I handed her the flowers. "I wanted to deliver these in person and let you know how very sorry I am about Sterling's passing." She took the vase. "You might want to add a bit of water," I said. "I had to drain them for the trip here."
"How very thoughtful of you," she responded, genuinely touched.
She took the flowers and together we walked down the hall, not speaking until we reached the executive suites. She put the flowers down on a table in the small waiting area outside of Price's office and rotated the vase until she felt satisfied that the flowers had their best faces forward. Then she motioned for me to take a seat on the small L-shaped leather sofa. She sat on the other end.
"I'm afraid we'll have to chat out here. Sterling's office and conference room are still off-limits."
I looked at the large, black-lacquered double doors ahead of me with the engraved plaque "STERLING PRICE" set in the middle of the left door. There was still yellow crime-scene tape across it.
"Can I get you something, Odelia? Coffee, soft drink?"
"Thank you, but no. I'm fine." I looked at the woman and wondered how to begin. I was sure she was not going to gush information like the receptionist downstairs. Personal assistants like Carmen made careers out of discretion. "I don't mean to keep you, Carmen," I said, deciding to give truth a try. "But I'm upset and more than just a bit bewildered by all of this."
She nodded with a small downturned smile. "Yes, as we all are. I understand you saw Sterling on Monday morning."
"Yes, and he seemed fine to me. Perky, in fact."
"Yes, he was always a morning person. Liked to get in early before most of the staff."
"You worked for him a long time, didn't you?"
She sighed. "It would have been twenty-seven years next month." She gave a wry chuckle. "I was with Sterling Price longer than I was with my husband."
I smiled in understanding. "I was with Wendell Wallace a long time myself. It's kind of like a marriage, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said sadly, more to herself than to me. "I feel as if I've been widowed twice."
I reached over and touched her arm gently. "I'm glad it wasn't you who found him," I told her.
"I wish I had, Odelia." She spoke in a tone that struggled to stay even. "Maybe I would have looked in on him earlier and would have had time to get help. The poor girl who did discover his body was devastated. She's from our administrative department, just a clerk and very young."
Her surprising chattiness caused a tingle of excitement to run through me like low voltage. Maybe Carmen was going to give me some insight after all.
"The police told me," I said, hoping to loosen more information, "that he was very ill just before he died."
"That's what I was told," she said, tightening her lips and looking at the closed doors. "Apparently he had vomited a great deal just before ... expiring. And he was soaked with perspiration." She looked back at me, her eyes wide with fresh grief. "Even though he had a heart attack, I know the police suspect poison," she said, the last word catching in her throat. "Who in God's name would want to poison that dear man?"
Quickly, and without a word, Carmen rose and picked up the flowers. She took them just a few steps down the hall. I got up and followed. She stopped in front of a small kitchenette built into the wall, similar to the one in Price's office. It was equipped with a coffee maker, the standard coffee pots-a brown pot for regular, an orange-collared pot for decaf-and a small sink and refrigerator. A dispenser for tea bags and hot chocolate packets stood on the counter. Carmen put the vase in the sink and began to add water to the arrangement.
"It was probably just a very bad case of food poisoning, that's all," she said in a barely composed voice as she fussed with the flowers. "He always liked eating in those small, dingy, out-of-theway places."
"What about the lunchbox, Carmen? The missing box-the Holy Pail?"
She left the flowers alone and turned to me, surprisingly agitated. "I have no idea what happened to it, Odelia. And I don't care. That silly thing brought him nothing but aggravation, though he wouldn't admit it. In fact, I think he bought it just because of that stupid curse legend." She picked up the vase, wiped it off with a paper towel, and carried it back to the table.
I hurried after her, hoping not to upset her further with my questions. "What kind of aggravation?" I asked. "It was just a lunchbox, albeit an expensive one."
"Shortly after he bought it, Sterling was featured in a business magazine, a fluff piece about his acquisition of the lunchbox. You know, boys and their toys," she said with quiet sarcasm and a slight roll of her eyes, "that sort of thing. The article was called The Curse of the Holy Pail-Fate or Fancy. After the article was published, he got calls from all kinds of crackpots, many predicting his death and offering to take the box off his hands. Some for free-as a service, of course." She smiled cynically. "Others offered handsome profits." She straightened the front of her suit jacket and I could tell she was getting antsy. "Probably some fool took off with it before the police arrived," she continued. "After that article, everyone in the building knew about it and its worth."
"Do you have a copy of the article?" I asked. "I'd like to see it."
"Sorry, Odelia," she said, shaking her head slowly. "But the police took the only copy I had, as well as old phone message pads. I'm sure they're going to look into its disappearance and the crazies that called about it, though most of them never left messages, just voice mails that we erased. Fortunately, most gave up calling a while back."
In my head, I drafted a partial lie. "Carmen, if anyone else contacts you about the lunchbox, could you let me know? I have a friend at the office that is fascinated by the Holy Pail legend. I think he'd like to chat with others who are equally obsessed."
Carmen looked at me with sad amusement. "I'm afraid Sterling's death may bring the nuts back out of the woodwork, Odelia. So, sure, I'd be happy to re-route them someplace else."
I gathered my purse and held out my hand. I wanted to stay longer and ask her more questions, but Carmen looked long past weary. "Thank you for your time, Carmen. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."
"No, thank you, Odelia, for remembering us so graciously." She took my hand in one of hers and indicated the flowers with her other.
I started to walk toward the elevator but thought of something. I turned around.
"Carmen, I'm sorry, but one more thing." She smiled patiently, the emotional wear and tear of the past couple days plain on her face. "What about his family?" I asked. "Would one of them have taken the box?"
She shook her head and her face tightened. "They're the ones looking for it. They're the ones who originally noticed it missing, even before the body was cold. They know a quick and profitable liquidation when they see it."
"Money problems?" I asked.
"With them, always."
"And his fiancee? I understand he was engaged."
"Was is the correct word, Odelia. Sterling broke it off less than two weeks ago. He finally discovered he was being hoodwinked by a gold digger." She lifted her head in a defiant gesture. "Something I could have told him months ago"
SIX
I WAS IN COUNTDOWN for Greg's return. Knowing him, he would expect an answer to his proposal within minutes of seeing me. During the past three days, he had called every night before bed to say goodnight. Not once did he mention the engagement ring, but I could tell he was dying to question me about my pending answer. Greg had promised that he would give me these few days to think, and he always kept his promises. I knew my delay was killing him, but I just wasn't ready to give him an answer. Our nightly conversations had centered instead on the animals and Sterling Price's death. Like Detective Frye, Greg had admonished me to keep out of it.
In trying to come up with an answer for Greg, I had gone so nuts the night before as to draw up a pros and cons list, then tore it up when I realized that my answer could not be melted down into clinical categories. I was not trying to decide between a Ford
and a Chevy. This was my life. This was Greg's life.
I did not have this much trouble saying yes to Franklin Powers. In fact, I had leapt to accept his ring. Maybe that was the problem. I had already chosen badly once. My heart had refused to read the red flags my head had seen and led me into a bad situation. Now my heart was asking my head for advice and getting the cold shoulder. In short, I was an emotional goulash.
Was love supposed to be this confusing? I love Greg. Why couldn't I just say yes to him? Why was I making this so torturous? I have never been happier. I adore the man. I lust for him. I like him as a person. Couldn't our other differences be ironed out later?
Tonight was a Reality Check night and my mind was elsewhere. The Reality Check meetings were usually held at Zee's house. When the weather was nice, which was most of the time in Orange County, we held them on her back patio.
Before each meeting the group enjoys refreshments and a bit of socializing. I took my paper plate of fruit kabobs and cheese and moved away from the others to sit in a lounge chair near the swimming pool. I stared into the blue water, the plate in my hand forgotten. The underwater lights gave it an ethereal look, as if heaven itself floated in the depths, just within, yet still beyond, my grasp. It had been here that I had met Greg Stevens for the first time. Right here, in this very spot, by this very pool. Sigh.
"Don't jump, 'cause I can't swim," I heard a voice behind me say. I turned to see Joe Bays standing near my chair, holding a red plastic tumbler. He smiled shyly down at me. I smiled back and motioned with my head toward the chair next to me.
"Hey, Joe, glad you're here tonight."
"Thanks. Always enjoy the meetings. By the way, who's that new girl, the one with the long, curly, red hair?"
I thought a minute, then turned to study the people gathered in the main patio area until I focused on who he was speaking about. I smiled. Joe had good taste.
"Her name's Sharon. She's twenty-four, a graduate of UC Irvine, and currently lives in Laguna Beach, where she's an artist. Pottery, I believe. This is only her second meeting."
"You got all that in just her first meeting?" he asked, teasing, but I could tell he was thankful for the information. I watched him as he studied the pretty woman. His look was appreciative of her ample charms, but not vulgar. He had a slightly silly grin plastered on his face when he turned his attention back to me.
"Is it true, Odelia, that the Holy Pail is missing?" he asked.
"That's what I understand."
He whistled. "Wow, it's worth a lot of money to someone."
"Joe," I asked, forming my question as I spoke, "how easy would it be for someone to resell something like that? I mean, especially since it's not rightfully theirs and is well known to collectors?"
He took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair to think about my question.
"Depends on how fast someone wants to dump it, I suppose. The quicker the sale, the less bidding there'll be, the lower the price," he explained. "It's stolen, so it's not likely to show up on eBay or be associated with a well-known auction house. The major collectors may already know about Price's death. News like that spreads fast in such a tight and specialized community. For sure, they'll be on the lookout for it and will take note of who's selling it if anyone does try."
"So why would someone buy it, knowing it's stolen? They can't display it or show it off."
"Why do collectors buy stolen art masterpieces?" he countered, answering my question with a question. Joe took a drink and cast another glance at the cute redhead before continuing. "It's an ego trip," he explained, "the pride of secret ownership. For some, it doesn't matter that they can't tell anyone. It's more titillating that they can't-like a private joke played on the world. It's quite possible that the Holy Pail is already in the hands of a collector."
"That fast?" I asked, surprised.
"That fast," he answered with a snap of his fingers. "It's one of a kind and irreplaceable. When the rich want something, they usually get it."
I thought about that as I turned my eyes back to the glowing, blue water. "The police think Price might have been murdered," I said to Joe as I continued to stare into the water. I turned to look at him and saw his small eyes bulging at the news. "You don't think anyone would kill him for a lunchbox, do you?"
Recovering quickly from his shock, he shot me an amused look. "People have killed for a lot less than that."
I shook my head sadly. He was right. People killed for senseless reasons every day. The daily news bore witness of that.
I thought about Carmen Sepulveda and how outraged she had been at the idea of someone wanting to poison Sterling Price. What was it she had said? "Who in God's name would want to poison that dear man?" Let's see, for starters: a cast-off fiancee, a moneyhungry family, environmentalists, lunchbox connoisseurs. It was beginning to look like a ticket holder's line at a sold-out performance.
Zee was calling out that the Reality Check meeting was about to start. Joe and I both got up and started toward the others. I put a hand on his arm and stopped him.
"Joe, I know this was before your time, but what do you know about Chappy Wheeler and the Holy Pail? Anything beyond the fact that the box is valuable?"
He smiled at the question and looked down at the ground. Something told me he knew a lot about the subject.
"I'm a bit of a TV historian," he said, blushing. "I know that sounds kind of geeky, but it's a hobby of mine."
"It's not geeky, lots of people follow TV and film," I said reassuringly. "Was The Chappy Wheeler Show on the air long?"
"Nope, only about a year and a half, I think. But it was very popular. First show of its kind. It ended when Wheeler was murdered. I don't think they ever found his killer."
That was pretty much what Sterling Price had told me. "Do you have any information on him and the show?"
He lit up like a hundred-watt bulb at my interest. "Sure I do. I have articles, posters, stuff like that. And I can get you more, if you like. In fact, just today there was a small article in the L.A. Times about lunchboxes. I'll get you a copy of that, as well."
We started walking in the direction of the meeting. "That would be great, Joe. Thanks."
After a few steps, Joe stopped again. I halted with him. He seemed to be making up his mind about something.
"Be careful, Odelia," he finally said in a hushed voice. "The Holy Pail really is cursed."
A chill ran up my spine like a squirrel scurrying up a tree. "You don't really believe that, do you?" I said with a nervous giggle, trying to shake the creepy feeling off.
"Listen to me," he said, looking straight at me, his shyness gone. "Every owner of the Holy Pail has died."
"Joe," I said in a plea of frustration, "it's just a damn lunchbox!"
CURSED OR NOT, JOE came through with the information about the Holy Pail and Chappy Wheeler. I found a box of stuff over a halffoot high in the middle of my desk when I arrived at the office the next morning. On the very top were printouts from websites devoted to collecting lunchboxes. The sites that included the history of the hobby all mentioned Chappy Wheeler and the Holy Pail. Just under the loose papers was a magazine with a yellow sticky note on the front. O-Please read the article on page 23! Joe had printed precisely on the Post-It. The items under the magazine were about Chappy Wheeler, aka Charles Borden, mostly articles and promos designed to feed the active fan base of his heyday. The magazine was a past copy of American Executive. I leafed through it until I found page twenty-three, then I blessed Joe. Here in my hands was the article about Sterling Price and his lunchbox collection. There was even a photo of him proudly holding the Chappy Wheeler lunchbox. Price's mischievous eyes twinkled out at me from the glossy pages. He looked more like an aging boy than an elderly, big-business tycoon.
It made me sad. Then it made me mad. Four days ago, this man was alive and was a small part of my life. Someone had wanted him dead and had carried it out. It was probably none of my business, but I wanted to know who and
why.
I looked at my watch. It was nine fifteen in the morning. Greg would be back this afternoon. His parents were picking him up at the airport and taking him home. The plan was for him to come down to my place to pick up Wainwright and take me to dinner. I'm sure he hoped it would be a celebration dinner. My phone rang and I was glad for the interruption, even if the display did show the caller was Mike Steele.
"Yes?" I said into the receiver in a voice that even I thought was a bit too edgy.
"Grey?" he asked.
"Who'd you expect?"
"Gawd, you sound like you're hung over. Have a bad night?"
"Is it any of your business if I did?" I knew this was not the tone I should be taking with a superior, but I didn't care. I looked down again at the magazine. Sterling Price's inner child leaped out from the slick paper. Senseless deaths make me cranky.
"Only if it affects your work, Grey." Steele paused, waiting for a smart-ass volley from my side of the net. When he did not get one, he continued, but sounded disappointed. "Hold off on that Sterling Homes document review job."
"Okay. Haven't started it yet," I told him, trying to even out my tone of voice. "I was going to this weekend."
"Nah, don't do anything for now," Steele said. "I just heard from Jackson Blake, Sterling's senior VP. No further work is to be done on anything until he reviews all of the company's outstanding projects and gives a summary to the board."
Steele was on his speakerphone. I could hear his chair squeaking in a steady pattern and knew he was sitting and swinging it from side to side like a little kid. It was a habit of his when he was lost in thought.
The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 Page 5
