A Killer Collection (7 page)

"What happens if you get an
overdose of insulin?"

"That's called hypoglycemia.
Too much insulin makes the body lose its sugar, or its energy. George-Bradley's
body just shut down. He was probably comatose before the ambulance even left
the garage."

"But I still don't
understand. If he gave himself regular shots, how could he give himself too
much?"

Matt shrugged. "It's not
common, but I guess he could have forgotten that he already had a shot or
misread his blood glucose level. By the time that rope was cut, his adrenaline
was pumping, he had eaten a bunch of sugary foods, and he had taken a double
dose of insulin to boot. I don't know how it happened. All I know is that it
was a mistake that cost him his life."

"Wow." Molly tried to
absorb all of the medical details. "That's awful. Did you find out
anything else?"

"I didn't really ask. I mean
all this stuff is confidential, remember? And all you can put in your article
is what has been officially released to the press, which isn't much."

"It’s a start.” Molly thought
for a moment. “But his cause of death will be made known to his wife and the
insurance company, right?"

"Yes, why?"

Molly wiped the condensation off
the surface of her water glass as an idea struck her. "What if the
insurance company views George-Bradley’s death as a suicide?"

"Did he seem like someone on
the verge of committing suicide?"

"Not at all! He was in his
element, according to my mother, and when I met him, be was as pleased as a pig
in mud." Molly hesitated, recalling the image of George-Bradley staggering
off behind the barn. "The last time I saw him, he was acting dazed,
confused. He was rubbing this spot of skin on his stomach. Something was
completely wrong about the way he was moving, too. If he had given himself an
extra dose, why would he look so surprised about a sore patch of skin?"
Molly paused, remembering another detail. "I think I remember a tiny
bloodstain on his shirt too. What could that mean?"

Matt dunked a piece of lobster in
a bowl of seasoned butter and shrugged. "Sounds like he was examining the
place where he gave himself his last injection. Did you see a syringe?'

"No, but I know he didn't
kill himself. He was definitely not the type. He was having the time of his
life. There was nothing but anticipation in his eyes until that moment behind
the barn. Something else happened at that kiln opening. Something that caused
George-Bradley’s death. I’m certain of it."

"In that case, I doubt anyone
else will think it's a suicide either." Matt paused, not wanting to offend
her. "I'm sure everyone will think that his death was an thoughtless
accident. Just a stupid, but fatal mistake."

~~~~~

Molly thanked Matt for dinner and they parted in the
parking deck. She had hoped he would ask to see her again, but then she
remembered that they hadn't been on a date, just a working dinner. Tired to the
bone, she drove home and phoned her best friend Kitty before turning in for the
night.

Kitty and Molly had once taught
together at the same private school. To earn extra money, Molly used to help
out at Lex Lewis's antique sales, serving as a runner, a clerk, or as floor
manager. During an important quarterly sale, Lex had needed another person to
help with registration and checkout and Molly had brought Kitty along. Sparks
flew the moment Lex and Kitty met, and now they were married and living a few
streets away from Clara. They were known in Hillsborough as the town's most
outwardly affectionate couple. At any given time, one could witness what Clara
called, "one of their nauseating displays of kissing and pet name
calling."

"Chicken!" Kitty
screeched the nickname she had given Molly years ago. "What's going
on?"

"Girl, you have no
idea." And Molly told the story yet again. Kitty wanted to hear every
detail, down to what Clara and Molly had eaten for brunch. Because Kitty saw
many of the collectors at Lex's auctions, she knew some of the names Molly
mentioned.

"That George-Bradley was a
regular louse!" she exclaimed, then lowered her voice. "I tell you,
every time he came over to my desk to checkout after a sale he would just stare
at my chest. No shame at all—just stare, stare, stare. I couldn't stand the
man!"

"You don't seem to be alone
there. The good news is, I got to discuss the whole event with Matt over
dinner."

"THE Matt? Oh,
do
tell."

"It was just a working
dinner, nothing romantic. Still, we got along well together I think. I
certainly enjoyed it."

"Did you talk about anything
personal? Like whether or not he has a girlfriend?"

Molly hesitated. "He’s not
married, but I don’t know if he’s dating anyone. I did learn that he almost
finished med school but..."

"But what?"

"I don't know. I got the
feeling that it wasn't a safe subject to discuss. Obviously he dropped out for
a reason, and I didn't think I should pry."

"Maybe not about that, but
you'd better talk to that boy. Now that you've had dinner, the door is open for
all kinds of possibilities!" Kitty trilled.

"Oh, do I wish. He’s smart,
hard working, and mighty easy on the eye. Anyway, I've got to listen to a
message from my editor before I pass out from exhaustion so I’ll talk to you
tomorrow."

"I can't wait to tell Lex
about the kiln opening. You know he and your mom will be aching to get their
hands on George-Bradley’s pottery. Sweet dreams of Matt," Kitty said and
hung up.

Molly reluctantly listened to the
rough voice of Carl Swanson growl through the speaker of her answering machine.

"I have another collector for
you to see. Hope you've got a pencil," he said, his voice convulsing into
a cough. "We're going to print a series on Asheboro collectors. Kind of
'the prime cache of pottery in the middle of the state' theme. Once you're done
with the George-Bradley piece, go see a man named Hillary Keane. Yeah, I know,
what kind of man's name is Hillary? Must be a sissy. I'll e-mail you his number
and address. According to my sources, this guy has an incredible collection. I
called him to see if he'd be willing to do the interview, and it's set up for
Tuesday at noon. Find out how he got started, where he buys, and photograph his
best pieces. We want lots of pictures and he hates having his stuff
photographed, so wear something pretty and kiss his butt a little, whatever it
takes."

Great. There’s nothing I like
better than a hostile interviewee
, thought Molly as Swanson's voice ceased.
She’d had experience with men and women like Keane, snobs who wanted to brag
about their collection, and yet didn't want anyone to know too many specifics.
On the other hand, Keane had been at the kiln opening and George-Bradley had
cut in front of him in line. Perhaps this was her chance to begin her detective
work.

Molly looked around at her pile of
unread mail and sighed. She usually took Sundays and Tuesdays off as she worked
Saturdays, but she could see that arguing with Swanson would get her nowhere in
view of his current circulation obsession.

A furry body rubbed against her
leg, then trotted off toward the kitchen of Molly's tiny house. She followed
the darting shadow in time to see Griffin jump up to a sitting position on the
inside of the dishwasher door. His eyes were large and expectant.

"You need a treat, I
suppose."

The coddled feline meowed in
agreement.

Rummaging in the fridge, she
pulled out a can of whipped topping and made a rippled cream heart on the
dishwasher lid. Griffin happily lapped at her design. Molly stared at the
flimsy heart and thought of Matt. She wondered if their dinner together had
caused her name to cross his mind as he settled in for the night. And though
she expected to dream of him, she fell into a deep sleep filled with visions of
the wicked grins of pottery face jugs.

~~~~~~~~~~

I say, you look upon this verse,

When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

But let your love even with my life decay.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Sonnet LXXI

The coffeemaker gurgled and bubbled as the aroma of
French vanilla filled the little kitchen. The television was set to the Weather
Channel, and Molly missed the local forecast for the third time as she
responded to a chorus of cat cries. As she was popping two blueberry waffles in
the toaster, the phone rang. Molly knew that a call at this time of the morning
could only be from one of three people: her mother, grandmother, or Kitty. She
examined her caller ID. It was Clara.

"’Morning, Ma."

"How did you know it was me?
Oh, that's right, you've got that ID thing ... Listen, I have
very
exciting news."

Molly knew from the way her
mother's voice dropped to a stage whisper that this news had something to do
with antiques or pottery and that it was
big
.

"Guess who called me this
morning?"

"Grandma," Molly
guessed.

"Yes, but guess who
else," Clara demanded impatiently.

"Lex."

"Yes!" Clara exclaimed.
"And guess who called
him
?”

Molly paused. Who could have sent
auctioneer Lex Lewis and her mother into a complete tizzy? After closing her
antiques shop, Clara started working part-time at Lex's auction gallery in
Hillsborough. Months later, Lex found he couldn't survive without her and Clara
became a silent partner. Though she still ran her own pottery business, Clara
found she couldn't bear to sell any of the rare pieces she’d acquired. Her
house became more and more crowded and her "shop" remained rather
thin in the inventory department. She put pieces on her Web site every now and
then for good measure.

At the auction company, Clara set
her own schedule and salary. She often used her flexible workday to drum up
interest in Lex’s pottery sales. Clara had a good eye for what was saleable and
often accompanied Lex when he viewed estate sales or a private collection.

Judging by her mother’s exuberant
tone, a well-known collector must have called Lex to look over his or her
goods. Whose house would Clara love to be invited to visit?

"Was it Bunny Staunton?"

"You got it, Madam!" Her
mother was bursting at the seams with anticipation. "The funeral is
scheduled for Monday, and she already left a message on the auction gallery's
answering machine early this morning asking Lex to drive right out to Asheboro
and look at the collection."

"The funeral is scheduled for
Monday? As in the day after tomorrow?

"Yes."

"And she wants you guys over
there today? Isn't this all a bit sudden?" Molly asked incredulously.
Funerals were a big thing in the South. And if George-Bradley’s body was being
released, the the police must not consider his death suspicious.

Molly could sense her mother
shrugging over the phone. Clara was too busy fantasizing about pottery to worry
about Bunny's motives. Impatiently she replied, "Oh, Bunny must be dying
to get rid of that pottery. She's always hated the stuff. Get over here this
minute! We're leaving at eleven and you don't want to miss it."

Her mother's excitement was
contagious. Molly was going to have the chance to see one of the finest
collections in the region, intact, before it was sent to auction and the
feeding frenzy began.

"No, I don't want to miss
it," she assured her mother. "Be right over."

~~~~~

Kitty waited out in the driveway of Clara’s house. A
traditional North Carolina "shotgun" home, the decrepit structure was
on the list of endangered houses when Clara spotted it in her Preservation
Society magazine. At the time, she was living in a cookie cutter neighborhood,
where every third house was exactly the same except for the hue of the vinyl
siding. The builder had cut corners wherever possible. The house had looked
fine from the outside, but little details like cheap light fixtures, sparse
landscaping, and the lack of wainscotings made Clara long for a residence with
more character.

When she read that an 1830s
farmhouse was soon to be torched as practice for the local fire department, she
hopped in the car and drove out to the site. With her ability to envision the
potential in things, Clara knew that her desire for a house with personality
was about to be fulfilled. She bought the house and its three outbuildings for
a total of $1,500.

Of course, it cost many times that
amount to move it to its new lot. Builders had to load the structure in two
halves on the beds of two tractor trailers in order to deliver it to
Hillsborough.

Then chimney was also dissembled
and reassembled brick by brick, and the log cabin outbuilding rebuilt by a
pricey expert.

Surrounded by perennial gardens,
tulip poplars, and crepe myrtles, the house looked like it had always belonged
on the gentle rise where it peered down upon the a quiet street. At the time,
Molly thought her mother had gone completely mad. Who would deliberately embark
on such a complicated and risky project? But once the house was rebuilt, Molly
was proud that Clara had saved a piece of history and had restored the farmer's
home to its simple beauty. It was doubtful, however, that the original owners
had as many cats as Clara.

Kitty was stroking the fur of one
of them. The happy creature was named Arthur Ray Cole after one of the area
potters. He was a lean, glossy, black cat who rolled on his back with pleasure
as Kitty scratched under his chin. Tall and stick thin, Kitty had a cloud of
dark, curly brown hair and wide blue as pale as the moonlit snow. When she
heard Molly's car, she stood up and waved.