Marco opened his toolkit and rummaged around in it. He pulled out several exotic looking tools and molds before pulling out a bundle of sample canes in bubble wrap. “This is what we get if we make these canes correctly,” Marco said, unwrapping the canes and showing us the ends of them, then flipping them around so we could see the same patterns on the opposite ends of each. “There is a pattern all the way through.”
“It reminds me of the designs in taffy or those Christmas candies we used to buy that had pictures running through them,” I said.
“I do not know these candies,” Marco said as he carefully rewrapped the canes he was holding.
“Oh, right. I know what you mean,” said Sam. “It’s just like that—each slice has a design in it, all cut from the same long piece.”
“Si, si, that’s right. We’re going to take the slices—in Italian they’re called murrine—and we will decorate beads with them. Like a mosaic, taking all the little murrine and applying them on to the bead to create an intricate floral design,” Marco explained.
“We’ll have a day at my studio, Fremont Fire, to work on beads this week,” Tessa said.
“Violetta will be showing us samples of the beads as soon as she gets here,” said Abby, who was looking a little nervous with half of her instruction team still missing. “She’ll be giving you a presentation later this week about the types of vintage Italian beads that are made with murrine. It’s an ancient Italian technique, and I know she’s excited to share it with you.”
“I brought these from home. They belonged to my nonna,” Tessa said, passing the strand of her grandmother’s beads to Marco.
“These are excellent examples of old Venetian beads with the millefiori design. All the different flower patterns are murrine,” Marco replied. “Thank you—Tessa, is it?”
Tessa nodded, but said nothing.
Marco passed the strand to Katia, leaning in extra close to her and pointing out the flower details.
“Perhaps you would like to model it for us?” Marco suggested to Katia, who promptly passed the necklace on to Vance, giving a clear non-verbal rejection of his idea. Katia was obviously not appreciating Marco’s attention.
“Because you are new to glassblowing…” Marco started to say to the class.
“I’m not new, I’ve been working with glass for years,” said Duke.
“Yes, of course. Good for you. Others here have not had the experience,” Marco nodded to the rest of us.
Duke stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Marco to continue.
“Can you open the furnace door?” Marco asked me.
“Sure,” I said, tentatively touching the handle of the furnace door. It was warm, but not too hot to touch. I slid the small door back on its rails toward me. As soon as the door was open, the heat blasted out of the furnace opening.
“Oh! You need color,” Abby said, unlocking a cabinet and pulling out a pint-sized plastic container full of colored glass powder. She grabbed a pie tin, poured the powder into it, rushed to the marver, and set it down.
Marco put the tip of the punty into the furnace. Like pulling honey from a pot, he brought out a mass of clear molten glass about the size of a plum. He let a little drip into the bucket of water on the floor at his feet. As he stood next to the furnace, he rotated the punty expertly between his fingers, keeping the remaining glass on-center so that no more dripped off.
He rolled the molten mass into the pile of glass powder until it was pink all over. He repeated this process several times. After adding a layer of color, the students took turns opening the furnace door so Marco could add another layer of clear glass, followed by another layer of glass powder, until he had a glass ball the size of a grapefruit. He brought the hot glass ball over to us so we could examine it. There wasn’t much to see yet, but I knew that with all the layers Marco added, the magic was on the inside of the mass of glass and would be revealed once it was cool.
“Now for the fun part,” Duke said with a know-it-all tone, sure of what would come next.
“We take the diamond shears, and we grab hold of the hot glass,” said Marco. Sam stepped forward with an unusual pair of scissors. The blades of the shears were notched, rather than straight, so that when the blades closed they created a diamond-shaped opening, rather than a straight edge. Marco nodded to Sam to go ahead and take the next step in the process. He grabbed the tip of the molten blob with his diamond shears, catching just enough glass in the blades to get a firm grip on the hot glass. Sam started to walk backward, pulling on the blob. It got thinner and thinner as he headed down the hallway toward the kitchen, all the while holding the tip of the glass in the diamond shears. As the blob lengthened and cooled, it became more and more difficult for him to pull on what was now a pencil-thin rod of glass.
The men put the ten-foot-long glass cane on the floor. Using a pair of tile nippers, they broke the cane into a dozen smaller pieces. Since the glass was still too hot to handle, Marco donned a leather glove and picked up a segment. He looked at one end of the glass rod, and then at the other end.
“Ah, good. You know in Italian, we say bene,” he said, holding out the cane so we could see the end of it. The end revealed a series of concentric pink circles. He flipped the rod around so we could see the other end. “You see, the design, it goes all the way through.”
“Bene,” Tessa said.
“Good, Tessa. Everyone say it: bene,” Marco said.
“Bene!” we all chimed in.
“Now each of you will try it. Do not worry. I will help you.”
Duke was the first student to try making a cane. Being the most experienced, he had no trouble pulling molten glass from the furnace and adding the layers of colors. With Vance’s help, he pulled several feet of cane.
“Okay, nice job,” Marco said. “Who is next?”
I raised a tentative hand.
“Yes, now you will you try it,” Marco said, handing me a punty and opening the small door in the furnace. As soon as the door was open, I looked into the furnace’s screaming orange inferno. I reached forward with the punty, trying desperately to see into the blazing pot. It was excruciatingly hot—hotter than anything I’d ever experienced while beadmaking, or any other time for that matter.
I pulled the punty away from the furnace and took a few stumbling steps backward, nearly knocking over the bucket of water on the floor. Marco strode to my side and took the punty from me.
“It is okay. You will try again later,” he said, giving me a pat on the back. While I knew Marco was trying to be supportive, I felt his attitude toward me was a bit condescending. I was embarrassed to have been such a wimp. I’d worked with molten glass for more than three years. Why was this so difficult for me? I tried not to frown as I watched the other students.
Tessa was next. While it was a little difficult for her to see into the furnace since she was not very tall, she was able to get a small gather of hot glass from the furnace and pull out a few feet of cane. She lived in Venice on and off, and while I don’t think she blew glass while she was growing up, she certainly spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours watching glassblowers in studios in Italy.
When it was Katia’s turn, Marco seemed to take extra time helping her, standing close behind her as she gathered glass from the furnace. Katia’s thin-lipped expression made it clear she was not enjoying being the teacher’s pet.
The students worked for a few hours, although I was only watching, trying to gather enough courage to try again. Marco approached me after everyone had another turn.
“Do you want to try one more time?” Marco asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry, maybe I can try tomorrow.”
“Yes, you will do it tomorrow. Everyone, we are done for the day. I am going now, to drink Abby’s terrible wine in the kitchen. I am hoping everyone will join me, because bad wine is better than no wine at all,�
�� Marco said, eyeing Katia. Abby grimaced, headed to her office, and slammed the door.
“Sorry, I’m out of here,” Katia said, heading for the rolling door.
“Where are you staying?” Marco asked. This was more than idle chitchat; he was hoping for a little romance.
“Down at the Cascade Corners Motel. Doesn’t seem too awful, if you don’t mind a few roaches running for cover when you turn on the lights.”
“I will walk with you,” Marco offered as he reached toward Katia, trying to help her put on her coat.
“I can take care of myself,” Katia said, pressing her open palm against Marco’s chest, pushing him away. She grabbed her raincoat and her canvas bag and headed out the door, zipping up her coat as she slogged off into the rain.
Dez peered out the door and watched Katia walking alone through the rain.
“I’m staying at that same motel. I’ll make sure she gets there safely,” Duke told Dez as he headed out the door.
“Thank you.” Dez opened the kitchen cupboard, grabbed a bottle, and poured himself a hefty glass of whiskey. He moved into the studio and started cleaning up, his booze in one hand, and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He took the tub of powdered glass that Marco had used and returned it to the locked cabinet. I noticed that the other colors the students had been using were still sitting out.
“Do you want me to bring these colors over so you can lock them up, too?” I asked Dez.
“No, we lock up the expensive colors. That pink’s got a lot of gold in it to make that vibrant color. Costs an arm and a leg,” Dez said. Finished with his work, he headed for the kitchen. “I’m opening up more wine, unless someone wants something stronger.”
Tessa and I left before we got roped into having wine with Dez, Marco, and any other classmates who were willing to have a drink with one guy who likely had too much alcohol in his bloodstream already and another who had too much testosterone.
FIVE
I grabbed the tray that held the cake I brought for Tessa, along with the knife and other supplies. The rain was coming down steadily now as Tessa and I jogged toward the Ladybug. Juggling the tray, I reached in my purse and grabbed my keys, fumbling to unlock the car with the key fob. I stepped in a puddle and my feet slipped in the mud. The contents of the tray, all but the cake, fortunately, slid into the bushes.
“Dammit!” I shouted. Tessa and I grabbed what we could, placed the cake and the soggy supplies in the trunk, and jumped in the car. I looked over at Tessa, sitting next to me.
“At least we were able to save the cake,” Tessa said with a smile.
“True, and I think I might need another piece by the time we get home,” I said.
I started the car and headed out of Carthage. The rain continued pelting down, and it was difficult to drive on the narrow road. The wipers swept across the windshield at a furious rate, but they couldn’t keep ahead of the deluge. I was having second thoughts about our decision to drive each day. In fact, I was having second thoughts about taking this class at all. I’d failed at the most basic lesson—pulling hot glass out of the furnace.
“I can hear you thinking,” Tessa said. “You’re not a failure. Everyone learns at their own pace, especially when it comes to glass.” She reached into her purse and started rummaging around inside.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“My phone,” Tessa said, dumping the contents of her handbag in her lap. “I can’t find my phone!”
“Maybe it’s in a pocket or fell on the floor between the seat and the console. Here, use my phone to call yours, and we’ll see if we hear it ringing.” Tessa dialed her phone number and we listened. We could hear ringing in the speaker of my phone, but we couldn’t hear Tessa’s phone in the car.
“Oh, geez, Tessa, you took a picture of me with your phone, remember?”
“You’re right. I did,” Tessa said, her voice rising in panic. “I must have left it on the table in the kitchen.”
The rain started coming down even harder. Gripping the steering wheel, I was determined to keep driving toward home. Tessa was quiet, too quiet, but she wouldn’t stay that way for long. She couldn’t live without her phone all night.
“Please don’t make me turn around and get your phone. It’s already late, and we’re going to get home even later if we have to backtrack,” I said.
“But what if one of my kids needs me?”
I didn’t reply.
The silence grew. I knew I should stick to my guns and keep driving, but Tessa was much more stubborn than I was. No one, certainly not me, can say no to Tessa for long. The farther away from the studio I got, the longer it would take to get home if I acquiesced to Tessa’s demands to return to Carthage. If I turned back now, at least I’d shorten the amount of backtracking I’d have to do, and I wouldn’t have to deal with Tessa badgering me about her phone.
“I might as well turn around now so you can get the phone instead of nervously pacing around my house all night, wondering if someone needs you but can’t get ahold of you.” I flipped a not-strictly-speaking-legal U-turn.
Once we got back to the studio, I idled on Main Street while Tessa ran to the front door. She tried the door, but it was locked. She looked in the window next to the rolling door, cupping her hands against the pane. Tessa turned and ran toward me faster than I’ve ever seen her move, a look of horror on her face. She leapt into the car, slammed the door, and locked it.
“Dio mio, Jax! It’s Marco, he’s dead! He’s lying across the marver in the hot shop, white as a ghost!”
Suddenly, the bushes that ran alongside the studio down to the river started thrashing wildly and a cloaked figure emerged from them.
“Go, go, go!” Tessa shouted, pounding on the dashboard. “That could be the murderer.”
I pulled away from the curb and sped down Main Street, looking in my rearview mirror as I drove. There was no sign of the shrouded person we had seen.
“Call 911!” I said, thrusting my cell phone at Tessa.
She dialed the number and pressed the speaker button. When the emergency dispatcher answered, Tessa told him what she had seen through the window.
“Are you somewhere safe?” the dispatcher asked.
“No! We saw someone walking next to the studio—maybe the killer,” Tessa shouted into the phone. I continued driving down Main Street until I reached the end of town.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” I asked, hoping either the 911 dispatcher or Tessa could give me some guidance.
“Find a safe place where you can stay until officers arrive,” the dispatcher said.
The last building in Carthage was a car repair shop. I pulled up to the side of the building, between two other cars that looked like they hadn’t seen the open road in a decade, judging from their lack of tires and the cinder blocks they sat on. Old Firehouse Studio was on the other side of the road from the garage and a long way down Main Street.
“I think we’re somewhere safe now,” I said, turning off the Ladybug, shutting off her headlights, and making sure the doors were locked. “We’re at the end of Main Street, where it meets the highway in Carthage.”
“What are we supposed to do now?” Tessa asked the dispatcher.
“I’ve sent the sheriff a message with your location, and he is on his way. Do you want me to stay on the line with you until he arrives?” the man asked.
“No, we’re okay now,” Tessa said. I nodded agreement.
“Before I let you go, I need to get your contact information, in case we need to follow up with you in the future. It’s standard operating procedure.”
Tessa gave the dispatcher our phone numbers and hung up. We sat in the dark and waited. The rain slowed to nothing more than a trickle. Finally, a set of headlights came toward us and swept across the car. A sheriff’s cruiser came to a stop next to us, co
mpletely black other than the golden six-pointed star on the driver’s side door. The sheriff hoisted himself out of the cruiser and headed toward us, hitching up his pants, which had been pulled low by the heavy revolver at his waist. I rolled down my window as he approached.
“Hello there, ladies. How ya doing there?”
“We’re freaked out, thank you very much!” Tessa said, her voice taut with fear and impatience. We had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes for this man to arrive. Meanwhile, who knew what was happening down at the studio. “Have you been to the studio? What’s happening there?”
“Well, now, I drove by on my way to see you two girls. I didn’t see anything unusual going on, and I got the coordinates from the emergency operator telling me to come here, so here I am.”
“But you need to be at Old Firehouse Studio! Something horrible has happened there.”
“Now, you’re just fired up. I’m sure it was nothing. When I drove by it was all dark, and I didn’t see anyone running around in a murderous rampage. I’m glad you girls are okay after your scare. Now, why don’t you two go on home. You live around here?” the sheriff asked.
“We live in Seattle. We were headed home when I realized I forgot my phone, so we went back to get it and I saw a man we know—his dead body—through the window of the studio,” Tessa said. “We called 911 and then drove here and parked.”
“You two girls are obviously shaken.” I cringed. This man had called us girls three times in the last thirty seconds. Both Tessa and I were on our long slow slide toward fifty, hardly girls at this point. I decided it would be in our best interest to grin and bear it. “You leave it to me, Sheriff Poole, at your service,” the sheriff said, tipping his hat and simultaneously hitching up his trousers again. “You head on home, and I’ll make sure to deal with whatever it is that happened down there at that glassblowing studio.” He thumped the ragtop of my car with his meaty hand, a signal that we should take off. Water sprayed in every direction as his hand bounced off the fabric. Drops spattered his face. He cursed as he fumbled for a handkerchief in his back pocket and returned to his cruiser. He did not inspire confidence.
Off the Beadin' Path, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book 3 Page 4