The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (28 page)

I shook my head at her well-intentioned but misplaced spunk. "Something tells me it's not the good Lord who's behind this."

Quickly, I filled Zee in on the other side of my cell phone conversation with Kellogg, including my suspicion that Lester Miles was the person Jasper Kellogg had contacted about buying the Holy Pail. She listened intently.

"What do you think jasper saw in the box?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Who knows, but whatever it was, he didn't want it disturbed. That's why he wouldn't let his son finish fixing the box. And I have absolutely no doubt that Stella Hughes was the woman who called Kellogg, Jr. after he sold the box to Ivan Fisher."

I also told Zee what I knew about Fisher and Stella's part in his death. Conspicuously absent was how I came by such knowledge. Zee started to ask, but changed her mind. Guess she figured she could only pry so much out of me before I balked like a mule, and she was right.

Deciding in for a penny, in for a pound, I told her everything about Karla's plans for the corporation, her brother's double-cross, and even my speculation about Jackson being a front for his ambitious wife.

Lastly, for good measure, I added the gossip from Gigi about Lester Miles marrying Chappy Wheeler's widow.

"You think Gigi's right?" Zee asked.

"Normally, I'd say she's off her rocker. But this is tabloid stuff. Gigi has a PhD in this crap."

"Well, we'll know soon enough, won't we?"

Only a teeny-weeny tidbit was missing from my account of the Sterling Price murder to date-the current location of the lunchbox. Zee cannot lie to save her life. If Lester Miles asks us if we know its whereabouts, her expressive face will give it away. I, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one's viewpoint, don't suffer from such scruples.

"Sure you wouldn't rather go shopping?" I asked her when I had finished bringing her up-to-date. "You could drop me off and come back in an hour or so. Or I could call you on the cell to pick me up.

She put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. "Not on your life, girlfriend."

LESTER MILES LIVED ON a cul-de-sac just where the road began to climb into the hills. There were only four homes on his short street. The lawns were manicured, the landscaping carefully planned. All the structures smacked of custom treatments. The Mileses' abode was a ranch-style house the color of fresh peaches. It rambled for half the short block and backed up to the base of the hill. Most of the open property was to the left and fenced behind a brick wall painted white, with an iron gate. The gate was open. We parked on the street, and I retrieved the articles from the trunk. We made our way through the gate and up the few steps to the heavy, carved door. It opened just as we reached it.

"Come on in, ladies," said a Santa Claus in miniature. Not an elfin figure, mind you, but a perfect diminutive Santa, complete with white hair, white beard, and bushy eyebrows. Only his eyes were dark, sitting in his jolly face like the coal eyes of a snowman. "I'm Lester Miles."

I introduced us both. He took my offered right hand within his two pudgy ones and pressed it warmly. He did the same with Zee's hand.

"Please call me Les," he told us.

I handed him the box of memorabilia and thanked him for the use of the information. He smiled, took the box from me, and set it down on a table by the door.

Lester Miles was but a hiccup over four feet in height. For once I actually felt tall. He was robust and rounded, especially through the middle, and walked with a mild bowlegged gait. He looked a lot younger than I expected. Based on his photos during the Chappy Wheeler days, I had calculated Lester Miles to currently be in his late eighties. But research on the International Movie Data Base website advised me that his real age was seventy-six. He had been only twenty-six when he played Hi Miller on TV, although he had looked much older.

He guided us through the lovely house filled with tasteful furnishings and personal mementos until we emerged through a sliding glass door onto a covered patio. Just beyond the patio was a small, sparkling swimming pool. Along one side of the white brick fence, roses climbed trellises. Along two other sides were healthy bougainvilleas and even some oleanders. Other flowers of every imaginable color flourished everywhere else, traveling along the ground, standing in terra-cotta pots, and hanging in vessels from eaves, posts, and trees. The hot August air was redolent with earthy smells, both sweet and spicy. It was magical.

At the center of the patio was a white wrought-iron dining table with cushioned chairs, perfectly set for a summer luncheon. Counting four place settings, I hoped the fourth was for Catherine Matthews. Of course, I reminded myself, Lester Miles might not still be married to her. My online research did not produce much on Catherine Matthews following The Chappy Wheeler Show, only small parts in two B movies produced shortly after the show was canceled-unlike Les, who had been acting continuously for the past fifty years.

"It's cooler today, so we thought we'd have lunch out here," Les said, showing us to our seats. Much of the furniture was slightly scaled down.

"Your property is beautiful," Zee remarked.

"Thank you, Zee," Les said. He offered us a choice of iced tea or lemonade. I took tea, Zee the lemonade. "My wife and I love to putter in the garden. Each plant is like a child to us."

Zee, an ardent gardener, continued the chitchat. It was becoming clear to me that her presence might be advantageous. "And it's much warmer here than in Newport Beach," she said to Les. "The plants must require a lot of water."

"Yes, we can easily hit over one hundred degrees up here in the foothills," he informed her with a bright smile. "And in the winter it can get quite cold-very different from your beach cities. But we look for species that are drought and heat resistant."

Les turned to me. "Do you garden, Odelia?" Zee let out a snort that she tried to hide with a polite cough. Les looked at me, slightly puzzled. "Is she trying to tell me something, Odelia?"

I pointed to a couple of the hanging baskets festooned with healthy blooms. "I have those same plants hanging on my patio," I told him, "but they're silk."

Les chuckled, took a good look in my direction, and stopped short. "Oh my, you're not teasing, are you? You really potted fake plants outside?"

I nodded slightly, not one bit embarrassed, as Zee giggled from behind her napkin. Her chubby cheeks puffed and her eyes squished in laughter. She lowered the napkin.

"Believe me, Les, Odelia's many other talents more than make up for it." I kicked Zee lightly under the table. She giggled again. Sipping my iced tea, I re-evaluated her worth as a snoop buddy.

"Will your wife be joining us?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Yes, she's in the kitchen finishing up with the preparations." At that moment, another sliding door opened and an attractive elderly woman joined us. Behind her followed a thin, uniform-clad young woman pushing a service trolley laden with food. Through the door behind them, I could see into the kitchen. "Ali," Les said, "here's Catherine now." He introduced us.

In the past fifty years, she had thickened slightly through the hips and waist, and shallow, fine lines outlined her eyes and mouth. But except for those few trophies of aging, Catherine Matthews was still a beauty. She was barely over five feet tall, with fine, short hair that reminded me of silver cellophane. Her eyes were blue and penetrating, her nose aristocratic. She wore a cotton skirt and matching blouse in lilac. Pearls adorned her neck and ears. Her smile was courteous but stilted and could have been generated by either shyness or annoyance.

"I hope you both like chicken salad and cold asparagus with lemon," she said.

"Sounds wonderful," Zee answered. I knew Zee despised asparagus. Good, payback for the silk plants.

The four of us ate companionably and talked about the weather and recent movies-safe topics. Not sure how to broach the subject of the Holy Pail, I was thrilled when Les brought it up first.

"So, I understand you're looking for the Holy Pail, Odelia?" he asked me as he reached for a third piece of Catherine's incredible homemade date bread. I was working on a second slice myself.

I used the excuse of chewing to weigh my words carefully. "I'm not really looking for it, Les," I told him truthfully. "It's odd, but for some reason several people seem to think I already have it. My office was even burglarized the other evening."

"Joe told me about your law firm when he called to ask if I'd see you. Pretty nasty business." Les paused. "But are you sure that was about the lunchbox?"

"Not a hundred percent sure," I lied, all the while picturing Willie and Enrique in ski masks. "But even the police are thinking along those lines." I hesitated, aware of Zee sitting next to me happily munching on gourmet chicken salad with almonds. I decided not to mention that even my home had been searched. "And people keep calling and asking me if I have it."

Les nodded. "It certainly sounds odd. And you say this started after the Holy Pail went missing from its present owner?"

"Missing after Mr. Price was murdered," I added.

"Hmm, yes, Joe told me that, too. Very tragic." He stroked his beard in contemplation. "I understand that supposedly the lunchbox is cursed. Provided, of course, you believe in such things. I also understand Mr. Price makes the fourth owner in a row who has died."

I nodded. "From what I've been able to find out, there have only been these four owners."

"Really?" Les seemed surprised. "In fifty years, only four? My, someone held tight to it, didn't they?"

"A man named Jasper Kellogg had it for about forty years. He worked on the show with the two of you. A set builder, I believe, or something like that. Do you recall him?"

Both seemed to think about it for a moment.

"I'm sorry, but no," answered Catherine evenly, with a slight shake of her head. In spite of her answer, there was a slight jump in her eyes, like an unexpected touch to a hot stove.

Les's face contorted in contemplation. "I'm not sure, but I think I do. After all, the name Jasper is not a common name." He finally shrugged. "The name sounds familiar, but I can't put a face to it. There were so many people connected with the show and it was so long ago."

I looked into the jolly, intelligent face of Les and the reserved, closed face of his wife. The glimmer in Catherine's eyes was gone, replaced again by-what, detachment? Wariness? Fear? She was a hard read. Remember, Odelia, I told myself, these folks are actors, particularly Les.

"When was the last time either one of you saw the lunchbox? Or did you ever see it?"

Catherine looked to her husband, her eyes questioning, thin lips tight. "Fifty years ago?" she asked him. Before he could answer, she turned back to us. "Yes, I'm sure," she said in a light monotone voice. "It was back then, fifty years ago. We all-meaning all of us on the show-saw it after it was designed. It was unveiled at a cast party. We were all so excited." She turned to Les. "Remember that, dear?" He nodded. She turned to gaze out at the roses, her classic profile lost in remembering. "But I don't recall seeing it at all after that."

"Same here," Les agreed. "After Chappy was killed, I don't think it was ever even mentioned. I heard about it again just a few years ago. I was at a collectors' show, a convention for fans of old television shows held at the Convention Center. In fact, I believe that's where I first met your friend Joe Bays." He looked thoughtful, as if trying to conjure up the day clearly. "I remember I was signing autographs when someone asked me about it. Rather took me by surprise. Guess I always figured it was destroyed after the show was canceled." He took a sip of tea. "You say this man Kellogg had it?"

Nodding slightly, I studied the warm, friendly man across from me. It struck me as odd that someone who collected stacks of old articles about Chappy Wheeler would not know that the box was in play among collectors. But maybe it wasn't. After all, Kellogg owned it for over forty years, and no one even knew he took it in the first place. And to my knowledge, it had passed from hand to hand privately after that, not through public auction. But it still had to be advertised somewhere, somehow, each time someone put it up for sale, and not just by Kellogg's family. Fisher had to find a buyer, and so did Proctor. Joe knew all about it, and he didn't even collect lunchboxes. As soon as Kellogg's family placed the first ad, the box's existence would have become common knowledge among those who followed such things.

"So Jasper Kellogg never contacted you about buying the lunchbox from him? Maybe five or six years ago?"

"No, not ever. Why should he?" Les asked.

"Just a guess. Seems he contacted someone from the show about then, but no one knows who."

Les looked puzzled. "Like I said, a lot of people worked on the show."

He was right, it could have been anyone.

The table grew quiet as we all finished our meal and settled down. I decided to focus on another aspect of The Chappy Wheeler Show, the personal angle. It made me uncomfortable, but there were things I wanted to know. If Catherine and Les didn't want to answer my questions, that was their prerogative.

"I'm sorry to pry," I told the couple, "but I understand that you, Catherine, were married to Chappy Wheeler-I mean Charles Borden-at the time of his death."

Her eyes faded to old bleached denim. Catherine Matthews Miles had a poker face, but emotional eyes. "Yes, that's correct," she answered.

She looked over at Les. Her facial expression was one of composed affection, but this time her eyes clearly looked like a runaway's-vacant and scared. He reached a chubby, thick-fingered hand over, placed it on her arm, and gave her a slight nod. Catherine sighed.

"It was a marriage in name only," she finally said. "A publicity stunt thought up by the studio. We were married partway through the first season."

"You married him for publicity?" Zee asked incredulously.

"Yes," Catherine answered, mild defensiveness creeping into her voice, "and it wasn't that unusual, especially in those days. An actor and actress were often paired romantically for ratings' sake. Mostly, they lived private, separate lives; only publicly were they married. When the show ended, you got a divorce or annulment and moved on. If you didn't agree, you could find yourself without a career." It was the most she had said since our arrival. It seemed to tire her. "Remember," she continued, "that was fifty years ago. People didn't go from partner to partner then, at least not publicly. The studio insisted that everything appear to be wholesome and moral."