The Curse of the Holy Pail #2

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  In the middle of all this contemplation, I tried not to think about the fact that I was in possession of stolen property.

  A woman at my feet had just finished applying a final coat of lacquer to my toenails and another was starting to do the same to my fingertips. The color I had chosen was called Bleeding Heart, a dark, sexy red, a color that would go well with the slinky black lace negligee I intended to wear on Greg's first night back.

  Greg would be home tomorrow mid-afternoon. After picking him up at the John Wayne Airport, we would grab Wainwright and head to Greg's home in Seal Beach for a cozy evening. I started dwelling on just how cozy the evening would get, using it to push the craziness of the morning out of my mind, when I heard a familiar voice.

  "Hey there, almost ready to go?"

  I opened one eye, knowing full well who I would see standing there.

  "Go where?" I asked Zee, who stood a foot away from my chair dressed in a long floral summer dress.

  She looked fresh as a daisy, something I was long past, even though I did make a quick pit stop home to freshen up and let the dog out for a fast pee. Still, I'd bet a thousand dollars Zee didn't spend the morning with a famous felon and his bodyguard, or digging up lunchboxes in a city park, for that matter. She smiled at my manicurist and said hello. It was the same woman who did her nails.

  "To Glendora," she said cheerfully. "To see Lester Miles." "

  I didn't know you were invited," I said.

  Both of my eyes were open now and I watched as the manicurist applied the fast-drying top coat to my newly done nails. I didn't want to look at Zee. I knew she'd be standing there with one hand on her hip, as solid and immovable as a mountain. I concentrated on watching my nails dry and hummed low like a refrigerator.

  Zee cracked first. "Come on," she said with just a hint of a whine. "I really want to meet Lester Miles."

  "It will be boring talk about lunchboxes and old TV shows," I told her, still not looking at her.

  "I'll be quiet as a mouse," she promised.

  Wiggling my fingers in front of the fan to dry, I thought about it. It would be nice to have some company. According to the Yahoo! map I had downloaded, Glendora was about a fifty-minute drive.

  No, no, no, I scolded myself in silence. I could not get Zee involved in this.

  "It's a lunch meeting," I said, "at his house. Kind of rude to just bring someone along, don't ya think?"

  Zee moved in closer. "All the more reason to take me along," she reasoned. "You certainly don't want to show up at a strange man's house all alone."

  Something akin to a knife stabbed through my gut from the inside out. I covered my discomfort with a nervous giggle.

  "Zee, Lester Miles is an old geezer about four feet tall. Don't you think I'd be able to handle him myself?"

  Her big brown eyes rolled around in her head, reminding me of a TV with a broken horizontal hold. She was standing in her heavy-duty posture now, one plump hand on each hip, like an illtempered nightclub bouncer challenging someone to take him on. I had seen her use this stance whenever one of her kids crossed the line big time. It still worked on them, but just barely. Those who loved her knew Zee was just a big marshmallow. I wondered how she'd do against Enrique.

  I tried to discourage her further. "Besides, I have another appointment right after that. Someone else interested in the Holy Pail. You'd be bored into next week."

  What I had in mind was a trip to Newport Coast to see Stella. I was hoping that Lester Miles could shed some light on the unknown collector and his obsessive interest in the Holy Pail. Using that new information, I intended to put further pressure on Stella. Before this day was out, I wanted to know as much as possible about that damn lunchbox.

  "Oh, come on," Zee tried again. "What do I have to do, hold a gun to your head?"

  Sweat broke out on my upper lip, and I felt the blood drain from my face like water from a tub.

  "You okay?" Zee asked. "You just went white as a sheet."

  Bleeding Heart nails waved away her concern. "Fine," I said slowly, "probably just an early hot flash."

  She watched me closely, but continued to stand her ground, totally unfazed by the people in the nail salon having to walk around her. It was fast becoming apparent that it was my turn to give. I made one last attempt, playing my trump card.

  "Zee, you can't go," I said firmly, after regaining my composure. "If there's any danger, Seth will skin me alive if I drag you into it. After all, this may be connected to Price's murder."

  She laughed and leaned in close to my ear. She smelled of jasmine. "Odie, honey, if there's any danger, my darling husband will skin you alive just for getting yourself involved in it."

  It was hard to argue with logic like that. Then Zee made an offer I couldn't refuse.

  "We can take my car," she announced.

  "I'll call Lester Miles and let him know there'll be two of us," I said as I slipped my newly pampered feet into my sandals.

  Moaning with unabashed delight, I settled into the buttery leather seats of Zee's Mercedes as we whizzed up the 55 Freeway and made the connection to Interstate 5. Christian pop music floated out from the CD player. The car was so quiet and smooth, if I closed my eyes, it felt like sitting in someone's posh living room. The vehicle was less than six months old, a present from Seth on their last anniversary, their twentieth, and it still had that new car smell. Sometimes, I have the car wash place spritz my car with new car smell and pretend.

  Before heading on our way, we dropped my car off at Zee's house and left Seth a note saying we'd be back around dinner time. Zee said he was off playing golf. Jacob was still on his camping trip.

  We took the connecting ramp from Interstate 5 to the 57 Freeway. Just beyond the junction, the freeway is flanked on the left by Angel Stadium, home of the Angels baseball team, and on the right by the Arrowhead Pond, where the Mighty Ducks hockey team resides. Greg loves hockey and has season tickets. Seeing the Pond reminded me of him and the fact that in just over twenty-four hours we would be together again. I tingled at the thought in spite of my lingering dilemma about the proposal.

  Zee seemed happy to hum along with the music, so I took the time to re-evaluate the continuing lunchbox saga. I started by mentally sorting out what I knew for sure from what was still an unknown.

  Known: The Holy Pail was in my possession, and Stella and Willie Porter seemed to be the only ones who cared about finding it. Jackson expressed an interest that day after the funeral, but only in connection to Stella.

  Known: Karla and Jackson were up to no good at Sterling Homes, and Kyle was playing both sides of the fence. Considering that he had been boinking his father's fiancee on the side, why should that surprise me?

  Known: Unless the Blakes and/or Kyle killed Sterling, they got everything they wanted. Kyle now owned the Center and the house. And Karla had free rein over Sterling Homes.

  Known: Amy Chow had worked in secret for both the Blakes and Stella. This seemed to me to be just a young woman who saw opportunities to make some quick cash and take care of her mother and her education. Something told me Amy Chow would not be back to Southern California unless dragged back.

  Unknown: Why was Stella working so hard to get her hands on the Holy Pail? Was it just for a hundred grand? Or was there something more going on with that tin crate?

  Unknown: Who killed Sterling Price? Kyle, Karla, Jackson, and Stella all had motives of one kind or another. But who was desperate enough to kill?

  Unknown: Carmen Sepulveda. Did she know about the corporate manipulations? Did she have an unknown motive to bump off her boss? It seemed unlikely, but you never know.

  It was all so confusing. I felt like a white rat scrambling in a maze, looking for cheese.

  The big question in my mind was still if the Holy Pail and the corporate takeover were linked or two separate agendas with two separate casts of villains. Willie Porter had made no mention of Sterling Homes, only of the lunchbox and his desire to see it destroyed, supp
osedly to get back at Stella. Something told me he was telling the truth about this. I don't think he cared one way or another about Sterling Homes, only about watching Stella wither.

  I leaned back in the comfort of the luxury car and thought about what Willie had said. If he was to be believed, then Stella was hunting down the Holy Pail, going from owner to owner in her quest. There did not seem to be any corporate intrigue connected with her past behavior, only a single-minded pursuit of the lunchbox. Only Kellogg had escaped her plotting. I wondered where Kellogg got the box? Willie had said that Fisher bought it from Kellogg's son.

  Before hitting the road, I had transferred the box of Chappy documents belonging to Lester Miles to the trunk of Zee's car. In my tote bag was Joe's copy of American Executive. Even though Willie had said that Jasper Kellogg had never met Stella and had died of heart problems, I still wanted to talk to someone about him. The article gave the name of the small town in which Jasper Kellogg had lived in upstate New York. Jasper wasn't that common a name, and Willie said that Fisher had purchased the lunchbox from Jasper, Jr. I powered up my cell phone, glad I had remembered to recharge it last night.

  Zee glanced over at me, but said nothing. Reaching forward, she turned down the music and went back to driving.

  Long-distance information had nothing on a Jasper Kellogg in that particular town, but there were three other Kellogg listings, including one for a J. David Kellogg in another town in the area. I jotted them all down on the back of an envelope I found in my purse.

  The first Kellogg listing was a Michael Kellogg. No answer. I dialed the next one for a James Kellogg. On the third ring, someone answered. It was a boy's voice, maybe around eleven or twelve. I told him I was trying to reach Jasper Kellogg, Jr.

  The boy hesitated, then said, "You mean Uncle Dave?"

  J. David Kellogg-why not?

  "Maybe," I told the boy. "Is your Uncle Dave Jasper David Kellogg, Jr.?"

  "Yeah, but he hates the name Jasper. That was Grandpa's name."

  "Does your Uncle Dave live in ... ," I paused to look at the name of the town Information had given me, "Bentwood?"

  "Yeah, that's him."

  "Thanks, I have his number, I'll try him there."

  I was about to hang up when the boy stopped me. "But Uncle Dave's here." I paused. Could I be that lucky? "He and my dad are working out back. Want to talk to him?"

  "Why yes, thank you."

  There was a clunk on the other end of the line and the thumping of fast footsteps retreating from the phone. I could hear his young voice calling out for his uncle, announcing a phone call"some lady." More footsteps-slower and heavier-getting louder as they approached the phone.

  "Hello?" said an adult male voice. He sounded laid-back, but not lazy. There was spring in the tone.

  I took a deep breath. "I'm looking for Jasper Kellogg, Jr.," I told him.

  "You found him."

  "Mr. Kellogg, my name's Odelia Grey. I'm sorry to bother you.

  "Then just cut to the chase, miss. Got a truck in pieces in the driveway." I pictured Kellogg in a mechanic's jumpsuit covered with grease.

  "I'd like to ask you some questions about the Holy Pail, Mr. Kellogg."

  "You mean that damn lunchbox of Dad's?"

  "Yes, sir. If this is a bad time, I can call back."

  There was a pause. Then I heard him call out to someone. "Kenny, get me a beer like a good boy. And take one out to your daddy. Tell him I'll be a few minutes." Then I heard a deep sigh.

  "Can I ask you something first, Della?" David Kellogg said into the phone.

  "Odelia," I corrected him.

  "Odelia, got it." I heard him thank someone. A pop-top sounded, followed by a long pause and audible swallow.

  "First, Odelia, I want you to tell me why all of a sudden people want to know about that damn beat-up lunchbox. Last week, someone saying he was a cop called from some beach town in California."

  "Was it Detective Devin Frye of Newport Beach?" I asked.

  "Yes, I believe that was the fellow. Earlier, some slick PI showed up at my house, and now you're calling, all asking about some hunk of junk my dad kept in the garage for nearly forty years. Something I sold years ago." A slurp of beer. "Tell you what," he said, giving off a short laugh, "I'm beginning to think I should have sold it for more money than I did."

  Dave Kellogg would probably throw himself under his disassembled truck if he knew how much was currently on the table.

  "Mr. Kellogg, I know Detective Frye. He's a good man and investigating a murder."

  "That's what the man said." "

  I don't know how much Frye told you, but the present owner was killed a week ago, and the lunchbox went missing. As for the private investigator, I spoke this morning with the man who sent him."

  Zee shot a wide-eyed look my way.

  "As for me, I knew Sterling Price, the man who was killed, and I have a few questions of my own. Seems a lot of people are looking for that lunchbox, and I want to know why. I was hoping that knowing more about its background will help me figure some things out."

  "So it's true, the last owner of the lunchbox was murdered?"

  "Yes, Mr. Kellogg, he was poisoned."

  "Over a kid's damn lunchbox?" Another big chug-a-lug.

  "Honestly, no one knows yet. The police are looking into it." I stared out the windshield. The freeway was winding through some low hills. "Mr. Kellogg, I'm calling on a cell phone from a moving car. If we get cut off, stay put and I'll call right back. Okay? It's important."

  "Sure. No problem."

  "You said your father had the box for forty years. Do you know where he got it?"

  "Sure. My dad used to live in California. Worked on some of the very first TV shows, mostly on the sets, building them. A real pioneer."

  "Did he work on The Chappy Wheeler Show?"

  "That's the one on the lunchbox, isn't it? The one where the star got killed?" he asked.

  "Yes, that's right." "

  I believe that show was the last one he worked on. After the

  show closed down, he and my mother came back East. This is where they both grew up. He worked in New York City for a long time, building sets for shows, before retiring."

  "Do you know how he got the box?"

  Kellogg called for another beer before answering. "I remember Dad saying he found it in the garbage at the studio. This was shortly after the show closed down. He took it as a souvenir."

  A souvenir? "Are you sure?"

  "Hey, Jimmy," I heard Kellogg shout to someone. "Didn't Dad say he found that old lunchbox in the trash?" I heard a voice respond, but couldn't make out the words.

  "My brother remembers the same thing." More mumbling. "Yeah, I should tell her that, huh?"

  "Tell me what?" I asked, growing excited.

  The connection grew weak. I heard Kellogg talking through static and then he was gone. I gave the car time to ease along the highway before hitting redial. Kellogg picked it up on the first ring. Zee had turned off the music completely and was engrossed in my half of the conversation.

  "Tell me what?" I asked Kellogg again.

  "Something my brother and I remembered after the investigator was here. Something strange." He paused to drink, gave a mild belch, and excused himself before moving along with his story.

  "Shortly before our dad died, he was going through all the old stuff in the garage. He had read somewhere that old lunchboxes were becoming popular and valuable. So he got out the lunchbox from that Western show and started cleaning it up.

  "I remember he was having trouble fixing the handle because of his arthritis, and asked me to help. There was a big dent, too, on one corner of the box. We fixed the metal ring that held the handle."

  Another slurp of beer. I was beginning to crave one myself.

  "But before I could start working on the dent," Kellogg continued, "Dad stopped me. After that, he wouldn't let anyone touch it. Kept it wrapped in plastic. Said he read something about it being m
ore valuable as is. About a week later, he told us he thought he had a buyer. Claimed he was going to get top dollar for the thing. `Big money' was how he put it."

  I remembered seeing the dent on one corner of the box the day I was at Sterling Homes.

  "Do you know who the buyer was?"

  "He said someone from the show," Kellogg said. "That's right, isn't it, Jimmy?" Kellogg asked someone on his end. "Yeah, that's right, Odelia," he confirmed, speaking to me once again. "One of the actors from the show. That's all he said about it."

  Hmm. Lester Miles, a known collector of memorabilia, came instantly to mind. I watched the road. We were almost to Glendora.

  "Do you remember seeing anything strange or unusual about the lunchbox?" I asked Kellogg.

  "Well, it really wasn't a kid's lunchbox, just a model or mockup of one. But outside of that, not really. Once Jimmy caught Dad going over it with a magnifying glass, but he never let on what he was looking for. After Dad died, I had no idea how to get in touch with that buyer he always talked about. Ended up taking out an ad in a newsletter for people who collect stuff. Sold it to the first one who contacted me, some guy in Chicago, for nine hundred dollars."

  "Nine hundred dollars?"

  "Yeah, I had no idea what it was worth, so I left the price open and waited to see what would happen. The guy offered five hundred. I asked for twelve, we compromised on nine." He chuckled. "Truth be told, I about shit when he offered the five hundred. Just said twelve to see what the fool would do. We split the money between the four grandkids. Said it was from their granddad."

  His last comment made me smile. "Your father died from a heart attack, correct?"

  "That's right. He had a bad ticker and emphysema. Smoked like a chimney. He was a walking time bomb."

  "Mr. Kellogg," I said to him, "thank you for being so helpful and answering my questions. I only have one more."

  "No problem. Shoot."

  "Before your father died, did a woman call him about the lunchbox? Or has a woman called you about it since his death? A woman with a very low voice, almost like a man's?"

  "Funny, that investigator asked the same thing. The cop just asked where Dad got it from." A pause. I waited. "As I told the PI, I don't recall Dad getting a call before he died, but he might not have told anyone if he did. But right after I sold the box to that man from Chicago, I did get a call from a woman. She was mighty upset about it already being sold and offered me a lot of money to get it back for her. I told her no, but gave her the name of the guy who bought it. Told her she could buy it from him herself."