Saturday mornings were usually reserved for sleeping in, cuddling with Greg, a leisurely breakfast not so today. It was five minutes after six when I finally located the address Porter had given me. It was a rundown six-unit two-story apartment building, three up, three down. The building was two-toned; originally mud brown with wide slashes of turquoise where some industrious soul had started painting then changed his mind. The structure was wedged behind a strip mall that housed a liquor store, a beauty supply store, a travel agent, and a small boutique of cheap womens clothing. Except for the liquor store, none of the businesses looked prosperous. I parked my old Toyota Camry between a dumpster and a Chevy up on blocks. As soon as I opened the car door, my nose snorted the odor of urine and decay.
Porter's place turned out to be the last apartment downstairs. I held a cardboard tray in one hand. Balanced on it were an extra large cup of Ethiopian blend coffee for Porter and a medium cup of hazelnut coffee for me. I also brought along packets of sugar and creamer and a couple of cranberry scones. Dressed in strappy sandals festooned with beads that matched my khaki skirt and blouse, I felt incredibly overdressed and silly. Obviously, I had no idea what to wear when meeting a dead man in a shabby part of town.
I knocked and waited.
Almost immediately, I heard movement on the other side of the scuffed door. The drapes covering the window next to the door moved slightly. About the same time, I heard a noise by the fence that separated the building from the strip mall. Turning, I saw a rat. A big rat. One that could have given Seamus a run for his money. I knocked on the door again; my rap harder and more insistent than the first. Warily, I watched the rat bustle around the bottom of the fence. Every now and then he looked my way, nose in the air, whiskers moving rapidly. I was sure he was smelling breakfast.
I began counting to myself. On ten, the plan was to throw the coffee and scones at the rat and run. At seven and a half the door opened. A man's head popped out. He looked up and down the deserted street before beckoning me to enter. Solemnly, like a death row inmate heading for the chair, I started across the threshold.
Zee's right, I am out of my mind.
The apartment was dark, cool and orderly. Based on the outside of the building, I had expected squalor. But once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found instead a very clean and freshly painted apartment. The sparse furnishings were fairly new and reminded me of an IKEA catalogue.
The man motioned for me to sit down. He was a young trim Latino, not quite six feet tall, dressed in clean jeans, a white tee shirt, and expensive running shoes. His shiny black hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail and his upper lip played host to a wispy dark moustache. The arms poking out from the short sleeves of his shirt were sporadically tattooed. When he turned to look back out the door, I noticed a gun wedged in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.
Stifling a tiny whimper, I took a seat on the futon style sofa, knees demurely pressed together, ankles crossed, and perched the coffee on my lap.
"Mr. Porter in?" I asked him. No response. "How about Mr. Proctor?"
Remaining silent, he positioned himself in front of the closed front door, legs apart, arms folded across his firm chest. I stared at him. He was cute, in spite of the thin white scar running down the left side of his smooth brown face. He stared back, regarding me with no visible emotion.
Nervously, I looked at my watch. "Im sorry I'm late," I said, helpless in the grip of an urge to babble. "Then I couldn't find the address." I held up the tray of coffee. "The big one is for Mr. Porter ... ummm Proctor. Ethiopian like he asked." The gangster kid said nothing. "Would you like the other? It's hazelnut. My personal favorite, although I also like Kona." More nothing.
I picked up the white bakery bag and waved it gently in the air. "How about a cranberry scone?"
This time, the young man lowered his head slightly and widened his coal black eyes at me. I think it meant if I kept talking, he was going to shoot me.
Just hours after a meeting with plus-size paralegal Odelia Grey, Sterling Price, a long-time client and lunchbox collector, is found murdered in his spacious office suite. Missing is the jewel of his collection, a lunchbox nicknamed The Holy Pail, worth a small fortune and rumored to be cursed. Despite her protests, everyone believes Odelia has the missing lunchbox; a possibility shared by Detective Devon Frye and attorney Michael Steele after Odelia’s law firm is vandalized. Determined to prove them wrong, Odelia embarks upon an investigation of her own into the history of The Holy Pail, including the background of its previous owners, all reportedly dead. 
