A Killer Collection (6 page)

Thin forests slowly gave way to
pastures. Cows mingled lazily beneath the shade of ancient oak trees or slumped
near the banks of small streams, searching for any available refuge from the
heat. Both women were quiet in the car, conscious of the fact that they had
both seen George-Bradley alive and well a few hours ago and now, in the space
of a few heartbeats, he was dead.

"I feel sorry for him,"
Molly said, breaking the silence.

"Why?"

"Well, it seems to me that he
was, you know, probably pretty lonely. And yes, one might say he deserved it
for being a first-class jerk to most people, but is anyone going to miss him
now that he's gone?"

Her mother shook her head. "I
don't think so. That rude behavior at the kiln opening was so typical of George
Bradley. He was ungentlemanly and condescending to anyone he thought was a
class below him. He even patronized the potters. Despite his behavior, he felt
that his money and his incredible collection earned him a place of honor in
everyone's eyes. Maybe he has family who will grieve, but I don’t know a single
person who will."

"Yet everyone knows his name.
All of Randolph County knew who he was and everyone in the pottery circle did
too. But no one will care. See, it's kind of sad."

"They'll care about his
pottery, that's for sure. All the sharks will be circling around poor Bunny.
People would kill to get their hands on George-Bradley's collection."

"And she hated it all, right?
So won't she want to sell it?"

"You never know. She might
want to hang onto the most valuable pieces for a while until the demand makes
them worth even more money. She might want to give the whole collection to a
museum. Then again, she might want to throw every piece against the wall. I
don't know Bunny well. Like I said, she went her way and George-Bradley went
his. Where that pottery is going to end up is a riddle I would love to be able
to answer."

"Listen, Ma. I feel like
there's something not quite right about his death. I didn't think to tell you
this before, but he was acting really weird toward the end of the...the
grabbing session." Molly described what she had witnessed behind the barn.

"Rubbing his stomach?"
Clara was clearly perplexed. "I've heard of clutching your left arm during
a heart attack, but this is a new one."

"Why would he go behind the
barn to unbutton his shirt in the middle of a kiln opening? And why was he so
out of it? It was like ... I don't know, like he was drugged." The vision
of George-Bradley's confused face nagged at her.

Clara pursed her lips. "Well,
there certainly were plenty of people there who'd like to see him dead. Anyone
who collects has to fight him off at every sale, but if it wasn't an accident,
the police will know soon enough," she declared with finality.

"Maybe," Molly replied.
Then because she didn't think her mother was taking her at all seriously, she
added, "Or maybe I will. Knowing the complete truth is necessary if I want
to write a killer article. George-Bradley is about to become more famous than
he was before."

~~~~~

Molly drove up to her little house feeling completely
spent. Her cool, cozy rooms had never seemed so inviting. She sank down on her
couch with a Diet Coke and some catalogues from her mail pile. Within seconds,
a tan tabby hopped on her lap and began ‘making biscuits’ as Molly like to call
it by kneading her stomach with the claws of his front paws.

"Ow! Griffin! Here, have a
nice pile of junk mail to sit on instead."

Molly made a pleasant nest of
envelopes and Realtor advertisements for her cat. He happily relocated onto the
pile and circled himself around until he was in prime bathing position.

"I swear, you are the vainest
cat in all of Durham."

As Molly glanced over the glossy
pages of Pottery Barn's fall collection, she felt her body slowly relaxing.
Griffin's steady purring and the whir of the air conditioner soon sent her off
to sleep.

The sound of the phone ringing
jarred both her and the tabby into an upright position. They both blinked in
surprise against the afternoon light but only Molly bothered to move from the
sofa.

"Hello?" she croaked
into the phone.

"Are you asleep when you
should be in here typing up that article?" demanded the grating voice of
her editor, Carl Swanson. He paused to take a drag from his cigarette. "I
expect that piece on my desk by Monday!"

Carl was an overweight
chain-smoker with a truculent nature and an obsession with the paper's circulation
rate. The entire staff of
Collector’s Weekly
lived in constant fear of
Swanson’s volatile temper and horrible breath, which was a blend of nicotine
and strong, black coffee.

"I was at the kiln opening at
dawn," Molly said defensively. "I certainly got enough information
for an article, but maybe a little more excitement than I’d bargained for.
However"—she gave a theatrical pause—"this might be just the article
to help our sales. A famous collector died today, Carl. But that's not all."
She hesitated again, wondering if she was about to say something she would
later regret, but the nagging feeling that followed her home from the kiln
opening would not let go. "I don't think his death was accidental."

Molly could almost see her boss
sitting up straighter in his chair, the ashes from his cigarette falling onto
his expansive lap.

"Well? Go on, girlie! Give me
all the details and let's see what we can print!"

Molly ignored his customary
display of chauvinism and gave him a blow-by-blow account of the morning's
events. Swanson was completely keyed up over the idea of publishing such a
dramatic story.

"Get in here right away. I
want you to go over the details with Matt Harrison."

Molly's heart skipped a beat.
"Why Matt?"

"He went to med school at Duke. Didn't finish, but he's
got some buddies in hospitals around here and we need those medical details to
be accurate. Can't have you writing the wrong stuff and getting us sued."

Molly scowled at the implication that she would wouldn’t be
able to acquire the correct information on her own and hung up on her boss as
he began one of his lengthy coughing fit. She didn’t Brightening at the thought
of seeing Matt, Molly went upstairs to change her clothes. She wanted to look
her best now that she’d finally be working with the man of her fantasies.

Twenty minutes later, Molly arrived
at the paper’s office building in northern Durham and made her way to the
ladies’ room, where she applied lipstick and ran a brush through her straight,
dark hair.

Swanson must have briefed Matt,
for he was waiting for her with his desk cleared, a welcoming smile on his
face.

"I hadn’t realized you went
to medical school," she began.

A shadow crossed Matt's face.
"For a little while, but I didn't finish. Listen," he said, hastening
to change the subject, "why don't you tell me everything that happened
this morning. Swanson’s indicated that you believe this collector's death is?
Is that true? Could you explain what you saw?"

Molly nodded, sensing a strong
amount of doubt in Matt's voice. Still, she related her story once again, and
he listened intently while occasionally jotting down notes on a legal pad. He
was clearly more interested in the details of George-Bradley's demise than in
the descriptions of the pottery or the behavior of the buyers after the rope
was cut.

"So you heard that he had
diabetes?"

"Yes, someone in line
mentioned it after he was taken away in the ambulance," Molly said. “Or I
might have heard it while he was stuffing his face with cookies. Either way, it
seemed common knowledge.”

Marie asked, "Did he look
healthy?"

"No. He was overweight and
sweating a lot. He kept dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. Plus, he was
drinking tea and eating every sugary snack to be had like it was his last
meal."

"Sweet tea?'

Molly laughed. "Boy, you give
away that you're not from around here when you ask that. Of course it was sweet
tea! Is there any other kind?"

Matt ignored her teasing. "It
doesn’t sound like he treated himself too well."

"Not in that regard."
She proceeded to fill him in on the gossip about his affairs and his unusual
marriage, pleased that she felt so comfortable talking to him. "The
Stauntons," she concluded, "were a couple divided by his pottery
collection. He put a great deal of time and energy into collecting. She hated
everything he brought home."

"Well, I don't collect stuff,
unless you count my beer bottle collection or my jar of wine corks. Does that
mean I have to marry someone who likes beer bottles?"

Molly laughed. "I don't think
that all married couples have that problem. After all, it's much more
economical if only one person is spending money on eBay."

"I'm a cheapskate bachelor,
so no problem there." He grinned and returned his attention to his legal
pad.

A bachelor! Did he say that to let
her know he was available? Molly tried to decipher the glimmer in Matt’s light
blue eyes but he was concentrating on his notes.

"Okay," he began, still
looking at what he’d written. "I’m going to call in a favor from a friend
over at Asheboro General. I'll find out the medical details. If there
is
something suspicious about this guy's death, and I'm not saying there is,
medical science will bring it to light. Swanson wants this piece out on Monday,
so why don't you start the article and I'll give you the filler you need by
tonight? We could ..." Molly watched as Matt stumbled for words and a
ruddy blush crept up his cheeks.

"Order Chinese," she
suggested quickly.

"Great." He smiled, and
Molly returned to her desk and began typing up her article with a zippy rhythm.

~~~~~

By dinnertime, Molly was growing tired. Matt stopped by
her desk as she was stifling a yawn.

"You'd better knock off for
tonight," he said kindly. "We can go to that fondue restaurant next
door. I'll write it off as a business expense."

"Yes, please. I can finish
this up in the morning," she agreed gratefully.

After the waiter took their order
for spicy cheese fondue, house salads, and an entree of meat and seafood
fondue, Matt seemed to grow fidgety. He crumpled and smoothed his napkin and
glanced around the room, looking everywhere but at Molly.

"Did you talk to your friend
at Asheboro General?" Molly asked, hoping to make him comfortable by
sticking to work topics.

"Yes. Turns out that is the
hospital where your collector was taken. My friend was doing his rotation in
the ER when they brought him in, DOA."

Molly looked at him blankly. What
did that string of acronyms mean?

"DOA?"

Matt laughed. "Oh, sorry. It
means Dead On Arrival."

"George-Bradley didn't even
make it to the hospital?" Molly was surprised. So the customer at C. C.'s
who’d said that an ambulance leaving without its sirens blaring meant the
patient was already dead had been correct.

"No. And guess what his cause
of death was?"

"I don't know. Heart
attack?"

"No."

Molly thought about what else
might have afflicted an overweight man. "Stroke?"

"No."

"Brain aneurysm?"

"Nope." Matt shook his
head, his blue eyes smiling.

Molly lifted a skewered piece of
bread dripping cheese onto her plate. Was Matt being playful with her? To test
him, she replied in an exasperated voice, "Intensive probing by
aliens?"

Matt raised his brows. "I'll
give you a hint. It relates to the condition that you mentioned."

"Diabetes?"

"Yes."

"I don't know anything about
diabetes, except that you have to take insulin, right?" Molly said.

"Right."

"So his death has something
to do with insulin?"

Matt nodded. "Now you're
getting warmer. Too much insulin, in fact."

"I don't get it."

"He died," Matt informed
her proudly, "from an insulin overdose."

Molly stared at him. "An
overdose? But don't people take insulin in pill form? Or injections? Can you
give yourself too much? Explain, please."

"George-Bradley had Type Two
diabetes. People with this condition produce some insulin, but not enough. Or
the insulin they produce doesn't work right. You need a certain amount of
glucose to keep your body running. Insulin gets the glucose into your cells.
Following me so far?"

"Yes, and thank you for
putting this into layman's terms for me."

Matt took a breath and continued.
"Usually, people who have Type Two diabetes are middle-aged and
overweight. Their cells can't absorb glucose because they don't have enough
insulin to let the glucose in, so it's kind of hanging around in their
bloodstream. Lots of people with Type Two can control this by following a
careful diet and exercising on a regular basis."

"Something George-Bradley
didn't do. He was clearly out of shape, and when I saw him at the kiln opening,
he was smoking too. He totally reeked of tobacco."

"And since he didn't maintain
a healthy lifestyle, he needed to take insulin shots to regulate his glucose
levels. Considering he was an overweight smoker, it's amazing he didn't have
problems before this."

"How do people know how much
insulin to take?" Molly asked.

"They have portable
instruments that measure their blood glucose, or blood sugar levels, as most
people say, then they know if it's time for a dose. Most diabetics can sense
when they're in need of insulin. They start feeling weak or dizzy. Some people
give themselves shots at regular intervals, like before breakfast and dinner.
But diabetes patients can be really different, and there are several different
types of insulin. It really depends upon the individual."