The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  "I really liked Sterling. Honest, I did. But, well, he was old, and Jackson's a very sexy man and much more exciting. We had an affair" She sighed again. "The thing with Kyle just sort of happened. I went to him for a massage and next thing we were involved."

  "And after Sterling died, you thought you could use Kyle to keep a roof over your head?" I asked, looking straight at her. She matched my gaze, eye for eye.

  "Ouch, that's cold, Odelia," she said with a mean-looking smile. "After Sterling broke off his engagement to me, Jackson and I planned to run off together. We were going to steal the Holy Pail and cash it in for the entire one hundred thousand dollars. But someone beat us to it."

  "And the baby?"

  She got up and started pacing. Wainwright lifted his head and she looked from the animal to me. "Is it okay to move?"

  "Yes," I answered. "Just don't make any sudden moves in my direction." The warning sounded good to my ears. I knew Wainwright was trained to protect Greg, and I knew he was somewhat loyal to me, but to what extent he'd protect me, I had no idea. But if the potential threat worked to keep danger at bay, I felt no guilt in using it.

  Stella nodded and continued. "When I first found out I was pregnant, I was going to get an abortion. After all, why would someone my age want a baby?"

  My mind flashed for an instant to my dilemma with Greg. As if reading my mind, Stella picked up a large photo from a table. It was an action shot of Greg. He was in his wheelchair, naked from the waist up, in the midst of a basketball shot. Another man in a wheelchair, a powerfully built black amputee named Isaac, was attempting to block it. Isaac had failed and Greg's basket had won the game for his team. After the game, Isaac and his wife had taken us to dinner. I loved the photo.

  "Your brother?" Stella asked, holding up the photo for my inspection.

  "My boyfriend," I answered.

  She cocked an eye my way and re-measured me. After replacing the photo, she returned to the sofa and continued her story.

  "Then I thought the baby might hurry the wedding to Sterling along. We were engaged, but he seemed happy to leave it at that indefinitely. There's no security in just being engaged. Nothing was in my name. Everything was his. But I knew he would never turn his back on a child." She laughed ruefully. "How stupid could I have been? Not to have at least looked into whether or not Sterling could father a child. After all, I knew his kids were adopted. But no, I just went ahead with my plan and got the boot."

  "Whose is it?" I asked.

  "Honestly, I have no idea. I didn't even think I could get pregnant anymore." She laughed to herself. It was a low, ugly, sad cackle. "When my periods stopped, I thought it was menopause.

  She had no idea? Three men and any of them could have fathered her child? And what about health issues? Had this woman never heard of safe sex?

  Stella rested her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands, covering her face. "Oh, Odelia, I've really screwed up." Her voice sounded strained, almost crying. "Here I am in my midfifties, pregnant, broke, and alone. Even if Sterling were alive, he wouldn't have me. Jackson will only leave Karla if we can get the money for the Holy Pail. And Kyle ... ," she looked up at me. Her face was splotchy and mottled in spite of her new tan. "Kyle's an idiot."

  I tried my best to feel sympathy for Stella. I really did. But it just wasn't in me. The best I could offer in the way of comfort was a box of tissues produced from the downstairs bathroom and a plate of thawed cookies.

  While she pulled herself together, I retreated to the kitchen to refresh our iced teas. When I returned, I settled back down into my chair, ready for more. This was one drama I didn't want to miss.

  "Stella, are you and Jackson the only ones looking for the Holy Pail? Or are Karla and Kyle also looking for it?"

  She shrugged and turned to me. I could tell she was giving it some thought.

  "I'm not sure Karla cares about it one way or the other, except as an inheritable asset. And I did mention it to Kyle before Sterling was killed, but he was so caught up in the purchase of the Center, I don't think it registered. Believe me, he's not the brightest bulb on the tree."

  No, I thought, but he was bright enough to pull something over on his father, or at least to think he did.

  "Stella," I began, wondering how much she knew about the purchase of the Center beyond what Kyle had told her that day in the study. "Exactly why did Sterling deed over a joint interest in the house to Kyle? And why did he buy the Center for him? Especially after finding out about the two of you."

  She looked at me in undisguised shock. "Is there anything you don't know?" she asked, her temper rising again.

  I gave her a smile and batted my lashes just slightly for affect. "I was the notary on the documents," I told her.

  Stella was traveling between playing the victim and being the bitch, and I was enjoying throwing a bit of the bitchiness back.

  "You know what I think?" I said to her, leaning forward in my chair. "I think Kyle found out something important, something about his sister, like maybe her using Jackson as a cover while she manipulated the company. And I think Kyle traded that information for the house and the Center."

  "Boy," she said, her eyes wide and bright with anger, "you're up to your ears in this shit, same as the rest of us. Maybe I should ask you, Ms. Odelia Grey, did you murder Sterling Price?"

  EIGHTEEN

  SATURDAY MORNINGS WERE USUALLY reserved for sleeping in, cuddling with Greg, a leisurely breakfast-not so today. It was five minutes after six when I finally located the address Porter had given me. It was a rundown six-unit two-story apartment building, three up, three down. The building was two-toned; originally mud brown with wide slashes of turquoise where some industrious soul had started painting, then changed his mind. The structure was wedged behind a strip mall that housed a liquor store, a beauty supply store, a travel agent, and a small boutique of cheap women's clothing. Except for the liquor store, none of the businesses looked prosperous. I parked my old Toyota Camry between a dumpster and a Chevy up on blocks. As soon as I opened the car door, my nose snorted the odor of urine and decay.

  Porter's place turned out to be the last apartment downstairs. I held a cardboard tray in one hand. Balanced on it were an extra large cup of Ethiopian-blend coffee for Porter and a medium cup of hazelnut coffee for me. I also brought along packets of sugar and creamer and a couple of cranberry scones. Dressed in strappy sandals festooned with beads that matched my khaki skirt and blouse, I felt incredibly overdressed and silly. Obviously, I had no idea what to wear when meeting a dead man in a shabby part of town.

  I knocked and waited.

  Almost immediately, I heard movement on the other side of the scuffed door. The drapes covering the window next to the door moved slightly. About the same time, I heard a noise by the fence that separated the building from the strip mall. Turning, I saw a rat. A big rat. One that could have given Seamus a run for his money. I knocked on the door again, my rap harder and more insistent than the first. Warily, I watched the rat bustle around the bottom of the fence. Every now and then he looked my way, nose in the air, whiskers moving rapidly. I was sure he was smelling breakfast.

  I began counting to myself. On ten, the plan was to throw the coffee and scones at the rat and run. At seven and a half the door opened. A man's head popped out. He looked up and down the deserted street before beckoning me to enter. Solemnly, like a death row inmate heading for the chair, I started across the threshold.

  Zee's right, I am out of my mind.

  The apartment was dark, cool, and orderly. Based on the outside of the building, I had expected squalor. But once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found instead a very clean and freshly painted apartment. The sparse furnishings were fairly new and reminded me of an IKEA catalogue.

  The man motioned for me to sit down. He was a young, trim Latino, not quite six feet tall, dressed in clean jeans, a white T-shirt, and expensive running shoes. His shiny black hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytai
l and his upper lip played host to a wispy, dark moustache. The arms poking out from the short sleeves of his shirt were sporadically tattooed. When he turned to look back out the door, I noticed a gun wedged in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

  Stifling a tiny whimper, I took a seat on the futon-style sofa, knees demurely pressed together, ankles crossed, and perched the coffee on my lap.

  "Mr. Porter in?" I asked him. No response. "How about Mr. Proctor?"

  Remaining silent, he positioned himself in front of the closed front door, legs apart, arms folded across his firm chest. I stared at him. He was cute, in spite of the thin white scar running down the left side of his smooth, brown face. He stared back, regarding me with no visible emotion.

  Nervously, I looked at my watch. "I'm sorry I'm late," I said, helpless in the grip of an urge to babble. "Then I couldn't find the address." I held up the tray of coffee. "The big one is for Mr. Porter ... umm ... Proctor. Ethiopian, like he asked." The gangster kid said nothing. "Would you like the other? It's hazelnut. My personal favorite, although I also like Kona." More nothing.

  I picked up the white bakery bag and waved it gently in the air. "How about a cranberry scone?"

  This time, the young man lowered his head slightly and widened his coal black eyes at me. I think it meant if I kept talking, he was going to shoot me.

  "Odelia Grey?"

  I jumped at the words, nearly spilling the coffee. It was the same confident voice I had heard on the phone. I turned toward it. Standing in the doorway that I assumed led to the bedroom area was another man, this one about my age. He was pale with freckled skin, bony, and no more than five foot eight or nine. More skin than hair adorned his head. Black horn-rimmed glasses and the large nose upon which they rested took up most of his angular face. He was dressed in designer jeans and a Polo shirt and resembled several professors I had in college. However, I reminded myself, most professors do not hide out in slums with bodyguards.

  I sat frozen in fear. A bullet list of cold facts listed themselves vertically in my head:

  • There were two of them, one of me.

  • At least one of them had a gun.

  • A forty-seven-year-old woman should know better.

  • Greg will kill me if he finds out.

  • He'll have to get in line behind Seth and Zee.

  • Everyone will have to get in line behind Dev Frye.

  • Who'll take custody of Seamus?

  "Is that for me?" the man asked, pointing at the coffee.

  "You Willie Porter?" I asked in return, trying not to shake too visibly.

  He smiled. His teeth were straight and white behind thin, colorless lips. He held out his right hand to me. "Willie Porter, aka William Proctor. But I haven't used Proctor for a long time, so just call me Willie."

  He didn't look like a Willie to me, but I took his hand anyway and shook it uneasily. He again eyed the coffee and I held out the tray to him.

  "The large one's yours," I said, then added, "I brought scones, too." Immediately my fear was overcome with foolishness. This was hardly a tea party.

  He laughed lightly, taking both the large cup of coffee and the pastry bag. "Thanks. Good to see you know how to follow instructions." He looked inside the bag. "The scones are a nice touch." He closed the bag and placed it on the coffee table.

  He turned to the young man by the door and said something in Spanish. The kid said something back and they both laughed. The young man grinned at me, displaying crooked teeth. I felt my face grow hot. He and Willie exchanged a few more words in Spanish. Some I understood, most I didn't. Occasionally, they looked my way, studying me.

  "I asked Enrique if he searched you," Willie told me. "But he said no, it would be too much like frisking his own mother."

  I offered Enrique a weak, red-faced smile, not sure if I should be offended or flattered. He chuckled and said something else to Willie, who laughed hard enough to slightly slosh his coffee.

  "Enrique thinks you're cute," Willie translated, "big and soft like his mama, but much more loco ... crazy."

  After studying the young man for a moment, I leaned toward Willie and asked softly, "How do you say `bite me' in Spanish?"

  The roar of laughter that came from Enrique let me know that no translation would be needed.

  After further words from Willie, Enrique covered up his gun with a loose shirt grabbed from a nearby chair and slipped out the front door, leaving us alone.

  Willie sat down on the sofa at the opposite end. He crossed one leg casually, ankle resting on knee, and took a big swig of his coffee. Like Enrique, he wore running shoes, but his were well worn.

  "Very nice," he commented, indicating the coffee.

  "Do you know how Sterling Price died?" I asked him.

  "I heard poison." Willie took another big drink.

  "Yep, oleander. In his coffee."

  Willie froze, cup to his lips. He peered at me over the rim, made a decision, and swallowed.

  "Let's just hope you're not the one who did it," he said to me with a smile.

  I smiled back. "No, not me. Not my style." Though I had no doubt that there were thousands of people willing to line up to poison this man's java.

  As soon as Stella Hughes left last night, I jumped on the Internet to see if there was anything on William Proctor that I should know about. Much to my surprise, there was quite a bit. There were a few photographs online of Proctor as well. All resembled the man in front of me.

  In his former life, Willie had been William Proctor, founder and chairman of Investanet, a dot-com company specializing in retirement plans and investments. Actually, Investanet specialized in fleecing honest citizens out of their hard-earned nest eggs with cooked books and double talk. William Proctor had disappeared just ahead of a federal raid, but not before embezzling about twenty-five million dollars in other people's money. He left his executives holding the bag and his employees high and dry without jobs. I remembered reading about the scandal at the time, but failed to connect it to the man mentioned in the American Executive article about the Holy Pail. It surprised me that the magazine itself didn't bring the connection to light. But maybe they didn't want to remind readers that some American executives were sleaze balls.

  "Except for the connection to the Holy Pail, I didn't know who William Proctor was when you called yesterday, but I do now."

  Scared as I was, I tried to appear casual about the whole thing. I doubted if the felon sipping coffee across from me would tell me anything of value if I appeared on the brink of emotional collapse, so I shed my nervousness as much as possible. Shifting around to face him, I curled one leg up under me and smoothed my skirt modestly over my legs. Anyone watching us would think we were old friends catching up over coffee.

  "I'm curious. Why did you contact Price's office?" I asked. "Kind of risky, wasn't it? I mean, I assume there's a price on your head."

  "Hmm, yes, there is-a big one. You going to turn me in, Odelia?" He appeared laid-back, not at all what you'd expect for a fugitive on the run.

  I gave thought to what I should say and what I wanted to say, and decided on averaging them out. "I'd love to," I answered honestly. "But I'm sure I'd never get the chance. Either you'd stop me cold, one way or another, or you'd disappear like smoke in the wind."

  Willie looked me over thoughtfully. "I like you, Odelia. You're smart and straightforward."

  He tilted his head back and took another big swallow of coffee. I could see his throat muscles working in his neck. Frisked or not, he obviously didn't consider me a threat to his personal safety. Too bad I didn't have the same sense of security.

  "I liked Sterling Price," he said, putting the paper cup down on the coffee table in front of us. "I only met him once, just before I sold him the Holy Pail. Decent sort, good businessman. I'm very sorry about his death."

  He got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a pack of cigarettes, a cheap lighter, and a small ashtray. He offered me a cigarette.
I declined. He lit up, took a long drag, and made an effort to blow it away from where I sat.

  "Nasty habit," he said, before taking another puff. "Wife always wanted me to quit."

  "You and your wife living in Mexico now? Where your boat was found?"

  "You just never mind where my wife and I live these days, little mama." He chuckled and took another puff, considering me through the cloud of his exhale. "I asked you here, Odelia, because I want to help you find Price's murderer."

  "Why?" I asked, looking directly at him with interest. "Just because he was a nice man and you once sold him a lunchbox?"

  "Really," he answered with a chuckle, "you give me too much credit. I'm not that nice."

  Somehow I knew that.

  "This is about revenge, plain and simple. You see, the feds were tipped off about my company, hence my hasty disappearance. I had planned on running Investanet a few months longer, selling it lock, stock, and scandal to some sucker, and fading into the sunset. The whole thing about the boat was last minute."

  "A whistleblower in your midst? How does that connect with Sterling Price?"

  "Worse than a whistleblower, Odelia, a vicious, jealous woman." He winked at me, then continued. "There's an unknown collector trying to get his hands on the Holy Pail. Someone outside the usual lunchbox network, which can be very tight-knit. He's offering big money for it. I have no idea why"

  I nodded. "Yes, I've heard that. It's up to one hundred thousand now." Pausing, I scrutinized Willie. "You sure you don't know who the collector is?"

  He shook his head. "No, sorry. He never contacted me directly. But there is a woman hunting the box down on his behalf. Kind of a bounty hunter, if you will. I think you've met her."

  I thought about Stella Hughes. "A flashy blond, mid-fifties, with a Marilyn Monroe figure?" I asked.

  He gave me a big smile and stubbed out his cigarette. "That's Stella."