A Killer Collection (23 page)

Molly knew that no parent ever
finishes grieving over a lost child, and both the Grahams had trace amounts of
sadness in their eyes. Their sorrow was buried in the lines at the corners of
their mouths. Nine-year-old dimpled Jack Junior, on the other hand, bounded
around the buyers, letting them draw numbered tickets from a battered top hat.

"I forgot to mention,"
Donald said, clearing his throat as Jack Junior headed their way and slid a
postcard into Molly's hand, "My friend Blake can't make the sale so you
can use his card to get a number. It wouldn’t do for you to go home empty
handed."

Molly's eyes grew round in wonder
and she planted a kiss on Donald's cheek. "Thank you, Donald!"

Clara beamed at her friend.
"You are a prince among frogs," she said as she patted Donald on the
arm.

Jack Junior reached Clara first
and she put her hand in his deep hat and took a ticket. Donald drew next. Then,
it was Molly's turn to pick.

"Donald!" Clara quickly
exclaimed. "How did you get so lucky?"

Donald slyly showed Molly his
ticket. He had drawn the number three. He would be the third person to select a
piece of pottery. His eyes gleamed in excitement and relief. Clara had drawn
number thirty-two, and Molly had drawn number fifty. She certainly wasn't
disappointed, as she hadn't expected to own a piece at all.

Excitement began to build as the
numbers were handed out Unlike C. C.'s opening there was no hostility between
the buyers. No one had to race to seize the piece they wanted. This selection
was all left to chance, so there was no one to get angry with except for Lady
Luck. Everyone seemed pleased to simply be pin the audience to witness Jack
Graham's return to the public eye.

As Donald's number was called, he
carefully walked up to a pair of tall candlesticks glazed in red brown, each
encircled by a green and black striped snake. Later, Molly watched with baited
breath as her mother chose a large white and brown swirled serving bowl. Clara
reminded Molly that the swirls came from using two types of clay and that it
was extremely difficult to create even spirals when mixing clays. Jack Graham's
swirls had turned out perfectly.

Molly handed her number to her
mother.

"Will you pick a piece for
me?" she asked quietly, her mind on other matters.

"Of course, but why?"
Clara asked, surprised.

"I want a word with Leslie
while people are paying attention to the selection process," Molly
explained and then excused herself.

She made her way to the back porch
of the Graham's house where Leslie sat watching the next buyer deliberate over
two of her husband's pieces. Molly introduced herself, and as Leslie stood to
shake her hand, Jack Junior interrupted and begged for a soda before lunch.

"Not now, Jack. Those drinks
are for the guests. You can have some juice or milk from in the house."

Sulking, Jack flopped down from
the porch and went to hang over the food table.

"You'd think I never fed that
boy." Leslie smiled indulgently as she watched her son. She turned to
Molly. "I've read your pieces in
Collector's Weekly
. I think you've
done some good for the potters around here. I believe Sam Chance has gotten
some extra business."

"I sure hope so," Molly
replied, flattered. Leslie was one of those rare individuals with an easy,
sincere manner that made her attractive to members of both genders. Molly liked
her immediately. Perhaps it was her sprinkling of freckles or her lively green
eyes, but Molly felt completely at ease with Leslie Graham. "Do you think
I could get an interview with your husband sometime this week?"

Leslie paused. "I don’t see
why not. We could use the publicity now that he's back in business. Oh!"
she exclaimed, putting a hand on her belly.

"Are you all right?"

"I sure am. It was just a
kick and a hard one too! Come on in to the kitchen and we'll check the
calendar. With all Jack Junior's baseball and soccer games, we have to plan our
lives around him."

"How far along are you?"
Molly asked as they went inside the shotgun-style house.

"Twenty-four weeks and
counting," Leslie said, rubbing her lower back.

"Do you know what you're
having?"

"Yes, another boy."
Leslie smiled at Molly. "Another soccer player too, I'd say. I hardly
slept a wink last night. Please sit down."

Molly laughed. Then she remembered
the shoebox she was carrying. "I have something that I believe rightfully
belongs to you."

Leslie looked up from the calendar
she was holding and eyed the shoebox warily. "To me?"

"Well, to your
family..." Molly faltered. She unwrapped the rabbit so that it could
explain itself.

Leslie's face turned pale. A hand
fluttered up to her chest. She seemed on the point of flight but changed her
mind and, with a deep breath, sank down in a chair next to Molly.

She touched the rabbit's face as
tears sprang into her eyes.

"This was meant to be gift
for my daughter," she whispered, looking down at the piece. "She was
killed by a hit-and-run about the same time as Jack was firing this kiln load.
After Lilly Ann's death, he smashed every piece. He was so angry that the
driver was never caught. We both were. We didn’t know what to do with that
anger."

Leslie dabbed her eyes with a
dishcloth. Molly looked down at the table, not knowing how to console her
hostess. "I didn't mean to upset you. I thought you might want it back.
I'm very sorry."

Molly was sure Leslie would ask
how she’d come by the rabbit but the potter’s wife gazed out the window. As her
eyes scanned the yard, the number of people clustering around the food table
drew her attention.

"Oh, dear." She sniffed
and covered up the rabbit with the box lid, "They're eating already. I'd
better go see if everything is set out on the table. Do you mind waiting here
for a moment?"

"Of course not," Molly
answered, feeling terrible.

After Leslie left, Jack Junior
entered the kitchen and offered Molly a friendly hello.

"Where's Ma?" he asked,
looking around the room.

"She went outside to check
the food."

"Oh good, then I can have a
soda," he pronounced, giving himself permission. He opened up the fridge
and brought a liter bottle over to Molly.

"Can you get the top
off?" he asked her.

Molly opened the bottle and poured
some soda into a small paper cup on the counter. "Don't tell on me,"
she warned him with a small smile. He promised and then dashed off before his
mother returned.

Replacing the cap, Molly returned
the bottle to the fridge. A colorful lunch box caught her eye. Stuffed way back
on the bottom shelf, it was one of the metal types, not one of the insulated
plastic marvels mass produced to generate more money for the latest boy bands
or teen queen sensation. This was a Miss Piggy lunch box, the winsome character
from a kid's television show that Molly had always loved.

Without thinking, she reached back
behind the loaf of bread and pulled it out. As she opened the latch she
realized too late that she was holding the box upside down. Little glass jars
with a clear liquid inside rolled out onto the kitchen floor.

Molly quickly scooped up the jars
and began arranging them inside the lunch box. The label on the back of one
caught her eye. It was a prescription in Lilly Ann's name. The jars were filled
with insulin.

Sitting back on her heels, Molly’s
mind whirled. She’d been right about the killer’s identity but the knowledge
was depressing. She was so caught up in the awful truth that didn't hear Leslie
approach until she was just outside the door, scolding Jack Junior in low
tones, her voice muffled by the background noise of the crowd. Molly recognized
the voice and goosebumps sprouted across the skin of her arms.

"Sorry to keep you
wait—" Leslie froze as she saw Molly holding her daughter's lunch box. She
took it from Molly's hands as if it were a wounded bird and slowly, gently
closed the lid. The two women locked eyes and it was clear that Leslie realized
that her guest had guessed the truth.

"I've cleaned out all the
rest her things," Leslie began. "But not this old lunch box. It's
been sitting in there for two years now. Jack has asked me so many times to
take it away, but I just couldn't."

Silently, Molly passed her the
last jar of insulin from the floor. Leslie stared at it sorrowfully. "We
used to get automatic shipments from a prescription service in Canada. Of
course we cancelled the service after the accident, but a few weeks ago another
one came. Must have been some computer glitch. I viewed it as a sign. I thought
I was done being angry"— she wiped away the tears the had begun to trickle
down her freckled cheeks—"but when I saw that bastard again at C. C.'s I
knew that I hadn't forgiven and could never forget. I didn't mean to kill him,
I swear. I just wanted to make him sick, to make him as miserable as I have
been without my little girl."

"So you knew George-Bradley
was a diabetic?" Molly asked softy.

"Yes. He used to come over
here frequently, sniffing around for special deals from Jack and trying to
flirt with me. I had always disliked the man, but then, all of a sudden, he
stopped coming. He knew that I knew he had killed our daughter."

"He was the driver?"
Molly asked gently.

Leslie sagged. "No hard
proof, of course. He came over with Bunny a few days after the funeral and he
was acting real funny. Wouldn't look either of us in the eye and then stole off
into the woods, looking over his shoulder the whole time. I followed him."
She took a deep breath. "I had a pair of Lilly Ann's binoculars—she loved
to spot deer or rabbits—and saw him at the accident site. He was looking for
something by the road that I had already found."

"What was it?"

"A handkerchief. One of those
fancy ones with his initials on it. I took it to the police, but they said it
proved nothing. His car was clean and he owns some land down this way, so it
didn't count as evidence."

Molly remembered how
George-Bradley had dabbed his sweaty brow with just such a handkerchief at C.
C.'s kiln opening.

Leslie gripped the lunch box until
her knuckles turned white. "I think he was in someone else's car because
there wasn’t a scratch on his, but I know he hit her. There was a big rain that
same afternoon. All the tire tracks were erased. There was no evidence
anywhere. But I know the fact that he dropped that handkerchief means that he
got out of the car. He got out of the car and saw what he did to my baby and
drove away again."

Leslie balled her hands into fists
and then placed them on her stomach as she released a deep exhalation.

She turned to Molly, her eyes wide
and glassy. "Do you know how many times I have pictured that scene in my
head? Do you know how many times I have wondered if she was still alive at the
moment? Did that awful man hear her last words? Was she scared? Was she in
pain?" She paused again, trying to gather strength, but her shoulders
began to shake. Her lips trembled. "And when that devil didn't find the
handkerchief, he made his way back to Jack's workshop. God knows why, but he
stole the only thing that survived from that kiln. He stole my Lilly Ann's last
gift from her daddy. Jack was going to glaze that rabbit bright pink. Her
favorite color."

Molly reached out and pulled the
weeping woman into her arms. Together, they cried on the kitchen floor until
Leslie finally drew away. Miraculously, the party continued outside and no one
entered the house. Minutes passed as Leslie composed herself and Molly stared at
the floor. Finally, Leslie touched Molly’s hand and the women face one another
again. Both of their faces were splotched and puffy from crying.

"Thank you for hearing me
out. I am so sorry for leaving you that mean message on your answering machine.
Sam Chance told me about your visit and I got scared." She squeezed
Molly's hand. "Now I feel like I threatened a friend."

Then she stood, picked up the
lunch box, and resolutely put it in the trash can. As she smoothed down her
flowery sundress she said, "We’re trying to start our lives over again. My
little girl is gone. The man who killed her is gone. Jack is working again. And
we have a new Graham on the way. What kind of life this family will live is up
to you now."

The scene of the accident became
visible in Molly's mind. Lilly Ann racing out of the woods on her bicycle.
George-Bradley was with Susan, in her car. He might have been groping her as he
drove. Then, the impact. Getting out to see if he had hit a deer. The crumpled
bike. The unmoving child.

The horrible secret they’d shared
had eventually divided George Bradley and Susan, but she’d demanded hush money
after their breakup. She bought a new Mercedes and expensive pottery with his
money, all the while threatening to tell if he should cut her off. Accustomed
to her new lifestyle, Susan still wanted her expenses paid for after his death.
And she hadn’t gone to Bunny's house just for the money. She had also gone to
retrieve the incriminating letter.

George Bradley must have confessed
his hit-and-run crime in a sealed letter to his wife, to be read only in the
event of his death. After torturing her for years with his lies and his lovers,
George-Bradley gave his wife one last nasty dig. He made Bunny aware of his
terrible crime, and had boldly confessed who had been in the car with him.

That
was the piece of
information Bunny had whispered in Susan's ear the day of the auction. Foolish
Bunny! She’d boasted that she knew all about the accident, leaving Susan no
choice but to come after her for the letter.

George Bradley had killed Lilly
Ann. Now he was dead. Susan had killed Bunny and had also been an accessory to
her lover's heinous crime. She was going to spend the rest of her life in jail.
The Grahams, who had been through so much pain, were starting to feel the
sunlight on their faces again. Work. A new baby. A family made whole.