A Killer Collection (12 page)

"I don't know. I'd have to
ask Matt for some ideas."

Clara's glass stopped in midair on
the way to her mouth. "Matt?"

"Oh, he works with me at the
paper." Molly tried to keep from blushing, but Clara sensed there was more
to be discovered about this coworker.

"Why would your coworker know
about diabetes?" she asked.

"He went to med school for
three years. He knows quite a  bit," Molly defended Matt, and then quickly
changed the subject. "Back to Keane."

Clara put up her hand to stop her
daughter from continuing.  "If Keane
had
stolen pottery he could
never put the pieces on display."

Molly jerked her fork in the air.
"Thus the boxes in the garage!"

Clara was still doubtful.
"He’d be taking a significant risk to hoard away a bunch of stolen pieces.
Someone would know."

"Maybe he was selling
them."

"That's possible." Clara
thought for a moment. "He could be selling up north to buyers wouldn't
know the provenance of the pieces. They’d had no idea they were writing checks
for stolen goods. But Keane couldn't use an online auction or anything on the
Internet; people around here would recognize every jug and pitcher and know
whose collection they belonged to."

The two women mused over their
theories. Riddles circulated like pesky summer flies.

'The real question is"—Molly
paused for emphasis— "Who would know more about the relationship between
George-Bradley and Hillary Keane? If one of them bore a grudge against the
other, maybe we can link this all up."

"I'll call Donald."
Clara signaled the waitress for the check. "He knows everyone in the
pottery circle. If there’s a person alive who knows the intimate details of the
connection between George-Bradley and Keane, it’s Donald."

Without a doubt, Clara's friend
Donald had the largest and most valuable southern pottery collection of the
region. His collection was even larger and more impressive than George-Bradley's.
Unlike his former rival, Donald also supported the potters in other ways in
addition to buying their wares. He helped them market their pieces and even
lent them money to open their own shops after completing an apprenticeship.

Donald attended almost every area
kiln opening, bought at auction, and made deals with other collectors. His
trade was in the jewelry business, but his real love was pottery. He and Clara
had met over ten years ago at a sale and had become fast friends. Now they helped
one another track down unusual pieces for their collections and often invested
in pieces together that were later sold at the region's largest pottery show
for a tidy profit. When Donald wasn't selling jewelry, he was out "beating
the bushes" for pottery. He knew everyone who owned so much as a clay
ashtray.

"Will you call him
tonight?" Molly asked hopefully.

Clara looked at her watch.
"No, it's too late. Donald’s an early to bed, early to rise type of
gentleman. It will have to wait until tomorrow. By then, Lex will have found
out if the pottery is somewhere else in the Staunton’s house and maybe we can
tie up some loose ends."

"I'll have to settle for
tomorrow then." Molly sighed, getting up. "Just think, Ma. If we
could solve this mystery I could write the best article
Collector's Weekly
has ever seen. It would make my earlier pieces about ghost bidding and online
fraud look like small change! On the way to the car she put her arm around her
mother's waist and squeezed. My coworkers would look at me in a whole new
light."

Molly was especially interested in
impressing a particular coworker. It was about time she did something to make
Matt Harrison notice her.

~~~~~~~~~~

Brother, stay here;

Are we not brothers?

So man and man should be,

But clay and clay differs in dignity,

Whose dust is both alike.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from
Cymbeline

Molly was scrubbing the bathtub when the phone rang.

She turned off the water, wiped her hands hastily on the
bath mat, and grabbed the receiver, water dripping down her arm and onto the
carpet.

"Hello?" she asked
abruptly.

"My, my, aren't we crabby?
And what are you doing home on a Wednesday?"

"Sorry, Mom. I was just
bleaching the bathtub. Griffin peed in it again last night. That cat is so
lazy. It’s not like he doesn’t have a cat door! Can you hold on for a
sec?" Molly peeled off her yellow rubber gloves and wiped her arms with a
cloud-white bath towel. "I'm using the time I wasted yesterday to clean
house and run errands. What's up?"

"Lots, and it cost me lunch."

"You saw Donald today?"
Molly asked.

"Yes. I took him to his
favorite Chinese place and mercilessly pumped him for information." Clara
laughed mischievously.

"And?"

"Well, he didn't want to tell
me anything at first. Hillary, George-Bradley and Donald—all these guys grew up
together so they’re often reluctant to tell stories about one another."

"Even to you? You and Donald
gossip about everyone. You’re like two senior citizens at the hair salon."

"I know, that's why it was
strange that he was so reticent, but don't worry, I finally wormed some juicy
tidbits from him." Clara paused, obviously baiting her daughter.

"Go on!" Molly prompted
excitedly.

"Well, back in the early days
of George-Bradley's collecting, he and Keane used to go to kiln openings and auctions
together. They knew each other during their junior high days, drifted apart
during college, and were kind of reacquainted through pottery. Problem was,
they both liked the same pieces. George-Bradley could afford them. Keane could
purchase a good piece every now and then, but more often than not, he had to
watch as George-Bradley bought up all the best pieces."

"So he began getting
jealous."

"Yes. But according to
Donald, it took a few years to bubble to the surface. From the outside, you'd
never know that those two weren't the perfect buddies. They went to one
another's parties, traveled to shows out of state together, and were generally
thought to be best friends."

"What happened?"

Clara sighed. "This is the
part where Donald got fidgety. Apparently, Keane started dropping by
George-Bradley's house—often when his friend wasn't at home. Keane would tell
Bunny that he’d wait in the living room for her husband to return. Sometimes he
was still there when George-Bradley got back from work or wherever, but other
times, he wasn't."

"Because he was stealing
pottery!" Molly exclaimed.

"That's what George-Bradley
thought too. He noticed a piece missing after one of Keane's visits.

"Donald was at a swank party
given for members of the

Southern Pottery Collector's Group
when he overheard the two friends go at it. George-Bradley accused Keane of
taking some of his pieces while he was out of the house—pieces that Keane had
always coveted."

"Did Keane make a
scene?"

"Not really. Donald said
Keane got really red in the face and told George-Bradley in an outraged whisper
that their years of friendship obviously meant nothing if he was being called a
thief by the one man he thought of as a
brother
."

"How dramatic."

"Exactly. George-Bradley
didn't bother apologizing. They just stared daggers at one another. Then Keane
downed his drink and left the party."

"But they still must have run
into each other all the time after that. The world of pottery collectors is
fairly small and intimate."

"Donald says you couldn't
tell they even knew each other from the way they acted after that party. He
only knows the truth because he was standing close enough to overhear their
argument."

"How long ago did they stop
being friends?" Molly asked.

"A couple years now."

Molly tried to picture the scene
at the party. "So after he stopped bumming around with Keane, did
George-Bradley start finding women to accompany him to sales and shows
instead?"

"I guess."

"There you have it. Keane's a
prime suspect!" Molly declared. "However, there's a detail that I
need to discover in order to confirm my suspicions."

Clara cleared her throat.
"What's that?"

"Well, I've been thinking.
Matt told me that George-

Bradley suffered from an insulin
overdose at the kiln opening. But I wonder, with all that sugary food,
plus
sweet tea, wouldn't he have had enough sugar to balance out the insulin even if
he gave himself an extra dose? If he
had
taken two shots, he must have
had the second one well before he arrived and ate all that sugar."

Clara considered this. "So you
need to find out where George-Bradley was before the kiln opening?"

"If he was only with Bunny
then she's my number one suspect," Molly continued. "Though it's
pretty suspicious that Keane flew the coop right after George-Bradley's death.
Perhaps Keane and Bunny were in it together," Molly added, though she
didn't really subscribe to this theory. "She hated the pottery. Keane
coveted it."

Clara ignored the latter bits of
her daughter's speculations. "You'll have to ask Bunny if George-Bradley
was home right up until the time he left for the kiln opening. I don't know how
you'd bring that up in conversation with her."

"Me either," Molly
confessed. She thanked her mother and then dialed Matt's extension at the
office.

"I am so glad you're
in," she gushed when he answered.

"Wow, thanks," Matt
replied happily.

"I've got a medical question
for you."

"And here I thought just the
sound of my voice made you weak in the knees," he teased.

Molly took a deep breath and threw
caution to the wind, "It does," she recklessly admitted. And then,
she hastily continued before he could reply. "Listen, if George-Bradley
had taken two shots of insulin, wouldn’t a handful of cookies and a big glass
of sweet tea negate the overdose?"

"Depends on how much extra
insulin we're taking about. It could certainly slow down any negative side
effects—enough to get him to the hospital for treatment."

"So that's a 'yes?'"

"It depends on how many units
he took with each shot. If that second shot were a much higher dose, there'd be
a bigger risk of death."

"And who would know how many
units he regularly took besides his doctor?" Molly asked.

Matt paused to think. "His
pharmacist, I suppose."

"His pharmacist," Molly
repeated.

"Are you still playing
detective?" he asked breezily, and she related all of her suspicions to
him while trying not to sound like a fool.

"The biggest hole in my
theory revolves around the question of how could Keane give George-Bradley the
extra insulin." Molly was grateful that Matt was taking her seriously.
"And why kill his former friend now? Did Keane want to steal more pottery?
Was he having financial problems?"

"George-Bradley took a shot
to get his insulin. I'd think he'd notice if someone stuck him with a
needle," Matt pointed out.

Realization hit Molly on the head
like a flying brick. "But that's it!" she shouted excitedly.
"That's why he was rubbing his stomach. He wasn't doing that because he
had just given himself a shot. Bunny always did that for him at home. No.
Someone stuck him at the kiln opening! There was such a rush of people bumping
into one another ... it was the perfect opportunity. Keane was there, and he
has access to insulin."

"Molly, it would have to be a
huge
dose to cause the reaction that it did. Do you have any other
evidence?"

"Not yet. I'm going to
interview my friend Sam Chance tomorrow. I'll see if he can tell me anything we
don't already know about George-Bradley or Hillary Keane. Plus, he was at the
kiln opening and he always has his ear to the ground."

 "Is he a potter or
collector?"

Molly smiled over the phone.
"A potter and one of the nicest people I've ever met."

  "Have a good trip,"
Matt said warmly. "And let me know if... um ... if you get stuck... I
could be your Watson."

  "Well, Doctor," Molly
replied coyly, her heart singing, "you may just get the job."

~~~~~~~~~~

And life is much faster now than ours was. It's harder for
young people to get into this business because they don't have the time to apprentice
long enough to learn it. They've got to start earning a living right away and
have a big paycheck to apply to the expenses of rising prices.

— LOUIS BROWN, ARDEN, N.C. POTTER from
Foxfire
8

Chance’s Ware was in Seagrove, off the beaten path. Molly
had plenty of time to spare, so she took a detour before her interview. Donald
had told Clara over a bowl of steamed dumplings that Keane worked at the
pharmacy downtown. That could only mean downtown Asheboro. Molly looked in the
phone book and discovered only two pharmacies within city limits. She figured
she could find the right one.

Her strategy was simple: find out
exactly when Keane took

off and if anyone had noticed him
acting strangely before he left the area. She planned to pretend to be a friend
delivering a piece of pottery who hadn't heard a thing about Keane's disappearance.
Molly had a weak poker face, so she prayed she could carry this off or her
detective work would meet a quick end.

The pharmacy closest to the
highway was a small brick building on the comer. Urns of pink petunias turned
their faces up to greet the rays of sun bouncing off the store windows in a
wash of white light. The parking lot was swept clean and a little bell trilled
out her arrival as she opened the paneled door.