The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (38 page)

THIRTY-ONE

SITTING ON THE SOFA in the dark, I raised the crystal goblet to my lips and drank deeply of the rich red wine. Merlot-my favorite. The TV was on, the sound off. It didn't matter. Playing onscreen was Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. I knew the dialogue by heart. It was the end of the movie-the part where Morgan Freeman kills the witch and Kevin Costner puts an end to Alan Rickman. Good conquering evil, Hollywood style.

I wonder. Did Robin Hood feel bad about killing the Sheriff of Nottingham? If he was real, I'd pick up the phone and ask him.

It will be exactly two months tomorrow since I shot and killed Stella Hughes. Technically, I would have killed two people-a woman and a fetus-but the autopsy showed that Stella wasn't pregnant after all. It was little comfort to me, but it was some comfort. I tipped the goblet again and drained the glass.

The park rangers may not have heard the first shot fired by Kyle, but they sure heard the last three shots. After depositing me on the steps, Willie grabbed Enrique and the two of them disappeared in the direction of the horse arena. They were hardly gone before two armed rangers came roaring onto the main road in an official vehicle.

Kyle, still tied to the post, finally stopped wailing and stared at Stella's fallen body in docile silence.

Kyle, Steele, and I were taken to the local hospital; Stella to the morgue. For hours we answered questions. But mostly it was me they questioned. I told the police everything. About Sterling Price. About the lunchbox and its history. About Willie and Enrique. About my trashed home and Seamus, who I insisted be allowed to come to the hospital with me.

I was sitting in the emergency room, waiting to have my badly sprained ankle wrapped, when Dev Frye and his partner showed up. After more questions, Dev drove Seamus and me to Greg's house, where Greg waited in a state of anger, frustration, and relief. I wanted to go home, but the doctor said because of the shock and my ankle, I shouldn't be alone. Also, as Dev reminded me, my home was not in a habitable state. Detective Zarrabi drove Steele's Porsche back to Newport Beach. Steele had to remain behind a few days for observation.

But there's more.

While the police were combing the area and processing the crime scene, they came across something interesting. Left gagged and tied up in the men's public restroom near the entrance to the park was Joe Bays. Across his white T-shirt, in ink, was scrawled Cat Napper.

This was the person Willie had said I would be interested in meeting-Joe Bays.

Before I left for the hospital, the police brought him to me and asked if I knew him.

My friend Joe had vandalized my home and stole my beloved pet in exchange for the Holy Pail. I wanted to vomit at the sight of him.

With a puffy, flushed face, he told me and the police that he wanted it to look like the job had been done by the same people who'd trashed Woobie. He said he'd seen an ad on a collector's Internet bulletin board asking for the Holy Pail's whereabouts and offering one hundred thousand dollars for it. Sure I had the lunchbox, he'd turned my home upside down. When he came up emptyhanded, he decided to take Seamus and ransom the animal for the lunchbox. He'd made a date with the person who posted the ad to meet him here at seven thirty. At seven, he would give me the cat and take the lunchbox, then turn the Holy Pail over for quick cash.

The problem was, it was Willie who had posted the ad. And Willie and Enrique showed up early. When they saw what Joe had in the sack, they sacked him and left him hogtied.

"I'm sorry, Odelia," Joe said to me over and over, with tears in his eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted the money. A hundred grand is a fortune to someone like me. It could change my life." He sniffed deep. "I would never have hurt you, Odelia. You gotta believe me."

I was tempted to ask the police to gag him again. Better yet, stuff his mouth with Thin Mints, then gag him.

In the end, I didn't press charges against Joe. But he did have to pay for damages, including the replacement of two rare and expensive nativity pieces that were broken, and a thorough cleaning of the townhouse, top to bottom. Steele brokered the settlement deal between us and wanted to throw in pain and suffering, but I said no. I knew Joe didn't have much money, and once Woobie got through with him, he was also unemployed. Joe found wrecking my place very costly.

Karla Blake survived the knifing and is still recuperating. She asked me to visit her in the hospital a few days after the shooting, which I did, seeing that she was a client. She thanked me for saving her life and told me that she planned on taking charge of her father's company as soon as she was well. In parting, she said she looked forward to working with me in the future. I billed Sterling Homes for the time I spent at the hospital, including mileage. Steele told me last week that Woobie is considering dropping them as a client. They'll get no argument from me.

After the incident at Paramount Ranch, Kyle Price suffered a real honest-to-goodness nervous breakdown. He now resides in the psychiatric ward of the jail pending trial, though Steele doesn't think he'll go to trial, considering his mental condition.

Steele broke his leg in the fall from the wagon. Now he hobbles around the office with his left arm and right leg in casts, looking like a war veteran. Injured, he's even more insufferable. Which, in a weird way, is comforting.

Willie and Enrique disappeared like mist on a hot day.

Dev dropped by tonight, just as he did on the first month's anniversary of my killing of Stella Hughes. He's concerned about me. Says I need to move on. Says it could not have been helped-that I was a hero for what I did. I don't feel like a hero.

Dev also told me tonight that they finally found Amy Chow, who, after depositing her mother in Phoenix, tried to disappear into the Northwest. He said that she confessed to putting the oleander into the coffee, but claimed Stella Hughes had given it to her, saying it would just make Sterling Price a little sick. Amy also told the police that she saw Jackson's body in the pool. Like me, she had gone inside after getting no response to her knocks and saw the body. She never saw Stella that morning.

As for Catherine and Les, there wasn't any evidence to link either of them to Chappy Wheeler's murder. The Holy Pail, the supposed murder weapon, disappeared the night of the shooting. No matter what happened all those years ago, I was glad they were cleared. I liked the two of them and they were going through a lot, with the death of their daughter and her connection with the two murders. As I told the police, my theory about Chappy Wheeler being killed with the lunchbox bearing his likeness was just that, a theory. An idea I got after reading the article in the L.A. Times. Personally, I think it's true, but no one seems eager to pursue it, especially me.

When I think about Carmen Sepulveda, a smile creeps across my face. Who says good guys always finish last? Carmen Sepulveda, the only one who didn't act upon a selfish motive, inherited the money and stock due her pursuant to Sterling's will. She retired, moved to Henderson to be near her sister, and travels extensively. I just received a postcard from her from Greece.

I look down at the bare ring finger on my left hand. The day after the shooting, I gave Greg back his ring.

Reaching for the bottle of wine on the coffee table, I refill my glass. Seamus is curled up on the sofa beside me. He stretches and yawns. I rub him behind his raggedy half ear and he purrs like an electric toothbrush, his time as a hostage apparently forgotten. Lucky cat.

Do I still love Greg Stevens? Yes. But I also know I'm not the same person I was two months ago. I became someone else the moment I pulled that trigger. But it's not my love for Greg that's changed. It's my capacity for love that seems to have taken a hike.

He fussed at first, of course. Said we could get counseling, together and separately. He pleaded with me to stick it out, to let him help me through whatever struggle was taking place within my soul.

Part of me wants to lay my head in Greg's lap and beg him to love me forever.

Another part of me wants to throw dirt clods at him for his own good, until he goes away and forgets about me.

He used to call every day. Then it was a few times a week. Then once a week. This week he didn't call at all. Maybe the dirt clods of silence are working.

I look up at the TV. Robin Hood was marrying Maid Marian. He had killed the Sheriff of Nottingham and now was celebrating his marriage to the cousin of the king. The movie never said, but I wanted to know just how much time had lapsed between the killing and the marriage. Were there rules of etiquette for such things? Would I wake up one morning and have a craving to wear white? Would it be similar to a craving for a waffle?

The phone rang. I didn't answer it. It would be Zee. Last month, on the one-month anniversary of Stella's death, I laid flowers on her grave in the morning, before going to work. I plan on doing it again tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's penance or guilt that drives me, or how long I will continue, but it's something I need to do. Zee would be calling to make a last-ditch plea for me not to go. It would end in her crying. I let the phone ring until my voice mail picked it up.

With the movie over, I drained the wineglass again and headed upstairs to bed. I had been having trouble sleeping and the wine helped. I'd also lost twenty-five pounds in the last two months. Guess every cloud has a silver lining.

Shoot someone and lose weight. Wonder if I could host an infomercial?

I don't know how long I had been asleep when I woke with a start. A hand clamped down hard on my mouth and a body straddled mine, pinning me to the bed. The bedside light snapped on, and I squinted as it assaulted my eyes.

On top of me was Enrique. Standing next to him, with his hand on the light, was Willie. I rolled my eyes at them both, and Enrique uncovered my mouth.

"Miss me?" I asked Enrique. He grinned and climbed off of me.

"Of course we did, little mama," Willie answered for them both.

"How's your shoulder?" I asked Enrique. He rotated it freely in response and smiled.

"Thank you," the young man said in excellent English, "for saving my life." He grinned. "My mother thanks you, too. She says prayers for you every day."

I smiled back, even though I wanted to cry. Why? I had no idea, but I could feel the flood surging against the dike I had built over the past two months.

Willie moved his head slightly and Enrique took his leave. I heard him bounce down the stairs with vigor.

Willie looked around. "Where's that ill-tempered cat of yours?"

"Probably hiding under the bed."

Willie chuckled. "Sorry about the bump-in-the-night approach, but I needed to see you again."

He walked around the bed and climbed up on it, stretching out beside me on top of the covers. I made no protest. Oddly, I didn't feel insecure about being in bed with Willie. Thief or not, I liked the man and trusted him. Well, maybe not with my money, but I trusted him with my safety.

Supporting his head on one hand, he looked at me a long time. "Like Enrique, I came here to thank you."

"Why?" I asked with sarcasm. "Did I save your life, too?"

"In a way, you did."

I turned to look at him. He was serious.

"I have a confession to make, Odelia. You were right. I did want to kill Stella Hughes. And probably would have."

"Glad I could be of help."

Willie grabbed one of my arms roughly and shook me. If we'd been standing, my teeth would have rattled.

"Stop it, Odelia. Stop it right now," he demanded. "You had no choice in what you did."

I stared at the ceiling. "I know that, Willie. In my mind, I know that. In my heart, it's different." I turned on my side to face him. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"No, not yet. Thanks to you."

"Willie, I feel like I died with her."

"But you didn't, Odelia. You survived. You need to get on with your life. You have great things ahead of you." He laughed lightly. "Esmeralda, that's Enrique's mother, believes you were spared for a reason. More importantly, she believes you're her son's guardian angel."

"I do think Enrique could do better," I said, turning again onto my back to stare at the ceiling. "Hmm, and how does Esmeralda feel about her baby boy being your hired thug?"

"Hired thug?" Willie asked, giving a short laugh. "I'll have you know that Enrique is in the middle of getting his master's degree in global economics. And he speaks four languages."

I turned my head to look at him and felt my face pull in surprise.

"It's true." He grinned at my frozen stare. "Hey, it pays better than bussing tables through school."

Willie also turned to stare at the ceiling, lacing his hands behind his head. You would have thought we were laying in a meadow, staring at the stars. We stayed that way a while.

"When my wife and I escaped to Mexico with the money," he said, breaking the silence, his voice somber, "we didn't have it planned out. Thanks to Stella, we had to leave quickly, without proper preparations. But something happened off the coast. A storm came up and our boat was severely damaged."