A Killer Collection (15 page)

Still giggling, a young,
long-legged blonde stepped out of Matt's office with a smile on her full lips.
She wore a pewter blouse in shimmering silk tucked into a short, brown suede
skirt. High heels that came to a sharp point at the toe accentuated her trim
legs. Her body was long, lean, and sinewy. She was like a beautiful, blonde
lioness. Swinging her long mane flirtatiously over one shoulder, she turned
back to Matt and laid a graceful hand on his shoulder.

"You and I make such a great
team," she purred.

Matt's cheeks reddened as he
agreed. "I'm glad you had a chance to stop in today."

"Me too!" Blondie oozed,
leaning into Matt's chest a little.

"Well, um..." Matt
stammered, looking exactly as he had when Molly suggested they have dinner
together the other night. What a fool she had been! Did he perform his Mr. Shy
routine on all women?

"Well nothing, darling."
Blondie gave him a playful poke in the chest. "I'll see you tonight. Bye
for now." She turned and sashayed down the hallway.

Matt stood rooted to the floor,
watching the sultry figure sway away. Molly caught a whiff of a strong,
citrus-scented perfume. Who was that woman? Was Matt dating someone after all?
From the way they’d been talking to one another, they obviously weren't
strangers. Molly felt crushed. She could never hope to compete with someone who
had the body of a Barbie doll and the fashion sense of Audrey Hepburn. Even the
woman's heady perfume created a glamorous signature in the air around her.

Feeling she was going to be sick
from the overwhelming scent and her own humiliation, Molly waited until Matt
went back inside his office and closed the door behind him. Then she moved out
from her hiding place, took a deep drink from the tepid water cooler, and fled.

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 10

The kiln is a constantly changing personality, from the lag/
quiet beginning to the dramatic climax of full fire, flame issuing from all
ports, and greedy demands for fuel.

—HARRY MEMMOTT, from
Discovering Pottery

Molly woke the next morning hoping that the sultry figure
she had seen yesterday had belonged to a dream. Surely, that long-legged sex
goddess wasn't Matt's girlfriend. Walking blearily into the bathroom, Molly
turned on the shower and took a hesitant look in the steamy mirror. She
examined her curvy, big-boned body and compared herself to the thin, lithe
blonde. She felt totally depressed.

"Apples and oranges,"
she muttered to her foggy reflection. "No, not even. More like celery and
pears."

Molly dressed in loose,
comfortable clothes, stuck her hair in a ponytail, and went downstairs to eat
breakfast.

The kitchen was strategically bare
of comfort food, so she absently chewed on some nutritious cereal that was
strongly reminiscent of the mulch she had recently put down around her bed of
daylilies. Her sweltering car and an accident blocking both lanes leading to
the office did nothing to improve her sour mood.

At work she sat listlessly at her
desk and avoided looking in Matt's direction. It didn't take much of a sleuth
to see how dejected she was, and when Clayton sat down opposite her later in
the break room, he wasted no time in bringing up Matt.

"I can tell you saw our boy
with that vixen yesterday," Clayton began, grimacing as he struggled with
the wrapper of a banana MoonPie. "Did you smell that perfume? Ugh! Eau Du
Tramp."

Molly smiled despite herself.
"It was awfully musky, but she's still a stunning woman."

"Sure, if you like giggling
twigs who smell like the cosmetic counter at JC Penny," Clayton said,
closing his fingers over his nostrils as if the scent was still present.

"Do you think she's Matt's
girlfriend?"

"I didn't think he had one
and I know
everything
about
everyone's
love life." Clayton
paused to think, his forefinger tugging at his bottom lip. "Still, I can
find out."

"How?" Molly asked
cautiously.

Clayton took a dainty bite out of
his MoonPie and dusted a smattering of crumbs from his shirt as if each one
were a poisonous insect. "He's got an appointment book. If she was his
girlfriend he won't have her written in. Heaven forbid if she is! I will have
totally misjudged the man for having good taste. Or," he taunted, "I
could just ask him."

"No!" Molly started.
"Don't do that. He'll guess I put you up to it."

"Honey, you just leave it all
to little ole Clayton. I'm not the Queen Bee around here for nothing. Go get
yourself busy with your next scintillating article and I'll be in touch."
Clayton winked and blew her a theatrical kiss as he walked out of the room.

As she was ahead of schedule at
work, Molly decided to shut down her computer and spend the rest of the day at
home in her sweatpants, napping with her cats. Swanson was out, no doubt
enjoying the fine weather by playing eighteen holes of golf, so there was no
one to question her absence.

Her late afternoon snooze session
on the deck surrounded by birdsong and perky geraniums in terra-cotta pots was
interrupted by a call from her mother. "Why aren't you at Lex's preview
party?" she demanded.

Molly plucked a red gummy bear
from its bag underneath her plastic chaise and dropped it into her mouth.
"Because, " she said, chewing, "I'll see all those people
tomorrow."

"But you always go when
you're covering an auction. And we managed to work in a dozen of
George-Bradley's best pieces into tomorrow's sale by making an addendum to the
catalogue. It's mobbed here already. So why aren't you coming?"

Molly hesitated. She was upset
about the discovery of Matt's possible girlfriend, but she also didn't feel
like getting dressed up in order to talk shop. She felt like an evening of TV,
her two cats snuggled like book ends on her sofa, and a good sulk.

"I'm just tired," Molly
told her mother.

"Fine. Listen, there's
another reason I'm calling. I heard something on the radio today about Hillary
Keane. Apparently he's been
found
, whatever that means. I couldn't hear
anything else because Lex was on the cell phone extolling the virtues of an
empire chest to a client. I did hear that there's going to be a report on the
six o'clock news. I thought you'd be interested."

"He's been found?" Molly
asked in wonder, the candy on her palm forgotten. "As in his
body
or as in discovered holed up in some seedy motel room with two kilos of
coke?"

"I don't know. In between all
the description of the carvings and the details of the chest’s provenance all I
heard was Hillary's name and full details at six. You'd better watch,"
Clara said.

"Wow! Listen, I have to tell
you what I discovered about him when I stopped by the pharmacy." Molly
quickly filled Clara in on her conversation with Brandy. "I am going to be
glued to that TV tonight, aren't you?"

"No. I came over to the gallery
early to give the boys some directions for tomorrow. I'm running the floor and
that means it's my responsibility to make sure they hold up the one-drawer
stand instead of the umbrella stand during the sale. Lex couldn't have hired
people who knew less about antiques if he picked them blindfolded."

Molly laughed, imagining her
mother henpecking the four young men employed to haul furniture during sales.
True, they weren't the sharpest tools in the shed, but at least they were
capable of carrying huge wardrobes and heavy chests of drawers to people's
cars. Those old pieces of furniture were solid masses of wood, awkward to carry
and even harder to cram into backs of minivans and SUVs.

"Their lack of knowledge
gives you the opportunity to educate them about the world of antiques. A world
that’s very important to a group of teenage boys," she teased her mother,
feeling revived by the news about Keane. "Not only that, but you are a
natural at bossing people around."

"Hmph," Clara snorted.
"Any more educational opportunities and I'll be starting my cocktail hour
right after lunch. 'Night dear."

Molly stretched out on the couch
and leafed through an antiques magazine while she waited for the news to come
on. She mulled over her motives for not attending the preview. Normally, she
lined up a future interview during this time—someone she was sure would spend a
lot of money at the auction the following day. Now, she would have to cover the
auction and acquire an interview candidate at the same time.

She admitted to herself that
another reason for avoiding the party was that she hoped to receive a phone
call from Clayton.

Popping several more candies in
her mouth, she switched to the local news. The leadoff story concerned a
national kidnapping case that, for once, had resulted in a happy ending. The
little girl who had been taken to an abandoned house and tied to a pipe with
duct tape had chewed through the tape and shouted for help from a broken
window. The footage showed her safely at home with her parents and grandmother,
being hugged tightly and given flowers and plush animals from the neighbors.

Molly was pleasantly surprised to
see a positive story leading off the nightly news. She never watched it anymore
because the focus of every piece was celebrity gossip, a grisly crime, or
political scandal. After a teaser about a possible baseball strike and a long
commercial break, the anchorwoman lifted her shiny crown of platinum blonde
hair and announced the capture of an antiquities thief in the western part of
the state.

"This afternoon in
Hendersonville," she intoned in a voice of dried up honey.
"Authorities arrested forty-four-year-old Hillary Keane on charges of
theft and driving under the influence. Sources say Keane swerved off the road,
nearly hitting a jogger, before colliding with the guardrail and coming to a
stop. Here's Phil with more."

The screen switched to a mountain
road winding its way through a small town. The reporter, frowning in
well-rehearsed consternation, stood before a curve in the road where the
guardrail had buckled beneath the weight of Keane's van. The van was being
removed on a flatbed tow truck behind Phil as he gave his report:

"This is the scene of what
could have been a serious tragedy. Hillary Keane, a pharmacist from Asheboro,
was swerving all over this twisted stretch of road when he almost hit
Hendersonville's Clyde Farmer. Farmer was out jogging, hoping to get in a
midday run before heading back to work at the post office. He almost didn't
make it. When he saw Keane's oncoming vehicle, Farmer leapt over the guardrail
in an attempt to avoid the oncoming car. He missed being hit by a matter of
seconds. Farmer suffered minor injuries from his fall and is being treated at
the local hospital."

Phil gestured at the guardrail and
continued, "As if driving under the influence weren't enough, Keane is in
even more hot water. Authorities report that several bins of stolen pottery
were found in his battered vehicle. The pieces belong to different collectors
across the state and are thought to be extremely valuable. Keane admitted that
he was planning to sell them to an unknown buyer from Pennsylvania.
Fortunately, none of the valuables were damaged in the crash. Authorities are
now
trying to discover who
else
was involved in the resale of the stolen
goods. Keane is currently being held without bail. This is his second offense
for driving while impaired." Phil produced a judgmental frown.
"Marion, back to you."

"Hmm." Marion shook her
shingled hair in disdain. "Looks like
someone
has a lot of explaining
to do. Thanks, Phil. Up next, a Raleigh man gains much more than a pet when he
visits his local animal shelter. Stay with us."

As the commercial break began,
Molly frantically dialed the number to Lex's gallery. When Kitty answered, she
asked her to fetch Clara to the phone right away.

"What's going on?" Kitty
asked.

"Mom will tell you, just find
her!"

When Clara heard the news, she was
astounded. "A thief! I never would have guessed. I've seen him at sales
for years. He seemed like a complete gentleman."

"I think he was to some
people." Molly told Clara about the girl Keane had helped at the pharmacy.
"Still, I bet Keane was stealing George-Bradley's pottery and he was found
out. And now we know that he had a prior conviction for drunk driving. He probably
had a hell of a time driving with those hands even when he was sober. Do you
know what I'm thinking?"

"You still believe there's a
connection to George- Bradley's death?"

"Maybe he just supplied the
insulin. With such advanced rheumatoid arthritis, I don't think it's possible
for him to have directly given George-Bradley the shot, but he's still a shady
character."

Clara paused. "Keane was
after pottery. He was greedy, but I don't see him aiding a killer. And why help
someone kill George-Bradley now? Who else would benefit from his death?"
Molly heard a crash in the background. "Listen, I can't think about all
this detective stuff right now. I've still got so much to do here and
Tweedledee and Tweedledum aren't getting any smarter."

Molly grinned. "I assume
those are your new helpers. How's the crowd?"

"It's been super-busy. This
should be a terrific sale. Lex is going to rake it in."

"Good for him. He works so
hard for it."

"So do I!" Clara
pretended to be hurt.

"And you do, too, Ma. See you
in the morning."

Molly cooked chicken in a creamy
mustard sauce for dinner and then watched the ten o'clock news to see if there
were anymore updates on Keane. What had that man been thinking? Why was he so
desperate to sell the pottery that he stole from other collectors? Did he only
steal from people he disliked as a kind of revenge? Was he an accessory to
murder as well as a thief and a drunk? Maybe the girl in the pharmacy was
covering for him. She obviously cared for him deeply, so she'd gladly give him
an alibi.