The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 Read online

  "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.

  Well, that makes one of us, I thought.

  "I'm sure he's no picnic to work under," Price added, much to my surprise.

  Suddenly, I wondered if I had slipped and verbalized my comment, but I was pretty sure I had not.

  "But he's a brilliant attorney and needs someone like you to keep him organized and in line."

  "I do my best," I told him honestly, trying to keep sarcasm out of my tone.

  "God knows you did wonders with Dell," he said, chuckling, referring to Wendell Wallace. "Now come along and let me show you one of the world's best lunchbox collections. Just leave your things there."

  Following his instructions, I left my stuff on the conference table and followed him over to the glass cases where there were, indeed, lunchboxes-dozens of them. The shelves were filled with colorful metal boxes, most of which were adorned with pictures of cartoon characters, comic book heroes, and TV legends. They brought back memories, and I recognized many of the boxes childhood friends had carried to school every day.

  "I didn't realize people collected old lunchboxes," I said in amazement.

  "My dear, where have you been?" he teased. "It's a very popular hobby, especially among men. And it can be increasingly expensive as the years go by and these boxes become even rarer."

  "Which one was your first?"

  He smiled broadly and opened up a glass door to remove one particular lunchbox. It looked well used, with small dents and scratches. Adorning the front, back, and sides were scenes from the TV show Gunsmoke. On the box's front was Marshal Matt Dillon, jaw set and gun drawn. Price held the box lovingly, almost cradling it.

  "This was my son Eldon's lunchbox when he was a boy," he explained. "He loved anything with a cowboy theme, particularly this TV show."

  Something struck me as off. I racked my brain but could not remember a son named Eldon. In fact, I could have sworn Sterling Price's son was named Kyle. I had just seen the name Kyle Price on some of the documents I notarized. A son named Kyle and a daughter named Karla-twins; that's what my middle-aged memory bank was dredging up.

  "I didn't realize you had another son."

  Price looked at the lunchbox as he spoke, his voice in a monotone. "Yes, I had a son named Eldon. Unfortunately, he had an accident. Fell from a tree when he was eleven and broke his neck."

  "I'm terribly sorry."

  He nodded acknowledgment of my condolences and continued. "Years later, I was reading an article about the hobby of collecting lunchboxes and remembered that we had kept this stored away. That was the beginning. I have more than a hundred now, most of which I purchased after my wife's death about eight years ago. She thought it silly but always kept her eyes open for them like a good sport." He extended an arm toward the boxes lined up before us. "These are among my favorites in the collection."

  "And this Gunsmoke one is your prize box?"

  "Only for sentimental reasons, dear lady. Value wise, it's only worth about one hundred fifty to two hundred dollars. It would be worth more if it were in better condition."

  I swallowed hard. Two hundred dollars for a kid's beat-up lunchbox that still reeked of sour milk seasoned with rust? Sheesh.

  He put the lunchbox back in its place and picked up the one displayed next to it. "This ... this is my crown jewel; the ultimate lunchbox; every collector's dream acquisition."

  Price held the box out for my inspection, holding it gingerly by the top and bottom as if it were made of glass. It did not look like much to me, but then what do I know? I tote my lunch in paper sacks and old Blockbuster Video bags.

  Except for a dent on one o
f its corners, this particular lunchbox did not have the bumps and bruises of the one before it, but neither was it festooned with colorful pictures. It was rather plain, the metal painted a dark blue. On one side it sported a primitive watercolor of a cowboy riding a horse and twirling his lasso over his head. Around the horse's hooves were some quickly drawn grass tufts and in the background a few cactus plants. The picture was not even painted on the box but stuck on. The cowboy depicted in the drawing was unknown to me.

  Okay, what was I missing here? I kept looking at the box, hoping a clue to its desirability would pop out of it like a genie from a magic lamp. My eyes traveled up to meet Price's smiling face, quite sure that I looked as dense as I felt.

  "Is it safe to assume that this lunchbox is worth more than the Gunsmoke one?"

  He gave a mischievous laugh, almost a childish giggle. It was plain to see that Price delighted in showing off this particular treasure.

  "Would you believe, Odelia, at least a hundred times more?"

  In my mind, I quickly threw a couple of zeros after the twohundred-dollar figure. "Holy shit!" I gasped, then immediately slapped my hand over my mouth. Holy shit, I thought in horror, did I really just say "holy shit" to a client, and an important one at that?

  Price let loose with a real guffaw.

  Ashamed of my unprofessional behavior, I apologized. "Mr. Price, I am so sorry. That was very inappropriate of me."

  He laughed, reached a hand up, and patted me warmly on my right shoulder. "Sterling, dear, remember? And actually, Odelia, that was very close to my exact words when I first learned of its value." He leaned toward me. I could smell the coffee on his breath. "I paid twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred dollars for this trinket," he confessed with a sly whisper. "Just over a year ago." He nudged me good-naturedly. "Go ahead, say it. Say what you really want to say."

  "Holy shit," I said, this time with reverence and without apology.

  Price laughed heartily. "You're probably too young to know this, but have you ever heard of the cowboy star Chappy Wheeler?" I shook my head. "His real name was Charles Borden and he was from Newark, New Jersey. In the 1940s, he found his way to Hollywood and eventually landed a TV series, appropriately called The Chappy Wheeler Show. It was one of the first shows of its kind, right up there with the more familiar classic cowboy genre shows like Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and even Gunsmoke.