The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (5 page)

"You know about lunchboxes, Joe?" I motioned for him to come in and sit in the small chair across from my desk.

"A bit," he said, still eyeing the Zorro box. He reached for it, hesitating slightly. "May I?"

"Sure. I just got it today. It was a gift."

He sat down and picked it up. Turning it gently in his stubby fingers, he rotated it to see all of the pictures on the front, back, and four sides of the box. He opened it and I heard the still-familiar click of the metal latch and the squeaking of hinges. Inside was a matching thermos that I had already discovered. Joe put the box down, twisted the plastic top off the thermos, and then followed suit with the stopper. He inspected both, then peered inside the glass-lined bottle as if looking through a telescope.

When I went to school, boys like Joe were branded as nerds. I imagine they still are. He was soft both in his body and in his face, which was youthful like a pubescent boy's, spotted with mild acne, and looked out of place on his tall, doughy, adult body. His eyes were small and held both intelligence and humor, though most of the time he kept them averted. His light brown, fine hair was short but always looked in need of a trim. Overall, his daily appearance reminded me of an unmade bed.

Occasionally, Joe attended our biweekly Reality Check meetings. In the world of BBW's-Big, Beautiful Women-he was a BHM-Big, Handsome Man-and needed the same support as his plus-size sisters. Over the past several months, Reality Check had been graced with several BHM members, though their attendance was more sporadic than their female counterparts. I suspected that many came to the group shopping for girlfriends with whom they could be comfortable.

"This is in fine condition," Joe pronounced when he was through. "Just a few dings here and there from use. Where'd you get it again?"

"It was a gift," I answered, "from Sterling Price. You know, our client Sterling Homes."

"Wow, nice gift. Might be worth a couple hundred bucks."

I almost swooned. Now I knew I had to give it back. It was too expensive a gift to accept from someone I hardly knew, especially a client. Since Joe obviously knew something about lunchboxes, I gave him a rundown of my trip to Sterling Homes that morning. When I mentioned the Holy Pail, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open, creating a fleshy tunnel in the middle of his boyish face.

"The Holy Pail," he said slowly, quietly, almost with reverence, more to himself than to me. He slumped back in his chair in disbelief. "Wow. You really saw it?"

I nodded. Obviously, Joe was not someone who needed an explanation about the Chappy Wheeler lunchbox. Joe had a quiet way about him. He was very shy and introverted, especially around the women in the office. He always seemed comfortable with me, though, and I assumed it was because I was old enough to be his mother.

"I saw it with my own eyes," I assured him.

He looked at me eagerly, like a puppy hoping for a treat. "You know, they say it's cursed. Bad luck for its owner."

Of their own accord, my eyes rolled in amused disbelief.

"Do you think Mr. Price would show it to me? Would you ask him, Odelia?"

I smiled at his excitement. "I don't know, Joe. But if I get the chance, I'll ask him."

"Not enough work to do, Bays?" The question came from Mike Steele, who now took his turn standing in my doorway. Steele was above average in height, nicely built, and sported a classic profile, and, as always, was immaculately clothed in a designer suit. I might consider Steele a very attractive man if I did not already find him odious.

Obviously intimidated, Joe jumped up and started to leave. Once he was out the door and behind Steele, he grinned his ear-toear thanks to me and left.

Mike Steele entered my office and picked up the lunchbox Joe had replaced on my desk.

"Things so tough at home, Grey, you can only afford a used lunchbox?"

"It was a gift, Steele, from Sterling Price."

He raised one trimmed eyebrow and looked me over. "Really? I thought the old boy was engaged." He snickered. "His fiancee might not like this, not to mention your own squeeze."

I chose to not dignify his comment with a comeback. Instead, I indicated the larger box that sat on the floor and said, "He also sent this box over with it. Documents for you to review, I believe"

"Wrong, Grey, documents for you to review. We're looking for anything that might help us break Sterling's contract with Howser Development should the need arise. Look for suspicious chinks in their paperwork." He caught me checking out the size of the box. "Don't worry, Grey, we don't need them right away. There's a dispute brewing between the two companies that may or may not turn into something. We just want to be prepared in the event it does turn ugly." He put the lunchbox down and turned to leave. "Just complete the review within the next two weeks. I wouldn't want it to interfere with your love life"

Grrr.

I decided to take the box of documents home, thinking I could look over a batch each evening and on the weekends. I had too much day-to-day work to do it justice at the office. After informing Steele of my plan and receiving his blessing to take the box home, I asked Joe to lug it down to my trunk. He was still babbling about the Holy Pail.

Lunchboxes. Who knew?

Once at home, I turned on the TV, stroked the cat, and promised the dog a walk after dinner. A short trip to the kitchen and I was back with a handful of Fig Newtons as a before-dinner appetizer.

To my surprise, the evening news was reporting on an event in Newport Beach. Usually, nothing very exciting happens in Orange County, except maybe exceptionally high surf or government corruption. I paid closer attention to the TV and saw a photograph of a familiar face plastered in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. At the bottom of the screen were the words Breaking News. A reporter, young, handsome, and mahogany colored, was onscreen, reporting live from the scene. In the background was the corporate headquarters of Sterling Homes.

I fumbled with the clicker and aimed it at the TV to turn up the volume.

"It has been confirmed," the reporter said with deliberation into the microphone held tightly in his hand, "that Sterling Price, CEO and founder of Sterling Homes, the prestigious real estate development company headquartered in Newport Beach, was found dead this afternoon in his private office."

Wainwright never let the falling cookies hit the floor.

FOUR

THE CLEAN, FRESH AIR of the Back Bay was tainted this morning with the odor of skunk. I twitched my nose and continued walking at a brisk pace. On a leash and trotting happily just in front of me was Wainwright. Beside me, dressed in a lightweight, pastel pink warm-up suit, was Zee. Ahead of us, and moving a bit faster, was a larger group of women from Reality Check. It was just past six o'clock in the morning, and a damp mist hung over the lower portions of the bay like gauze. Soon it would burn off, as would the haze overhead, and the day would turn sunny and warm.

It was here along the trail of the Back Bay that I had been shot by a lunatic fifteen months ago; not exactly where we were walking now, but nearer to the beginning of the trail. The group had offered to change the venue of our daily walks, but I had insisted we keep it the same. I needed to prove to myself that I could move on and put the ordeal behind me. So almost every morning I forced myself to walk along the place where I had nearly died. It was my daily dose of mortality. This morning, because of Sterling Price's death the day before, the location brought on more than just the usual little shudder.

Zee was only recently a regular on these daily walks. Like the little engine who could, she matched me stride for stride, her huffing and puffing lessening each day she walked. By nature, Zee was not a morning person, and in the past what early energy she could muster was spent getting her family out the door for the day. But these days her little nest was nearly empty, and she was in a funk. Hannah, her nineteen-year-old daughter, had just left to start her second year at Stanford. Her son Jacob, who was now sixteen, was off on an end-of-summer camping trip.

"Seems," Zee said, slightly out of breath, "like that man could have found something more important to do with thirty thousand dollars." We were just reaching the crest of a small hill that led to the parking lot and the end of our walk. "I hope he at least left some of it to charity in his will."

I had just finished telling Zee about Sterling Price's hobby. His death weighed heavily on my mind as I walked the trail robotically. I had just seen him the day before and now he was dead, another reminder of the impermanence of life. Here today, dead tomorrow.

It had almost happened to me, and it could happen to anyone at any time, including Zee. I shivered at my last thought and glanced over at her with frightened affection. The sight brought a smile to my face. In the warm-up suit, she looked like fluffy pink cotton candy wrapped around a fudge center. Losing Zee would be like losing a sister or even a limb, maybe worse. Yet loss was part of the price of living; just ask the families of those recently murdered people at the community center. It was just not a price I was will ing to pay in cash. In my book, that kind of debt was still available on credit.

The TV news had reported that Sterling Price had died from heart failure. I reminded myself that he had been in his seventies, then thought of my father. Dad was in his eighties and still going strong. Automatically, I wrapped my knuckles lightly against my skull.

"Have you decided what to tell Greg?" Zee asked.

I stopped abruptly, yanking Wainwright back. I gave the animal a look of apology, then looked at Zee, then back at the dog, fuzzy about the topic at hand. Both looked at me expectantly. Then I refocused my thoughts and looked back again at Zee.

"I still don't know, Zee," I sighed. "I'm no closer to an answer than I was on Sunday."

We started walking again, this time in silence, and did not stop until we were at our cars. The other women were already in their vehicles and waving out the windows as they drove off. I bundled Wainwright into the back seat of my car and shut the door, being careful of his tail. I gave the cotton candy a quick hug, climbed into the front seat, and headed for home and my morning shower.

I HAD JUST RETRIEVED my second cup of coffee from the firm's kitchen when the phone in my office rang. I could see on the telephone display that it was Mike Steele. I got my groans out of the way quickly before picking up the receiver.

"Morning," I said, giving him my best Little Mary Sunshine impersonation.

"Get in here, Grey. Now." His voice was serious but lacked its usual sneer. I knew him well enough to know that that signaled a potential real problem and not just him playing God. I hung up, picked up a pen and a yellow legal pad, and headed straightaway to his office.

I popped into his sanctuary, expecting a briefing on some unexpected client crisis, and stopped dead in my tracks. Steele was not alone. Sitting across from him were two men. One was a stranger to me and one I knew well, but had not seen in a long time-Detective Devin Frye of the Newport Beach Police.

Detective Frye is a giant of a man. He stands well over six feet tall and is built like a solid, functional building. His age is somewhere in his fifties and he has a full head of curly hair cropped close to his skull, blond mixed with gray. His eyes are blue and his voice deep and gravelly. When he saw me, he stood up and offered me his huge right paw. I was reminded of Wainwright. We shook. Greg and I had gotten to know the detective when he was investigating the suspicious death of our friend Sophie London. We both thought him tops and occasionally ran into him around Orange County.

"Dev, what a surprise," I said, giving him a warm but slight smile.

Dev introduced me to the man at his side. "Odelia, this is my partner, Detective Kami Zarrabi."

Detective Zarrabi and I shook hands. He was a wiry man of average height with olive skin and big, deep brown eyes. His moustache and eyebrows were both bushy, like three black caterpillars marching parallel across his face. His shake was dry and confident.

Something was wrong. If Dev Frye was here, there must be a problem, a big one. He would not be in Steele's office if it were a social call. To my knowledge, he did not even know Mike Steele. I turned to Steele. He sat silent, his face pasty, brows knitted together. I had never seen him look so upset. I looked back to Dev and widened my eyes in question. Dev Frye worked homicide.

"We need to ask you some questions, Odelia," Frye said.

"About Price, Grey," Steele announced in an unusually subdued tone. "About his murder."

"I-uh ... ahhh ... ," I staggered a couple of feet and planted my behind hard into a chair across from Steele's desk. "But I thought he died from heart failure."

"It's just a formality, Odelia," Frye said. "About what time did you last see him?" I looked over at him and noted that he now held the small notebook that he kept in his jacket pocket. He was poised to scribble something in it.

"Murder?" I squeaked out, ignoring the comment about his presence being just a formality.