No Charm Intended
Page 8
Cora didn’t know what to say to that.
“Mom.” Sheila’s daughter, Donna, walked up to the group and smiled at Cora. “One of the crafters has a question for you. Actually, there’s a whole group of them in the paper room.”
Sheila excused herself and Cora was glad of it. She didn’t want to talk further about murder and murderers. She hoped she’d never have to think about another one ever again, let alone house a murder suspect in Kildare House.
Ruby sauntered up to Cora and Jane. “I’ve just heard from Cashel.”
“And?” Jane said with an edge of impatience in her voice.
“And evidently it’s more complicated than any of us know.”
“What? How?” Cora said.
“Cashel wouldn’t tell me, of course. You know how he is. Straight and narrow. I sometimes ask myself where I went wrong with him,” she said, shaking her head.
“Ruby, he’s a lawyer. It’s his job to follow the rules and make sure everybody else does, too,” Cora said, even though she’d been annoyed by him for the same reason several times in the recent past.
Cashel O’Malley was a brilliant, beautiful man. Cora had thought attraction sparked between them—but between her history with another lawyer and the fact that he was Ruby’s son, she nixed it.
“How complicated is it?” Jane asked.
“Not complicated enough for them to keep him,” Ruby said. “But he’s definitely a strong person of interest in the murder of his best friend.”
Cora drew in a breath. No. It couldn’t be. She had good instincts about people, finely honed from years of dealing with problem situations in the shelter. Even though she didn’t really know him, Paul seemed kind and very much in love. She caught herself. Love had been the cause of many killings, hadn’t it? Love, in its most warped form, that is.
“That’s hard to believe,” Jane said. “He seems so normal. So average.”
Ruby guffawed. “That’s what they all say.”
Chapter 19
“So this morning on our walk, we saw the river cane that we use for the baskets,” Marianne said. She held up a stalk of river cane. “This is what it looks like in the wild.”
She held up a cutting tool and split the reed. “Traditionally we use this kind of river reed. But as we discussed when we were on the walk today, we can also use vines, like honeysuckle and kudzu, and the pliable branches we collected to make baskets.”
Cora noticed that several of the crafters had collected kudzu vine, wonderfully woodsy and gnarly. Cora loved it—but it was taking over all through the South and had become quite a problem in some areas. The conservation officer at the station today had loved that the women had taken some. “Take more, please,” he had joked.
Marianne sat the split reed aside and picked up a pile of thick shavings.
“This is what you end up with, what you use to make the baskets. You each have these in your kits. They were soaked last night. If your materials dry out once you start to weave, you can always soak them again to make them more workable. Does everybody have these?” she asked.
“Yes? Okay,” she said. “We’ll start by creating the base of the basket, what we call a start. It’s like this.” She held up two bases. “The length of your base pieces helps to determine how large your basket is.” She held up the base pieces again. “The static pieces are called spokes. If you look at this one, you can tell it’s a Cherokee start because it looks like a water spider.”
Marianne’s long fingers ran over the edges of the round spoke, flicking the long pieces jutting out from the center. “Of course, when I was growing up on the reservation, I had no idea what they were called. We just called them starts.” She paused and grinned. “We just learned how to make things from our elders. And they learned from their elders.”
“Didn’t you get a degree in design?” Sheila asked.
“Aha, you did your homework,” Marianne said. “Yes, I am a degreed designer. Then I studied basket making even more through the years. But, the true basket makers, that’s all they do. And they know what they are doing. There are stories in their fingers.”
Marianne was short, thin, and on the plain side. She never wore makeup or did anything with her hair, except to pull it up into a sloppy bun. Her eyes were dark and large. Thin lips beneath a large nose, which gave her face a birdlike quality. Cora watched as she flitted from crafter to crafter. The room was full—all twenty-two guests had signed up for this class. Marianne was a popular teacher and basket maker. Her baskets were featured in galleries all over the world.
“Hold six strands of cane in each hand,” she said. “Each one of these strands has been cut for you. They are about arm’s length, yes? Like that.” She held up one. “So, six in each hand, cross them in the middle. Try to keep it flat. Then we add in the runner, creating the round spoke. To create the Cherokee basket, we circle the runner around three times.”
“How many times?” someone asked.
“Three times,” Cora repeated. “Right?” Cora’s fingers found their way around the tripped cane and counted three turns.
“It’s moving along nicely,” Marianne said, looking over Cora’s shoulder as she walked around the room. “Now, once your base is set—no, no, take your time, I’m just talking. Keep working. But once it’s set, you’ll start to incorporate what we call weavers into the spokes. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?”
A few of the crafters laughed.
“If you look at my base, and some of your bases, you can see a spider shape, yes? My people have a story or myth about this,” she said, still holding up the base. “They say that in the beginning of time there was no fire, and the world was cold, until the thunder gods sent their lightning and put fire into the bottom of a hollow sycamore tree. This tree grew on an island. Many animals had excuses for not going to see the burning sycamore tree, until at last the water spider said she would go. She can run on the top of the water or dive to the bottom.” Marianne made diving motions with her free hand. “So the water spider would have no trouble going to the fire. But how could she bring the fire back?”
She paused. The women were quiet and leaning toward her.
“Get on with it, woman!” Ruby said, in a joking tone.
Marianne cracked a smiled. “Just building the suspense. You know.” She grinned. “Okay. Well, the spider said, ‘I can manage that.’ And she spun a thread from her body and wove it into a tusti bowl, which she fashioned on her back. Like that.” She held up the start again. “Then the spider crossed over the island and through the grass to where the fire was still burning. She placed one little coal of fire into her basket and came back with it, and ever since, we have had fire and the water spider keeps her tusti bowl.”
“Ah,” said one of the crafters.
“As soon as the pieces are in your hands, the process becomes intuitive and it doesn’t much matter if the results are flawed. In fact, we think the irregularities add character,” she said.
“I have a feeling I’m going to have plenty of character,” said Maddy, laughing. “This is a lot harder than I thought.”
“It takes practice,” said Marianne. “Now, if we wanted to complicate it even further,” she said, “we’d add some dyes in and some decorative patterns.”
“I can’t imagine!” said Liv, as she twisted strands of honeysuckle around.
Marianne chuckled. “Okay, we won’t add in the decorations. A Cherokee basket maker uses no patterns, models, or drawings. So this takes practice. Her patterns are in her soul, in her memory, and imagination. They come from the mountains, streams, and forests, and the traditions of her tribe.”
The crafters listened intently as they worked with their hands.
“I’m fascinated by the colors I’ve seen on some of your baskets,” Jane said. “Are they all natural dyes?”
“Yes,” Marianne said. “The colors are from roots, barks, leaves, nuts, flowers, fruits, stems, seeds, or sometimes a complete plant. It depends on what’s avail
able. As I told some today, bloodroot is used for a yellowish color; black walnut is used for a brownish color; elderberries are used for a rose color. It’s like that. Very simple.”
“I saw that you actually teach a class on dyes at BMU,” Liv said.
Marianne appeared confused. “No, not anymore. I only taught one class there.”
“I’m certain it was in the catalog,” Liv said.
“That’s an error,” Marianne said. “I’m not teaching there anymore,” she said with finality.
“My fingers don’t like this,” Jane said.
“That’s because you are a potter,” Marianne said. “A true potter. That is your tribe, your gift. You are a potter and your hands don’t like to make baskets.”
“That’s for damn sure,” Jane said. She held up her hands, which were red and blotchy. It didn’t look like an allergic reaction, quite, but it also didn’t look normal.
“You should soak your hands in some clay. They will be fine,” she said. “Gifted women of the people are sometimes quite sensitive.”
“But I’m not—” Jane started to say.
“Yes, you are,” Marianne said with a matter-of-fact tone.
Jane sat her start down on the table. She appeared stunned, then grinned. Jane had always thought she might be Native American, but she was adopted and it had been a closed adoption. Jane had no idea where she came from. Of course, just because Marianne said she was “of the people” didn’t make it so, Cora realized. She was certain Jane did, too. But for now Jane was grasping at the possibility of being a part of a people, or something larger than herself, larger than her own little family. Cora’s heart lifted for her friend.
“Um,” she said. “I, ah, better go and soak my hands.”
She stumbled out of the room just as Paul walked in.
“Oh, hey,” he said to Cora. “There you are. Do you mind if I stay one more night?” he asked as the room silenced. The crafters were all looking in his direction.
“My folks will be here tomorrow and they’d prefer if I stayed with someone,” he said.
Cora took him by the elbow and led him out of the room. She examined him. Disheveled and nervous, he resembled a twelve-year-old boy instead of a twenty-something man. Funny how stress peeled away the years in some people. Of course, there was a lot weighing on him—the possibility of his girlfriend running away with a professor, or missing. His best friend dead—and they were questioning him as if he were a suspect. He was troubled—and he had plenty to be troubled about. But was he a killer?
“Paul—”
“You can’t possibly think that I could ever hurt Henry, right? He was my best friend. And I love Gracie. The police let me go because they have nothing. They’re grasping,” he said.
“Of course you can stay, Paul,” Cora said, trying to calm her stomach. She just couldn’t get a clear read on this man. But she was not about to give up on him. Not yet.
Chapter 20
“You are really allowing him to stay?” Jane said, with her hands immersed in a tub of clay. The clay felt cool and wonderful on her hands, and the itching had completely stopped. She had read about the healing properties of clay but had never experienced it before.
Cora was standing in Jane’s studio. She was still in her hiking clothes, bib overalls with a cute yellow calico blouse. Her red curls were pulled off her face with a yellow bandanna. Even dressed for hiking, Cora always turned out better than she did. Jane wore jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Of course,” Cora said. “What could I do? His parents asked him to stay here. They must be concerned.”
“His parents?” Jane said, and rolled her eyes. “He’s twenty-eight years old. I’m sorry. That’s just weird.”
“Not really,” Cora said. “Not if you think about what he’s facing. Of course his parents are going to be concerned. Wouldn’t you be if London was in that situation? Even if she were thirty or forty?”
Jane hadn’t thought about it like that. It was just that she had been on her own so long that it was difficult to understand the adult-parent relationship. She had no idea what her relationship with London would be like in the future. She’d never really had an adult relationship with her own adoptive parents, both gone early, like Cora’s but different in that her mother had gotten sick with cancer and her father killed himself a few years after. Cora’s parents were both killed in an accident, gone suddenly on the same day.
“I don’t know,” Jane replied. “But I do know that you’ve got a group of women at Kildare House and if there’s a chance that Paul is a killer or a criminal or whatever, you’ve got a responsibility to protect them. I told you that you never should have offered in the first place.”
“I thought he might have been in danger,” Cora said. “And to tell the truth I still think that. Isn’t it weird? His girl is gone. His best friend is dead. What’s the link?”
“There’s no link. Didn’t Brodsky tell you that?” Jane said, looking at the clock. The crafters would be heading her way soon. She reluctantly took her hands out of the clay. “Can you turn the faucet on for me?”
The water cleaned away the remnants of the clay from Jane’s hands, no longer red and itching. Amazing. She held them up.
“Marianne was right,” Cora said. “Look at that.”
Jane toweled her hands off. “I wonder why Marianne thought I might be Native American.”
“Well, you do kind of look like you could be. We’ve talked about that before,” Cora said.
“I wonder if I could try looking into my records again.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Cora said, peering out the window. “Your first student is making her way down the path.” It was Liv, who was stopping to look at some flowers.
“Keep your eye on Paul, okay?” Jane said. “I mean, I don’t know if I really think he’s dangerous. But I do remember Gracie being pretty perturbed with him. He was clingy. It just smacks of possessiveness.” Neil was the same way with her. It raised her hackles.
“I agree. There’s a fine line there,” Cora said, watching out the window.
She had seen it time and time again when she worked as a counselor—a man’s obsession turning into possession, then violence. To be fair, she’d seen several women who were just as obsessive and, ultimately, as violent. She’d often wondered how a “normal” love relationship would turn into something sick and violent. Were there early signs? With a few of her clients, there were. But they were very easy to ignore when in the first swoony stages of romance.
Cora turned her attention to Liv as she opened the door.
She walked into the studio, beaming. “I’m so excited to take this class with you. I’m taking the advanced class tomorrow, too.” She stopped and eyed Cora, then Jane. “Geez, what’s wrong with you two? It looks like you’ve both seen a ghost.”
“Nothing,” Jane said, gathering her composure. “I’m really glad you could make it. This class is going to be fun.”
“Yes, indeed,” Cora said. “I’d better get going. I’ve got a blog post to write up about the basket class. I’ll be back around to take some photos of your pieces.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Jane said.
“What are you really up to?” she whispered after they’d gotten outside. Other crafters were making their way up the path from the main house to the carriage house, where Jane’s studio was located.
“Don’t know why you think I’m up to something,” Cora said.
“I know you,” Jane said.
“I just feel like there’s a connection we are missing. If we can find it, we can help Paul and maybe, just maybe, Gracie.”
“The police are working on this, Cora. Leave it be.”
“If I talk to Paul a bit more, I can get a better feel for things. And then maybe do a little research. It can only help the police, right? I mean, even Detective Brodsky said I was helpful with the murder case before.”
Jane wished he’d never told Cora that. She had repeated it several times
over the past few months. With her unstoppable need to help people, his compliment only added fuel to the fire.
“You lucked out with that. You lucked out that you weren’t killed yourself,” Jane snapped. “Cora, listen to me, don’t get any more involved than you already are.”
Cora bit her lip, a tic Jane recognized, which meant Cora was thinking—or trying to make a decision. “I’d better go. Good luck with your class.”
And with that she turned to go, greeting other crafters as she left, while turning her back on Jane. She had so much to do—and so much to think about. But first, that blog post.
* * *
Cora was pleased at herself for updating her blog more regularly at this retreat than the last. During the first retreat, she was overwhelmed by everything—and Jane was right that she had been sidetracked by getting involved in an incident that was not technically her business. But it had all turned out well. As Paul’s situation would, she told herself. Gracie would turn up any day. Perhaps she was off with her professor. And as Paul said, at least that meant she wasn’t really missing or dead. Of course, if that was the case, his heart would be broken in a completely different way.
Why hadn’t they heard more about the professor? Shouldn’t they know something by now? Maybe Paul did. But he was resting in his room and she didn’t want to disturb him. Who else could she ask? Detective Brodsky? He’d given her his cell phone number and told her to call anytime, hadn’t he? Cora grabbed her cell phone and pressed the detective’s number in her address book.
“Brodsky here.”
“Hello, Detective Brodsky, this is Cora Chevalier.”
“Everything okay, Cora?”
“Yes, but I was wondering if you could answer a question for me.”
“Maybe,” his said with a touch of caution in his voice.
“I wondered if you found out anything about the professor?”
He sighed an impatient, frustrated sigh. “You’d think this would be easy, right? But we don’t know where he is yet. His wife seems to know nothing. She said he often just goes off on his own. I can’t imagine my wife would put up with that.”