The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  As for the rest of the firm, Jolene and I were given a preview of the memorandum that would be circulated just before lunch. It explained how Trudie and Steele had been working late and had surprised the intruders, thought to be two in number, whose motives were yet unknown. In the memo, Steele was applauded for his courage and for preventing further damage to the office. Everyone would know better, but with the launching of the official memorandum the issue would be dropped from open discussion like the proverbial hot potato. I knew, though, that discussions over lunches and happy hours outside the office would be lively and creative for both the staff and attorneys for weeks to come.

  On the way back to my office, Joyce, the receptionist, gave me a message. It was from Dev Frye. He wanted me to call him as soon as possible. Earlier, I had been questioned by the police. Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, had efficiently taken my statement and asked if I had noticed anything missing. They also asked about the cases I was currently working on, and I was thankful for the guidance of one of our partners, Carl Yates, during the questioning. Outside of the file room, my office was the only office demolished. It was looking more and more like the intruders were looking for something specific, but I could not, for the life of me, think of what it could be. The possibility of it being the Holy Pail kept popping up in my brain, but I swept it away like a bothersome fly. It was just a coincidence. And besides, I didn't have the lunchbox, and never had.

  I called Dev Frye back as soon as I returned to Steele's office. Until mine was back in shape, I had taken up residence at the small conference table in one corner of his office. The police were still picking over my office, looking for prints and clues.

  The number on Dev's message was his cell phone. When he answered, I said a chirpy hello, hoping to mask my stress from recent events. After asking how I was doing and saying he had heard about the vandalism at the firm, Dev cut right to the chase.

  "Odelia, are you sure Sterling Price didn't give you the Holy Pail?"

  It was the same question Stella Hughes had asked me yesterday.

  "Uh-huh. I'm positive," I answered. "You think this business at the office is connected to Sterling Price's murder, don't you?"

  My question was met with deep silence.

  I groaned. My mind was a disturbed pool of muddy water. When it cleared, I wasn't sure I liked the reflection it offered up. This time the pesky fly wouldn't go away. It demanded my attention.

  "The police think the vandals were looking for something. You think it might be the Holy Pail, don't you?" I paused. Dev's breathing was the only sound from the other end of the line. "My office was the only one trashed," I continued, vocalizing the facts for my own personal review. "Nothing was stolen from the firm or otherwise damaged."

  "Odelia," Dev started to say, but I cut him off.

  "What is the big deal about that damn lunchbox?"

  Dev chuckled softly before answering. "I'd like to know that myself, Odelia. But honestly, I'm not even sure if the disappearance of the box and the murder are connected. And I'm not sure that's what your intruders were looking for, but I am concerned about the coincidences. Are you sure you're okay?"

  Coincidence. There was that word again. I smiled at his concern.

  "Yes, I'm fine, thanks. And no, I don't have the Holy Pail. You know, Stella Hughes, Price's fiancee-well, ex-fiancee-asked me that yesterday after the funeral."

  "Thanks for letting me know that. We've questioned just about everyone connected with Sterling Price but nothing concrete has come up. We'll talk to her again."

  I wondered how much to tell Dev about what I had overheard yesterday in the study. Reluctantly, I acknowledged to myself that Zee was probably right. I should let Dev handle this. I wasn't a detective and could be sitting on pertinent information that could help him.

  "Also," I began, wanting instead to clam up and claim the information for my very own, "Kyle Price and Jackson Blake are both involved with Stella Hughes. And you might question Kyle about his father's gift to him of the house and the acquisition of the Good Life Center. I think he might have either blackmailed his father or brokered some information to obtain them, something like that. Something involving his sister, I think." Then, I added a disclaimer. "Of course, I could be wrong."

  "We knew about Stella Hughes and Kyle Price," Dev said. "But this other information's new." There was a pause. "By the way, how-"

  "Don't ask, Dev. Please, don't ask."

  He paused again. Once more I heard breathing, life going in and out of that massive body.

  "I know this is going to fall on deaf ears, but please be careful, Odelia."

  "Thanks, but I'm-"

  Now it was his turn to cut me off. "Sterling Price was poisoned, Odelia. It was in his coffee," Dev said bluntly. "Someone put poison into the ground coffee Price kept in his office. Do you understand that?" he asked, giving each word weight.

  Dev's words hit me like a bucket of ice water. My eyes widened as I remembered Price and I having a cup of coffee together. He had said it was a special blend. Suddenly I felt woozy.

  "What kind of poison?" I asked, the words gurgling out with effort.

  "Oleander," Dev said flatly. "Someone laced his personal coffee stash with ground oleander."

  I bent over, putting my head between my knees while still clutching the phone to my ear. "Oh," I groaned weakly.

  "Odelia, are you all right?" I heard Dev ask anxiously.

  "I had a cup of coffee with Sterling Price that morning," I told him in a faint voice from my bent position. There was a long pause on Dev's side. A very long pause. Then he cleared his throat. It sounded like a short blast from a garbage disposal. "He made it himself, but only had enough for a half pot," I continued.

  In a voice straining to be positive, Dev finally responded, "The poisoned coffee was brewed in the afternoon. It was made from a newly opened bag. We found that bag and another that had been tampered with. There was an empty bag in the wastepaper basket, probably from the morning, with no trace of the poison."

  There followed more throat clearing from Dev and a sound from me that was curiously similar to the mooing of a wounded cow. How blindly close had I come to death? I mooed again. Just last year, I had been chased and shot, but at least I knew I was in danger and did my damnedest to make it as difficult to kill me as possible.

  After lunch on Monday, Sterling Price had cheerfully made himself a pot of his beloved French Roast and Sumatra blendcoffee to die for. He never had a chance.

  "Is Greg back yet?" Dev asked, interrupting my emotional retreat into the womb.

  I pulled my torso back up and looked at the photo of Greg and me that I had rescued from the rubble of my office. It resided now on Steele's conference room table. The glass had been cracked and the wood frame scratched during the night's activities, but the photo was untouched. I traced Greg's handsome face with a fingertip.

  "No, he's not," I answered. "There was a death in his family. I'm not sure when he'll be back."

  "You are to call me immediately if anything else happens," Dev said gruffly. It was a tone he had never used with me before. "I mean it."

  I saluted feebly at the phone.

  THIRTEEN

  SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA IS LOUSY with oleander bushes. They line freeways, farmland, and back yards, and are often used as natural fences and windbreaks. It is a colorful and hearty plant that blends into the landscape without much notice and is accessible to anyone anytime. Because of its copious availability, as a weapon it is almost impossible to trace back to an individual.

  I remember being cautioned at an early age about the poisonous nature of oleander. From time to time, there would be reports of children and animals falling ill after chewing on the leaves. I had even heard that using a branch of oleander to roast hot dogs or marshmallows over a campfire could prove toxic. It had just never occurred to me that parts of the oleander bush could be ground up and brewed into a deadly cup of coffee. I wonder if Starbucks knows about this yet.
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  At Woobie, the morning had dragged on. The police were still going through my office and asking questions of both attorneys and staff, making it impossible for me to work. It would be at least until after lunch when I would be able to start cleaning up my office, so when Carmen Sepulveda called and asked me to meet her for lunch at twelve thirty, I didn't hesitate. We agreed that I would pick her up, and together we would go to a nearby restaurant. So for the third time in less than a week, I found myself on the road to Sterling Homes, eyeing suspiciously the cheerful and bountiful oleanders I passed along the way.

  I must confess that my acceptance of the lunch date was twofold. One, I wanted to pump Carmen for more information, particularly about Stella and the Price clan. And, two, I wanted to meet Amy Chow, the young woman who initially found Mr. Price's body. Since recovering from Dev's revelation about the poisoned coffee, I was like a pit bull in my determination to find out more.

  Rosemary had said that Amy covered the front desk from eleven thirty until twelve thirty. Carmen had advised me that she would be in a meeting until almost twelve thirty. It was my plan to ignore that bit of information and arrive early for our lunch date.

  So far, so good, I thought to myself when I entered the main door of Sterling Homes and found Rosemary gone. Sitting at the receptionist desk was a young Asian woman. She seemed about the same age as Rosemary, maybe even a little younger, but gave off an air of seriousness and maturity, as if she alone bore the weight of the world. She had straight, blue-black, shoulder-length hair and bluntcut bangs down to her brow. She was as slim as a reed, with a delicate face of flawless skin and a rosy mouth. Her makeup was sparse, but artfully applied. Without it, she would have looked twelve.

  After scribbling my signature and time of arrival into the guest book, I gave my name and purpose to the fill-in receptionist, letting her know that I was early and happy to wait. I plopped my weary body down into the visitor's chair nearest the receptionist desk. The phones were quiet and the young woman was preoccupied with reading a paperback novel. Not wanting to appear too eager, I waited a few moments before shelling her with questions.

  "Excuse me," I said to her quietly. She looked up from her book and gave me a small, shy smile. "I'm sorry to bother you, but aren't you Amy Chow, the one who found Mr. Price?"

  Instantly, the corners of her pretty mouth turned down and she cloaked herself in wariness.

  "Carmen told me," I quickly explained. "It must have been just awful." The girl nodded, but still said nothing. "It must have been quite a shock. I hope you're feeling better now."

  "I am, thank you," she murmured in a very tiny voice before going back to her book. I wondered if she was hesitant because the memory was still painful or because she was afraid to talk about it.

  I was stumped about how to proceed, afraid that if I pushed, Amy would freeze up. She was obviously much more reserved than Rosemary.

  "It's all so horrible," I said.

  Her face took on the color and fragility of ecru lace. "It was horrible," she said in a shaky voice.

  I tried to be comforting. "I'm sorry you had to be the one to find him. I understand you were just filling in for Carmen."

  Her head went up and down slightly. The phone rang and Amy answered it expertly. Once finished, she came back to our conversation. "Yes, I was there in case he needed anything while Mrs. Sepulveda was gone," she told me, still speaking very softly. "But Mr. Price didn't want to be disturbed. Maybe ... ," she continued, her voice drifting off, trailing guilt like a frothy wake behind a speedboat.

  I waited while a small group of people crossed through the reception area. They lingered only long enough to tell Amy they were going to lunch. She wrote something down. Once they were out the door, I stood up and moved slowly closer to my prey, not wanting to spook her. It was obvious she was carrying some of the burden of Price's death on her small, sensitive shoulders.

  "From what Carmen told me," I said to the girl kindly, "there was nothing you could have done. Mr. Price didn't want to be disturbed and you followed his wishes." I looked down at her and she slowly raised her face to mine. "Believe me, Amy, none of this is your fault. And I'm sure you did everything you could to help the police."

  The phone rang again just as I saw her face change from the earlier beige to the stark white of correction fluid. She definitely looked rattled, but once more handled the incoming call deftly and with a steady voice. After the call, she did not look up, but instead fiddled with the pages of her novel, dog-earring the corners nervously.

  "Mr. Price was a very nice man," she stated simply as she watched her fingers mutilate the edges of the book's pages.

  "Yes, he was," I commented softly. I paused briefly before continuing my cautious dance around the uneasy girl. "Amy, after you found Mr. Price, what did you do? Did you scream? Run out of the room? You must have been very frightened."

  She twisted her small face into a thinking position, but I knew she would not have to work hard to remember the event. It was only four days ago and that type of thing had a talent for permanent scarring. She was probably wondering if she should tell me or not. She was probably wishing Rosemary would swallow her lunch whole and return early.

  Amy's onyx eyes studied me from behind their slanted lids. I smiled slightly, willing her to decide in my favor. Pulling the guest book to her, she turned it around so she could read it. I watched as one of her fingers traced along the last entry-my name, my place of business, and who I was there to see.

  Quickly, she flipped her head up. "You're from Mr. Price's law firm, aren't you? The one that was here that morning."

  I nodded. "Yes, that was me. I had an eight o'clock meeting with Mr. Price."

  She looked hard at me, and I hoped she was arriving at a verdict about my credibility. Her lined brow and small shoulders relaxed some. Inside I breathed easier, sure she had decided to talk.

  "I screamed first. Then I ran out to get help," Amy told me in almost a whisper. "Then it was sort of a jumble."

  "Who responded to your scream first?" I asked.

  "I think it was Mr. Blake," she said. "At least that's what I told the police. His face is the first one I can remember." She pondered her answer a little more. "Yes, I'm pretty sure Mr. Blake ran into Mr. Price's office first."

  Jackson Blake. Hmm. "Do you remember what Mr. Blake did as soon as he entered the office?"

  She shook her head, the dark curtain of her hair swaying. "No, I never went back in. I couldn't."

  "I guess Mr. Blake's office is close to Mr. Price's."

  "No, his office is at the other end of the building, next to Mrs. Blake's. Same floor, though. Only Mr. Price's office is at that end of the hallway, and the boardroom."

  "Did Mrs. Blake come in when you screamed?" I asked.

  Amy hesitated. I noticed that her fingers worked the edges of her book a little faster. "No, I don't think she did. She came after that."

  "But I bet both Mr. and Mrs. Blake spent a lot of time with Mr. Price? In his office, in meetings and such?"

  Like a threatened turtle, Amy seemed to shrink inward, drawing herself into her torso. She looked around to make sure no one was listening. Seems like everyone I spoke to today was looking over their shoulder.

  "No, at least not the times I was there," she said, her voice barely audible. She seemed eager to unburden herself, but still kept herself in cautious check. I leaned in, all ears, my hefty boobs half draped on the high counter in front of her. "In fact, Mr. Price specifically told me not to let Mr. or Mrs. Blake disturb him that day."

  "Do you know why?" I asked, keeping the volume on my own voice down.

  "No, just that it seemed like Mr. Price was angry with them."

  "And what happened next? After Mr. Blake went into Mr. Price's office?"

  "After I screamed, lots of people came running. Mr. Blake's secretary took me into the boardroom and stayed with me because I was so upset. Then the ambulance and police came. But just after-" she started to say before s
topping short.

  I heard footsteps on the staircase behind me and turned to see Karla Blake descending. She approached Amy and announced that she was leaving for an appointment and would return in two hours. Amy dutifully noted it on a sheet.

  Karla turned her ice blue eyes to me. She was dressed in a creamcolored silk pantsuit, perfectly tailored to her small and shapely figure. Suddenly, I became self-conscious about my casual attire.

  "You were at my father's funeral, weren't you?" she asked with a tight smile.

  "Yes, Mrs. Blake. I'm Odelia Grey, a paralegal from Wallace, Boer."

  "Of course, Uncle Dell's firm. You're the one who handles our corporate records." Her voice was even and she seemed less brittle than the day before. She reached out a slim hand with long fingers in my direction. "I want to thank you for being there," she continued.

  Her politeness held all the warmth of a shark circling an illfated life raft. I accepted the offered hand for a short, well-mannered shake.

  "You're welcome, Mrs. Blake," I told her, my eyes meeting hers, hoping for an opportunity to read what was behind them. "Your father was one of my favorite clients."

  "Seems he was everyone's favorite something," she replied, never dropping her smile for a second. "Is there something I can do for you, Odelia?"

  "No, but thank you, Mrs. Blake. I'm waiting for Carmen Sepulveda. We're going to lunch today."

  She looked me up and down just by moving her eyes. "Very well. Nice to see you again."

  Before I could respond, she stepped through the door into the August heat.

  The phone rang just as Karla left and Amy answered it. I noted as she reached out to punch the buttons on the console that her hand trembled slightly. Something was up, something she was not talking about; maybe something to do with Karla Blake.