The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (15 page)

My brain whirred as it tried to piece together what Joe wasn't saying with what he was saying. The result was sure to damage my psyche forever. I turned my head away from Joe and gazed out the window at the morning sky. I felt a sly smile cross my face. "He couldn't let them see him nekkid," I said out loud to myself, still not looking at Joe.

"Huh?" Joe said.

"Nothing, Joe." I turned to face him. "It's not difficult from this point," I said, "to assume that Steele heard the intruders and probably thought it was someone from the firm. It simply took him time to get dressed."

"Bingo, Odelia," he said, laughing really hard as he spoke. He moved to the door and listened for the stirrings of life within the firm. "At least that's what I heard Trudie say to the police. Scream hysterically at them is more like it." Joe turned from the door and back to me. "You should've heard her, Odelia. She was petrified her husband would find out."

"As well she should be," I said. The outrage of having our office torn apart mixed delicately with the hysterically funny thought of Steele almost getting caught with his drawers off. I felt bad for Trudie, but, hey, she was an adult, a married adult, who should have known better. "Where's Trudie now?" I asked Joe.

"Divorce court, most likely," he quipped. Then he shrugged. "Dunno. Home probably. Tina got her out of here as soon as the police were through questioning her. Tina also told me not to speak to anyone about it."

"I'm sure she did." I smiled.

"She said later today the firm would send out a memo."

I nodded, knowing that the memo would be a sanitized account of the vandalism and a mostly fictionalized account of Trudie and Steele's part in it.

Out of curiosity, I moved around to the back of Steele's desk and looked into his trash can. Whatever Steele and Trudie had been up to, it had commenced after the daily cleaning staff had emptied the trash. Steele's standard office issue black plastic trash can was empty except for its liner, a few crumpled papers, two condom wrappers, and two plump clumps of wadded tissue. I plucked the trash can liner out of the can and brought it over to Joe.

"Get rid of this, Joe," I told him. "Just in case someone other than us gets curious and blows the story Tina, no doubt, has been fretting over all night." I smiled at him when I spoke, and he smiled back knowingly.

He took the plastic bag, peeked inside, and smirked. "Nice to know Steele practices safe sex, of a sort," he said. "Just not safe enough."

I placed an index finger on the side of my nose and gently pushed it to one side. "Make sure it sleeps with the fishes. Know what I mean?"

Joe chuckled and nodded.

"By the way," he began, "you said last night you were going to call me. What's up?"

In all the hoopla of last night and this morning, I had almost forgotten. "Yes, I was. I was going through all that information on Chappy Wheeler. Great stuff. I really appreciate your friend loaning it out."

Joe grinned broadly. "Yeah, he's got a cool collection."

I took a deep breath and decided to take the plunge. Last night something had caught my attention among the articles provided by Joe's friend. I had not noticed the same pattern with the articles I knew had come directly from Joe. Venturing a guess about the origin of the other articles, I decided to broach Joe with my conclusion. However, a bit of trickery was in order if I was to confirm my suspicions, as I did not believe Joe would willingly tell me his friend's name. I watched as Joe pressed his ear to the door again, and then took my best shot, knowing I would only get one chance.

"Please tell Lester thanks for letting me borrow the stuff," I said with as much innocence as I could fake.

"Sure, no problem," he said casually with a wave of his hand, his ear still tuned to the door. Then he stopped short and turned. His look was wary. "What? Huh?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you.

"Busted!" I said to him.

"What are you talking about?" Joe said. He was doing a good acting job, but his flushed face gave him away.

"Lester Miles is your friend with the Chappy memorabilia. Admit it," I said, moving toward him with a smug smile and a pointing finger.

"Who's Lester Miles?" he asked. His small eyes widened in mock ignorance. He was overacting now.

"Lester Miles, former cast member of The Chappy Wheeler Show," I said with know-it-all sarcasm. "Lester Miles, former wellknown character actor who appeared not just in The Chappy Wheeler Show, but in numerous other TV shows and feature films. Lester Miles, the most famous post- Wizard of Oz little person of his generation, second only to Billy Barty."

"Oh, that Lester Miles," Joe said with exaggerated understanding. He moved away from the door and slumped into one of the visitor's chairs across from Steele's desk. "How'd you know?"

Propping myself up against the desk again, I crossed my arms in front of me. I was pleased with myself for having done my homework last night. After Tina's call, I had trouble sleeping and did some detailed online research into Lester Miles. That information, combined with my suspicions about the Chappy papers, led me to conclude that Lester Miles was still alive, still acting, and was the owner and collector of the stacks of articles Joe had given me. Still, I felt bad for having tricked a friend-but not that bad.

"The possibility first crossed my mind," I said to Joe, "when I noticed that included in the stacks were a lot of articles focusing solely on Lester Miles, and not only about his time on Chappy Wheeler. It was a long shot, I admit. This was either the personal collection of Mr. Miles, a family member, or some really big-time fan. But I felt that there was something personal about the articles and their content." I relaxed my arms and leaned toward Joe. "I'm really sorry I tricked you like that, but I didn't think you'd confirm it willingly."

Joe looked at me and smiled. "You're right, I wouldn't have. I met Lester at a collectors' convention several years ago. He's very private and asked me not to tell you." He shook his head and chuckled. "But he'll appreciate your deductive talents."

"I'll explain that you didn't squeal," I said, putting a hand on his forearm. "So, how about setting up a meeting for me with Lester Miles? I promise I won't bite."

Joe shot me a dubious look.

SHORTLY AFTER THE DOORS of Woobie officially opened for the day, Tina Swanson called me in for our meeting. Jolene McHugh, the other attorney assigned to Trudie, also took part in it. She was visibly upset by Tina's announcement that Trudie had decided not to come back to work at the firm. This would be the third secretary Jolene had lost in less than two years through no fault of her own. This turn of events prompted Tina to admit to Jolene and me about Steele's indiscretion with Trudie, saying that Trudie decided it best never to see Mike Steele again. Wise choice, I thought. Tina went on to assure us that Trudie's job would be left open for a week or two in case she changed her mind after the trauma wore off, and that a temporary secretary would be called in beginning Monday.

As for the rest of the firm, Jolene and I were given a preview of the memorandum that would be circulated just before lunch. It explained how Trudie and Steele had been working late and had surprised the intruders, thought to be two in number, whose motives were yet unknown. In the memo, Steele was applauded for his courage and for preventing further damage to the office. Everyone would know better, but with the launching of the official memorandum the issue would be dropped from open discussion like the proverbial hot potato. I knew, though, that discussions over lunches and happy hours outside the office would be lively and creative for both the staff and attorneys for weeks to come.

On the way back to my office, Joyce, the receptionist, gave me a message. It was from Dev Frye. He wanted me to call him as soon as possible. Earlier, I had been questioned by the police. Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, had efficiently taken my statement and asked if I had noticed anything missing. They also asked about the cases I was currently working on, and I was thankful for the guidance of one of our partners, Carl Yates, during the questioning. Outside of the file room, my office was the only office demolished. It was looking more and more like the intruders were looking for something specific, but I could not, for the life of me, think of what it could be. The possibility of it being the Holy Pail kept popping up in my brain, but I swept it away like a bothersome fly. It was just a coincidence. And besides, I didn't have the lunchbox, and never had.

I called Dev Frye back as soon as I returned to Steele's office. Until mine was back in shape, I had taken up residence at the small conference table in one corner of his office. The police were still picking over my office, looking for prints and clues.

The number on Dev's message was his cell phone. When he answered, I said a chirpy hello, hoping to mask my stress from recent events. After asking how I was doing and saying he had heard about the vandalism at the firm, Dev cut right to the chase.

"Odelia, are you sure Sterling Price didn't give you the Holy Pail?"

It was the same question Stella Hughes had asked me yesterday.

"Uh-huh. I'm positive," I answered. "You think this business at the office is connected to Sterling Price's murder, don't you?"

My question was met with deep silence.

I groaned. My mind was a disturbed pool of muddy water. When it cleared, I wasn't sure I liked the reflection it offered up. This time the pesky fly wouldn't go away. It demanded my attention.

"The police think the vandals were looking for something. You think it might be the Holy Pail, don't you?" I paused. Dev's breathing was the only sound from the other end of the line. "My office was the only one trashed," I continued, vocalizing the facts for my own personal review. "Nothing was stolen from the firm or otherwise damaged."

"Odelia," Dev started to say, but I cut him off.

"What is the big deal about that damn lunchbox?"

Dev chuckled softly before answering. "I'd like to know that myself, Odelia. But honestly, I'm not even sure if the disappearance of the box and the murder are connected. And I'm not sure that's what your intruders were looking for, but I am concerned about the coincidences. Are you sure you're okay?"

Coincidence. There was that word again. I smiled at his concern.

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks. And no, I don't have the Holy Pail. You know, Stella Hughes, Price's fiancee-well, ex-fiancee-asked me that yesterday after the funeral."

"Thanks for letting me know that. We've questioned just about everyone connected with Sterling Price but nothing concrete has come up. We'll talk to her again."

I wondered how much to tell Dev about what I had overheard yesterday in the study. Reluctantly, I acknowledged to myself that Zee was probably right. I should let Dev handle this. I wasn't a detective and could be sitting on pertinent information that could help him.

"Also," I began, wanting instead to clam up and claim the information for my very own, "Kyle Price and Jackson Blake are both involved with Stella Hughes. And you might question Kyle about his father's gift to him of the house and the acquisition of the Good Life Center. I think he might have either blackmailed his father or brokered some information to obtain them, something like that. Something involving his sister, I think." Then, I added a disclaimer. "Of course, I could be wrong."

"We knew about Stella Hughes and Kyle Price," Dev said. "But this other information's new." There was a pause. "By the way, how-"

"Don't ask, Dev. Please, don't ask."

He paused again. Once more I heard breathing, life going in and out of that massive body.

"I know this is going to fall on deaf ears, but please be careful, Odelia."

"Thanks, but I'm-"

Now it was his turn to cut me off. "Sterling Price was poisoned, Odelia. It was in his coffee," Dev said bluntly. "Someone put poison into the ground coffee Price kept in his office. Do you understand that?" he asked, giving each word weight.

Dev's words hit me like a bucket of ice water. My eyes widened as I remembered Price and I having a cup of coffee together. He had said it was a special blend. Suddenly I felt woozy.

"What kind of poison?" I asked, the words gurgling out with effort.

"Oleander," Dev said flatly. "Someone laced his personal coffee stash with ground oleander."

I bent over, putting my head between my knees while still clutching the phone to my ear. "Oh," I groaned weakly.

"Odelia, are you all right?" I heard Dev ask anxiously.

"I had a cup of coffee with Sterling Price that morning," I told him in a faint voice from my bent position. There was a long pause on Dev's side. A very long pause. Then he cleared his throat. It sounded like a short blast from a garbage disposal. "He made it himself, but only had enough for a half pot," I continued.

In a voice straining to be positive, Dev finally responded, "The poisoned coffee was brewed in the afternoon. It was made from a newly opened bag. We found that bag and another that had been tampered with. There was an empty bag in the wastepaper basket, probably from the morning, with no trace of the poison."

There followed more throat clearing from Dev and a sound from me that was curiously similar to the mooing of a wounded cow. How blindly close had I come to death? I mooed again. Just last year, I had been chased and shot, but at least I knew I was in danger and did my damnedest to make it as difficult to kill me as possible.

After lunch on Monday, Sterling Price had cheerfully made himself a pot of his beloved French Roast and Sumatra blendcoffee to die for. He never had a chance.

"Is Greg back yet?" Dev asked, interrupting my emotional retreat into the womb.

I pulled my torso back up and looked at the photo of Greg and me that I had rescued from the rubble of my office. It resided now on Steele's conference room table. The glass had been cracked and the wood frame scratched during the night's activities, but the photo was untouched. I traced Greg's handsome face with a fingertip.

"No, he's not," I answered. "There was a death in his family. I'm not sure when he'll be back."