A Killer Collection (21 page)

"And seeing her…body didn't
bother you?"

Molly cut one of her herbed
meatballs in two and sent sauce flying onto the white tablecloth. "Oh,
dear." She colored. "Sorry, I've never been good at eating Italian
without getting sauce somewhere it doesn’t belong. Did seeing Bunny bother me?
No, it didn't. She didn't seem like a real person anymore, you know? She was
more like a wax figure from Madame Tussauds."

"That's the way it was in med
school too. I was pretty nervous about my first anatomy class, but it wasn't
that bad. The cadavers weren't like real people anymore. They were more like
CPR dummies. At least it helped to think of them that way. If I’d thought of
someone as having once been a parent or a brother or sister, I wouldn’t have
learned a thing."

Molly studied him. "Can I ask
you why you didn't finish?"

Matt peered at her defensively,
and then his face instantly softened. "Sure you can. It's just painful to
talk about. In the summer before my last year, my parents were killed in a car
accident." He paused and took a deep drink of Chianti. "I had to take
care of all the arrangements—it was just my younger brother and me—and by the
time the estate was straightened out, school had started and I wasn't ready to
go back. I felt too broken to go back."

"Of course you did. I'm so
sorry, Matt." Molly covered his hand with hers.

"I might enroll again
someday. I still want to be a doctor," Matt said as he squeezed her hand
in return, "but I can't see leaving work now. Not when I have such good
company right across the hall."

~~~~~

"Are you going to quit? Swanson barked at Molly
after she returned to her desk following her lunch with Matt.

"Why?" she asked,
horrified that her piece on Sam Chance might have been poorly written.

"Because you seem more
involved with hard-boiled crime stories these days than reporting on antiques
and collectibles. I want a piece that finishes this pottery series off with a
bang."

Molly squirmed as Swanson's foul
breath hit her in the face. "I
have
found one more potter I'd like
to interview."

"And perhaps you'd like to
tell me about this mystery man."

"His name is Jack Graham.
He's another Seagrove potter, but Sam Chance said he doesn't do interviews
anymore."

"Any reason?" Swanson's
curiosity was aroused.

Molly repeated Sam's words and how
he’d grown uncomfortable and had refused to give out any information about
Graham aside from warning her to stay away. Swanson's eyes lit up at the
thought of a dramatic secret adding more spice to the paper. The recent
edition, replete with details on George-Bradley's death and Hillary Keane's
arrest had created record highs in circulation.

"You get that interview with
Graham. I don't care how you get it, just see that you do." Swanson broke
off to cough up something liquid into his yellowed handkerchief.

"I’m on it," Molly said,
backing away from the desk in disgust. "I'll try to get something lined up
with him this weekend."

But before the weekend's kiln
opening, she needed to discover more about this potter whose only surviving
piece from an entire kiln had been a small, unglazed rabbit.

~~~~~

The next day, Molly headed for the library at Duke
University, an old, gray stone building with Tudor-style windows and a
sprawling layout of endless rooms. Filled with students poring over books or
conducting group study sessions in low whispers, the atmosphere was both quiet
and lively.

As posters of Lincoln, Harriet
Tubman, and the Wright Brothers cast knowing but affable glances down upon her,
she began searching through databases for newspaper articles on Jack Graham.

Scanning through the summary lines
on the computer screen Molly noted that most of these were articles about the
uniqueness of Graham’s work or short pieces detailing his kiln openings. His
name popped up in several other searches relating to the Seagrove area and its
potters, but nothing appeared about his personal life.

Molly read everything available to
her, printing out a few of the articles reviewing Graham's work in order to
improve her own knowledge of the talented craftsman. Nothing indicated the
Graham had faced any "trouble," but then again, none of the articles
mentioned anything personal about Graham except for his age and the family's
history of pottery making. Stumped, Molly approached the reference desk to seek
help.

A tall, pale-faced male librarian
with a white button-down shirt and frayed brown pants greeted her kindly. His
round, thick glasses enlarged his greenish eyes and enunciated his hooked nose,
giving the impression of a friendly turtle. There was nothing slow about his
fingers, however, and when Molly explained what she was looking for, his hands
flew like startled finches over the keys.

"Jack Graham," he said,
lips crinkling in concentration, "a Seagrove potter, if I'm not
mistaken."

"Yes."

"Known for his perfect form
and the brilliant hues of his glazes," he continued.

"That’s right." Molly
was impressed.

"The Archives Database will
provide birth information, so you'll know his age and place of birth, but
that's not much." His fingers continued to peck at the keyboard.
"Let's see what the local press has to say."

Results danced over the screen in
black and blue lines of text. The librarian did not seem pleased. He sighed
heavily, stroking the gray stubble peppering his chin.

"Once again, progress is
halted due to lack of funding."

"What happened?" Molly
asked, disappointed. Mr. Turtle seemed as capable as a magician waving his wand
over a black hat. She had expected those nimble fingers to pull out the white
rabbit of news articles on the life of Jack Graham.

"The microfiche of the
Asheboro papers, which would have covered all events occurring in Seagrove,
have not been downloaded into the database yet. Their branch needs to link with
our database, but they only have one or two computers. The state has made huge
cuts from library budgets everywhere. The smaller libraries are really
suffering." He shrugged. "Remember this during the next election
year."

"So if they can't afford to
have the database, are all the area newspaper articles on microfiche?"

"Probably, yes. I'm afraid
you'll have to go to the main branch in Asheboro and look at films the
old-fashioned way."

Molly thanked Mr. Turtle for his
help, returned to her car, and headed for the interstate. She'd have a quick
lunch before driving an hour and a half to Asheboro once again. She pulled off
I-85 at a cafeteria and selected an array of homemade foods for lunch including
macaroni and cheese, black- eyed peas, and bread pudding with vanilla custard
sauce for dessert.

The librarian at the local branch
was an older woman with curly, paper-white hair. It was so thin that her pink
scalp winked out in places like bare patches in the lawn. Her eyes were sharp
blue and sparkled with vivacity. She patted Molly on the hand after listening
to her request and handed her several old index boxes.

"These are the newspaper
films we've got on file. You just figure out what issue you want and bring the card
up here. I'll get the films and set you up on the reader."

"Thank you." Molly made
herself comfortable in an oversized pink chair by the window and began flipping
through the cards. Each card contained a summary of the important articles of
the week, sorted by subject. She began flipping through the "Arts"
sections, musing over the difference between Duke's database and this library's
boxes of yellow aged index cards.

As the afternoon wore on, Molly
found several references to Jack Graham's work. She had a small stack of cards
laid aside with short articles covering his kiln openings. As the librarian
leaned over her to line up the rolls of microfiche, Molly caught a sweet,
familiar whiff of vanilla. Molly always burned vanilla candles in her house, and
her favorite coffee flavor was French vanilla.

"Anything wrong, dear?"
the librarian's mellifluous voice inquired.

"Not at all," she
assured the librarian. "By the way, you smell lovely."

The librarian beamed and walked
off, leaving Molly to scroll through pages of film, printing out any articles
where Jack Graham's name appeared. She then collected her pile of printouts and
returned to her soft chair to read, hoping at least to learn which buyers were
present at each sale. Would any of these short pieces hold clues about Graham's
personal life?

Most of the articles were about
Graham's pieces being exhibited in the area museums or about his biannual kiln
openings. Molly began by numbering the articles on the openings, so she could
discover in which month kiln number 43 had
not
been produced. She paused
over any photographs from the sales, noting familiar figures such as
George-Bradley, Hillary Keane, Clara's friend Donald, and even Clara herself.
Most of these were taken before the kiln opening began, when frenzied buyers
stood with their hands resting on the piece of their choice, carefully guarding
it until the time they could check out.

By kiln number 25, Molly noticed
that Jack Graham had switched to the lottery system. Now photos showed buyers
drawing from a hat and studying their numbers with glee or dismay. Those with
low numbers picked first, snatching the most singular pieces from the sale. By
the end of the lottery, only a few plain vases or ordinary bowls remained. They
were all beautiful, but not as unique as the one peacock-incised floor vase or
elaborate salt-glazed candelabra that the lucky holders of low lottery numbers
had seized in the first few rounds of drawings.

In fact, one photo illustrated a
woman throwing her hands in the air in disgust as she discovered what number
she had drawn. Molly smiled at the photo, as it was so typical of the emotions
displayed all over in the world of collecting. She examined the article
further, admiring a photograph of neat rows of pottery in Graham's yard, the
words of praise from the local museum curators, and the attendance his work
drew for county festivals. So far, Graham's life seemed trouble free.

As she continued to number the
articles, the late afternoon sun began to grow weary and rested its heavy head
among the pines dotting the horizon. The librarian hummed at her desk, her
small hands flipping through the pages of a colorful children's book. Molly
watched her, wondering if she would know anything more about Graham. After all,
she had probably lived in the area for a long time and if there were any
noteworthy personal information about him, surely a local person would know all
about it.

"Ma’am?" she interrupted
the librarian's reading.

"How can I help you, dear?'

"I seem to keep striking out
and I don’t want to go home barehanded," Molly said truthfully.

"Those films didn't
help?" The bright eyes were sympathetic.

"No. I'm looking for
information on Jack Graham, the potter. Do you know him?"

The woman's wrinkled forehead
gathered into itself as she thought. "I've heard of him, yes. He makes
pottery, but not much these days I hear."

Molly showed her the numbered
stack of articles.  "About two years ago, in the spring, he should have
had kiln opening number 43, but he didn't. I'm trying to figure out why."

"Well, let me see." The
librarian shuffled back over to the drawers holding the microfiche. "We'll
have to look at that year's events some more. Maybe there was a fire or
something ... a particular hardship or catastrophe that prevented him from
working."

Molly digested the librarian's
comment and then seized upon an idea. "Fire, maybe... or snow!" she
suggested, excitedly. "Isn't that the winter we had those two big storms
back-to-back and no one had power for weeks?"

"It is, it is." The blue
eyes sparkled.

"And he might not have been
able to work without power," Molly continued.

The librarian loaded in the film,
and the two women sat side by side and read about the aftermath of the two
blizzards. North Carolina rarely saw snow, and when it came, it was usually a
light dusting that sent people dashing out to the store for bread, milk, and
eggs. Driving conditions were treacherous because the state had no equipment
for snow removal. Still, people who could barely drive well in rain went racing
off in a state of panic to the grocery, causing dozens of accidents each time a
cluster of snowflakes flew.

But the blizzards were different.
They each piled six to eight inches of snow in some places, downing power lines
and covering the roads completely. After the two storms had dumped their loads
of heavy powder, a rain had fallen, covering the world in a clear layer of
sparkling, menacing ice.

Molly remembered using her gas
logs to stay warm and sleeping on the sofa for a week. With no electricity, she
had to reread all of Jane Austen's novels and put together puzzles by
candlelight, thrilled at having a week off school and enjoying the adventure of
donning snow gear to walk a mile to the grocery store where she waited for two
hours in line to buy cat food and granola bars.

However, she lived in a populated
development, and by the second week her power was restored. And even when her
car had been snowed in, she could walk fairly easily to the store and was able
to use her cell phone to call her friends and family. Others had not been so
lucky.

Out in the country, many people
had no source of energy except for small wood-burning stoves. They had no
access to grocery stores and had to rely on whatever canned goods were at hand.
Dozens of fatalities occurred from car accidents. Worse than that, several
people had died from hypothermia when they got trapped in thigh high snow
heading to town on the remote back roads. When the snow melted, their bodies
were discovered near the road or curled inside their cars where they had gotten
stuck too far from town and too far from home.