see if there were anymore updates on Keane. What had that man been thinking? Why was he so desperate to sell the pottery that he stole from other collectors? Did he only steal from people he disliked as a kind of revenge? Was he an accessory to murder as well as a thief and a drunk? Maybe the girl in the pharmacy was covering for him. She obviously cared for him deeply, so she'd gladly give him an alibi.

  Turning down her bed sheets, Molly stroked Griffin's soft brown and black fu
r as he curled up next to her. If Keane was guilty of being an accessory, she was sure the police would follow the trail created by the stolen pottery.

  Inevitably, that trail would lead them to George-Bradley's house, where they would learn about his friendship with Keane from Bunny. Next, they would link the day of George-Bradley's death with Keane's sudden exodus. They would interview people who knew both men, and someone like Donald would tell them about the night George-Bradley called his former friend a thief. Linking all these clues together, the police would realize this was not a case of accidental death. They would ferret out the truth about Keane and question him about the person he had helped murder a man no one seemed to miss.

  Satisfied that the mysterious death of the infamous pottery collector was about to be solved by capable professionals, Molly drifted off to sleep.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 11

  People need pots. You can see that from the way they love to look at them, to handle and to buy.

  —ROSEMARY ZORZA, from Pottery: Creatiing With Clay

  A low fog hung out the window, holding the humidity hostage. Blades of grass reached wearily upward as dewdrops weighed down their yellow green ridges. It was early. Even the birds were silent. No cars passed by, lawn mowers rested in their sheds, and children were still turning in their sleep, dreaming of triple-decker ice cream cones and riding their bikes to the pool where they would find the courage to dive off the high board.

  Molly's alarm pierced the tranquility with the high shrill of a Victorian policeman's whistle. Her cats remained immobile on the bed, their eyes closed in tight slits as they burrowed farther into their own feathery stomachs and ignored her movements as she shuffled downstairs to make coffee.

  Once she reached Lex's gallery, she noticed that the parking lot was awfully full for an auction that didn't begin for another two hours. Before the sale started, Molly typically photographed the items she believed would bring the highest prices, but today she could see this might prove difficult if mobs of people were trying to preview pieces before the sale.