The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (22 page)

"Tell me, Stella," I began, watching her carefully, hoping she'd squirm a bit, "did you know about the Holy Pail before you met Sterling?"

A slow, hesitant smile crossed her face, but her eyes moved rapidly. "Yes, I did," she said. She put the cookie down on a napkin and wiped her fingertips. "It was one of the things that brought us together. When we met, he was impressed that I knew so much about it. You see, my late father was interested in it."

I dug through my tired brain for the Holy Pail information filed deep in my gray matter. Who were the men who owned it before Price? Proctor, of course. Kellogg and Fisher, those were the names-Jasper Kellogg and Ivan Fisher. But I couldn't remember their personal details. Was one of them Stella's father? Proctor wasn't old enough. He would be a bit younger or about the same age as Stella. Of course, there could have been other owners of the Holy Pail besides those. Also, Stella never said her father owned the box, just that he was interested.

I didn't think she was lying outright, but she continued to be cautious, choosing words and details carefully as she dished them out for my consumption. Not lying maybe, but definitely playing fast and loose with the truth.

Many possibilities crossed my mind. Was she marrying Sterling for the lunchbox? Was she marrying Kyle for it? What about Jackson? Added to the pile now was this nagging suspicion that she might have contacted Proctor about the box when he owned it. Maybe her father was the mystery shopper.

"Did your father own the Holy Pail at one time?" I asked her.

She laughed. "No. But it was a big dream of his."

"`Was' as in he's no longer around, or that he's given up?"

She cast her eyes toward the carpet briefly, then brought them back up to connect with mine. "My father died a long time ago," she said, simply and quietly.

The dutiful daughter fulfilling daddy's dreams? Nah. Looking at Stella, I couldn't make that leap. This had to be about the money. What else could it be? I decided to bring out the claws.

"You've cut a wide swath through the Price family," I said bluntly. "Sterling, Kyle, even Jackson." At the mention of Jackson, Stel la's head snapped to attention and her eyes blazed into mine, but she said nothing. "I understand you're now engaged to Kyle-that you're going to have his baby. Or is it Jackson's baby?"

She sat ramrod straight on the sofa across from me, defiant and challenging, every muscle and ligament tense and taut, about to snap. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wainwright sniff the air and go on alert. Stella noticed the dog's slight change, too. She willed her shoulders to relax. Her posture eased up, along with her facial features. She looked tired, as well as edgy.

"How do you know so much?" she asked with annoyance. "What are you doing, spying on me?" Her deep voice was strained, like her vocal cords were wrapped tight with a rubber band.

I said nothing. Inside I burned with embarrassment, remembering the two of them on the desk. I hoped my face wasn't flushed to match.

"Must've been that bitch Carmen who told you," she said. "She's like a spook the way she knows all, sees all-sneaking around silently on orthopedic shoes."

Stella measured me with her eyes, and I could tell she was deciding something. Finally she sighed. "Want to know the ugly truth?" she asked.

"The truth would be nice," I said, giving her a half smile. "I'll take it ugly, pretty, or just pretty ugly."

Stella gave me a wry half smile. It made me wonder if I should get out a shovel just in case.

"I'll admit it. I got close to Sterling to get my hands on the Holy Pail. I knew about the standing hundred-grand offer. It was common knowledge among the collectors. And I thought I could convince Sterling to sell it."

"What was in it for you?"

"If I could get Sterling to sell it to this particular buyer, I would get a bonus-a sort of broker's fee-a big one." She took a sip of tea and fiddled once again with her cigarette package. "But after Sterling asked me to marry him, I changed my mind. After all, he was offering me a lifetime of security, something that doesn't come along every day at my age.

"I really liked Sterling. Honest, I did. But, well, he was old, and Jackson's a very sexy man and much more exciting. We had an affair" She sighed again. "The thing with Kyle just sort of happened. I went to him for a massage and next thing we were involved."

"And after Sterling died, you thought you could use Kyle to keep a roof over your head?" I asked, looking straight at her. She matched my gaze, eye for eye.

"Ouch, that's cold, Odelia," she said with a mean-looking smile. "After Sterling broke off his engagement to me, Jackson and I planned to run off together. We were going to steal the Holy Pail and cash it in for the entire one hundred thousand dollars. But someone beat us to it."

"And the baby?"

She got up and started pacing. Wainwright lifted his head and she looked from the animal to me. "Is it okay to move?"

"Yes," I answered. "Just don't make any sudden moves in my direction." The warning sounded good to my ears. I knew Wainwright was trained to protect Greg, and I knew he was somewhat loyal to me, but to what extent he'd protect me, I had no idea. But if the potential threat worked to keep danger at bay, I felt no guilt in using it.

Stella nodded and continued. "When I first found out I was pregnant, I was going to get an abortion. After all, why would someone my age want a baby?"

My mind flashed for an instant to my dilemma with Greg. As if reading my mind, Stella picked up a large photo from a table. It was an action shot of Greg. He was in his wheelchair, naked from the waist up, in the midst of a basketball shot. Another man in a wheelchair, a powerfully built black amputee named Isaac, was attempting to block it. Isaac had failed and Greg's basket had won the game for his team. After the game, Isaac and his wife had taken us to dinner. I loved the photo.

"Your brother?" Stella asked, holding up the photo for my inspection.

"My boyfriend," I answered.

She cocked an eye my way and re-measured me. After replacing the photo, she returned to the sofa and continued her story.

"Then I thought the baby might hurry the wedding to Sterling along. We were engaged, but he seemed happy to leave it at that indefinitely. There's no security in just being engaged. Nothing was in my name. Everything was his. But I knew he would never turn his back on a child." She laughed ruefully. "How stupid could I have been? Not to have at least looked into whether or not Sterling could father a child. After all, I knew his kids were adopted. But no, I just went ahead with my plan and got the boot."

"Whose is it?" I asked.

"Honestly, I have no idea. I didn't even think I could get pregnant anymore." She laughed to herself. It was a low, ugly, sad cackle. "When my periods stopped, I thought it was menopause.

She had no idea? Three men and any of them could have fathered her child? And what about health issues? Had this woman never heard of safe sex?

Stella rested her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands, covering her face. "Oh, Odelia, I've really screwed up." Her voice sounded strained, almost crying. "Here I am in my midfifties, pregnant, broke, and alone. Even if Sterling were alive, he wouldn't have me. Jackson will only leave Karla if we can get the money for the Holy Pail. And Kyle ... ," she looked up at me. Her face was splotchy and mottled in spite of her new tan. "Kyle's an idiot."

I tried my best to feel sympathy for Stella. I really did. But it just wasn't in me. The best I could offer in the way of comfort was a box of tissues produced from the downstairs bathroom and a plate of thawed cookies.

While she pulled herself together, I retreated to the kitchen to refresh our iced teas. When I returned, I settled back down into my chair, ready for more. This was one drama I didn't want to miss.

"Stella, are you and Jackson the only ones looking for the Holy Pail? Or are Karla and Kyle also looking for it?"

She shrugged and turned to me. I could tell she was giving it some thought.

"I'm not sure Karla cares about it one way or the other, except as an inheritable asset. And I did mention it to Kyle before Sterling was killed, but he was so caught up in the purchase of the Center, I don't think it registered. Believe me, he's not the brightest bulb on the tree."

No, I thought, but he was bright enough to pull something over on his father, or at least to think he did.

"Stella," I began, wondering how much she knew about the purchase of the Center beyond what Kyle had told her that day in the study. "Exactly why did Sterling deed over a joint interest in the house to Kyle? And why did he buy the Center for him? Especially after finding out about the two of you."

She looked at me in undisguised shock. "Is there anything you don't know?" she asked, her temper rising again.

I gave her a smile and batted my lashes just slightly for affect. "I was the notary on the documents," I told her.

Stella was traveling between playing the victim and being the bitch, and I was enjoying throwing a bit of the bitchiness back.

"You know what I think?" I said to her, leaning forward in my chair. "I think Kyle found out something important, something about his sister, like maybe her using Jackson as a cover while she manipulated the company. And I think Kyle traded that information for the house and the Center."

"Boy," she said, her eyes wide and bright with anger, "you're up to your ears in this shit, same as the rest of us. Maybe I should ask you, Ms. Odelia Grey, did you murder Sterling Price?"

EIGHTEEN

SATURDAY MORNINGS WERE USUALLY reserved for sleeping in, cuddling with Greg, a leisurely breakfast-not so today. It was five minutes after six when I finally located the address Porter had given me. It was a rundown six-unit two-story apartment building, three up, three down. The building was two-toned; originally mud brown with wide slashes of turquoise where some industrious soul had started painting, then changed his mind. The structure was wedged behind a strip mall that housed a liquor store, a beauty supply store, a travel agent, and a small boutique of cheap women's clothing. Except for the liquor store, none of the businesses looked prosperous. I parked my old Toyota Camry between a dumpster and a Chevy up on blocks. As soon as I opened the car door, my nose snorted the odor of urine and decay.

Porter's place turned out to be the last apartment downstairs. I held a cardboard tray in one hand. Balanced on it were an extra large cup of Ethiopian-blend coffee for Porter and a medium cup of hazelnut coffee for me. I also brought along packets of sugar and creamer and a couple of cranberry scones. Dressed in strappy sandals festooned with beads that matched my khaki skirt and blouse, I felt incredibly overdressed and silly. Obviously, I had no idea what to wear when meeting a dead man in a shabby part of town.

I knocked and waited.

Almost immediately, I heard movement on the other side of the scuffed door. The drapes covering the window next to the door moved slightly. About the same time, I heard a noise by the fence that separated the building from the strip mall. Turning, I saw a rat. A big rat. One that could have given Seamus a run for his money. I knocked on the door again, my rap harder and more insistent than the first. Warily, I watched the rat bustle around the bottom of the fence. Every now and then he looked my way, nose in the air, whiskers moving rapidly. I was sure he was smelling breakfast.

I began counting to myself. On ten, the plan was to throw the coffee and scones at the rat and run. At seven and a half the door opened. A man's head popped out. He looked up and down the deserted street before beckoning me to enter. Solemnly, like a death row inmate heading for the chair, I started across the threshold.

Zee's right, I am out of my mind.

The apartment was dark, cool, and orderly. Based on the outside of the building, I had expected squalor. But once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found instead a very clean and freshly painted apartment. The sparse furnishings were fairly new and reminded me of an IKEA catalogue.

The man motioned for me to sit down. He was a young, trim Latino, not quite six feet tall, dressed in clean jeans, a white T-shirt, and expensive running shoes. His shiny black hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail and his upper lip played host to a wispy, dark moustache. The arms poking out from the short sleeves of his shirt were sporadically tattooed. When he turned to look back out the door, I noticed a gun wedged in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

Stifling a tiny whimper, I took a seat on the futon-style sofa, knees demurely pressed together, ankles crossed, and perched the coffee on my lap.

"Mr. Porter in?" I asked him. No response. "How about Mr. Proctor?"

Remaining silent, he positioned himself in front of the closed front door, legs apart, arms folded across his firm chest. I stared at him. He was cute, in spite of the thin white scar running down the left side of his smooth, brown face. He stared back, regarding me with no visible emotion.

Nervously, I looked at my watch. "I'm sorry I'm late," I said, helpless in the grip of an urge to babble. "Then I couldn't find the address." I held up the tray of coffee. "The big one is for Mr. Porter ... umm ... Proctor. Ethiopian, like he asked." The gangster kid said nothing. "Would you like the other? It's hazelnut. My personal favorite, although I also like Kona." More nothing.