The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  "Just sit tight until you hear otherwise."

  "Sounds good to me," I answered, glad to have some of my work put on hold. "I was planning on attending Sterling Price's funeral this afternoon, if you don't mind."

  Of course he would mind. Steele always minded anything that unshackled me from my desk and took me out of his reach. After the service, I planned on heading straight home. It would give me a chance to pull myself together before I saw Greg. I was semi-seriously considering flipping a coin to arrive at my decision about his proposal.

  "Good idea. I was going to go to the service on behalf of the firm, but you can go in my place." Squeak ... squeak... "I hate funerals. Don't even plan on going to my own, if I can help it."

  I filed that tidbit of information away, thinking that if he kept that promise, Steele's funeral might be one worth attending.

  "Besides," he continued, "your old buddy Wendell Wallace will be there. The firm will be well represented."

  "I probably won't come back to the office after the funeral," I said casually, hoping to slip it by him.

  The squeaking stopped abruptly, followed by silence. I braced myself. If Steele crabbed even one tiny bit about billable hours, I was going to remind him loudly that mine were among some of the highest in the firm. The squeaking started up again, and I breathed easier.

  "No problem, Grey. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Bright and early."

  I almost fell over. No problem? Did he really say no problem?

  Stunned, I replaced the receiver and turned my attention back to the magazine article. I skimmed it casually. It was unremarkable in both the writing and the content, basically restating what Sterling Price had told me a few days ago about how he started collecting lunchboxes, how many he owned, and how he had recently acquired the Holy Pail. However, two-thirds of the way through the piece, I froze. I read several paragraphs over and over before picking up a pen and jotting a few names from the article down on a legal pad. I circled them.

  Jasper Kellogg

  Ivan Fisher

  William Proctor

  They were the names of some of the prior owners of the Chappy Wheeler lunchbox, and they all had something in commonthey were all dead. More importantly, according to the article, they had all died while still in possession of the Holy Pail. I thought Joe had been kidding, trying to scare me like a Halloween goblin.

  I picked up my phone and punched in another extension at the firm.

  "Joe?" I said into the phone, the magazine shaking in my hands. "What else do you have on these dead guys?"

  SEVEN

  STERLING PRICE'S FUNERAL WAS remarkable only by its brevity. The eulogy was given by Price's good friend and my former boss, Wendell Wallace. He stood straight and regal at the podium as he spoke of his many years of friendship with the deceased and of Price's accomplishments and loving family.

  While I did want to pay my last respects to Sterling Price, the urge to check out the cast of characters that made up his life loomed large in my mind. From my seat about midway on the left- hand side of the filled chapel, I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the family, but it was useless. They were seated in a special area along the left wall, shielded by a dark one-way screen for privacy. I had never met any of Sterling Price's family and wanted to put faces to some of the names I knew. I did spot Carmen Sepulveda seated in the second pew on the right. Her head dropped down every so often during the service and I assumed she was wiping her eyes with tissue.

  The graveside portion of the service was just as brief. When it was over, I made my way over to the Price home for the recep tion. It was located in Newport Coast, a very expensive housing development in Newport Beach featuring meandering streets, manicured lawns, and celebrity neighbors. Perched on the hillside, many residents had spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean. It was not a Sterling Homes development.

  The home was elegant and large, with a design that reminded me of a Mediterranean villa. I had barely stepped inside when someone gently took my elbow. It was Mr. Wallace. Standing next to him was his lovely wife of forty-seven years, Hilda. Mr. Wallace smiled down at me from his six-foot-three frame, which was unbent by time. Mrs. Wallace leaned in and gave me an affectionate hug. I had last seen them at my birthday party a few days prior. They had popped in for a few moments before another engagement, and I was touched both by their attendance and by Greg's thoughtfulness in inviting them.

  "Glad to see you here, Odelia," Mr. Wallace said. "Sterling always liked you." His voice vibrated slightly in grief and I saw his wife place a hand warmly on his arm.

  "I wanted to be here," I said, and felt my own voice shake a bit at seeing Mr. Wallace's loss etched into his face. "Did you know that I saw him the day he died?"

  "Yes, Mike Steele told me." Mr. Wallace looked around. "Where is Mike? Thought he'd be here."

  "He decided not to come since both you and I would be here," I said. When I saw Mr. Wallace shake his head slowly in disapproval, I quickly added, "Steele was pretty shaken up by this, Mr. Wallace. I'm not sure he does funerals very well."

  I could not believe my own ears. I was actually defending Steele, a man I detested, to Wendell Wallace, a man I adored. Something was wrong with me-something I intended to blame on middleaged hormones.

  For whatever reason, I had always referred to Wendell Wallace as Mr. Wallace, even though I had spent most of my years at Woobie working closely with him. It was never something he demanded; he was not that type of person. I never referred to any of the other attorneys at the firm by Mr. or Ms. unless speaking in front of clients. The atmosphere at Woobie was casual, and usually we all addressed each other by first names, except, of course, Mike Steele. He referred to everyone-superior, equal, and subordinate-in military fashion by their last name, and he was the only attorney I referred to in that manner.

  "Odelia, how is that wonderful beau of yours?" Mrs. Wallace asked.

  "Greg's fine, thank you. He's been out of town, but he's returning tonight."

  She looked at me slyly and smiled. "And will we soon be hearing some exciting news?"

  I felt my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. I am definitely not some twenty-something maiden, but at the same time I felt girlish and wanted to giggle. For a surprising second, I wished I had the ring to flash at the Wallaces right here and now, no matter what my answer would be to Greg. I blamed this, too, on hormones.

  "Hilda," Mr. Wallace chided gently, with a wink to me, "leave the poor woman alone. I'm sure Odelia will tell us when the time comes.

  "Mr. Wallace, could you point out Mr. Price's family?" I asked, changing the subject. "I'd like to pay my respects."

  As Hilda Wallace excused herself to go speak with several ladies who had gathered near a piano placed in front of a huge bay window, Mr. Wallace guided me into the large formal living room where several people were holding court seated on two matching sofas done in hunter green leather. They were all speaking in hushed chatter to each other as we approached.

  A rather handsome, dark-haired man standing next to the sofa to my left turned his attention to us first and stuck out his hand to Mr. Wallace. "Dell, beautiful eulogy."

  Mr. Wallace took the offered hand. "Thank you, Jackson," he replied, pumping the man's hand firmly.

  The name sounded familiar to me. In a flash of recall, I remembered that Steele had mentioned a Jackson Blake who was a senior vice president at Sterling Homes. I would have bet my next meal this was the same person. I didn't have to wait long to know I wouldn't have to go hungry.

  "Jackson, I'd like you to meet Odelia Grey, the paralegal at my firm that handles most of the corporate work for your company."

  I thrust out my hand and we shook. Jackson Blake was about six feet tall, with an athletic build, and somewhere in his mid forties. Up close, his dark hair appeared more salt and pepper, and his eyes were dark and piercing, like he was taking a photo of everything, including me, and storing it away in his memory bank. He wore a beautifully cut dark suit, similar in styl
e to those Steele preferred.

  Earlier today when Steele had mentioned this man's name it had struck me as odd that I could not recall hearing it before. I had drafted the minutes of both the board of directors meetings and the shareholders meetings of the privately held Sterling Homes for years and could not recall any officer named Jackson Blake. Of course, I thought, I could simply be forgetting, but it still nagged at a corner of my brain like a pesky hangnail. Sterling Homes was not that big of a company in its operation, only in its profits.

  A blond, petite, and very chic woman sat on the sofa next to where Jackson Blake stood. She was very pretty, with the sort of fashion magazine looks that money and a good surgeon could maintain for years. Mr. Wallace bent down and kissed her cheek.

  "Oh, Uncle Dell," she murmured quietly. She dabbed at the corners of her flawlessly made-up eyes with a linen handkerchief.

  Mr. Wallace shook his head in helpless silence as he introduced me to her, then he turned to me. "Odelia, this is Karla Blake, Jackson's wife and Sterling's daughter." He next focused on a slightly built man sitting next to Karla. "And this is Kyle Price, Sterling's son.

  Next to her brother, Karla started sniffling. Jackson put a comforting hand on her shoulder, which was no bigger than a child's, and I saw her discretely shrug it off. He withdrew his hand and I looked up in time to see him shoot a quick, cold look to the back of her head. Geez, now there's a happy couple.

  Karla Blake, or rather Karla Price, I did know, by name only, from the corporate minutes of Sterling Homes. She sat on the board of directors, though her brother did not, and was the chief financial officer of the company. The woman seemed brittle and pale dressed in a costly and unwrinkled black sheath, with her light honey hair pulled back in an immaculate chignon. Then Karla's look turned to me and I saw that in spite of her dabbing, her eyes were as clear and dry as a desert sky and just as blue. They pierced me with the same inspection and calculation as her husband's eyes had before her. In silent self-conscious response, my hands reached down to smooth out the many creases in my limp, lightweight navy and white two-piece dress purchased over two years ago on sale.

  In turn, Karla and Kyle each politely took my hand and nodded as I gave short but sincere condolences. They appeared to be in their mid to late thirties.

  Kyle Price was not as well-turned-out as his twin sister and her husband. He wore a plain white shirt, khaki pants, and an outof-date tie that had been pulled away from his neck, exposing his considerable Adam's apple. His brown sports jacket bunched in the shoulders. He was clean shaven and wore his hair long, but not well cut like Greg's. He had the same light eyes as his sister, but they lacked the intensity. He gave me a small, sad smile as he acknowledged my condolences. Kyle Price looked ill at ease and fidgety, like a nervous horse ready to bolt.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Karla Blake lean toward her husband, who bent down stiffly to hear her words. "What's she doing here?" I heard her whisper tightly to Jackson.

  For a brief moment I thought she was referring to me, and then I noticed Jackson looking beyond me to someone else.

  "She still lives here, Karla," he whispered back calmly. "She has until the end of the month."

  As I walked away with Mr. Wallace, I glanced discretely in the direction of their attention and noted a middle-aged woman standing by the archway leading into the formal dining room. For the most part, the woman stood alone. Occasionally, someone approached her, said a few words, and received a sad, forlorn smile and nod in return. She was very attractive, medium in height, tiny in the waist, suggestively full in the hips and breasts. She had a true old-fashioned hourglass figure, which her conservative gray dress and matching pumps tried hard to downplay. Her dark blond hair was threaded with subtle highlights and curved gently at the ends, framing her face just below her chin in a becoming manner.

  I plucked gently on Mr. Wallace's coat sleeve. "Who's that?" I asked, indicating the woman by the dining room doorway.

  "That's Stella, Stella Hughes. She was engaged to Sterling until recently."

  So that was the gold-digging fiancee, I said silently to myself. Since my idea of a gold digger is a young, hot babe in a miniskirt sporting fake boobs, I looked at Stella Hughes with great curiosity. But then again, anyone could woo someone for their money. To my knowledge, there were no education or licensing standards for the job, like a doctor or lawyer. And although far from young, Stella Hughes was very sexy.

  "What happened?" I asked Mr. Wallace, hoping to get the scoop.

  He shrugged and hesitated. The combined gestures put me on alert. He was about to claim far less information than he really knew. You don't work for a man for umpteen years and not learn his habits and stall tactics.

  "Not sure," he lied. My eyes pleaded with him in silence and he grudgingly continued. "The breakup was very recent."

  "She lives here?" I asked casually, hoping to prod more information from the Wallace vault.

  "Yes, at least for a few more weeks. Sterling let her stay on to give her time to relocate."

  How civil, I thought to myself, remembering with a shiver the same offer from Franklin Powers when I ended our engagement, relationship, and live-in arrangement. Franklin had been sadly sweet in his offer to let me stay in a guest room of his house while I located and purchased a place of my own. He cited that it would be easier than moving my things twice. His argument, presented with all of his lawyerly skill, was a good one, and I had accepted. After less than two weeks of pure torture, with Franklin swinging between guilt and abuse in his bid to change my mind about marrying him, I fled.

  A man I recognized as another of Mr. Wallace's longtime cronies strode over and greeted us, cutting off my questions. Mr. Wallace seemed relieved. It saved him from having to tell me to mind my own business. As the men spoke of golf, I excused myself and headed for the buffet set out in the dining room. I set my path accidentally on purpose to take me directly past Stella Hughes.

  Daintily, I picked at the sandwiches, selecting two. They were the kind rolled jelly-roll style in flat Middle-Eastern bread and sliced into pinwheels. I had worked through lunch, grabbing only a vegetable-flavored Cup-a-Soup along the way. Looking at the filled table, my stomach was not shy about reminding me of that fact. I silently reminded it back that Greg was taking us out to dinner in a few hours. Internal discussion ended, I also chose two mini quiches and topped off my plate with some cherry tomatoes and a couple of carrot sticks. When I failed to see peanut butter, I passed on the celery. Rounding out my snack was a small glass of chilled white wine served to me by a waiter.

  Stella Hughes was still standing by the entrance to the dining room when I completed filling my plate. She seemed to have staked out that spot as her territory. A couple stopped to give her a few quick words of comfort and moved on. No one seemed to be hovering around her like they were the family members. Nonchalantly, I sidled over to where she stood. I was beginning to think the wine was a mistake as I worried about juggling the glass while trying to eat. Then, spotting a small hutch near the doorway and just to the side of Stella, I moved in and set my wine down, turning the unsuspecting table into a good excuse to stay near my prey.

  Stella Hughes' uninterested glance passed over me no longer than a sigh. Up close, I could see under her carefully applied makeup the fine lines and dulling skin of aging, and that at one time she had been a true beauty, undoubtedly a blond bombshell. She smelled faintly of joy, a fragrance I loved on most people but not on me. Quick as a bunny, I polished off a quiche the size of a halfdollar and took a sip of wine.

  "Joy," I said simply and in her direction.

  "Excuse me?" Stella Hughes asked, giving me a smidgen of attention.

  "Joy. You're wearing Joy."

  She looked at me, puzzled, then smiled slightly as she caught my drift. "Why yes, I am." Her voice was deep and sexy, the kind of voice you would expect to hear on the other end of one of those 900 numbers.

  "One of my favorites," I told her. "You wear it w
ell."

  She turned so that she was looking directly at me, her expression and body language now inviting conversation. "Thank you," she replied. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know you."

  It is so easy to start up a conversation with a strange woman. Men have no idea. Just compliment a woman on her perfume, shoes, or hair, and you have an instant buddy. Ask about her kids and you make bonus points. Asking about grandchildren gets you invited to Thanksgiving.

  I put my plate down on top of the hutch and wiped my fingers on a napkin, then extended my clean right hand. "Odelia Grey. I'm a paralegal. I work for Sterling Homes' attorneys"

  "Stella Hughes."

  "Sterling's fiancee?" I asked.

  Stella stuck out her chin ever so slightly, presenting a look that invited a challenge. "Former fiancee," she corrected me in throaty tones. The woman appraised me with her eyes, which were dark and calculating. For the third time in just a few minutes, I felt like I was under a microscope. This certainly was not a trustful bunch.

  "I'm sorry," I apologized. "For both that and for your recent loss. It still must be very difficult for you."

  "Thank you, Odelia," she said, her husky voice fringed with grief that may or may not have been real. "A lot of people here don't understand that." She looked at the family cluster, then back at me. "We only just broke up, and it wasn't at all acrimonious."

  A mean-spirited, low cackle popped out from between my lips, surprising me. "I once broke off an engagement myself and thought at the time that it had ended friendly," I told Stella. "Imagine my surprise when I discovered the opposite."

  Geez, I thought, maybe Franklin did haunt my relationship with Greg. I picked up my wine glass and knocked back the tangy beverage like a shot of NyQuil.

  "That bad?" Stella asked. I looked at her in surprise, suddenly realizing that she had witnessed my frenzied downing of alcohol. She was surveying me now with a look of frank amusement.

  "Better than anything you've seen on the Lifetime channel," I told her with a wry grin.