The crowd applauded as Jack's wife Leslie blushed at the attention. Molly recognized her from C. C.'s kiln opening. She had helped Eileen serve the sweet tea and cookies.
With a clear view of Mrs. Graham, Molly could now see that Leslie was well into her second trimester of pregnancy. Her long, auburn hair was shiny with good health and her freckled face glowed with anticipation. How happy she must be to see her husband back at work and to be expecting another child.
Molly knew that no parent ever finishes grieving over a lost child, and both the Grahams had trace amounts of sadness in their eyes. Their sorrow was buried in the lines at the corners of their mouths. Nine-year-old dimpled Jack Junior, on the other hand, bounded around the buyers, letting them draw numbered tickets from a battered top hat.
"I forgot to mention," Donald said, clearing his throat as Jack Junior headed their way and slid a postcard into Molly's hand, "My friend Blake can't make the sale so you can use his card to get a number. It wouldn’t do for you to go home empty handed."
Molly's eyes grew round in wonder and she planted a kiss on Donald's cheek. "Thank you, Donald!"
Clara beamed at her friend. "You are a prince among frogs," she said as she patted Donald on the arm.
Jack Junior reached Clara first and she put her hand in his deep hat and took a ticket. Donald drew next. Then, it was Molly's turn to pick.
"Donald!" Clara quickly exclaimed. "How did you get so lucky?"
Donald slyly showed Molly his ticket. He had drawn the number three. He would be the third person to select a piece of pottery. His eyes gleamed in excitement and relief. Clara had drawn number thirty-two, and Molly had drawn number fifty. She certainly wasn't disappointed, as she hadn't expected to own a piece at all.
Excitement began to build as the numbers were handed out Unlike C. C.'s opening there was no hostility between the buyers. No one had to race to seize the piece they wanted. This selection was all left to chance, so there was no one to get angry with except for Lady Luck. Everyone seemed pleased to simply be pin the audience to witness Jack Graham's return to the public eye.
As Donald's number was called, he carefully walked up to a pair of tall candlesticks glazed in red brown, each encircled by a green and black striped snake. Later, Molly watched with baited breath as her mother chose a large white and brown swirled serving bowl. Clara reminded Molly that the swirls came from using two types of clay and that it was extremely difficult to create even spirals when mixing clays. Jack Graham's swirls had turned out perfectly.
Molly handed her number to her mother.
"Will you pick a piece for me?" she asked quietly, her mind on other matters.
"Of course, but why?" Clara asked, surprised.
"I want a word with Leslie while people are paying attention to the selection process," Molly explained and then excused herself.
She made her way to the back porch of the Graham's house where Leslie sat watching the next buyer deliberate over two of her husband's pieces. Molly introduced herself, and as Leslie stood to shake her hand, Jack Junior interrupted and begged for a soda before lunch.
"Not now, Jack. Those drinks are for the guests. You can have some juice or milk from in the house."
Sulking, Jack flopped down from the porch and went to hang over the food table.
"You'd think I never fed that boy." Leslie smiled indulgently as she watched her son. She turned to Molly. "I've read your pieces in Collector's Weekly. I think you've done some good for the potters around here. I believe Sam Chance has gotten some extra business."
"I sure hope so," Molly replied, flattered. Leslie was one of those rare individuals with an easy, sincere manner that made her attractive to members of both genders. Molly liked her immediately. Perhaps it was her sprinkling of freckles or her lively green eyes, but Molly felt completely at ease with Leslie Graham. "Do you think I could get an interview with your husband sometime this week?"
Leslie paused. "I don’t see why not. We could use the publicity now that he's back in business. Oh!" she exclaimed, putting a hand on her belly.
"Are you all right?"
"I sure am. It was just a kick and a hard one too! Come on in to the kitchen and we'll check the calendar. With all Jack Junior's baseball and soccer games, we have to plan our lives around him."
"How far along are you?" Molly asked as they went inside the shotgun-style house.
"Twenty-four weeks and counting," Leslie said, rubbing her lower back.
"Do you know what you're having?"
"Yes, another boy." Leslie smiled at Molly. "Another soccer player too, I'd say. I hardly slept a wink last night. Please sit down."
Molly laughed. Then she remembered the shoebox she was carrying. "I have something that I believe rightfully belongs to you."
Leslie looked up from the calendar she was holding and eyed the shoebox warily. "To me?"
"Well, to your family..." Molly faltered. She unwrapped the rabbit so that it could explain itself.
Leslie's face turned pale. A hand fluttered up to her chest. She seemed on the point of flight but changed her mind and, with a deep breath, sank down in a chair next to Molly.
She touched the rabbit's face as tears sprang into her eyes.
"This was meant to be gift for my daughter," she whispered, looking down at the piece. "She was killed by a hit-and-run about the same time as Jack was firing this kiln load. After Lilly Ann's death, he smashed every piece. He was so angry that the driver was never caught. We both were. We didn’t know what to do with that anger."
Leslie dabbed her eyes with a dishcloth. Molly looked down at the table, not knowing how to console her hostess. "I didn't mean to upset you. I thought you might want it back. I'm very sorry."
Molly was sure Leslie would ask how she’d come by the rabbit but the potter’s wife gazed out the window. As her eyes scanned the yard, the number of people clustering around the food table drew her attention.
"Oh, dear." She sniffed and covered up the rabbit with the box lid, "They're eating already. I'd better go see if everything is set out on the table. Do you mind waiting here for a moment?"
"Of course not," Molly answered, feeling terrible.
After Leslie left, Jack Junior entered the kitchen and offered Molly a friendly hello.
"Where's Ma?" he asked, looking around the room.
"She went outside to check the food."
"Oh good, then I can have a soda," he pronounced, giving himself permission. He opened up the fridge and brought a liter bottle over to Molly.
"Can you get the top off?" he asked her.
Molly opened the bottle and poured some soda into a small paper cup on the counter. "Don't tell on me," she warned him with a small smile. He promised and then dashed off before his mother returned.
Replacing the cap, Molly returned the bottle to the fridge. A colorful lunch box caught her eye. Stuffed way back on the bottom shelf, it was one of the metal types, not one of the insulated plastic marvels mass produced to generate more money for the latest boy bands or teen queen sensation. This was a Miss Piggy lunch box, the winsome character from a kid's television show that Molly had always loved.
Without thinking, she reached back behind the loaf of bread and pulled it out. As she opened the latch she realized too late that she was holding the box upside down. Little glass jars with a clear liquid inside rolled out onto the kitchen floor.
Molly quickly scooped up the jars and began arranging them inside the lunch box. The label on the back of one caught her eye. It was a prescription in Lilly Ann's name. The jars were filled with insulin.
Sitting back on her heels, Molly’s mind whirled. She’d been right about the killer’s identity but the knowledge was depressing. She was so caught up in the awful truth that didn't hear Leslie approach until she was just outside the door, scolding Jack Junior in low tones, her voice muffled by the background noise of the crowd. Molly recognized the voice and goosebumps sprouted across the skin of her arms.
"So
rry to keep you wait—" Leslie froze as she saw Molly holding her daughter's lunch box. She took it from Molly's hands as if it were a wounded bird and slowly, gently closed the lid. The two women locked eyes and it was clear that Leslie realized that her guest had guessed the truth.
"I've cleaned out all the rest her things," Leslie began. "But not this old lunch box. It's been sitting in there for two years now. Jack has asked me so many times to take it away, but I just couldn't."
Silently, Molly passed her the last jar of insulin from the floor. Leslie stared at it sorrowfully. "We used to get automatic shipments from a prescription service in Canada. Of course we cancelled the service after the accident, but a few weeks ago another one came. Must have been some computer glitch. I viewed it as a sign. I thought I was done being angry"— she wiped away the tears the had begun to trickle down her freckled cheeks—"but when I saw that bastard again at C. C.'s I knew that I hadn't forgiven and could never forget. I didn't mean to kill him, I swear. I just wanted to make him sick, to make him as miserable as I have been without my little girl."
"So you knew George-Bradley was a diabetic?" Molly asked softy.
"Yes. He used to come over here frequently, sniffing around for special deals from Jack and trying to flirt with me. I had always disliked the man, but then, all of a sudden, he stopped coming. He knew that I knew he had killed our daughter."
"He was the driver?" Molly asked gently.
Leslie sagged. "No hard proof, of course. He came over with Bunny a few days after the funeral and he was acting real funny. Wouldn't look either of us in the eye and then stole off into the woods, looking over his shoulder the whole time. I followed him." She took a deep breath. "I had a pair of Lilly Ann's binoculars—she loved to spot deer or rabbits—and saw him at the accident site. He was looking for something by the road that I had already found."
"What was it?"
"A handkerchief. One of those fancy ones with his initials on it. I took it to the police, but they said it proved nothing. His car was clean and he owns some land down this way, so it didn't count as evidence."
Molly remembered how George-Bradley had dabbed his sweaty brow with just such a handkerchief at C. C.'s kiln opening.
Leslie gripped the lunch box until her knuckles turned white. "I think he was in someone else's car because there wasn’t a scratch on his, but I know he hit her. There was a big rain that same afternoon. All the tire tracks were erased. There was no evidence anywhere. But I know the fact that he dropped that handkerchief means that he got out of the car. He got out of the car and saw what he did to my baby and drove away again."
Leslie balled her hands into fists and then placed them on her stomach as she released a deep exhalation.
She turned to Molly, her eyes wide and glassy. "Do you know how many times I have pictured that scene in my head? Do you know how many times I have wondered if she was still alive at the moment? Did that awful man hear her last words? Was she scared? Was she in pain?" She paused again, trying to gather strength, but her shoulders began to shake. Her lips trembled. "And when that devil didn't find the handkerchief, he made his way back to Jack's workshop. God knows why, but he stole the only thing that survived from that kiln. He stole my Lilly Ann's last gift from her daddy. Jack was going to glaze that rabbit bright pink. Her favorite color."
Molly reached out and pulled the weeping woman into her arms. Together, they cried on the kitchen floor until Leslie finally drew away. Miraculously, the party continued outside and no one entered the house. Minutes passed as Leslie composed herself and Molly stared at the floor. Finally, Leslie touched Molly’s hand and the women face one another again. Both of their faces were splotched and puffy from crying.
"Thank you for hearing me out. I am so sorry for leaving you that mean message on your answering machine. Sam Chance told me about your visit and I got scared." She squeezed Molly's hand. "Now I feel like I threatened a friend."
Then she stood, picked up the lunch box, and resolutely put it in the trash can. As she smoothed down her flowery sundress she said, "We’re trying to start our lives over again. My little girl is gone. The man who killed her is gone. Jack is working again. And we have a new Graham on the way. What kind of life this family will live is up to you now."
The scene of the accident became visible in Molly's mind. Lilly Ann racing out of the woods on her bicycle. George-Bradley was with Susan, in her car. He might have been groping her as he drove. Then, the impact. Getting out to see if he had hit a deer. The crumpled bike. The unmoving child.
The horrible secret they’d shared had eventually divided George Bradley and Susan, but she’d demanded hush money after their breakup. She bought a new Mercedes and expensive pottery with his money, all the while threatening to tell if he should cut her off. Accustomed to her new lifestyle, Susan still wanted her expenses paid for after his death. And she hadn’t gone to Bunny's house just for the money. She had also gone to retrieve the incriminating letter.
George Bradley must have confessed his hit-and-run crime in a sealed letter to his wife, to be read only in the event of his death. After torturing her for years with his lies and his lovers, George-Bradley gave his wife one last nasty dig. He made Bunny aware of his terrible crime, and had boldly confessed who had been in the car with him.
That was the piece of information Bunny had whispered in Susan's ear the day of the auction. Foolish Bunny! She’d boasted that she knew all about the accident, leaving Susan no choice but to come after her for the letter.
George Bradley had killed Lilly Ann. Now he was dead. Susan had killed Bunny and had also been an accessory to her lover's heinous crime. She was going to spend the rest of her life in jail. The Grahams, who had been through so much pain, were starting to feel the sunlight on their faces again. Work. A new baby. A family made whole.
"I'd better get back to my mother," Molly said, smiling shyly. She looked once more at Leslie's stomach, swollen with new life. With hope. "She'll be saving some of your delicious fried chicken for me."
Gratefully, Leslie took Molly's hands and placed the shoebox in them. "This little guy belongs to you now. He's had some bad treatment and could use some love."
"Thank you. Good luck with everything, Leslie."
The older woman gave her a weak smile. "Please come back and see us. Anytime."
~~~~~
"She let you keep the rabbit? Clara asked on the ride home, eyeing the shoebox on her daughter's lap.
"Yes." Molly gazed out the widow. It was hard for her to carry on a conversation when her mind was spinning. Leslie had confessed, but nothing was simple about this crime. What should she, a newspaper reporter, do with the truth? All this time she had played detective, and now that she had discovered the answers to all the riddles, she wished she were still in the dark.
After a pause, Molly explained why she had the clay animal. "Leslie said the rabbit brings up bad memories for their family." And she shared the detail about Jack breaking the pieces of kiln number 43 after Lilly Ann's death. That was the only confidence she shared.
"I can understand that," Clara said. "And I am so glad they are back in the swing of things. Jack's work is better than ever—I hope you got enough pictures—and I hear he is going to have another son around Christmas. How wonderful! Someone to learn the family business. Jack Junior can't seem to settle down long enough to make a pinch pot.
I have never seen such a whirlwind of energy. Have you? Molly?"
After such an emotional day, the vibrations of the car and her mother's prattling proved to be too much. Molly was fast asleep, the shoebox cradled in her arms.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 17
I have seen many people who have come to understand more about themselves through making things with clay and fire.
-HENRY MEMOTT, from Discovering Pottery
Carl Swanson approached Molly’s desk chewing feverishly on a piece of gum. He tossed an envelope at her and cleared his throat. "I've got a great assign
ment lined up for you. You know that TV show, Hidden Treasures?" he asked without expecting a reply. "They've agreed to let you spend a week with them this September while they tape an episode in Richmond."
"That does sound like good material for a piece," she
agreed and watched as her boss puffed out his chest.
" 'Course it does," he snarled in between chews.
Picking up the envelope she asked, "What's this?"
"Look for yourself," he mumbled. "Mr. Macintosh wanted to give you a bonus for helping circulation reach an all-time high."
"Oh, thank you!" Molly was delighted. Mr. Macintosh was the paper's owner.
"Don't thank me," Swanson said, truculently. "If I had my way, you wouldn't get paid extra just for doing your job."
As he turned to plod back to his office, Molly noticed a patch on his right arm. Good thing she was getting out of town to cover several auctions this summer since her boss was going to quit smoking. If people thought he was a S.O.B. before...
She tore open the envelope and was elated to see the equivalent of a month's pay. Macintosh had been very generous. Molly paused for a moment, feeling the weight of her decision about Leslie's secret cloud her happiness.
Molly had written a short letter to Officer Bennett, explaining that Leslie had given George Bradley a shot of insulin at C. C.'s kiln opening with the intent of making him ill. Molly also described how George Bradley had killed Lilly Ann and asked Bennett to look for George Bradley's confessional letter to Bunny. It was probably somewhere in Susan's house, unless she had had enough time before her arrest to destroy it. Lastly, Molly pleaded with Bennett to go easy on the Grahams, emphasizing Leslie's pregnancy.
It was with shaking hands that Molly had dropped the letter in the mailbox. The truth was a heavy burden, and she did not want to be the one to decide what decisions were to be made in the name of justice.
Afterwards, Molly couldn't possibly interview Jack Graham for her final pottery article, but instead wrote a short piece on his return to the public eye and included several descriptive photos from the kiln opening.
A Killer Collection Page 17