A Time To Kiln

by Gilian Baker

Chapter Six

  As soon as I arrived home from the beauty parlor, I preheated the oven. Sliding the casserole in to warm, I contemplated whether it was possible for a body to be incinerated in a kiln. Did they get hot enough? Paula hadn’t told us much about firing a kiln, only that different clays and glazes needed to be heated to different degrees to gain their maximum effect.

  Could the fact the murderer believed a body could be burned in one mean they knew something about firing pottery? Maybe. It could have been another ruse to make it look like the crime had been committed by one of Paula’s students too. Or possibly, the killer had simply panicked after killing her and hoped it would get hot enough. Not sure if it mattered, I was curious, nevertheless.

  When I reached my office, I searched the web and learned crematoriums use a heat between 1400-1800 degrees. At that temperature, it takes only two to three hours for the average body to disintegrate into ash, not including the larger bones.

  Yet, a kiln can burn up to 2552 degrees, which is the temperature for firing porcelain. Even at what is considered a low fire, used to harden earthenware, a kiln burned at 1995 degrees. What's more, since Paula’s kiln was electric, it would heat up to the desired temperature slowly, with no need for the potter, or murderer, to stick around.

  I eventually hit pay dirt when I found an article from the LA Times from 1987 when a pottery kiln had been used to burn bodies. The owner of a funeral parlor repurposed kilns in a pottery studio he also owned as makeshift crematorium ovens when his was out of service.

  The authorities caught up with him only when reports of a putrid smell coming from the building started flooding into the dispatcher. The article further mentioned the owner had gone so far as to move the machine used for breaking down bones that hadn’t completely burned to the pottery studio. He then had all the equipment needed to keep his crematorium business running, although illegally.

  Although I’d learned it was possible, did it help? I sat staring out the window tapping a pencil against my desk. The truth was, I wasn’t sure, but the idea nagged at me. What was the advantage of burning the body? Wouldn’t it have been better to leave her where she lay and get the heck out of there? I wouldn’t have stuck around a minute longer than necessary. But then, I wouldn’t have murdered someone in the first place.

  So strong was the power of my imagination, I could almost smell the acrid stench of a body burning. I’d never experienced it firsthand, but had heard it was something you never forgot. The news article had said the rancid smell coming from the pottery studio had caused complaints. If the murderer had succeeded, people from all over the village would have been able to smell it.

  Oh, shoot, it’s the casserole burning! I booked it down the stairs, but it was too late—when I opened the oven door, black smoke billowed out. Coughing, I pulled the pan out and dropped it into the sink where it sizzled as it made contact with the dampness. Berating myself, I uttered a few colorful phrases. Wouldn’t you know it? The one time I don’t use the slow cooker, I incinerated supper.

  As I cleaned up the sooty mess, it dawned on me I’d neglected my duty as a good neighbor. Although Ellie had been to Dillon’s several times over the last few days, I had yet to do so. I’d make a meal for them, as was customary. And, while I was there paying my respects, if I just happened to get a few questions answered, what could that hurt? With that happy thought in mind, I pulled out my trusty slow cooker and got to work.

  ***

  The next morning I was up early making oatmeal raisin cookies to add to the meal for Dillon and his daughter. I’d considered trying my hand at something fancier, but decided against it after last night. The sweet batter baking was a welcomed aroma, dissipating the scorched odor from the casserole.

  While we’d waited for Ellie to bring home pizza after work last night, I’d made a list of questions to ask Dillon, just in case the opportunity presented itself. It would be a good time to get some details from Crystal too, since Ross did his best to take Sundays off, leaving her in charge. Since it was Sheryl’s day off too, we’d only have to deal with Doug trying to overhear our conversation.

  I hit the heel of my hand against my forehead. Sheryl! Who better to get the real dirt on Paula and her lover than her? I’d want to find a time to talk to her ASAP.

  After rigging up the slow cooker to travel, I added the salad and warm cookies to a large travel bag and headed off to the younger Hexby household.

  Dillon had shared an apartment in a nondescript building with his wife and child. In two short rows with front doors facing one another, there were a total of eight apartments edged out in brick and mortar. With my hands full, I weaved around Big Wheels and a beat-up red tricycle that had obviously been handed down through a long line of children.

  Stepping on something squishy, I gave out a yelp. Attempting to right myself to avoid dropping the slow cooker, I twisted my ankle. Shoot! Is this what I get for being a good neighbor?

  I finished limping to the stoop of Dillon’s dingy home and pushed the doorbell with an extended pinky finger. I was scared to shift around any more than that, lest I drop the entire meal on the porch.

  My ankle was shooting pain down my foot as I waited for the door to be answered. What was taking so long, for crying out loud? Tenuously, I reached out the same pinky and pressed the bell again. It gave another sickening toll, and I waited some more. Finally, the door was slowly opened by a bare-chested Dillon, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

  When he saw me, he attempted to cover his naked chest while opening the screen door.

  “Open up, Dillon, before I drop all of this.”

  “Mrs. Blackwell. Oh, I’m sorry. Here.” He held the door open with one arm and grabbed the bag of baked goods from me. Flinching, I hobbled to the kitchen and sat the warm slow cooker on the table, already overflowing with food from other neighbors. I jockeyed a place for mine and then sat abruptly on a kitchen chair, assuming the cat perched there would move quickly before my fanny landed on him.

  I took off my sandal and surveyed at the damage. My ankle had already started to swell and was turning a lovely shade of periwinkle. That’s when I caught a glimpse of the front of my shirt. The stew had oozed out of the lidded cooker and distributed a gooey mess of thick juice all the way down my blouse. Jeez, what a klutz.

  I grabbed a fairly clean-looking dishrag and mopped up the mess on my shirt as much as possible. Irritated, I tossed it back on the table just as Dillon came back into the room. He’d put on a wrinkled t-shirt and was running his hands over his hair. Sighting my boo-boo, he went to the freezer and brought a pink teddy bear ice pack to me with a shy smile.

  “Thanks. I tripped over something in the yard as I cut across to your door. Ouch.” The ice pack was too cold for my bare ankle. I grabbed the grimy tea towel and wrapped it around the ice pack before putting it back in place.

  “You didn’t need to go to any bother, Mrs. Blackwell.” He looked down at my swollen ankle. “Sorry ‘bout that. The kids around here are always leavin’ toys out in the yard. It’s like an obstacle course. Paula always says…” Realizing his mistake, he trailed off.

  “I’m so sorry about Paula, Dillon. I wanted to come by and do what little I could to make it easier for you.”

  His puppy dog eyes saddened, and he rubbed his face with his large hands. When he moved them away, he looked all of twelve. “You needn’t of gone to any trouble," he said again. "Ellie’s been so much help with everything.”

  “Of course I did.” I glanced around the kitchen. There was a dish of food on every available surface. “Though I imagine you’ve got enough food to last for a couple of weeks at least.”

  He remained silent, so I forged on. “Where are your freezer containers, Dillon? I’ll ladle some of this food into them and stick them in the freezer for you. That way it won’t go to waste, and you’ll be able to have home-cooked meals once you’re back at work.”

  I started to stand and flinched. I flopped back down in the chair. “Bet
ter yet, why don’t you bring them over here, and we’ll work on it together.”

  He obeyed me without question.

  I added, “While you’re at it, why not put on a pot of coffee? We can chat while we work.”

  He set the containers on the table within my reach along with a large serving spoon. As he fumbled with the coffee filters, I started dishing out my stew first.

  “Is Harper still asleep?"

  “Oh. No, she’s at my mom and dad’s house. They thought it would be good for me to have a couple of nights alone so I could rest better. She’s still up at all hours.” He paused in scooping out the coffee. “And now she’s always asking for her Mommy. I haven’t gotten much sleep lately.”

  Finished with the coffee, he made his way back to the table with another big serving spoon and, without a word, began filling containers. We worked in silence for a few minutes. He looked exhausted, slopping a grayish casserole into a plastic bowl as though he’d been transformed into a zombie.

  “Dillon," I said softly, "do you know why Paula was at the studio so late that night?”

  He jerked his head up, as if surprised to see me there. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “She did that sometimes. She liked to work in the quiet. Once a week or so she’d need some space and throwing pots was how she'd blow off steam.”

  “So you knew Harper was with your parents that night?”

  “Uh. No. Paula didn’t always tell me when she planned to work after hours.” He shrugged. “I think sometimes it was just a spur of the moment thing. You know.” He kept spooning.

  I didn’t want to come off like I was interrogating the poor guy so I followed up with a benign question. “I bet your parents are glad to have you and their only grandchild nearby. Does Harper enjoy spending time with them?”

  For the first time, he smiled. “Oh yeah. They're great with her, and she loves them so much. They say she’s been sleeping fine for them, which is good, since they both work too.”

  “Did Paula ever meet up with anyone at the studio when she worked late?” I wanted to ask about a possible affair, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. He looked so miserable.

  He looked up, spoon halfway to the container, with his brow furrowed. “Why would she do that? She went there at night when everything was quiet so she could work in peace.”

  “That makes sense. It’s hard to go into a creative space when there are other distractions around.” I guess if Paula did meet people there, Dillon didn’t know about it.

  “Had she been able to make any friends since you’d been here? I only saw her at the studio or with Harper.”

  The coffeepot sputtered. He went over and filled two mugs and brought them to the table. Catching a whiff of bitter, cheap coffee, I spooned in cream and sugar to mask the taste.

  Once he sat back down, he said, “Nah. Not really. Too busy.” He snapped the lid on the container he’d been filling. “Guess it don’t matter now.” He looked up at me with doleful eyes, “Don’t know what I’m gonna do with the building. And all that equipment and stuff.”

  I hadn’t thought about the foundling business being yet another yoke around his neck. “I’m sure you’ll be able to sell it to other potters, maybe in Cheyenne or even Laramie. Or, is there someone Paula knew in Cheyenne who’d want to take it over?”

  He stood up like he seat was on fire and walked over to the freezer. After pulling the door open, he stood staring inside. I’d hit on something. Now was the time to push him further.

  “I bet Jack Bristol would help you sell the building.”

  Dillon drug plastic bags of frozen vegetables and pizzas boxes out of the freezer, slamming each one down on the counter. “I just bet he’d love to help me out.”

  “Of course he would. He is a real estate agent.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Jack. I don’t plan on asking him to do anything, not if I can help it.” He came back to the table and gathered up the containers I’d filled. I tried to get him to look at me, but he wouldn’t. He went back over to the fridge.

  “Dillon, what was the fight about in Tea & Sympathy the other day?”

  He faltered, his arm midway to the freezer. He recovered and placed the container he was holding on top of the others. “I don’t remember. Just one of those little tiffs, I reckon.”

  “It looked like more than a tiff, Dillon. Did you often fight like that?”

  He walked back over to the table and sat down. Leaning his elbows on the table, he rubbed his face with his hands again. “‘Course not. I just did what she told me, and we got along fine.”

  “So the fight didn’t have anything to do with Jack Bristol?”

  Moving quickly, he took his arms off the table and sat up straight in his chair. It took all he had, but he looked me in the eye. “Jack? Why would it be about him?”

  Before I could ask anything further, he said, “Thanks for all the help, Mrs. Blackwell, but I should probably head on over to my folks’ place now. I hate to leave them minding Harper too much. They need a day of rest too.”

  Understanding I’d been given my marching orders, I said, “Oh, of course.” I wiggled my ankle a little. It had stiffened up. I winced. “Do you think you could fill a plastic bag with some ice for my trip home? I wouldn’t want to leave you without Harper’s ice pack.”

  He helped me to the car and handed me the makeshift icepack once I’d gotten settled behind the wheel.

  “Thanks, Dillon. Sorry for being such a bother. I hope you and Harper enjoy the stew and cookies.”

  He gave me a half-hearted smile as he squinted into the sun.

  “Dillon, why did you and Paula really move back to Aspen Falls?”

  He looked taken aback. He hummed and hawed and kicked a few stones around with the toe of his flip flop. A small cloud of dust floated up between us. “I thought I’d told ya. She had the idea for the gallery and that was that.”

  “The other day you made it sound like a sudden decision, but Paula told us in class it had always been her dream to own a place like that in a small town.”

  “Well… I guess it was her dream, but when the time was right, it felt like a sudden move. When she got an idea, nothing would stop her. She said that was the only way to get ahead in this world.”

  Chapter Seven

  My plan to visit Crystal at the station had been foiled—I needed to get home to elevate my ankle. I’d have to call her later. Christian got me settled in on the couch with my iPad, a notebook and my earbuds before returning to his recliner to watch TV. With my foot up on the ottoman, a fresh ice pack on my ankle and my stuff all around me, I was ready to work.

  Instead, I woke with a start, my neck stiff from leaning to the left and my icepack no longer cold. I tried to stand up, but my ankle demanded I stay put. Shoot. How was I going to get around the next couple of days?

  Christian grudgingly pulled himself away from the TV long enough to fetch me an Ace Bandage and the crutches we'd kept in the shed after Ellie's poorly-timed dance routine had gone wrong. It took me a few tries to get the hang of the crutches, but eventually I was no longer a danger to myself or others.

  Once again perched on the couch, I auto-dialed Crystal’s desk phone and was preparing to leave a message when it was brusquely answered by a deep, male voice.

  "Oh, hi. I was calling for Crystal. This is Jade Blackwell."

  He cleared his voice. "This is Deputy Pitts. Crystal's not available right now. Can I take a message?"

  He could, but I doubted she'd get it. "Sure, thanks. Just ask her to call me back sometime today when she gets a minute. Is she out on official business?"

  "Yes, and I'm not sure when she'll be back. Can I tell her what it's regarding?"

  No, you may not. "She'll know. Thanks, Deputy."

  The call cut off sharply without a goodbye. I looked at my phone, astounded at his impertinence. I'd show him. I dialed Crystal’s cell number. She answered on the second ring.

  "Deputy Crystal Metcalf."


  "Hey, Crystal. It's Jade. Am I interrupting anything? I just called the station, but Doug said you were unavailable."

  "You could say that. I went to the ladies room." Her laughter boomed against the tiled bathroom walls. "What's up?"

  "What have you guys learned about Paula's murder? Are there any leads?"

  "Just the usual things we'd follow up on."

  "Are you looking into the rumor about Paula's affair?"

  "Sure. Getting different reports back in though."

  "Is the consensus that it's Roger Garber or Jack Bristol?"

  She chuckled. “Yep. A couple of other fellas in the running too, but no one I think is worth mentioning. It looks pretty likely she was messing around, but we don’t know if that was the reason for her demise.”

  “I’ve been racking my brains for a motive and infidelity seems the most likely, although Dillon has an alibi, Jack doesn’t have a wife, and Betty doesn’t fit the description of the killer.” I tapped my fingernail on my teeth.

  “God knows Betty has reason to kill Roger for all his cheating, but she’d have to mow down half the female population if she wanted to get even with his lovers. Besides which, would Betty do that?”

  “You’re thinking the same thing I am. Infidelity is the best motive we have so far, but it’s not coming together.” Tap, tap, tap. “The only other possibility I’ve come up with is that the murder is payback for something that happened in the city.”

  “Funny you should say that. Hang on.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Just want to make sure Doug isn’t eavesdropping outside the door.”

  I heard her moving around on the other end of the phone. “Coast is clear. We’ve been talking to the Laramie County Sheriff’s Department. Some famous potter Paula worked for filed a complaint nine months ago. Says she stole a proprietary glaze recipe of his.”

  “Oh, I wonder if that recipe is how she creates those incredible lustrous colors on some of her pieces. You must have noticed them when you were at the crime scene.”

  “Yeah, I wondered about that. Well, we don’t know how true it is. We haven’t had a chance to talk to Dillon about it yet, since the details just came through. Guess the guy’s been threatening to bring a civil suit too.”