The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (7 page)

"Carmen said she can see you now. Should she come get you, or do you remember the way?"

"I remember."

She said a few more words into the mouthpiece, then looked at me again. "You can go right on up. Carmen's desk is directly across from Mr. Price's office." Her eyes began to pool as she spoke his name.

I started toward the elevators, then stopped and turned back. "Miss ... uh ... I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Rosemary," she answered, giving me a small, sad smile, her even teeth framed in rose with a burgundy wine border.

I smiled back at her in sympathy. "Rosemary," I repeated, in an action meant to help me remember it later. "I'm very sorry for your loss-for the company's loss." Her mouth bravely tried to continue the smile but failed, and her large, dark eyes threatened to spill. "Who was the unfortunate person to find Mr. Price?" I asked her quickly. "Do you know?"

"Sure I know," she answered, my question clearly insulting her. "It was Amy, Amy Chow, the girl who sits here during my breaks and lunchtime. I go to lunch every day from eleven thirty to twelve thirty. Amy has lunch from twelve thirty to one thirty."

"Does she work directly for Mr. Price?" I asked, trying not to appear too eager for the information.

Rosemary shook her head. "Not really. Carmen was gone and Amy was sitting at her desk, just in case Mr. Price needed anything. She's sort of a floater, you know. She fills in whenever anyone is out sick or on vacation."

I nodded slightly at Amy's job description. Law firms often employ individuals as floaters. "I understand Mr. Price wasn't found until after four-that no one saw him after lunch. Didn't Amy find that odd?"

I kept up with the questioning, asking each question in a soft, soothing voice. Rosemary did not seem to think it strange that I was so curious. The poor girl had probably told her story so many times to the authorities she could repeat it with the monotonous repetition of a pull-string doll.

"Not really." The young woman gave a light shrug of her slim shoulders. "Mr. Price often told us to hold calls and not disturb him. I think he liked working alone in his office, you know. It wasn't unusual at all."

"Thank you, Rosemary," I said, then continued to the elevators, digesting the information along the way.

She was right. A busy executive shutting himself up in his office to work was not all that unusual anywhere. Many of the attorneys at the firm did it, especially when faced with a court filing or trial preparation. Mike Steele did it often. Those were the times I treasured most.

I had never met Sterling Price's assistant, only spoken to her on the telephone over the years. Her greeting was formal but friendly.

"Odelia, how nice of you to come," she said softly, greeting me and extending her hand as I exited the elevator.

Carmen Sepulveda is a formidable, no-nonsense kind of woman pushing sixty. Efficiency glowed from her as if emphasized with a yellow Hi-Liter. Her dark hair was laced with steel gray and worn cropped short, close to her small, tidy head. Her body was trim and fit in her dark, severely cut business suit and durable, low-heeled pumps. She wore half-lens reading glasses that she peered over as she spoke. Only her brown eyes and the curve of her mouth, both surrounded by fine lines, spoke of warmth and kindness.

I handed her the flowers. "I wanted to deliver these in person and let you know how very sorry I am about Sterling's passing." She took the vase. "You might want to add a bit of water," I said. "I had to drain them for the trip here."

"How very thoughtful of you," she responded, genuinely touched.

She took the flowers and together we walked down the hall, not speaking until we reached the executive suites. She put the flowers down on a table in the small waiting area outside of Price's office and rotated the vase until she felt satisfied that the flowers had their best faces forward. Then she motioned for me to take a seat on the small L-shaped leather sofa. She sat on the other end.

"I'm afraid we'll have to chat out here. Sterling's office and conference room are still off-limits."

I looked at the large, black-lacquered double doors ahead of me with the engraved plaque "STERLING PRICE" set in the middle of the left door. There was still yellow crime-scene tape across it.

"Can I get you something, Odelia? Coffee, soft drink?"

"Thank you, but no. I'm fine." I looked at the woman and wondered how to begin. I was sure she was not going to gush information like the receptionist downstairs. Personal assistants like Carmen made careers out of discretion. "I don't mean to keep you, Carmen," I said, deciding to give truth a try. "But I'm upset and more than just a bit bewildered by all of this."

She nodded with a small downturned smile. "Yes, as we all are. I understand you saw Sterling on Monday morning."

"Yes, and he seemed fine to me. Perky, in fact."

"Yes, he was always a morning person. Liked to get in early before most of the staff."

"You worked for him a long time, didn't you?"

She sighed. "It would have been twenty-seven years next month." She gave a wry chuckle. "I was with Sterling Price longer than I was with my husband."

I smiled in understanding. "I was with Wendell Wallace a long time myself. It's kind of like a marriage, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said sadly, more to herself than to me. "I feel as if I've been widowed twice."

I reached over and touched her arm gently. "I'm glad it wasn't you who found him," I told her.

"I wish I had, Odelia." She spoke in a tone that struggled to stay even. "Maybe I would have looked in on him earlier and would have had time to get help. The poor girl who did discover his body was devastated. She's from our administrative department, just a clerk and very young."

Her surprising chattiness caused a tingle of excitement to run through me like low voltage. Maybe Carmen was going to give me some insight after all.

"The police told me," I said, hoping to loosen more information, "that he was very ill just before he died."

"That's what I was told," she said, tightening her lips and looking at the closed doors. "Apparently he had vomited a great deal just before ... expiring. And he was soaked with perspiration." She looked back at me, her eyes wide with fresh grief. "Even though he had a heart attack, I know the police suspect poison," she said, the last word catching in her throat. "Who in God's name would want to poison that dear man?"

Quickly, and without a word, Carmen rose and picked up the flowers. She took them just a few steps down the hall. I got up and followed. She stopped in front of a small kitchenette built into the wall, similar to the one in Price's office. It was equipped with a coffee maker, the standard coffee pots-a brown pot for regular, an orange-collared pot for decaf-and a small sink and refrigerator. A dispenser for tea bags and hot chocolate packets stood on the counter. Carmen put the vase in the sink and began to add water to the arrangement.

"It was probably just a very bad case of food poisoning, that's all," she said in a barely composed voice as she fussed with the flowers. "He always liked eating in those small, dingy, out-of-theway places."

"What about the lunchbox, Carmen? The missing box-the Holy Pail?"

She left the flowers alone and turned to me, surprisingly agitated. "I have no idea what happened to it, Odelia. And I don't care. That silly thing brought him nothing but aggravation, though he wouldn't admit it. In fact, I think he bought it just because of that stupid curse legend." She picked up the vase, wiped it off with a paper towel, and carried it back to the table.

I hurried after her, hoping not to upset her further with my questions. "What kind of aggravation?" I asked. "It was just a lunchbox, albeit an expensive one."

"Shortly after he bought it, Sterling was featured in a business magazine, a fluff piece about his acquisition of the lunchbox. You know, boys and their toys," she said with quiet sarcasm and a slight roll of her eyes, "that sort of thing. The article was called The Curse of the Holy Pail-Fate or Fancy. After the article was published, he got calls from all kinds of crackpots, many predicting his death and offering to take the box off his hands. Some for free-as a service, of course." She smiled cynically. "Others offered handsome profits." She straightened the front of her suit jacket and I could tell she was getting antsy. "Probably some fool took off with it before the police arrived," she continued. "After that article, everyone in the building knew about it and its worth."

"Do you have a copy of the article?" I asked. "I'd like to see it."

"Sorry, Odelia," she said, shaking her head slowly. "But the police took the only copy I had, as well as old phone message pads. I'm sure they're going to look into its disappearance and the crazies that called about it, though most of them never left messages, just voice mails that we erased. Fortunately, most gave up calling a while back."

In my head, I drafted a partial lie. "Carmen, if anyone else contacts you about the lunchbox, could you let me know? I have a friend at the office that is fascinated by the Holy Pail legend. I think he'd like to chat with others who are equally obsessed."

Carmen looked at me with sad amusement. "I'm afraid Sterling's death may bring the nuts back out of the woodwork, Odelia. So, sure, I'd be happy to re-route them someplace else."

I gathered my purse and held out my hand. I wanted to stay longer and ask her more questions, but Carmen looked long past weary. "Thank you for your time, Carmen. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."

"No, thank you, Odelia, for remembering us so graciously." She took my hand in one of hers and indicated the flowers with her other.

I started to walk toward the elevator but thought of something. I turned around.

"Carmen, I'm sorry, but one more thing." She smiled patiently, the emotional wear and tear of the past couple days plain on her face. "What about his family?" I asked. "Would one of them have taken the box?"

She shook her head and her face tightened. "They're the ones looking for it. They're the ones who originally noticed it missing, even before the body was cold. They know a quick and profitable liquidation when they see it."

"Money problems?" I asked.

"With them, always."

"And his fiancee? I understand he was engaged."

"Was is the correct word, Odelia. Sterling broke it off less than two weeks ago. He finally discovered he was being hoodwinked by a gold digger." She lifted her head in a defiant gesture. "Something I could have told him months ago"

SIX

I WAS IN COUNTDOWN for Greg's return. Knowing him, he would expect an answer to his proposal within minutes of seeing me. During the past three days, he had called every night before bed to say goodnight. Not once did he mention the engagement ring, but I could tell he was dying to question me about my pending answer. Greg had promised that he would give me these few days to think, and he always kept his promises. I knew my delay was killing him, but I just wasn't ready to give him an answer. Our nightly conversations had centered instead on the animals and Sterling Price's death. Like Detective Frye, Greg had admonished me to keep out of it.

In trying to come up with an answer for Greg, I had gone so nuts the night before as to draw up a pros and cons list, then tore it up when I realized that my answer could not be melted down into clinical categories. I was not trying to decide between a Ford and a Chevy. This was my life. This was Greg's life.

I did not have this much trouble saying yes to Franklin Powers. In fact, I had leapt to accept his ring. Maybe that was the problem. I had already chosen badly once. My heart had refused to read the red flags my head had seen and led me into a bad situation. Now my heart was asking my head for advice and getting the cold shoulder. In short, I was an emotional goulash.

Was love supposed to be this confusing? I love Greg. Why couldn't I just say yes to him? Why was I making this so torturous? I have never been happier. I adore the man. I lust for him. I like him as a person. Couldn't our other differences be ironed out later?

Tonight was a Reality Check night and my mind was elsewhere. The Reality Check meetings were usually held at Zee's house. When the weather was nice, which was most of the time in Orange County, we held them on her back patio.

Before each meeting the group enjoys refreshments and a bit of socializing. I took my paper plate of fruit kabobs and cheese and moved away from the others to sit in a lounge chair near the swimming pool. I stared into the blue water, the plate in my hand forgotten. The underwater lights gave it an ethereal look, as if heaven itself floated in the depths, just within, yet still beyond, my grasp. It had been here that I had met Greg Stevens for the first time. Right here, in this very spot, by this very pool. Sigh.

"Don't jump, 'cause I can't swim," I heard a voice behind me say. I turned to see Joe Bays standing near my chair, holding a red plastic tumbler. He smiled shyly down at me. I smiled back and motioned with my head toward the chair next to me.

"Hey, Joe, glad you're here tonight."