The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  "This lunch pail," he explained, holding the box up for my inspection, "was the prototype for the first known children's lunchboxes depicting TV stars. See the artist's signature at the bottom of the picture?"

  I looked closer and saw what looked like a tiny "Art Bender" scrawled near a bit of prairie grass.

  "This is an original drawing. This box, Odelia, started it all. Years ago, it was nicknamed the Holy Pail. Cute, eh?"

  I was puzzled. I watched a lot of TV as a kid, but I could not remember a Chappy Wheeler, not even in reruns.

  Price put the box back behind the protective glass and shut the door gently. "Wheeler was murdered in 1949," he explained, as if reading my confusion. "Found dead in his bungalow on the studio lot. His killer was never found. The Chappy Wheeler Show was canceled and the lunchbox never manufactured. This box is all that remains of that promotional dream. Supposedly, it's cursed." He laughed softly.

  I found the story fascinating, though hardly worth nearly thirty thousand dollars. "So what did become the first children's TVthemed lunchbox?" I asked.

  "This one," he said, pointing to a box behind another glass door. On it was a character I knew well-Hopalong Cassidy. "This box debuted in 1950."

  I strolled along the shelves looking at the different boxes. Except for a few that appeared to be in pristine condition, most showed signs of minor wear and tear. Many, I was sure, had a history of being proudly carried to and from school in the saner, more innocent times of the '50s and '60s.

  I stopped short in front of one of the cases and stared at a lunchbox. It was black. On the front was Zorro, my favorite childhood TV character. What can I say? Zorro and the Sheriff of Nottingham-I had a thing for men in knee-high riding boots even then.

  I sensed Price coming up behind me. "Was that your lunchbox, Odelia?" he asked. "We're always drawn to our own."

  I shook my head, more to clear my mind of memories. "No, it wasn't. But I wanted this one as a kid." I turned and looked at Price. "My mother said it was a boy's lunchbox. She made me carry a pink one with flowers and ribbons on it." I made a face. "Ugh"

  He chuckled. "Junior Miss."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Junior Miss. That's the name of the lunchbox you probably carried to school."

  "Hmm. All I know is that it wasn't very cool."

  Price laughed again. "You had good taste, Odelia. Too bad your mother didn't listen. Today the Zorro box is much more valuable than the Junior Miss."

  Somehow I knew that without being told.

  THREE

  "A LUNCHBOX WORTH THIRTY thousand dollars! Are you kidding me?"

  I shook my head and finished chewing the food in my mouth before speaking. "Nope, telling you the truth."

  The question had come from Joan Nunez, a litigation paralegal in our firm. She and Kelsey Cavendish, the firm's librarian and research guru, were treating me to a birthday lunch at Jerry's Famous Deli. In between taking bites from a mammoth Rueben sandwich and slurps of iced tea, I filled them in on my morning introduction to lunchbox memorabilia.

  "Amazing," Joan said slowly as she played with her fries, dragging one through a puddle of ketchup. She was around forty, small boned, with dark features and expressive eyes, and very proper in her demeanor.

  Kelsey plucked at the sleeve of my blouse. "Pssst, hey, look over there," she whispered.

  Joan and I moved our eyes in the direction Kelsey indicated with jerks of her chin. It took me a while, but finally my gaze focused on what Kelsey wanted us to see-Mike Steele. And he was not alone. He sat in a booth on the other side of the restaurant with Trudie Monroe, his latest in a long line of assistants. Trudie had only been working at Woobie for about three weeks. She was a sweet woman about thirty years of age with a pixie face, long coppery hair, and a cute figure. And knockers, big knockers. In addition to Steele, Trudie was assigned to Jolene McHugh, a senior associate at the firm. She also did work for me on occasion, though generally I found it faster and easier to do my own secretarial work.

  When a paralegal shares a secretary with two busy attorneys, especially if one is a partner, and definitely if one of the attorneys is Michael Steele, she can bet her next vacation day that her work will end up at the bottom of the assistant's pile. Overall, I found Trudie capable but not overly bright. Yep, huge boobies and not too smart-just the way Mike Steele likes 'em.

  "You think they got nekkid yet?" Kelsey asked, imitating her husband's Texas twang. Kelsey was a plain, tall, and angular woman in her mid-thirties with a firecracker wit. She had married Beau Cavendish four years earlier after a whirlwind online courtship. He was a teacher in Houston at the time and relocated to Southern California just before they married. Like Kelsey, he was delightfully funny and his accent added to his folksy charm.

  "You mean naked," Joan corrected her.

  "Naw, girl. I mean nekkid." Kelsey looked at both of us in mock disgust before explaining. "Naked is when you don't have any clothes on. Nekkid is when you don't have any clothes on and you're up to no good"

  Joan looked over at the couple and frowned. "I'm sure Trudie told me during her first week at Woobie that she was married."

  I took a big draw of iced tea from my straw and pondered the budding relationship of Steele and his new secretary.

  "Hard to say if they've been nekkid yet," I said, "but I bet he's working on it."

  Kelsey and I giggled. Joan's frown deepened.

  Later that afternoon at the office, two boxes were delivered to me from Sterling Homes. One was quite large and addressed to Mike Steele; the other, a small one, was addressed to me personally. I opened the smaller box. Inside was a lunchbox, the very same Zorro box I had seen earlier in Price's office, along with a handwritten note.

  Odelia, Every child should carry the lunchbox of her dreams. Warmest regards, Sterling

  I could not believe it. After running my hands over every inch of the box in disbelief and adoration, I picked my way through my Rolodex until I found the number for Sterling Homes. I was so excited and overwhelmed my fingers had trouble punching the numbers. The value of the lunchbox was anyone's guess. It was enough that this generous man had given it to me. I also had doubts about whether or not I should accept it. Woobie employees were not allowed to accept gifts from vendors, but there was nothing in the employee handbook about gifts from clients. The call went through, but the receptionist informed me that Mr. Price was not answering. I thought about asking for his assistant, then remembered that she was off for a few days. At my request, I was put through to his voice mail, where I left a stumbling and gushing thanks for the box. I also made a mental reminder to write a proper thank-you note later tonight.

  "Cool lunchbox!"

  I looked up at the enthusiastic comment and my eyes fell on Joe Bays, the firm's mail clerk and jack-of-all-trades. Being rather roly-poly, Joe filled every inch of the doorway as he stood staring at the Zorro lunchbox on the edge of my desk. I detected a hungry look in his eye.

  "You know about lunchboxes, Joe?" I motioned for him to come in and sit in the small chair across from my desk.

  "A bit," he said, still eyeing the Zorro box. He reached for it, hesitating slightly. "May I?"

  "Sure. I just got it today. It was a gift."

  He sat down and picked it up. Turning it gently in his stubby fingers, he rotated it to see all of the pictures on the front, back, and four sides of the box. He opened it and I heard the still-familiar click of the metal latch and the squeaking of hinges. Inside was a matching thermos that I had already discovered. Joe put the box down, twisted the plastic top off the thermos, and then followed suit with the stopper. He inspected both, then peered inside the glass-lined bottle as if looking through a telescope.

  When I went to school, boys like Joe were branded as nerds. I imagine they still are. He was soft both in his body and in his face, which was youthful like a pubescent boy's, spotted with mild acne, and looked out of place on his tall, doughy, adult body. His eyes were small and held both intelligenc
e and humor, though most of the time he kept them averted. His light brown, fine hair was short but always looked in need of a trim. Overall, his daily appearance reminded me of an unmade bed.

  Occasionally, Joe attended our biweekly Reality Check meetings. In the world of BBW's-Big, Beautiful Women-he was a BHM-Big, Handsome Man-and needed the same support as his plus-size sisters. Over the past several months, Reality Check had been graced with several BHM members, though their attendance was more sporadic than their female counterparts. I suspected that many came to the group shopping for girlfriends with whom they could be comfortable.

  "This is in fine condition," Joe pronounced when he was through. "Just a few dings here and there from use. Where'd you get it again?"

  "It was a gift," I answered, "from Sterling Price. You know, our client Sterling Homes."

  "Wow, nice gift. Might be worth a couple hundred bucks."

  I almost swooned. Now I knew I had to give it back. It was too expensive a gift to accept from someone I hardly knew, especially a client. Since Joe obviously knew something about lunchboxes, I gave him a rundown of my trip to Sterling Homes that morning. When I mentioned the Holy Pail, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open, creating a fleshy tunnel in the middle of his boyish face.

  "The Holy Pail," he said slowly, quietly, almost with reverence, more to himself than to me. He slumped back in his chair in disbelief. "Wow. You really saw it?"

  I nodded. Obviously, Joe was not someone who needed an explanation about the Chappy Wheeler lunchbox. Joe had a quiet way about him. He was very shy and introverted, especially around the women in the office. He always seemed comfortable with me, though, and I assumed it was because I was old enough to be his mother.

  "I saw it with my own eyes," I assured him.

  He looked at me eagerly, like a puppy hoping for a treat. "You know, they say it's cursed. Bad luck for its owner."

  Of their own accord, my eyes rolled in amused disbelief.

  "Do you think Mr. Price would show it to me? Would you ask him, Odelia?"

  I smiled at his excitement. "I don't know, Joe. But if I get the chance, I'll ask him."

  "Not enough work to do, Bays?" The question came from Mike Steele, who now took his turn standing in my doorway. Steele was above average in height, nicely built, and sported a classic profile, and, as always, was immaculately clothed in a designer suit. I might consider Steele a very attractive man if I did not already find him odious.

  Obviously intimidated, Joe jumped up and started to leave. Once he was out the door and behind Steele, he grinned his ear-toear thanks to me and left.

  Mike Steele entered my office and picked up the lunchbox Joe had replaced on my desk.

  "Things so tough at home, Grey, you can only afford a used lunchbox?"

  "It was a gift, Steele, from Sterling Price."

  He raised one trimmed eyebrow and looked me over. "Really? I thought the old boy was engaged." He snickered. "His fiancee might not like this, not to mention your own squeeze."

  I chose to not dignify his comment with a comeback. Instead, I indicated the larger box that sat on the floor and said, "He also sent this box over with it. Documents for you to review, I believe"

  "Wrong, Grey, documents for you to review. We're looking for anything that might help us break Sterling's contract with Howser Development should the need arise. Look for suspicious chinks in their paperwork." He caught me checking out the size of the box. "Don't worry, Grey, we don't need them right away. There's a dispute brewing between the two companies that may or may not turn into something. We just want to be prepared in the event it does turn ugly." He put the lunchbox down and turned to leave. "Just complete the review within the next two weeks. I wouldn't want it to interfere with your love life"

  Grrr.

  I decided to take the box of documents home, thinking I could look over a batch each evening and on the weekends. I had too much day-to-day work to do it justice at the office. After informing Steele of my plan and receiving his blessing to take the box home, I asked Joe to lug it down to my trunk. He was still babbling about the Holy Pail.

  Lunchboxes. Who knew?

  Once at home, I turned on the TV, stroked the cat, and promised the dog a walk after dinner. A short trip to the kitchen and I was back with a handful of Fig Newtons as a before-dinner appetizer.

  To my surprise, the evening news was reporting on an event in Newport Beach. Usually, nothing very exciting happens in Orange County, except maybe exceptionally high surf or government corruption. I paid closer attention to the TV and saw a photograph of a familiar face plastered in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. At the bottom of the screen were the words Breaking News. A reporter, young, handsome, and mahogany colored, was onscreen, reporting live from the scene. In the background was the corporate headquarters of Sterling Homes.

  I fumbled with the clicker and aimed it at the TV to turn up the volume.

  "It has been confirmed," the reporter said with deliberation into the microphone held tightly in his hand, "that Sterling Price, CEO and founder of Sterling Homes, the prestigious real estate development company headquartered in Newport Beach, was found dead this afternoon in his private office."

  Wainwright never let the falling cookies hit the floor.

  FOUR

  THE CLEAN, FRESH AIR of the Back Bay was tainted this morning with the odor of skunk. I twitched my nose and continued walking at a brisk pace. On a leash and trotting happily just in front of me was Wainwright. Beside me, dressed in a lightweight, pastel pink warm-up suit, was Zee. Ahead of us, and moving a bit faster, was a larger group of women from Reality Check. It was just past six o'clock in the morning, and a damp mist hung over the lower portions of the bay like gauze. Soon it would burn off, as would the haze overhead, and the day would turn sunny and warm.

  It was here along the trail of the Back Bay that I had been shot by a lunatic fifteen months ago; not exactly where we were walking now, but nearer to the beginning of the trail. The group had offered to change the venue of our daily walks, but I had insisted we keep it the same. I needed to prove to myself that I could move on and put the ordeal behind me. So almost every morning I forced myself to walk along the place where I had nearly died. It was my daily dose of mortality. This morning, because of Sterling Price's death the day before, the location brought on more than just the usual little shudder.

  Zee was only recently a regular on these daily walks. Like the little engine who could, she matched me stride for stride, her huffing and puffing lessening each day she walked. By nature, Zee was not a morning person, and in the past what early energy she could muster was spent getting her family out the door for the day. But these days her little nest was nearly empty, and she was in a funk. Hannah, her nineteen-year-old daughter, had just left to start her second year at Stanford. Her son Jacob, who was now sixteen, was off on an end-of-summer camping trip.

  "Seems," Zee said, slightly out of breath, "like that man could have found something more important to do with thirty thousand dollars." We were just reaching the crest of a small hill that led to the parking lot and the end of our walk. "I hope he at least left some of it to charity in his will."

  I had just finished telling Zee about Sterling Price's hobby. His death weighed heavily on my mind as I walked the trail robotically. I had just seen him the day before and now he was dead, another reminder of the impermanence of life. Here today, dead tomorrow.

  It had almost happened to me, and it could happen to anyone at any time, including Zee. I shivered at my last thought and glanced over at her with frightened affection. The sight brought a smile to my face. In the warm-up suit, she looked like fluffy pink cotton candy wrapped around a fudge center. Losing Zee would be like losing a sister or even a limb, maybe worse. Yet loss was part of the price of living; just ask the families of those recently murdered people at the community center. It was just not a price I was will ing to pay in cash. In my book, that kind of debt was still available on credit.
r />   The TV news had reported that Sterling Price had died from heart failure. I reminded myself that he had been in his seventies, then thought of my father. Dad was in his eighties and still going strong. Automatically, I wrapped my knuckles lightly against my skull.

  "Have you decided what to tell Greg?" Zee asked.

  I stopped abruptly, yanking Wainwright back. I gave the animal a look of apology, then looked at Zee, then back at the dog, fuzzy about the topic at hand. Both looked at me expectantly. Then I refocused my thoughts and looked back again at Zee.

  "I still don't know, Zee," I sighed. "I'm no closer to an answer than I was on Sunday."

  We started walking again, this time in silence, and did not stop until we were at our cars. The other women were already in their vehicles and waving out the windows as they drove off. I bundled Wainwright into the back seat of my car and shut the door, being careful of his tail. I gave the cotton candy a quick hug, climbed into the front seat, and headed for home and my morning shower.

  I HAD JUST RETRIEVED my second cup of coffee from the firm's kitchen when the phone in my office rang. I could see on the telephone display that it was Mike Steele. I got my groans out of the way quickly before picking up the receiver.

  "Morning," I said, giving him my best Little Mary Sunshine impersonation.

  "Get in here, Grey. Now." His voice was serious but lacked its usual sneer. I knew him well enough to know that that signaled a potential real problem and not just him playing God. I hung up, picked up a pen and a yellow legal pad, and headed straightaway to his office.

  I popped into his sanctuary, expecting a briefing on some unexpected client crisis, and stopped dead in my tracks. Steele was not alone. Sitting across from him were two men. One was a stranger to me and one I knew well, but had not seen in a long time-Detective Devin Frye of the Newport Beach Police.