Authors: Melissa Glazer
My assistant, David, had never looked so handsome to me in his life. Twenty years old, David was slim like his mother, but instead of brunette hair, he was blond—just like his dad—though David’s ponytail was at least twelve inches longer than Richard Atkins’s hair had ever been. The shade of David’s hair was the only thing—besides his last name—that he had inherited from his father. Hannah told me once that Richard had been mysterious and a little dangerous when they’d first met; that had been her initial attraction. She had wanted to tame the bad boy in him, to reform him, until she realized he was perfectly happy being the way he was. Still, she’d been willing to stick with him, but the day Richard found out she was pregnant with David, he left town without saying a word.
“I asked you if it was raining,” David repeated.
“What? No, of course not. There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Then why the umbrella?”
I’d honestly forgotten I was holding it. “Well, just because it’s not raining now doesn’t mean it won’t later.”
I hoped that statement made more sense to him than it did to me, but I wasn’t about to admit that I’d been using it for protection.
“I guess,” he said. “I came in early to clean up, but everything looks just like it did when I left it.”
“You didn’t think they’d leave the body here, did you? Looking for a chalk outline, perhaps?”
He was clearly appalled by my comment, and I realized it probably
had
sounded a little harsh. “Sorry, I guess I’m still a little on edge.”
David smiled in relief. “Me, too, but I wasn’t going to be the first one to admit it. Do they have any idea who might have done it?”
“Besides me, you mean? No, but I’m hoping our esteemed sheriff is out tracking down clues even as we speak.”
I wasn’t ready to open the shop yet, so David and I kept the door locked and the overhead lights off. We managed well enough with the sunlight coming in through the windows. I wasn’t sure if we’d be deserted or jammed with customers today. It was hard to tell what was going to happen on a good day, and I had a feeling in my gut that this was going to be anything but one of those. I studied the laden shelves that covered the walls in the front half of the shop and checked our inventory of bisque-fired pieces, just in case we were busy today.
Most folks don’t realize it, but to glaze a pot, it almost always takes two trips to the kiln. The first firing is the bisque stage. That hardens the clay into a porous ceramic and makes it easier to glaze in the next step. After the pieces are decorated with paints and then coated with glaze, they are fired again. The results are dramatic, going from dull, faded pieces to elegantly glazed and shiny pottery.
At Fire at Will, we offered mugs, salad plates, full-sized dinner plates, bowls, vases, and other items for our customers to decorate. At each of the four tables in the paint-your-own section, we had brushes, stencils, and sponges, along with a selection of glazes and paints from which customers could choose. The paints were all nontoxic, so they could eat and drink out of their wares once we’d fired them a second time. There was a long table for snacks, or it could double as a buffet if someone were having a birthday party, a wedding celebration, or some other catered event. In the back space we had three pottery wheels, four kilns, a bathroom, a small couch, a tiny office, and a storage area. It was a business I’d always dreamed of owning, and though it took a great deal of hard work to keep it afloat, Fire at Will was a labor of love for me.
As we checked our inventory levels, David asked me suddenly, “You don’t have much faith in Sheriff Hodges, do you?”
I shook my head. “He’s hanging on to his job until he can retire with full benefits. I doubt he’d recognize a clue if it snuck up and bit him on the nose.”
David nodded. “I thought you’d probably say that. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“That the killer will probably never be caught?” I asked.
“Not unless we find him ourselves.”
I frowned, then asked, “How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”
“Hey, I believe in girl power as much as the next guy. Okay, let’s go find her, then.”
“David, what makes you think we can solve this ourselves? I’m a pottery-shop owner and you’re my assistant. We’re qualified for raku firing, not police work.”
“We can get help, then,” he said enthusiastically. “You’ve got lots of connections.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He nodded. “Just hear me out. We can start with the Firing Squad. Jenna Blake is a retired judge; that means she’s got to still have friends in the legal world. Sandy Crenshaw is a reference librarian, so I doubt there’s a topic she can’t research.”
“Enough. This is foolishness.”
“Is it?” David asked. “Butch Hardcastle could help, too. You know he could.”
Butch was a retired and reformed crook, a big and burly man who loved decorating porcelain figurines. “I suppose you think Martha could help, too.”
“Are you kidding me? She knows everybody in town. I’m telling you, we can do this.”
“All we
need
to do is check on the firing from last night,” I said. “I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about us solving this ourselves. Agreed?”
“Fine,” David said reluctantly.
I was restocking the cash-register till with money when David came back up front. I didn’t like the look on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“You turned the kilns on yesterday evening, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” I’d had to admit to the sheriff that I hadn’t been sure, but I wasn’t about to tell David.
“That’s funny.”
“What?”
“It’s nothing. The firing should be done by now, but the witness cones are still upright. Something must be wrong with the kilns.”
The best way to tell if a firing is done is when premade test cones of clay droop in the heat of the kiln at the proper temperature. In theory, a perfect firing would see the cones bent over at ninety degrees, so they should have been sagging like a dowager’s chin by now. “Wonderful. That’s just what we need, another expensive repair bill.”
“Maybe it’s just a fluke,” David said.
“Maybe,” I agreed. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 10
A.M
., time to open for the day. Taking a deep breath, I asked David, “Are you ready?”
“We might as well open up. I just hope we don’t get mobbed with customers looking for information about the murder.”
I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but as I unlocked the door and opened it, we were greeted by nothing but a chilly breeze. I poked my head out and saw people milling up and down the walkway, though none were heading in our direction.
“It looks like it’s going to be a quiet day,” I said as I came back in. “They might not think we’re open for business today because of what happened.” I couldn’t bring myself to say “murder.” “Let’s drag the sale table out front and see if it helps.” We had a table of discounted pottery items that had flaws of one sort or another, or had been abandoned by their owners. Usually it was a sure way to get browsers to stop by, but after two hours without a single visitor, I was beginning to wonder if I should have bothered opening up after all.
I looked over and saw David smiling ruefully at me. Without waiting for him to speak, I said, “No. I’m not going to do it.”
“What? I didn’t say a word.”
“But I know what you’re thinking.”
His grin didn’t waver. “Then maybe you should open up a psychic’s shop instead. Do you mind if I go ahead and take my lunch break?”
“I think I can handle the rush on my own,” I said.
Ten minutes after David was gone, Herman Meadows, my landlord, poked his head in the shop. “I got here as fast as I could. What happened last night, Carolyn?” Herman was in his midfifties, a bantam of a man barely managing five and a half feet tall. I wasn’t that fond of his choices of cologne, but he was a decent sort, at least to me. He apparently thought of himself as some sort of ladies man, but he’d never made a pass at me. I didn’t know whether to feel virtuous about it or be offended by his lack of attention.
“Betty Wickline was murdered,” I said.
“I heard that much,” he said dismissively. “Did you do it?”
“You’re so smooth, Herman. You should be on the police force. Of course I didn’t.”
He raised one eyebrow. “But if you did, you wouldn’t exactly confess it to me, would you?” I didn’t like the way he was grilling me, but at least he had the decency to express his doubts about my innocence to my face. That was more than I could say for some of my fellow townsfolk.
“You’ve got a point. What else would you like to know?”
“I’m wondering what she was doing here in the first place after hours. You didn’t let her in, did you?”
“Don’t be foolish. I’m not sure how she got into the shop. The sheriff asked me to make a list of everyone who has keys to the place.”
He scowled. “Did you tell him that you probably left the door unlocked yourself? It’s happened before, Carolyn. No matter how many times I’ve told you to be careful about locking up whenever you leave, sometimes you forget. I’ve jiggled your front doorknob more than once when I’m on my rounds inspecting my properties, and it’s opened to my touch without a key more times than I can count.”
That was all the lecturing I was going to take from him. “It happened twice in the last six months. Sometimes I slip. But it was locked last night when I left. I’m certain of it.”
“How can you be so positive? For that matter, you could have used your key this morning to unlock a door that was already open.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I don’t know why.”
I smiled at him, then said, “Because I didn’t unlock the door this morning at all. David was already here.”
He shook his head in obvious disgust. “You should tell the sheriff about leaving the place unlocked before, Carolyn. He needs to know.”
“I will if he asks,” I said. “Is that all? I’ve got work to do.”
He looked around the shop’s deserted aisles. In a gentler voice, he said, “I’m sorry business is off. Don’t worry, they’ll come back. Give them some time.”
At least he didn’t make any cracks about me meeting my rent payment. Herman wasn’t a bad guy, he just sort of focused on the bottom line. “Thanks,” I said as I started tidying up the area around the register.
“If you need me, give me a call,” he said. “Now I’ve got to check on my other properties.” Herman owned and managed several of the shops along the brook, having inherited them from a grandfather who’d seen the great potential of converting the walkway into a tourist attraction.
I was still tidying up the register display area when the front door chimed.
“Oh, it’s just you,” I said as my husband walked in.
“I can leave, if you’d like,” Bill said gruffly. How is it that men look so majestic when they age, and I just seem to look older? His hair was a lion’s mane of silver, and though he’d gained a few pounds over the years, he still might be able to fit into the suit he’d worn at our wedding, whereas I’d have to have some serious alterations—to my body or my gown—to get my wedding dress over my hips ever again.
“Stay, you old goof.”
He looked around the deserted shop. “Kind of quiet in here.”
“You could hear a cricket’s thoughts,” I said.
“Has it been like this all day?”
“No, this is the highlight. At least you came.”
Bill stroked his chin. “I was afraid of that. What are you going to do about it?”
“David thinks we should solve the murder ourselves.”
Before I had a chance to tell him I thought the idea was sheer nonsense, Bill said, “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Is that an order?” I felt the hair on the back of my neck stiffen.
“Call it what you want. I’m just telling you not to do it, Carolyn.”
“Bill Emerson, I thought by now you’d have learned that you’re not in charge of me. I’ll do whatever I see fit.”
He glared at me a second, then said, “You’re a stubborn woman, you know that, don’t you?”
“I take that as a compliment. After all, I learned from the best.”
He shook his head, then said, “Just be careful. Don’t do anything foolish, and don’t take any chances.”
“Don’t you have a dresser to make?” Now that the old fool had backed me into a corner, I had no choice but to try to figure out who had murdered Betty Wickline, so I might as well get started. There was no way on earth I was going to admit to my dear husband that I’d had no intention of getting involved until he’d prodded me into it, and I surely couldn’t back down now.
“I’ve got two of them to do, as a matter of fact. Thought I might take you to lunch,” he grumbled. “What do you say?”
It was a sweet thought, but I wasn’t all that receptive at the moment. “I can’t. I’m busy.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
He had a point. I could have left the front door standing wide open and no one would have stepped inside. “I’ve got to solve this murder.”
“Fool woman,” I heard him mutter under his breath.
“What does that make you? You married me.”
He startled me by hugging me close to him. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Honestly, sometimes he could be so sweet. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
“You’d better be,” he said. “I’ve gotten used to having you around.”
I broke from his grip and shooed him out. “Go on, I’ve got work to do.”
After Bill was gone, I thought about how to go about investigating Betty’s murder. David would be delighted—he was a man of action at heart—but I wasn’t about to just charge into an investigation. I needed some advice.
It was time to call in the reinforcements, and that meant the Firing Squad.
“Thanks for coming, everyone. I really appreciate it,” I said as I addressed the members of the Firing Squad later that evening after I’d closed the shop for the night. “I need your help.”
“Somebody you need handled?” Butch Hardcastle asked. He had the body of a lumberjack, and a pair of big, beefy hands that had seen some mayhem over the years. I was certain that the man was no stranger to violence in his past, no matter how much he professed to the world that he had reformed.
“It’s not that kind of problem,” I said. “I need to solve Betty Wickline’s murder, or I might lose the business. We didn’t have a single customer today, and while I’ve got a bit of a financial cushion set aside for emergencies, I can’t afford many more days like the one I just had.” Another reason, one I wasn’t all that eager to share with the group, was that I wanted to solve the murder so I could show my dear husband I was perfectly capable of doing it, no matter what it took.
“I was tied up with the kids or I would have come by this afternoon,” said Martha apologetically. You’d never know by looking at her that she had five children. When I’d been pregnant with my first son, I’d gained twenty-five pounds that still refused my efforts to vanquish them, but Martha was as willowy as a sapling.
Sandy Crenshaw said, “I had to work all day myself. We had six field trips visit the library and I had to give the same spiel six times in a row. It’s a wonder I can talk at all.” Sandy was a cute and curvy brunette with dazzling brown eyes and a ready smile.
Jenna Blake said sternly, “Carolyn, I want my objections on record. You shouldn’t try to take the law into your own hands.”
“She has to, if the sheriff isn’t going to do anything,” Butch said. For some odd reason, he and Jenna had formed a warm friendship that sometimes bordered on flirtatious, despite their divergent histories on opposite sides of the law.
“Butch,” Jenna said with some affection, “Hodges may be getting on in years, but that doesn’t mean he’s not competent.”
“It doesn’t mean he is, either. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Carolyn’s, and you know it.”
“That’s good, because the way you were talking, I wasn’t sure there for a second.”
Martha spoke up. “Carolyn, I’m sure we’d all love to help, but what can we do?”
David piped up, “That’s why we need all of you,” then he stopped abruptly as he glanced over at me. “Sorry, this is your show.” I was amazed he’d been able to hold his tongue as long as he had. My assistant was cutting class to be at the meeting tonight, something I knew his mother would strongly disapprove of if she was ever made aware of it, but I hadn’t had the heart to tell him he couldn’t stay. After all, Fire at Will was a part of his life, too, and if it was in danger of closing, he had just as much a right to be there to defend it as anyone else.
I nodded, then continued. “We need information about Betty Wickline before we can take any action in finding her killer. Could you all ask around, do some quiet digging, and see what you come up with? If you get anything, call me here and let me know what you find. It’s important that you each realize that I don’t want to get any of you directly involved in this in case there’s trouble later, but I need information, and you’re the best sources I’ve got.”
“Like I said, I’d be glad to put a little pressure on anybody you need. Just say the word and drop a name, and it’s as good as done,” Butch said.
Jenna patted his hand. “You’ll do no such thing. We’ll approach this on the proper side of the law. You’re reformed now, remember?”
He grinned at her. “I know, but I could have a relapse, especially if it might help Carolyn’s situation.”
“Honestly, I just need you all to snoop around a little. Nobody should lean on anybody, okay? That’s it. That’s why I asked you all here.”
Martha looked at the clock, a salt-glazed piece reminiscent of Salvador Dali’s melted timepieces. “I’ve got a sitter until nine. Is there any reason we can’t have a little fun while we’re here?”
“No reason in the world,” I said, suddenly glad for the distraction. After all, I’d opened Fire at Will for just that reason, to share my passion for clay with the world. It was time, if only for an hour or two, to forget all about Betty Wickline and focus on what had brought us all together in the first place.
David’s cell phone rang, and from the troubled look on his face, I didn’t need more than one guess to tell me it was Hannah. He said defensively, “I’m busy. No, I didn’t go to class tonight. Fine. All right. I’m going.”
He slammed the cell phone shut, then said, “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“That’s all right. We really are finished.” I started walking with him toward the door when he said softly to me, “I can let myself out.”
After he was gone, Butch said, “You know something? I want to start a new project.”
“Not getting tired of porcelain figures, are you?” I asked. Butch loved doing miniatures, and even with his large hands, he had a delicate touch with a paintbrush.
“No, but I thought I might branch out a little. The other day, you promised me you’d teach me to hand-build a coiled pot, remember?”
“Ooh, that sounds like fun,” Jenna said.
Martha smiled. “If it’s okay with you and Sandy, would you mind teaching us all how to do it?”
Sandy glanced at her watch, then said, “I’d love to stay, but I’ve got a date. I told him if we finished up early we could still go out to dinner.”
I smiled. “You need to scoot, then.”
She looked at the table where we’d be working. “I don’t know. This sounds like fun; maybe Jake will give me a rain check.”
“Or maybe he won’t,” Martha said.
“If he doesn’t, he’s nuts,” Butch said.
“Why, aren’t you sweet.” Sandy leaned over and kissed his cheek. Though Butch was a big man, and there was no doubt in my mind he must have been a rough customer when he was a crook, he blushed from the kiss.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said as he wiped Sandy’s lipstick from his cheek.
“You didn’t mean what you just said?” Sandy asked innocently, trying to hide her laughter.
“I…you know…I just…”
Jenna said, “Stop torturing him.”
“But it’s so much fun,” Sandy said as she headed for the door.
I followed her and called out to the others, “I’ll be back in a second.”
“You don’t have to walk me to the door,” Sandy said. “I know the way.”
“I’ve got to lock the place up behind you.” The last thing in the world I wanted was for somebody to stumble in on us, especially while I was planning to circumvent a police investigation, and like it or not, that was exactly what I was about to do.
“Sorry, I didn’t think about that. Of course David would have his own key.”
I undid the dead bolt and pulled the door open, but Sandy didn’t go out right away. “I should have something for you tomorrow,” she said.
“I don’t want your work to suffer.” I was beginning to regret the decision to bring the Firing Squad in on my investigation. At the moment, I was the only one directly involved in Betty Wickline’s death. Well, not really involved. Not in the murder, anyway.
“Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in ages. I’m willing to bet if I snoop around long enough, I’ll be able to come up with something on Betty.”
“Just don’t take any chances,” I said.
Sandy laughed. “Nobody will know it’s me. The Internet is the great new faceless society. I promise, not a soul will have any idea who’s asking the questions. I know how to cover my tracks on the Web.”
Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Have a nice date, then,” I said.
“Oh, I will. Jake’s a good guy, but it’s not like he’s my Mr. Right, or even Mr. Right Now. He’s fun—we laugh when we’re together—and for the moment, that’s all I’m looking for.”
After she was gone, I headed back to the workshop area of my store. I could handle up to twenty-four adults at the six tables up front in the paint-your-own-pottery section, or fifty children, which was more than I really liked to have in the place at one time, even with David’s help. I tried to offer a diverse selection of more than just the standard fare of plates, cups, bowls, and saucers. David was always coming up with new shapes and designs, sometimes with mixed results. While his enthusiasm could be charming at times, some of the things he’d thrown or hand-built would sit there and gather dust until long after I was gone.
There was a lot of potential activity crammed into my small shop space, and I made every inch of it count.
Butch, Martha, and Jenna were waiting impatiently for me at the large table in back, eager to get going.
“Sorry I took so long,” I said. “I appreciate you all waiting.” I walked over to the broken old refrigerator where I kept my clay. The material had to be stored in an airtight place, and a discarded fridge was the perfect solution, since I needed the clay to be kept from the air, not chilled.
“We didn’t have much choice,” Butch said. “I wanted to get started, but Jenna insisted we wait for you. I’ve read a few things about it already, you know,” he said proudly.
Jenna patted his arm lightly. “I know that, Butch, but we all want to learn this together.”
I opened the fridge, unwrapped a slab of clay, then cut off a hefty chunk, enough for the four of us. After I divided it with a cutting wire into four roughly equal portions, I gave each potter a block and kept a roughly shaped cube for myself.
“Now let’s knead the clay,” I said as I leaned into the brown doughlike substance. “We’ve got to get the lumps out, and the air bubbles, too.” It was much like kneading bread, something I’d enjoyed from the first time my hands hit the clay.
After everyone had kneaded their clay to a smooth consistency, I said, “First I’ll show you how I do it, then you can try it yourselves. Take a large wooden dowel and roll out your clay until it’s about a quarter-to a half-inch thick. You can use cheaters if you’d like.”
I demonstrated by putting two half-inch slabs of wood on either side of my clay. Then, with a practiced motion, I gently rolled the clay out until both sides of my improvised rolling pin touched the wood.
Once I was satisfied with the thickness, I said, “Cut out a section for your base and set it aside. Then take the knife and cut ropes from the rest of your clay. Next, cut out a circle for your base piece. That’s the bottom of your pot, so you need to put it on a turning platform to make it easier to work with.”
“That’s just like our lazy Susan, at home,” Martha said.
“We have one, too. Next, take one of the ropes you cut and roll it with your hands out on the canvas tablecloth to make it into a snake. You don’t have to wet the base with slip for the next step, but you can. Coil the snake you’ve made on top of the perimeter of the circle and work your way up in a spiral. When you run out of one coil, grab another piece and keep going until you’re at the height you want. I think six inches is a good start.”
“It looks like a snake charmer’s basket,” Butch said as he studied the result of his work. “I wanted smooth sides.”
“We’ll take care of that next,” I said as I grabbed a hard-wood modeling tool that was really nothing more than a round stick with a softened edge. I smoothed the inner wall by using the tool inside the pot and light pressure from my hand on the outside. All it took was a little carefully applied force. After that, I reversed the process, and I had a nice looking pot instead of the stacked coils of clay.
“Is that it?” Jenna asked. “Somehow, I thought it would be more difficult to do.”
As I refined the outside even more with a rubber rib, I said, “It’s not as easy as it looks, but I’m sure you’ll all get the hang of it in no time.”
As they each worked on their own pots, I offered suggestions when they were needed. Soon enough, my crew each had a pot ready for the first firing.
“Can we each do another?” Jenna asked. “That was quite enjoyable.”
I glanced at the clock. “Sorry, but it’s getting late, and I’ve got a big day ahead of me tomorrow. I’ll fire these soon, and you can glaze them at our next meeting.”
They helped me clean up as they always did—something I loved about the Firing Squad—and in no time the place was ready for tomorrow. I put our hand-built pots into one of the kilns, along with some other pieces I wanted to fire, set the temperature, and locked up the store. I suddenly regretted leaving the Intrigue in the upper parking lot on the other side of our downtown, since it was now quite dark out. I tried not to run as I rushed back to my car.
Was someone in the shadows watching me? I glanced back over my shoulder, but I couldn’t see anyone. Honestly, I’d raised two sons and ran a semisuccessful business, but now I was dodging shadows. Finding Betty’s body must have been harder on me than I’d realized, if it was making me this jumpy. Or was I being paranoid? It
was
possible, I had to admit, that someone might really be lurking in the shadows watching me. But the real question was, were they there to protect me, or was it something much more ominous? This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman, and now suddenly I was afraid of the dark?
“Is someone there? You might as well come out. I see you standing in the shadows.”
I saw a figure move in the darkness as I groped in my purse for my pepper spray. From now on, I promised myself, I was either going to carry that umbrella from the shop or start wearing running shoes at night. There was no way on earth I could make a getaway in the shoes I was wearing; my only option would be to kick them off and try running across the pavers in my socks.
“Enough of this foolishness. Come out, I said.” I tried to make my voice as harsh as I could, but there was more than a little quiver in it. Should I abandon my shoes and try to run anyway?
As the figure approached—at my insane bidding, no less—I braced myself for an attack. Perhaps my chances of defending myself were no better than Betty Wickline’s had been, but I’d surely make my attacker rue the day he came after me.
I nearly collapsed when I saw the figure step out into the light. It was my husband. “Bill Emerson, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”
“I didn’t want you walking to your car in the dark by yourself,” he said.