The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (3 page)

I answered Zee truthfully. "I'm not worried about that. I know he's nothing like Frank and would never hurt me that way." Now it was my turn to pause. "Greg wants children. I don't. You and I have talked about this before."

"But have you discussed it with him?"

"Yes, of course" I was tired and it came across in a cranky voice. I wanted to return to wallowing with the animals and rooting for the Sheriff of Nottingham. I was not ready to be grown up about this just yet, not even with my best friend.

"Zee, I don't really want to discuss this right now. Please understand."

"I do understand. And I'm here when you're ready to talk about it."

"Thanks"

"And Odelia?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you're eating, put it away. It's not going to help matters."

I frowned. Zee knows me too well. Like me, she's as wide as she is tall, both of us weighing in over two hundred pounds and wearing size 20.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

She laughed. It was a smooth, sexy, throaty laugh. If My-T-Fine chocolate fudge pudding had a sound, this was it.

"Don't give me that," she scolded, still laughing. "Right now I'd say you were either up to your elbows in a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream or a box of Thin Mints. Girl Scout cookie time is a long ways away, Odelia, better pace yourself." She laughed again.

"A lot you know. It's a container of chocolate pudding."

We laughed together and I felt immediately better. But then isn't that what best friends are for?

I hung up the phone and walked back into the living room.

"Oh ... my ... gawd!"

In the middle of the floor lay Wainwright, wolfing down Snausages from a torn package. On the coffee table was Seamus, his furry face buried deep into the bucket-o-puddin'. The cat looked up briefly, his usually creamy-colored snout brown, and then went back to his feast. The dog wagged his tail in welcome.

"Sheesh, I can't leave you guys alone for a minute." I scolded the dog, wagging my finger at him. "Your dad would kill me if he saw this." The happy animal thumped his tail again.

It was true. Greg was a loving but disciplined master when it came to Wainwright. And the dog was beautifully trained and loyal. But when the golden retriever stayed with me, I let him get away with murder, sometimes even letting him sleep on my big bed just as Seamus did. Greg tolerated the cat sleeping at the end of his bed when I took Seamus along for weekends, but he would never have broken Wainwright's training.

Seamus, on the other hand, was spoiled rotten and had the fussy disposition that went with such indulgence. Annoyed at my own stupidity of leaving animals alone with food, I grabbed Seamus, stuffed him under one arm and toted him, protesting, into the kitchen before he could get pudding on the furniture. I deposited him into the sink. Holding him by the scruff of the neck with one hand, I rinsed his face off with the other, accompanied all the time by kitty growls and squirming. Fortunately, no matter what indignities I foist upon him, Seamus never uses his claws or teeth on me. He seems to sense that whatever I do to him, it is for his own good. Near the end of the cleanup, the phone rang again. I snatched at the receiver, loosening my grip from the cat's neck. He used the opportunity to make a break for it and jumped down out of my reach. Oh well, now he was just wet, and water was harmless enough.

"Hello," I barked into the phone.

"I would have thought your disposition would be at least a little better at home," the person on the other end commented.

Damn, it was Mike Steele, one of the attorneys from the office. Correction: the attorney I hated from the office. Michael R. Steele, Esquire, was the poster boy for arrogance.

I am a paralegal in a firm called Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, nicknamed Woobie. I had worked for Wendell Wallace for nearly two decades, juggling legal secretarial duties for him in addition to being the firm's corporate paralegal. In recent years, I have done less for Mr. Wallace and more paralegal work. When Mr. Wallace retired, the transition to full-time paralegal was virtually seamless, except now I am assigned to Michael Steele, who recently made partner in the firm-as if he had not been egotistical enough as a senior associate. Another downside is that, although I now have my own private office, albeit a teeny-weeny one, it is just two doors down from Steele's office.

Michael Steele is the firm's problem child, a real pain in the ass to everyone, overly demanding and rude. His redemption is his brilliance in the field of law; in that, he is top notch. And while he does not like me any more than I like him, he, in turn, respects my knowledge and experience.

And here he was, calling me at home on a Sunday afternoon. Now I was really annoyed. This was beyond pudding therapy.

"What do you want, Steele?" I asked without ceremony.

He got to his purpose quickly. "I need you to stop in on Sterling Price tomorrow before coming to work. Take your notary stuff. He has some documents he wants notarized, in addition to giving you something to bring back to me. I told him you'd be happy to do it. Sounds like some simple acknowledgments."

"Gee, thanks, Steele, for asking me first," I said sarcastically.

Actually, I didn't mind, though I was not about to say that to Steele. I like Sterling Price. He is one of my favorite clients, and his office is not too far out of my way. I just wanted to give Steele some grief for not checking with me first.

"He's expecting you at eight sharp," Steele said curtly, then hung up.

Rats. That meant I would have to skip my usual morning walk with Reality Check, a support group for large people. My friend Sophie London began the group. When she died, I became the group's leader. Reality Check meets every two weeks to dispense advice, comfort, and support, and to cheer on its members in their daily struggles in an unkind world. Each weekday morning at six, a small band of us walks a section of the Back Bay in Newport Beach. It's a great way to start the day, even if it means dragging my lazy ass out of bed an hour earlier than necessary.

Two

THE CORPORATE OFFICES OF Sterling Homes are located in Newport Beach just off of Von Karman. Unlike most buildings that house multimillion-dollar businesses, it's a two-story sprawling structure with redwood trim and a peaked roof. Set back from the busy street and surrounded by parklike grounds that included lots of trees and picnic tables, it has an attractive yet artificially rustic appearance. The company had spent a great deal of money going for the mountain retreat theme, which I found to be both refreshing and disturbing plunked down in the middle of the sterile architecture of Orange County. I pulled into the entrance and followed the driveway as it wound around behind the building to a large parking lot. It was just a few minutes to eight and the parking lot was mostly empty.

Once through the main entrance, I approached the receptionist. She looked as if she had just arrived. I waited patiently while she put away her purse, settled herself in her chair, and put on her headset. The receptionist was Latina, with pretty, dark eyes and long, dark brown, curly hair pulled back and held captive by a large faux tortoiseshell barrette. She wore very heavy eye makeup and her full lips were outlined in a color much darker than her lipstick. I fought the urge to pull a tube of lipstick out of my own purse and color inside the lines. Her clothes were clean, inexpensive, and hip. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted up from an odd-looking mug that sat on her desk. On the mug's side, MOMMY was painted in primary colors. After asking my name and checking her appointment book, she informed me with a smile that Mr. Price's office was upstairs and all the way down the hall to the left. He was expecting me, she said pleasantly, and, after having me sign in on a guest register, directed me to an area just past her desk where I had the choice of taking an elevator or stairs to the next floor. My body begged for the elevator, but since I had missed my usual morning walk, my conscience opted for the stairs.

Walking down the upstairs hall, I encountered no other employees. From a distance came the lonely sound of a single computer keyboard being put to use. It sounded like it was coming from the opposite direction. I found Price's office exactly where the receptionist had said it would be. The door was open. I poked my head in and saw Sterling Price busy at a small kitchenette that had been discretely hidden behind folding doors. I knocked gently on the doorjamb.

Price looked up and smiled. "Come on in, Odelia." He gestured toward a small conference table to the right side of the office. "Please have a seat. I won't be but a minute."

After placing my briefcase on the table, I unpacked my notary supplies and sat down to enjoy the view from the large picture windows that lined one wall. Price's office took up the whole end section of the second floor that looked out over the prettiest part of the grounds. From his office viewpoint, there was no sighting or even suggestion of the office buildings and traffic that hovered so close. Somehow I was sure that was not an accident.

I had never been here before. I had met Sterling Price many times, but usually in our office and once, recently, at Mr. Wallace's retirement party. He and my former boss were very old friends, having grown up together in Orange County when it was nothing more than miles and miles of orange groves. Like Mr. Wallace, Price was in his seventies. He was on the short side, a bit pudgy and slightly balding. He was also outgoing and charming. His brown eyes twinkled when he spoke, and his laugh and good humor came easily. But his easygoing nature aside, the man had built an empire in the construction and sale of upscale housing developments, garnering critics and even enemies along the way, most notably among those concerned with the disappearance of Orange County's natural wildlife and vegetation.

The other walls of his office were lined with attractive bookcases, many with glass doors. Here and there, a painting or a grouping of framed photographs interrupted the shelving. I scanned the shelves from where I sat and then did a double take of the glassed-in units.

"Would you like some coffee, Odelia? I just made a fresh pot, a special blend I make myself every morning, a combination of French Roast and Sumatra."

"No, thank you, Mr. Price."

"You don't know what you're missing," he said teasingly as he waved the pot at me. It was less than half full.

With one deep sniff of the rich aroma, I caved. "Sure, if you have enough. Black, please."

He gave me a not-to-worry gesture and poured some for me. "This was the end of a bag," he said, "but I'm sure there's more stashed away. Carmen never leaves me coffee impaired." We both laughed.

He carried two navy blue mugs emblazoned with the Sterling logo in bold silver to the conference table and settled into a chair to my right. The coffee smelled wonderful and tasted even better-a big improvement over what awaited me at my office.

"And please, Odelia, call me Sterling. Goodness, we've known each other many years now," he said, smiling. He lifted his mug up and took a big whiff of the rich steam before continuing. "My staff usually comes in around nine o'clock. I wanted to get this taken care of before I got buried in my daily routine," he explained between sips of coffee. "Thank you so much for coming here before going to your own office."

"It was no trouble at all ... uhh ... Sterling," I said, trying on his first name like a pair of narrow shoes. He smiled again. "Happy to do it for you. I'm just surprised that your assistant isn't a notary, with you being in real estate."

"Carmen is a notary, but she's taking a few vacation days off this week. Actually, we have a couple of notaries on our staff, but these papers are personal." He looked at me directly. "I'm sure you understand."

And I did. There was nothing like tidbits of the boss's personal life to fuel lunchroom gossip. It was the same in law firms.

My attention kept going back to the items behind the glass doors. "Um, are those lunchboxes?" I asked, pointing in a very unladylike way to the items on the shelves across the room.

Price looked over to where I indicated and gave a hearty laugh. "Yes, as a matter of fact, they are. I collect them. Have for years." I must have had a puzzled look on my face because he laughed again. "When we're done here, I'll give you a tour of my collection."

"If you have time," I said politely. "I don't want to take up too much of your morning."

"Nonsense" He gave me one of his twinkling looks. "Besides, I never miss a chance to show them off, especially the jewel of my collection."

We finalized the papers quickly. The notarizations were simple acknowledgments, just as Mike Steele had said they would be. Then Price indicated a couple good-sized stacks of expanding folders.

"I need Mike to go through these documents. No rush. But I'll have them sent over later. They're too much for you to carry."

I nodded my appreciation of his courtesy. Mike Steele, on the other hand, would have just loaded me up like a pack mule in a mining camp.

"I'm glad you're still working with Mike, Odelia," he said as I packed up my briefcase.