A Killer Collection

by J. B. Stanley

  Most of the articles were about Graham's pieces being exhibited in the area museums or about his biannual kiln openings. Molly began by numbering the articles on the openings, so she could discover in which month kiln number 43 had not been produced. She paused over any photographs from the sales, noting familiar figures such as George-Bradley, Hillary Keane, Clara's friend Donald, and even Clara herself. Most of these were taken before the kiln opening began, when frenzied buyers stood with their hands resting on the piece of their choice, carefully guarding it until the time they could check out.

  By kiln number 25, Molly noticed that Jack Graham had switched to the lottery system. Now photos showed buyers drawing from a hat and studying their numbers with glee or dismay. Those with low numbers picked first, snatching the most singular pieces from the sale. By the end of the lottery, only a few plain vases or ordinary bowls remained. They were all beautiful, but not as unique as the one peacock-incised floor vase or elaborate salt-glazed candelabra that the lucky holders of low lottery numbers had seized in the first few rounds of drawings.

  In fact, one photo illustrated a woman throwing her hands in the air in disgust as she discovered what number she had drawn. Molly smiled at the photo, as it was so typical of the emotions displayed all over in the world of collecting. She examined the article further, admiring a photograph of neat rows of pottery in Graham's yard, the words of praise from the local museum curators, and the attendance his work drew for county festivals. So far, Graham's life seemed trouble free.

  As she continued to number the articles, the late afternoon sun began to grow weary and rested its heavy head among the pines dotting the horizon. The librarian hummed at her desk, her small hands flipping through the pages of a colorful children's book. Molly watched her, wondering if she would know anything more about Graham. After all, she had probably lived in the area for a long time and if there were any noteworthy personal information about him, surely a local person would know all about it.

  "Ma’am?" she interrupted the librarian's reading.

  "How can I help you, dear?'

  "I seem to keep striking out and I don’t want to go home barehanded," Molly said truthfully.

  "Those films didn't help?" The bright eyes were sympathetic.

  "No. I'm looking for information on Jack Graham, the potter. Do you know him?"

  The woman's wrinkled forehead gathered into itself as she thought. "I've heard of him, yes. He makes pottery, but not much these days I hear."

  Molly showed her the numbered stack of articles. "About two years ago, in the spring, he should have had kiln opening number 43, but he didn't. I'm trying to figure out why."

  "Well, let me see." The librarian shuffled back over to the drawers holding the microfiche. "We'll have to look at that year's events some more. Maybe there was a fire or something ... a particular hardship or catastrophe that prevented him from working."

  Molly digested the librarian's comment and then seized upon an idea. "Fire, maybe... or snow!" she suggested, excitedly. "Isn't that the winter we had those two big storms back-to-back and no one had power for weeks?"

  "It is, it is." The blue eyes sparkled.

  "And he might not have been able to work without power," Molly continued.

  The librarian loaded in the film, and the two women sat side by side and read about the aftermath of the two blizzards. North Carolina rarely saw snow, and when it came, it was usually a light dusting that sent people dashing out to the store for bread, milk, and eggs. Driving conditions were treacherous because the state had no equipment for snow removal. Still, people who could barely drive well in rain went racing off in a state of panic to the grocery, causing dozens of accidents each time a cluster of snowflakes flew.

  But the blizzards were different. They each piled six to eight inches of snow in some places, downing power lines and covering the roads completely. After the two storms had dumped their loads of heavy powder, a rain had fallen, covering the world in a clear layer of sparkling, menacing ice.

  Molly remembered using her gas logs to stay warm and sleeping on the sofa for a week. With no electricity, she had to reread all of Jane Austen's novels and put together puzzles by candlelight, thrilled at having a week off school and enjoying the adventure of donning snow gear to walk a mile to the grocery store where she waited for two hours in line to buy cat food and granola bars.

  However, she lived in a populated development, and by the second week her power was restored. And even when her car had been snowed in, she could walk fairly easily to the store and was able to use her cell phone to call her friends and family. Others had not been so lucky.

  Out in the country, many people had no source of energy except for small wood-burning stoves. They had no access to grocery stores and had to rely on whatever canned goods were at hand. Dozens of fatalities occurred from car accidents. Worse than that, several people had died from hypothermia when they got trapped in thigh high snow heading to town on the remote back roads. When the snow melted, their bodies were discovered near the road or curled inside their cars where they had gotten stuck too far from town and too far from home.

  "Maybe that's it." Molly turned to her helper, thinking about the news stories she’d seen on TV about the serious conditions people in the country faced during those two weeks. "What about that storm could have changed Jack Graham's life? A friend of mine told me that the family had had some trouble. Did they ... did he lose someone in that storm?"

  The librarian didn't answer. She seemed lost in thought.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Oh," the woman said and flashed her a smile. "I was just trying to remember. And call me Harriet, dear. There's something scratching at my brain but I can't figure out what it is. We can check the obituaries for the months before Graham was supposed to have his opening. He had one in the spring and one in the fall, correct?" Molly nodded. "But we've got to shake a tail feather because it's almost closing time," the librarian added.

  Molly looked at her watch in alarm. She only had twenty minutes left. If she didn't find something today, she'd have to make the hour and a half trip again after the auction this weekend.

  "Don't fret." Harriet held out two rolls of fresh film. "You check the months you have and I'll look back in the October and November obituaries."

  "Thank you, that's very kind."

  The two women fell silent, scanning the names of those who had died between October and April, looking for a familiar name or face to jump out from where it was buried in positives and negatives within the screen. Graham's openings were regularly held in September and April, early in the morning on vibrant, crisp days. Molly was loading in the film for February when Harriet gasped beside her.

  "What is it?" Molly asked.

  "I'm remembering." The blue eyes shifted slowly from the screen to the sinking sun out the window. "There was something about one of his children."

  "I read in a biographical piece that he had two."

  "Something terrible," Harriet said mournfully as she turned back to her machine and began hastily loading in the October film. "There was something about his little girt."

  Molly abandoned her machine and slid her chair closer to Harriet's, comforted by her vanilla scent and the fruity perfumes of her hair.

  In the silent room, Molly felt a strong foreboding grip her. They were about to uncover something horrible, something that shouldn't be rifled through by a complete stranger.

  Molly found she no longer wanted to know what happened to disturb the balance of this man's life. He was a gifted potter, a husband, and a father. What was she doing here, searching for his secrets? It was his life; his reasons for taking a season off of pottery making were his own. She was no tabloid journalist.

  Shaken, she reached out to tell Harriet to stop, that it didn't matter, that there were others to interview, that she had been wrong to come. Her hand reached out, touched the soft fabric of Harriet's cotton blouse, and rested there.

  "Here!" Harriet breathed, ar
resting the words on Molly's lips.

  She pointed to an obituary toward the middle of the first column. Hesitating, Molly looked at the photograph of a smiling little girl with long pigtail braids tied with gingham bows. She was missing one of her front teeth and large dimples dented her shiny cheeks. She wore overalls over a T-shirt and looked impatient to be on the move again yet too good-natured not to smile sweetly for what must have been a school picture. Molly read:

  Graham

  Lilly Ann Graham, age 9, departed this life Saturday, October 3rd to join the Lord. She is survived by her loving parents, Jack and Leslie Graham and by her brother, Jack Junior, age 7. Lilly Ann was in the third grade at Seagrove Elementary School where she excelled in art and science classes. She played competitive soccer and recently starred in her class play, Many Moons. Lilly Ann will be remembered for her loving, generous spirit. Memorial services will be held Monday, October 5th from noon until one p.m. at the Piney Hollow Methodist Church, 1500 North Bramble Drive. Interment will be at the Seagrove Memorial Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, the family suggests contributions to be made to The Girl Scouts of America, of which Lilly Ann was an enthusiastic member.

  Molly sat back in her chair, her hand covering her mouth. What had happened to Graham's little girl?

  "How horrible," she muttered, blinking back tears as she stared at Lilly Ann's face. "That poor family."

  Harriet turned to her, blue eyes liquid as they reflected the light from the screen. "Now I remember," she whispered, then turned back to the machine and went back to the front page of the same edition. "Look."

  Molly felt a shiver ripple up her arms. One of the bold headlines read, "Seagrove Girl Killed By Hit-and-Run."

  "They found her in the road," Harriet began, speaking so softly that Molly could barely hear her. "She was already dead. She had been riding her bike ... I remember that. Here's a picture of it, see?" Molly unwillingly leaned forward to see the crushed and twisted metal remains. Harriet continued, "I remember her mother telling a reporter that she never let Lilly Ann go too far from home. She had some kind of medical condition. She was allowed to ride down to the creek in one direction and to the neighbor's in the other. That day, she was going to the creek to sail some paper boats she'd made at school. They were still in her backpack."

  "How unbelievably awful," Molly said with deep sorrow.

  "They never caught the driver. He hit her and drove off. There were no witnesses. Back where most of those potters live, there aren't too many other folks around."

  Harriet sighed, turning away from the tragic headline. "That was the worst of it... that whoever killed this sweet little girl probably never stopped, never even pulled over to see if she was alive."

  "And no one was ever arrested?" Molly asked in disbelief.

  "No one." Harriet closed her eyes for a moment. "He got away. But his time will come. That's the way things work in this world."

  Molly was stunned. As Harriet pressed the "print" button and noiselessly moved off to begin her closing tasks, she remained immobile in her wooden chair. Finally, as the humming of the machines clicked off to silence, Molly let her head sink into her hands, her eyes straying to the window.

  At last, all of the pieces of the puzzle about George- Bradley's death fell together. Molly now knew who his killer was and the murderer was not Susan Black. What should have been a triumphant moment filled her with a heavy weariness. And she would still need to prove herself right before mentioning what she knew to anyone else.

  The surrendering sun had disappeared behind the blue-black line of trees and long snakelike shadows crept like tendrils across the library floor. The other people who had been quietly reading or typing at computers had departed. The fluorescent lights fizzled and strained to make up for the departure of natural light. Molly turned full circle before her stack of paper and note cards, searching for a sign of life.

  But she was alone with no comfort left in the dying day.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 16

  Potters have always catered to children—in part, because children have always been drawn to their shops to witness the magical growth of a jug on the wheel or to take part in the excitement of kiln burning.

  —CHARLES G. ZUG III, from Turners and Burners

  Jack Graham’s kiln opening for kiln number 50 took place under a rented tent in his backyard at the reasonable hour of ten o'clock on a fine, late summer morning. Two picnic tables held the seventy-five extraordinary pieces of pottery to be sold before lunch.

  Riding to Seagrove with Clara and Donald, Molly kept opening the shoebox on her lap to gaze sadly upon the face of her little rabbit. She planned to return him to the Grahams, the

  rightful owners, and hopefully put an end to all the mystery that had begun just a few weeks ago at another kiln opening.

  "So tell Donald why Susan Black killed Bunny. He hasn't heard the whole story," Clara prompted from the front seat.

  Molly took a sip of creamy hazelnut coffee. "One of my coworkers, Clayton, worms the best tidbits from a friend of his from the Times. This reporter interviewed Susan right after her arrest. Apparently, Susan knew all about the bearer bonds George-Bradley had stashed away and was waiting for the right time to steal them from the Staunton’s house. Her plan was to grab the certificates and leave the state. That's why she never called me back to schedule an interview."

  "I take it Bunny didn't oblige her," Donald stated.

  "I guess not. Susan claimed that George-Bradley had been saving that money so that once he and Bunny were divorced, he could start a new life with her. He told Susan about his hiding place in the wall but Susan hadn’t counted on Bunny being home. That was Bunny's regular day to play bridge at her sister's house, but she had changed her schedule in order to meet Lex’s employee. Of course, it was me who came to collect the rabbit and not someone from the auction gallery."

  "But Susan showed up at the Stauntons carrying a gun!" Clara exclaimed.

  "Yes, and when the police picked her up she was loading a box of pottery into her car. She had fake identification papers and was planning to live a quiet life of ease in the Caymans. She also showed no signs of remorse. She felt she was owed those bonds, and she was going to get them no matter what."

  Donald shook his head. "But they broke up two years ago, so why did she decide to go after this money now?"

  Molly shrugged. "I guess she figured with George Bradley dead, she could take the bonds and no one would be the wiser. Susan knew where the bearer bonds were hidden and she must have assumed that Bunny knew nothing about the secret panel. So she took a chance and went to get them without thinking about the consequences of getting caught. However, Susan did not seem like a stable person in the police station. I mean, who attacks an enemy with a stapler?"

  "I'm glad you can be so flippant about that" Clara complained. "As for your poor mother... the images I have from your recent events! How can you get yourself in the middle of such a mess? If you were at home with a few children to keep you busy—"

  "Anyway," Molly interrupted as Donald winked at her in the rearview mirror. "It looks like Bunny's estate, which is worth over three million dollars, will be divided between her sister and Emmanuel." She paused and smiled, thinking of Emmanuel's kind, weathered face. "When I last talked to Officer Bennett, he told me that Susan confessed to killing Bunny but refused to admit that she left me a threatening voice mail message."

  "Ah well." Clara’s tone was dismissive. "You said yourself she wasn't stable. Look at all that rage she kept inside."

  "Well that's that," Donald pronounced. "Now, what about our friend, Hillary? Any news on that front?"

  "Actually, Clayton told me that Mr. Keane is facing a long jail sentence. Apparently he has been stealing pottery from both potters and collectors for years and selling it to buyers up north. He was dashing off to a rendezvous in Hendersonville to sell a huge inventory of stolen pieces when he almost hit that jogger."

  "What?" Clara shriek
ed. "I thought he was only taking pieces from George-Bradley every now and then."

  "No, he has been stealing pottery for years. He even lifted pieces from three area museums during special exhibits. The FBI's Antiquity Recovery Division is very pleased to have him in jail. Keane still had the museum pieces in his garage, and now they are proudly back on display in their rightful homes."

  "But that still doesn't explain his motives," Clara said.

  "Pure greed, Ma. You know how it is in the world of collecting. Keane wanted the big house, the period furniture, and a prime pottery collection, but his salary working as a small town pharmacist couldn't finance his dreams. In fact, he has a famous nickname on the Internet."

  "What was that?" Donald asked expectantly.

  "The Pirate of Pottery," Molly said.

  "I just can't believe it," Clara muttered. "You think you know someone. He seemed the very portrait of a gentleman on the outside. All that time envy was burning a hole in him on the inside. Who would have thought?"

  Molly looked down at the rabbit. "Some people are really good at hiding their true feelings."

  ~~~~~

  Jack Graham was stocky, muscular, and completely bald. One weathered hand rhythmically stroked his short brown beard as he waited for everyone to take his or her seats. Molly noticed that there were more people present than there were pieces of pottery. Folks had come to welcome the Grahams back to their former lifestyle. One that included public kiln openings. It had been over two years since they had had an open sale. Molly recognized several local potters as well as a member of the local press.

  "Thank y'all for comin'." Jack hushed the crowd with a soft commanding voice. "Just so there's no question of cheatin', Jack Junior is gonna pass the 'Numbers Hat' today. When you hear your number called, go on up and pick your piece. We've got some folks to help you wrap it when you're ready to go. Please help yourself to some fried chicken and biscuits too. Leslie's been cooking all morning."