Off the Beadin' Path, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book 3

by Janice Peacock

  A muddy Greyhound bus squealed to a stop near the café a couple of blocks away. Two young women dragged their suitcases down its stairs and looked around. As the bus took off, it left them in a cloud of exhaust. They waved their thin, pale hands in front of their faces and started their slow march toward the studio. It was the Twins. They were not actual twins, but rather two women who had chosen to look nearly identical. I had never been able to tell them apart. They weren’t wearing their usual long, flowing black skirts, instead sporting black skinny jeans, black T-shirts, and enough black eye-liner to make a raccoon jealous. They’d had this Goth look for as long as I’d known them, and their jewelry reflected their funereal fashion sense. Around each of their necks hung black glass pendants adorned with miniature dancing skeletons made of seed beads.

  “Hi, Sara. Hi, Lara,” Tessa and I said as the Twins approached the studio. “Good trip?”

  “Revolting,” one of them said. They dropped their bags on the studio floor and looked around, scowling.

  “What a vile town, if you can call it that,” said the other. “There’s almost nothing here.”

  Sam left Dez in the office and introduced himself to the Twins.

  “We’re waiting for a couple more people, so let me show you the rest of the facility, and we’ll come back and look at the hot shop a little more once everyone else gets here,” Sam said.

  “Over here is the break room. We’ve got some lockers in here, where you can leave your stuff. On the other side of the lockers is a bathroom with a shower, for those folks who are camping,” Sam told us. “The campsite is out through the utility yard, which leads to the field in back.”

  We looked into the utility yard, an asphalt covered work area beneath a corrugated roof. At the far end of the yard was a set of two rolling doors, similar to what we’d seen in the hot shop, with a drive-up ramp that I assumed they used to facilitate unloading of heavy supplies and equipment into the storage area. Inside one of the open doors were industrial shelving units full of spare parts, sacks of raw glass, and tools. Off to the right, a field sloped down to the river. Two rusty trailers sat off to one side of the field. The downhill edge of each was propped up on cinder blocks to keep it level.

  “Are any of you going to camp?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, not us,” said Tessa. “We’re much too …” then realizing that she didn’t want to point out how old we were said, “I mean, we could camp, but Jax has a cat we need to feed, and well, we need to be able to go home at night.” This was a complete lie, since Val could easily come over and dump some cat food in Gumdrop’s bowl any time, and often did when I wasn’t home.

  “We’ve got a cottage,” Lara, or possibly Sara, said.

  “Okay, you’ll be in the one on the left, that’s for our students. The one on the right, that’s for the instructors.” To me, cottage was a fancy name for what looked like a beat up old Airstream.

  “We’re going down to drop off our things,” the other twin said.

  They picked up their bags and headed down the muddy path toward their trailer, their army boots squelching as they tromped along.

  Vance Dalton, who had given up calling himself Vandal last fall, arrived a little while later in his brown Corolla. He’d gotten a new pair of glasses, with Val’s guidance, replacing the ones that were held together with duct tape. He’d slimmed down and was no longer sporting a tucked-in Hawaiian shirt. Instead, he had found himself a nice sage green Henley pullover, along with some new Levi’s 501 jeans. Vance was looking good, and I could see he was feeling more confident, which was a change for the better.

  “Jax! Tessa!” Vance said, enveloping us both in a bear hug.

  “Careful,” I said, pulling myself away from him before we got crushed.

  “Hey, I’m Vance,” he said to Sam. Sam greeted Vance with a fist bump. There was an immediate dude rapport between the two of them. “I brought my photography gear. Can I take some photos while we work this week?”

  “Sure, bro,” Sam said.

  Another woman arrived around the same time Vance did.

  “Everyone, this is Katia, she’s one of my best students,” Sam said. Katia was tall and thin, but lacked the hardness I’d seen in Abby. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, she had a refined and elegant style. Her long blonde hair was braided to keep it out of the way. It’s not a good idea to have your hair loose when working with extreme heat. I’d learned that the hard way, after singeing my bangs off in a scorching hot kiln.

  “Hey, hi, everyone. I’m delighted to be joining you. I love taking classes here. It’s one of the best things that ever happened to me,” Katia said.

  And finally, Duke sauntered in. According to Tessa, he considered himself to be a big name in the glass world. After meeting him a few months ago, she’d told me he was a buffoon. Meeting him right now, I had to agree. Duke seemed to think he owned the place, or at least he felt entitled to act like it.

  “Duke, Duke, Duke,” he repeated to each of us as he shook our hands. If I’d been feeling more at ease, I would have started to sing the old 1960s song “Duke of Earl,” but I thought better of it. Everyone already thought I was too old to be here, so breaking out a golden oldie would not be a good move. I was certain I’d be singing that silly song to myself for the rest of the night.

  “So, now all we need is the instructor,” said Dez, looking around, peeved, although it wasn’t entirely clear if that was because the instructor was late or because Abby had bolted out the door and driven away in his car, most likely both.

  A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the studio. Our instructor, Marco de Luca, had arrived. The driver popped the trunk and Marco grabbed his leather suitcase as well as an over-sized plastic toolbox. Dez and Abby had brought him in from Venice to teach this class. Tessa and I wondered why they would need to import someone from Italy when Seattle likely had as many excellent glassblowers as Venice. Abby told Tessa she was trying to build a reputation for bringing in high-quality instructors from around the world as a way to increase the profits for their new studio. It was a gamble on their part, but the payoff was potentially huge. If they could bring in paying students to learn from famous artists—who would be expensive to hire—their business could become profitable quickly. That is, if they could fill the classes. If they couldn’t fill the classes with students willing to pay a premium to attend, Abby and Dez could lose a lot of money. I’ll admit, while this class was more expensive than most, it seemed worth it. Otherwise, I would have had to fly to Venice to take a class with Marco de Luca, which would certainly not be affordable on my budget.

  Marco strode into the glass studio. He was close to six feet tall and nicely built. If Val were here, she’d call him a hunk. He set down his bags on a metal table at the back of the room and took off his sunglasses to get a good look at his students. Wearing sunglasses on this dreary evening was obviously more of a fashion statement than a necessity.

  “Where is Violetta?” Marco asked. His English was nearly perfect, except for a slight Italian accent. Abby and Dez had invited Violetta Canetti, a glass bead importer who specialized in selling Venetian glass beads, to come sell her wares during Marco’s class and give a lecture on vintage Italian beads. She was touring the United States selling her beads and had been in New York prior to the class.

  “She missed her flight,” Dez said. “I got a text from her saying she’d get the next one. She should be here tomorrow.”

  “So typical of Violetta—always late. It is a good thing the important part of the class starts now that I am here,” said Marco, pulling off his oversized charcoal-colored sweater. He was wearing a faded red T-shirt underneath, which was covered in brown burn marks like the ones we’d seen on Sam’s tattered shirt, evidence of years of working with hot glass.

  I turned to Tessa and whispered. “The important part. His part?”

  “It’s just how he is,” Tessa
replied, shrugging. “Typical Italian glassblower attitude.”

  Dez gathered everyone together.

  “Welcome to our studio. Abby and I are delighted to have you here to take our first class with a guest instructor. And who better to start off our amazing class calendar than the internationally-renowned glass artist Marco de Luca? He’ll lead a short introductory session tonight before we get started in earnest tomorrow with more lessons,” Dez said. “Please make sure you come by my office and pay your balance on the class fees. I’ve got dinner taken care of tonight. You’re on your own for the rest of your meals. We don’t have much here in Carthage, but we do have the Robin’s Nest Café down the street. We’ve also got Meat and Eat a few minutes’ drive away. That’s a sandwich shop. You might want to consider bringing your lunch, or you should feel free to cook here in the kitchen. We’ve got a hot plate and a microwave. We do have a coffee maker, but it’s been on the fritz, so I’m not sure if it’ll work or not.”

  Tessa and I looked at each other with wide eyes. We were reading each other’s minds. How were we going to survive with no coffee?

  FOUR

  Abby arrived a few minutes later with two pizza boxes, an enormous bowl of Caesar salad, and a scowl on her face. It seemed that whatever she’d been fighting about with Dez was still troubling her. She headed for the break room and we followed.

  “Anyone want wine? If you do, feel free to pick a hand-blown goblet from the shelf,” Abby said. “Oh, and Marco, I hope the pizza feels like home for you, or at least that it isn’t too terrible by your standards.”

  “Thanks for letting us use these glasses. They’re absolutely stunning,” I said, choosing a purple and green goblet from the collection of glasses on the shelf.

  “You’ve got to use things that were made to be used,” Tessa said, picking a fiery red glass.

  “Did you make all of them?” I asked Abby.

  “Me? No, Dez and Sam made most of these. I’m more the brains behind this outfit. I leave the artistic stuff up to those two.”

  “Now, Abby, you know you could make one of these,” Dez said, choosing a stemmed glass with a wide yellow rim and filling it with wine. “You’re a superb glassblower, just a little out of practice.”

  Marco opened one of the pizza boxes and looked tentatively inside.

  “This is pizza, no?” he asked. He knew darn well it was pizza. “Looks like lasagna with very much cheese and not cooked enough.” It seemed to me he was trying to be difficult.

  “Sorry, we don’t have an oven here so we can’t do anything about that,” said Abby, still angry with Dez, or someone else, I couldn’t be sure.

  “I will show you how the glassblowers cook in Venice. We have here, all the things. Is there a kiln that is hot?” Marco asked.

  “Sure, number one on the left is up at 950 degrees,” Sam said.

  “That’s a little hot,” Marco said, grabbing a pizza box and some foil from the kitchen, then heading for the hot shop. He found a long-handled metal tray, covered it with foil and slid the pizza onto it. He opened the door to kiln number one and let out the heat within, turning his face away so he didn’t get blasted. When the thermometer on the kiln dropped to 500 degrees, Marco slid the pizza into it. He shut the kiln door most of the way, the tray’s handle protruding from the opening. We all watched as the temperature on the kiln increased slowly. If Marco didn’t take the pizza out soon there’d be nothing left but charcoal.

  “Do not worry. We’ll get the pizza out in a moment,” he said, responding to the concerned looks on our faces.

  He opened the kiln door, grabbed the tray’s handle, and carried the pizza triumphantly back to the break room. It looked absolutely delicious—crispy on the edges and covered in bubbling cheese. The Twins and Vance grabbed the other pizza and headed back into the hot shop to cook it as Marco had.

  We all settled down to eat around the table in the kitchen while Abby filled our fancy stemware with red wine from a gallon jug. Marco took a swig of the wine and grimaced.

  “Too bad you couldn’t afford some decent wine,” Marco said, looking disdainfully at Abby. She ignored him and kept pouring.

  Tessa pulled out her phone. “Smile!” she said, pressing the camera button as I took a bite of pizza.

  “That’s going to be the worst picture ever!” I said, after swallowing.

  I had a surprise for Tessa in the Ladybug. Her birthday was the previous Friday. Craig took her out to dinner, but I hadn’t had a chance to see her during the craziness of preparing for this week. I’d decided to bring a cake to this gathering. While Tessa wasn’t looking, I placed a three-layer chocolate cake in the trunk of my car. Val had baked it and I made her promise not to tinker with the recipe in any way—just chocolate, flour, and whatever else goes in a cake. I wasn’t sure, because I was never much of a cook. Val fed me, and whatever she didn’t make for me came from take-out or the local bakery. I’d always wondered why she never started a bakery of her own. If she would stop putting crazy ingredients in her concoctions, she’d be a superstar in the world of desserts. Heck, she already was to me.

  I slipped outside and grabbed the tray that contained the cake, forks, plates, napkins, candles, and a knife. I wasn’t sure what I’d find at the studio, so I’d come prepared. I knew we’d have a way to light the candles. Someone would have a lighter, matches, or even a torch.

  I stepped into the kitchen with the cake. “Happy birthday, Tessa!”

  “What a surprise, I can’t believe you brought a cake all the way out here!” Tessa said.

  “I couldn’t let your birthday pass without a celebration,” I said, leaning over and giving her a big smooch on the forehead.

  “Let me light those candles for you,” Sam said, pulling a lighter from his pocket.

  We sang “Happy Birthday” to Tessa. I used my knife to cut slices of cake and then passed them around to everyone. Val had done it. She’d made the perfect chocolate cake with the thickest, richest frosting I’d ever tasted. I savored every bite. When I finished my piece of cake, I contemplated having another. But I knew if I did, I’d end up in a chocolate-induced coma, so I stopped while I was ahead.

  “I’ve got my camera. Let’s get a good picture of us all together,” Vance said, pulling his photography gear out of the locker behind him. We all clustered together with Marco in the middle. All of us were squished in tightly around our instructor, grinning like maniacs, warm around the edges from the wine, pizza, and cake.

  “Everyone, say ‘chow.’ That’s how you pronounce this word on my shirt. It means ‘hello’ in Italian,” Marco said, pointing at the letters on his faded red T-shirt with the Italian greeting Ciao in fancy script across the front.

  “Ciao!” we all shouted.

  “It also means ‘good-bye,’ but I much prefer ‘hello,’ don’t you?” Marco said, sliding his arm around Katia’s waist in a well-practiced flirtatious move.

  Katia slid out of his grasp without responding and grabbed the last slice of pizza.

  “Okay, students. You have finished your food? It is time for working. Andiamo!” said Marco. He’d had a couple of glasses of wine by now, and his English had gone downhill a little. Like Tessa, who tended to switch over to Italian whenever she was drunk or stressed.

  “We will go now to the studio, and I will show you the cane-making.”

  Marco was here to teach us an ancient glass technique that was the first step in making beautiful millefiori beads. First, we’d make glass canes,which were slender pieces of patterned glass with flower designs running through them. Then we’d learn to use them in the torch to make beads.

  “Where are you staying, Marco?” Vance asked.

  Dez poured himself another glass of wine. “He’s going to stay in our instructor’s cottage out back, near where these gals are staying,” he said, gesturing toward Lara and Sara. “It’s real nice; all the
comforts of home.”

  I’d seen the cottages when Sam showed us the field behind the shop, and to me, “real nice” didn’t seem to describe them accurately. In fact, if it rained hard enough, I’d be worried about them sliding into the river a few dozen yards away.

  “Are you camping?” I asked Vance, wondering where he was going to stay, since there were only two trailers.

  “Oh, me? Yeah, I am. I’ve got my tent right here,” Vance said, poking the backpack on the floor with a boot.

  “You’re going to stay dry in a flimsy little tent?” Tessa asked. She had to be thinking about her own unhappy girls who were camping this week. Several days of rain wouldn’t improve their experience at the camp or their attitudes.

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve got a tarp for underneath it. As long as we don’t have an epic flood, I’ll be fine,” Vance said.

  “Okay, my students, we start now,” said Marco. Then turned to Sam. “Now, Stan—”

  “Sam,” he corrected.

  “Right...you have shown the students the furnace?” Marco asked. Sam nodded along with everyone else. Duke, standing with his arms folded, rolled his eyes like he was too advanced to have to hear about the furnace.

  “I’ll put the tip of the punty into the furnace, then rotate the punty to gather some molten glass from the crucible,” Marco said, picking up a long steel rod and showing it to the class. “When I bring the punty out of the furnace, I’ll have a—how you say?—blob of clear glass, the size of an egg. If there is more glass than we need, I’ll let it drip into this pot filled with water. It’s called a crack-off bucket.”

  “And everyone, we only want clear glass in that bucket. We can recycle it as long as it doesn’t have any color mixed in with it,” Dez said from his stool at the back of the workshop, where he sat with a wine glass in his hand.

  “Now, what I’m going to teach you to do is called pulling cane. A cane is a thin rod of glass, about as thick as a pencil. We start with our glass here on the punty, and we pull it out into one long cane, then we break it into short sections.”