A Killer Collection

by J. B. Stanley

  The gardener appeared like Houdini from behind the garage, swinging a bundle of keys from a rope like a lifeguard. Walt had seen him when he ‘d visited the mansion to give Mrs. Staunton an estimate on the job. The gardener was a middle-aged Hispanic with his coffee-colored skin, and wide, dark eyes, and nut-brown hair. His face, although wrinkled prematurely by years of working in the sun, was handsome, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence and confidence.

  "Looking for these?" he asked Walt in a deep, accented voice. Walt noticed that he was taller than he’d seemed from a distance and his arms were sinewy and thick with strength. He had the build of a much younger man. He smelled of rich soil and cut grass.

  "Thank you ..." Walt accepted the keys and struggled to remember the man’s name.

  "Emmanuel." The gardener smiled, displaying a row of well-shaped white teeth. Walt couldn't help but notice a smudge of pink lipstick on the gardener's chin. Emmanuel was fooling around with a lady in the house. As interesting as that fact may be, Walt knew that it was none of his business. He was here for a job and he needed to get back to it.

  Opening the garage door, his crew shuffled inside with the desk and placed it against the back wall. Walt then rejoined his crew in the library, where the work on the paneling was going smoothly. A large scrap pile was building in the center of the room. Electrical lines wound like vines from ceiling to floor. He gestured to one of the men to hand over his crowbar.

  "Get the wheelbarrow. We've got to clean some of this out of here."

  The men worked quickly, joking with one another and sharing stories as they tore out the wood and piled pieces into the wheelbarrow. In the comer of the back wall, Walt dug his crowbar through the panel against the floor. The hooked end of his tool went deep behind the wood, meeting with no resistance. Surprised, Walt knelt and began prying the fractured wood away from the initial hole. Instead of seeing the same cracked wall behind the panel, a dark space peered back at him.

  "Roy, hand me your flashlight."

  "Sure, chief."

  Walt stuck the small face of the flashlight into the hole and switched the light on. The beam fell onto a trio of white shoeboxes, nestled like sleeping geese on a pile of newspaper.

  "What's that, chief? Secret hiding spot?"

  Walt removed the flashlight and stood. "Yeah, I think so. I'd better get Mrs. Staunton. Don't touch anything."

  Walt found Bunny outside, cutting plum-colored roses. She carried a wide, flat basket and hummed as she selected dozens of plump blooms for her arrangements. A large straw hat with a black ribbon masked her face.

  "Ma’am?" Walt called as he approached her.

  "Yes?" Bunny spoke without glancing away from her task.

  "We've found something in your husband's ... well, inside one of the walls."

  Bunny looked at him in confusion. "In the wall?"

  "I think you'd better come inside."

  After a moment’s pause, Bunny nodded and put her basket down. She followed Walt quietly into the library, where the noise had ceased and the men stood around in a cluster, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Walt led Bunny to the hole in the back wall and handed her the flashlight. As she switched on the light, Walt ushered his men out of the room.

  "Give her some privacy," he scolded. He was curious too, of course, but made it a rule not to get involved with his client's personal business. If they wanted to have affairs with the gardener, fine. If they had stashes of drugs or cash hidden behind the wall, fine. As long as he did his job and got paid for it, the wealthy citizens of Asheboro could lead their eccentric lifestyles. Walt worked in construction, not in therapy or criminal justice. He knew when to make himself scarce.

  "Come on, boys. Coffee break."

  ~~~~~

  Bunny reached inside the hole and pulled out the three shoeboxes. She noticed a latch on the panel’s frame, which must have served as the release button though it was hidden to the naked eye. A person would only need to press the right place on the frame and the panel would pop open a crack. Hidden behind a large wingback chair, no one would have randomly bumped against the spot. No wonder Bunny hadn't been aware of the existence of a secret panel in her husband’s study.

  Her hand resting on the dusty lid of the first box. Bunny hesitated. Did she really want to know what was inside? She knew enough of her husband's sordid past as it was. What else was there to damage her memory of him? Illegitimate children? A secret will?

  Bunny sighed, and for the millionth time thought about her life with George-Bradley when they had first been married. They had lived in a quaint cottage outside of town. She had grown vegetables in the small garden out back. He had practiced law and tinkered at his workbench, making wind chimes out of scrap metal. They ate watching television, drank lots of wine, and made love every night. When they moved into this house, bought with the money Bunny inherited from her parents, she thought she was living in a dream.

  But the dream slowly faded. Unable to have children, Bunny began growing prize roses obsessively, and George-Bradley began collecting pottery. She took gourmet- cooking classes but her husband was never home to eat her creations. She knew he was seeing other women, and her only comforts became the blue ribbons her roses won and the food she cooked. She put on weight; he stayed downstairs in his wing of the house until bedtime. When he finally got into bed, reeking of cigars and bourbon, he immediately turned away from her and went to sleep. Their only physical contact occurred when Bunny had the pleasure of jabbing her husband in the belly with a small needle twice a day. What had happened to their marriage?

  Bunny looked at the gutted walls. The oldest of two children, Bunny had inherited a larger portion of her parent's estate. Her sister, Caroline, had money too, but she never spent any. A spinster, she was a teacher at the nearby middle school. Her retirement was coming up in a few months, and the two sisters decided to meet old age comfortably together in Bunny's house. Bunny wanted to create a separate apartment suite for her sister. She wanted it to be bright and cozy and feminine. No trace of her husband would remain.

  There would be no more secrets in Bunny’s life either. She would tell Caroline that she was in love with Emmanuel. Finally, she would surrender the sham that she had had the perfect marriage. She would drop the role of grieving widow and get rid of all those ridiculous photographs in the living room. People she actually cared about would be placed in those frames.

  Taking in a deep breath that tasted of wood and dust, Bunny decided that her husband no longer had the power to hurt her. She popped off the lid of the first box. Inside were neat piles of bills, held together with rubber bands and covered in plastic wrap. Bunny saw that they were all stacks of 100s. A few thousand dollars of ready cash. This was certainly a positive discovery.

  Relieved, Bunny set the box aside and opened the second. Documents were rolled up neatly inside a plastic tube. Flattening them revealed a pile of bearer bonds, in denominations of ten thousand dollars. Bunny counted the bonds. A quarter of a million dollars worth! Why had George-Bradley stashed away all this money? Perhaps he was planning to divorce her so he could get back together with Susan Black. Why else would he hide bonds in a secret panel?

  Clutching the papers in anger, Bunny swore.

  "He must have been stealing from our joint account for years! I'd kill that bastard myself if he wasn't already dead."

  She stared at the third box.

  "Now what, George-Bradley?" she asked the still air. "You haven't done enough to ruin my life?"

  The third box revealed a solid, heavy lump wrapped in newspaper. Bunny broke through layers of tape and newspaper with her long, sharp nails. Unwrapping the object inside, she stared down at it, perplexed. This required further examination.

  Gathering the boxes in her hands, she headed for her wing of the house, giving a brief nod in the foreman's direction to signal that she had completed her business. He immediately called his men back to work.

  Safely in her study. Bu
nny dumped the boxes on her desk. After staring at the object in the third box for a long moment, she picked up the phone and began dialing.

  "At least I know how to get rid of you. You aren't even glazed.

  Probably worth nothing, just like my jerk of a husband." She jabbed the object with a scarlet talon, and then turned her attention to the voice on the phone. "Lex Lewis, please."

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Interlude

  Warmth and sunlight woke the clay. Even through the thick wrapping it could sense the power of release. The clay waited patiently while the folds of newspaper were removed from its curved body. It seemed like eons since its pores last breathed the moving air. Blinded by light, it lay impassive as it allowed the dust to swirl curiously around its form, settling into the round lines of its tail and between the nooks of its paws.

  Nails scraped along its body, harshly scratching at its exposed skin, still fragile after so much time alone in the damp darkness.

  The rabbit was turned upside down. Its ears hung above the ground, listening for the sound of the heavy footsteps of the man who had hidden him away. His scent lingered, but there were other, more recent smells too. The strong tinge of enamel paint, the rubbery smell of caulk, and a brush encrusted with polyurethane. Then there was the scent of the woman. Flowery and strong, it spoke to the clay of disguises. It shrank away from the nails and the chemical-tinged perfume, turning back to the fading memory of the potter's hands.

  The clay was carried off irreverently on one of the woman's palms and then dumped onto the polished surface of a black lacquered desk. It listened to her voice, brittle and demanding, drift off to another place beyond the room.

  "You 're not even glazed," her cold voice judged the clay, turning it back and forth and upside down before dismissing it as an item of little worth.

  The woman left, taking with her a cloud of anger and disappointment. The quiet crept in on light feet, settling around the clay and soothing it with gentle strokes of stillness and sunshine.

  Outside, a few leaves drifted lazily onto the shady slopes of grass. A thin wisp of air carried a gift of magnolia blossoms and boxwoods to the clay. Yellow finches gathered near the west window, darting flashes of color before the clay's parched eyes. Calmed, it inhaled the summer, the season of its birth.

  With the ancient knowledge of the stones and water that had come together to form its heart, the clay knew that someone was coming for it. Someone was coming, someone who had the right hands. Someone who recognized the spirit, the spark of life residing deep within the clay.

  The potter was gone and the clay had been alone for a long time now. But soon, very soon, it would be given a home, and a place of honor among the other things birthed from wood and stone and earth. Soon.

  The clay opened up its pores to capture the soft breath of wind seeping through the sills. It could wait here for a while. For now, no more darkness would follow.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 14

  But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

  —2 CORINTHIANS 4:7

  Clara called when Molly was in the middle of previewing items at Bud Earl's Auction Company in Greensboro. As a writer for Collector's Weekly, Molly was allowed a private preview. Lingering over a folk art painting of the Statue of Liberty, Molly was so captivated by the bright colors, polka dots, and stripes decorating the frame that it took her a minute to recognize that the annoying buzzing interrupting her concentration was coming from her purse.

  "Hello?"

  "Madam? Are you still at Earl's?" Clara asked.

  "I am." Molly moved on to the next painting. It was a primitive work of an African-American man being chased by an oversized snake. Simply called "Black Snake" by the artist, it had been painted on a piece of pine that had once served as part of an outhouse door.

  Yesterday's threatening voice mail had almost faded in light of the lively folk art and the warm memory of Matt's kiss, which she replayed in her mind again and again.

  "He have anything good?" Clara broke into her daughter’s reverie.

  "Some great folk art," Molly reluctantly admitted. After all, other auction companies were direct competition for Lex.

  "Can you do Lex and me a huge favor?" Clara asked.

  "What is it?"

  "Bunny found one more piece of George-Bradley's pottery. Would you mind picking it up? I've got an appraisal in Raleigh so I'm too busy to drive two hours the other way to fetch it."

  Molly was a bit apprehensive about seeing Bunny after witnessing her face-off with Susan, and yet she was already halfway to Asheboro. Not only that, but she could use this opportunity to dig more information up on the Staunton marriage and George-Bradley's last morning alive. Molly was certain she'd get some kind of vibe about whether or not Bunny was guilty of murder. Maybe she'd even learn more about the mysterious letter. "Sure," she told Clara charitably. "What is the piece?"

  "Don't know, but Bunny said it wasn't glazed, so it's no keeper. We just want to keep her happy because she gave us George-Bradley’s collection and she does travel in influential circles."

  "Maybe, I'll just offer her some cash for the piece," Molly joked. “Use it as a paperweight at work.”

  "Go right ahead. Lex doesn't even want it. It won't fit in with the rest of the collection we're auctioning next month. And after all the money we got for that woman for the first group she didn't seem the least bit grateful."

  Molly paused. "It's not the money, Ma. The pottery just held bad memories for her. She just wants to be done with it."

  "As we want to be done with her. Thanks." Clara rang off.

  Stuffing her phone back in her purse, Molly finished viewing the artwork. Earl had over two dozen primitive folk art paintings from a variety of North Carolina artists. Folk art was becoming a hot item across the East Coast and Molly had decided to write an introductory piece about folk art in addition to her article describing today’s auction. She hoped Swanson would approve. Taking down some notes on several of the artists, she thanked the auctioneer and headed once more for Bunny's house.

  ~~~~~

  After ringing the doorbell for the third time, Molly let out a sigh of frustration. Clearly, no one was going to answer. Through the front window, she could see a shoebox propped on the hall table with the words Lex Lewis marked on it. Boldly, Molly decided to try opening the door. To her surprise, it was unlocked.

  Tiptoeing over to the small box stuffed with paper, Molly picked it up and carefully peeled back the folds of tissue. She saw the face of a clay rabbit peering up at her from its white nest. It had been fired, but never glazed.

  The little rabbit, with its winking eyes and long, perky ears smiled up at her. She delicately traced its incised whiskers and felt the curve of its graceful hind leg. She stroked the two front paws and ran her fingertips lovingly down its arched back.

  "Hello," she whispered to the pottery.

  Carefully tipping the rabbit upside down, she searched for initials. What she saw made her suck in her breath in a great gasp.

  "Jack Graham. Kiln #43." She looked back into the rabbit's eyes and exhaled in awe. "My Lord. You're a piece from the missing kiln."

  She cradled the clay rabbit in her hands, cupping its body as if it were a tiny sparrow fallen from the nest.

  Suddenly, the silence in the room seemed to lengthen. The twitter of mockingbird’s in the yard and the buzzing of honeybees and cicadas faded. Molly held the rabbit against her and felt the life throbbing within the clay. She sensed its journey through the riverbed, saw the spinning wheel slick with water, the potter's hands, and felt the night curl around it as it dried in the summer air. A strong feeling of protective enveloped her. No one would take this piece from her. It had a story to tell and she would listen to its wordless tale.

  "Poor thing. Have been in the dark for a long time? Don't worry, that's all over now. You're coming home with me."

  And then, in
a house that had seemed completely empty moments ago, a piercing scream shattered the silence.

  "Nnnoooooooooo!" echoed a man's voice. The elongated syllables were filled with pain.

  Molly sprinted into Bunny's wing, the rabbit clutched tightly in her hand.

  At first all she saw was the estate’s gardener on his knees, rocking back and forth and sobbing ‘no’ over and over. As Molly reached out to touch him, to comfort him, she saw Bunny.

  Bunny was laid out on the sofa as if she had swooned, her yellow blouse torn through the center of her chest where a bullet had bit through the fabric. Blood was splattered in thin droplets all over the white sofa and wall. Dark red liquid had dripped from her back and pooled onto the hardwood floor, forming an oval stain. The gardener was kneeling in it as he held Bunny's limp hand and wailed.

  A pink pillow lay at Bunny's feet, its fibrous filling scattered over her legs and the floor. Whoever had killed Bunny had shot her at close range through the pillow. It had been blown apart by the force of the bullet.

  Molly blinked, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. She stared dumbly at the red blood pooled by her shoe. Bunny was dead, right in front of her. She took a step back, shaking herself out of shock.

  Her first action was to stop the gardener from screaming. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

  "What's your name?" she demanded firmly.

  The man turned his coffee-colored eyes to her. She almost flinched when she saw the agony reflected in his face. "I am ... my name is Emmanuel."

  "Come away, Emmanuel," she said gently, tugging at his arm to get him to stand up. When he wouldn't budge, she pulled him harder. "We have to call the police. Please. Come with me."

  Mindlessly, the grieving man stood and followed her. His loud sobs had turned to weeping, and Molly instinctively put her arm around his waist and propelled him to the kitchen. After calling the police and reporting the murder, she put the kettle on and searched in the cupboards until she found packets of tea.