A Killer Collection (17 page)

"What?" Molly asked,
astounded.

Kitty whispered urgently, "He
left! He said he was peeing blood and had to go to the hospital."

Molly looked across the room at
her mother, who was scrambling to prepare a table full of pottery to be
auctioned off in the next few minutes. "Oh, Lord."

"You've got to get up there!
Your mom can't handle all this," Kitty pleaded.

Molly left her notepad on her
chair and wove her way around the standing observers until she reached the
front. She whispered the dire news to Clara, who unhesitatingly shoved a
catalogue in her hands.

"I
told
you something
bad was going to happen. Still, I'd rather have you up here anyway. You're now
in charge of all the pottery. I'll grab you if we need to lift something small.
Otherwise, we're going to have to use the wand."

The wand was a stick with a star
glued to its tip that the crew used to point to objects that were just too
bulky to bring up front for the crowd to view.

"We have the projection
screen, too," Molly reminded her mother. "They'll know what we're
selling." And she quickly grabbed the next lot, a pottery lamb, and held
it aloft before the audience.

Lex did a double take when he saw
her, but didn't miss a beat of his selling lilt. As he opened the bidding,
Molly watched the same old lady who had cackled at Will hold her bidder number
firmly in the air. Donald raised his as well, and it came down to just the two
of them fighting for the pottery animal. Finally, Donald shook his head and
looked back down at his lap, a sign that he was done bidding. The old woman
lifted her face and smiled with pleasure.

"That lady is having a
ball," Molly whispered.

"I'm glad
someone
is," Clara returned, waving for Will to pick up the next lot.

As Molly watched him carry a
Persian runner up to the front, her eyes fell on a familiar puff of hair in the
audience.

Bunny Staunton was seated in the
third row. She had never come to one of Lex's sales before, but since some of
her late husband's pottery was about to be sold, she probably wanted to bear
witness to its true value. Catching Molly's eye, she gave a cursory nod of recognition,
then turned her gaze to the next lot, the first of her husband's collection.

The piece, a Ben Owen two-handled
tapered vase glazed in Chinese blue with large patches of red, was an extremely
handsome item. The large amount of red glaze seeping through like a sunrise
would raise the price, and bidding cards flapped around the room like white
wings, eager to be spotted.

Finally, the last two bidders
battled it out. One was a man seated toward the back wearing jeans and a faded
flannel shirt. Molly knew, despite his casual dress, that he was quite wealthy
and was a fervent pottery collector as well. She craned her neck to catch a
view of the second bidder and instantly recognized the neat, trim figure
wearing a silk blouse and a double strand of pearls. It was Susan,
George-Bradley's former mistress.

She sat on the opposite side of
the room from Bunny, about two rows back. She could observe Mrs. Staunton, but
Bunny couldn't see her. Susan's lips, shiny with a trendy gloss, were pursed in
dogged determination as she won the lot. She made a notation in her catalogue
and prepared to bid on the next. As each piece of George-Bradley's collection
came up for sale, she waged a relentless war against other bidders until she
laid claim to the majority of his better pieces.

Soon, several people turned to see
who the persistent buyer was, including a disgruntled Donald. Even Bunny was
curious, and she turned to look behind her shoulder just as a large C. C. Burle
devil face jug came up for sale. It was the very piece Susan and George-Bradley
had wrestled over at the kiln opening. Susan sat erect in her chair, raising
her bidding card with delicate flicks of her tiny wrist.

From her vantage point, Molly
could see the two women clearly. As she held up an unsigned whiskey jug for the
audience to view, she watched Bunny discover the identity of the determined
bidder.

Susan glanced over at Bunny, her
bidding card held up like a shield.

The two women locked eyes, but
only for a moment, exchanging looks of venomous loathing before Bunny sneered
in disdain and turned back around. Molly could see that underneath her thick
makeup and attempts to control her expression, Bunny's eyes were filled with a
cold rage. She looked down at her catalogue, cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation.

"Poor Bunny," Molly
whispered to Clara, as mother and daughter witnessed the other woman's misery.

Clara, who never missed a single
detail of the entire sale, handed Molly an antique Cherokee basket. "This
is next. And yes, I feel bad for her too."

For Bunny, this should have been a
moment of triumph. Like the photographs in her home, Bunny had appeared at the
sale as the devoted wife of the late George-Bradley Staunton. Everyone
attending the auction knew who she was and had paid their respects to her over
the loss of her husband and had extolled the virtues of his collection. If his
pottery sold well, it only increased her husband's reputation as a collector
and made it easier to maintain her illusion of having married a well-known man
with impeccable taste. The presence of her husband's former mistress evaporated
that image into mist.

As the last of George-Bradley's
pottery sold, Bunny made her way to the restroom. When she returned, she passed
right by the row where her reserved seat was located and crossed into the front
room. Through the window, Molly saw her open the door to her silver BMW and sit
down inside without starting the ignition.

Unable to pay any more attention
to Bunny, Molly and Clara worked like frenzied bees for the next two hours. In
between lots, they guzzled water and took hasty bites of ham and cheese
sandwiches. By the last lot, they were dead on their feet.

As buyers lined up to pay Kitty
for their items Lex asked, "Can one of you guys help wrap some
pottery?" He was still ignorant of what the three of them had accomplished
without Mike’s help.

"No," Clara said
wearily. "The customers can wrap their own. We've had it."

"Where's Mike?" Lex
looked around.

Clara filled Lex in on the details
of Mike’s departure as Molly moved her leaden legs down to the wrapping area to
assist with the pottery. Of course it was Susan's huge pile that required so
much attention, but Lex was almost out of boxes.

"Do you have anything to pack
these in?" she asked Susan with as much politeness as she could muster.

"I might have some bins in my
car," she replied haughtily. "But I would expect you to provide boxes
since I'm spending all this money."

"I'll come out with you to
fetch them," Molly offered reluctantly, her fatigue and dislike for the
petite woman causing her to wish she had not volunteered to help. She wondered
if Susan would be embarrassed about being so snotty when Molly showed up on her
doorstep a few days later for their interview. Right now, Susan thought Molly
was simply another member of Lex's crew, unworthy of cordiality.

"Oh fine, let's go,"
Susan drawled. "But hurry up, I don't have all day."

Susan's white Mercedes SUV looked
brand new. Molly wondered what Susan did for a living to be able to afford such
an expensive car and lot after lot of costly pottery. Her car retailed for
around eighty grand, and she had probably spent ten thousand at today's sale.
All of her clothes were designer labels and her shoes alone were the latest
fashion of monogrammed leather that cost three hundred dollars a pair.

As Molly climbed into back of the
car to dig out plastic bins, Bunny suddenly appeared at Susan's side. Inside
the SUV, Molly pivoted her body to watch as Bunny raised her hand and pointed a
shiny, manicured talon at Susan's chest.

"How dare you!" Bunny
breathed heavily. "How dare you show up here and bid on
my
husband's things!"

Susan was completely unruffled.
She looked Bunny up and down in disgust and shook her coiffed crown of hair.
"Last time I checked, this was a
public
auction."

"You piece of trash. I know
where you came from. People like you never shake off the trailer park dirt, no
matter what you drive or wear." Bunny waved at Susan's clothes in
dismissal.

Through the open car door, Molly
could see the heat rise in Susan's face. The "trailer park" comment
had hit home.

"You husband didn't seem to
mind," Susan retorted in a low, taunting voice. Then she ran her hands
over her small hips and smiled evilly.

Bunny looked as if an arrow had
struck her straight through the heart. Molly was afraid that the malicious look
on Bunny's face meant she was about to do something rash. Instead, she simply
hissed, "You were just another
thing
he collected!"

Turning away, Bunny seemed to
think of one more verbal dagger she could thrust into Susan. "By the
way," she said, turning back to Susan and grinning slyly, "My lawyer
paid me a visit this week. You know, to review
my
husband's estate. He
gave me a sealed letter that George-Bradley had left for me to read in the
event he should die before me. I found it most interesting. Do you want to know
what it said?"

Susan stood silently, her face
empty of expression. She looked as though she had forgotten how to breathe.

And then, leaning in as if she
were going to kiss Susan on the cheek. Bunny began whispering something into
her ear. Molly brazenly scooted over the warm surface of Susan's leather seat
in order to get closer to the open door, but the only thing she was able to
catch was "your little car ride in the backwoods that day."

Susan's face, which had been
screwed up in anger, rapidly blanched chalk white and her eyes grew round in
shock. She stood rooted to the ground, fists clenched at her sides like a
hoplite statue. All the fight was gone from her. Triumphant, Bunny walked away,
slowly and with careful dignity. Molly saw her opportunity to leave, grabbed
her bins as quietly as possible, and scurried back to the gallery.

As she watched Susan drive off
with all her pottery left behind, Clara came to stand beside her.

"Susan left without her
pottery!" Clara exclaimed. Sinking down into the nearest chair, she mused
tiredly, "Who won
that
fight, I wonder."

Molly thought about the
circumstances that had driven the opposing women together. Bunny was now a
widow, desperately trying to hold on to her public image as George-Bradley's
happy wife. Susan, whose passion for pottery had once united her with the same
man, now sought to buy all the pieces George-Bradley had owned.

Somehow, Susan's relationship with
George-Bradley had soured. They had become rivals, fighting over pottery at C.
C.'s kiln opening like two children squabbling over a toy in the playground.

What had Bunny whispered about a
"car ride" to elicit such a powerful reaction? It must have meant
something awful to Susan to make her leave behind thousands of dollars of
pottery, even temporarily.

Molly sighed, thinking about her
first impression of George-Bradley. He had been rude, lecherous, and greedy.
Why would any woman fight over a man like him?

She shrugged. "No one won.
Ma. In fact, I think that was just Round One."

~~~~~~~~~~

Pottery making is a discipline that, once one is
thoroughly hooked, is like an addiction and almost impossible to separate from.

—ROBIN HOPPER, from
Functional Pottery Form
and Aesthetic in Pots of Purose

Late that afternoon, Molly reviewed the note cards
scattered in an arc across her desk space. After carefully forming the outline
for her next article, she planned to go home and spend the rest of the day
reading out on her cozy deck. "Hello, love." Clayton stood before her
wearing a pink and blue striped shirt and designer jeans with cowboy boots.

"You always look so good,
Clayton."

"Honey, you look like last
week's wash. Look at your nails. You have been terribly negligent of those
cuticles," Clayton admonished her. “I believe a spa day is in order.”

"Doesn't anyone take a day
off around here?" Molly asked testily.

'Temper, temper. I just sashayed
over to share some exciting news about that Keane fellow. See, I was on having
a lovely phone conversation with darling Francis over at the
Sun Times
and oh, that boy has the face of an—"

"Clayton! Don't be a
tease," Molly interrupted him.

Clayton sulked. He liked to build
up his story before getting to the good bits of gossip.

"All right, I'm sorry. Tell
me about Keane now and then you can go into minute detail about Francis and his
many attractions over a cappuccino after work. My treat," added Molly.

Clayton relented. "Yummy. And
since I can't resist your wide-eyed pleading look, it's a deal. So! It seems
that Keane got his liquor on pretty early the day he nearly hit that jogger.
Started out at a truck stop where he was giving a little lift to his coffee out
of a flask. From there, he ended up drinking beer at some pool hall that calls
itself a restaurant. Heading back to his seedy motel, where he's been holed up
for the last week, he almost hit that marathon man." Clayton grimaced in
distaste. "I mean, Sweet Jesus, who stays in a motel anymore? Hello? Book
a hotel, with an ‘h’."

"Was this seedy motel in
Asheboro?"

Clayton paused to think. "No.
Just outside Hendersonville. The waitresses at the truck stop all remembered
him because he came in every morning to drink coffee laced with bourbon. Thing
is, the little dear could never get the cap back on his bourbon flask. Bad case
of the shakes, I guess."