"You're not, but you should be," my husband, Bill, an swered.
"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be ankle deep in sawdust." He was busy working on new furniture pieces for Shaker Styles, a local furniture business, and I'd grown accustomed to his late hours.
"I was. Now I'm not. Let's go home."
"Are you telling me you stopped work to take me home? I'm not some kind of feeble old invalid who needs watching after."
He frowned. "That's not what I meant. I've been work ing too hard lately. I miss you."
What a sweet old bear. I hugged him, then said, "That's one of the nicest things I've ever heard you say. What ex actly do you miss most about me?"
"Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that I haven't had a home-cooked meal in weeks," he said.
I jerked away from him. "And you're not getting one tonight." He had a decidedly crooked smile when I looked at him. "Why are you grinning like an old fool?"
"I was just kidding."
"Well, it wasn't very funny."
He shrugged. "You were fishing for compliments. You know how I hate that. Come on, let's go home."
I could have fought him on it, but he was right. We hadn't been spending much time together lately, and I'd missed him, too. "I don't know if I should leave."
"I said I was sorry."
He looked hurt. "Actually, you didn't. But that's not why I want to stay. What if David needs me and I'm not here?"
"He knows where we live, Carolyn," Bill said. "If he finds this place empty, we're less than ten minutes away. Come on, I'll make you dinner tonight."
I wasn't in the mood for one of his evening breakfast meals. "Thanks for the offer, but I've had stew simmering away all day."
"That beats my eggs, I won't deny it. Let's go."
I looked around the shop, still not sure if I should leave. But Bill had a point. I had no idea if David would show up, and it didn't make sense for me to wait for him. "Let me just do a few things to close, and then I'll meet you at home."
"I can wait," he said.
"Are you going to just stand there and hover while I work?"
"No," he said. "I think I'll sit down instead."
My husband dead-bolted the front door, flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed," then walked to the back of the shop and flopped down on the new couch. It had been an ex travagant splurge, but one I'd happily made, eager to re place its predecessor.
I took the day's receipts from the till, totaled the report, then slid everything into my store safe—a ceramic piggy bank. It wasn't all that secure if someone knew where to look, but honestly, who would look in a piggy bank in a pot tery store for money?
"Let's go," I said as I finished my nightly tasks.
"Do you have a firing tonight?"
"No, I've got one going already, and I'm waiting until to morrow for the other one."
"Good enough. Let's go get some stew."
Out on the sidewalk, I bolted the door and turned to my husband. "Whose car should we take?"
Bill smiled at me. "You'd better drive. I went home and parked my truck, then I walked back here."
"What's gotten into you?" I asked. My husband wasn't exactly an exercise fanatic. "It must have taken you an hour to get here on foot."
"More like half that," he said smugly. "It was a pretty evening, and I've been stuffed inside that woodworking shop too much lately. I needed some fresh air."
"You're perfectly welcome to walk back home, then."
He raised an eyebrow. "There's no need to be obsessive about it. Let's go."
The first thing I did when we walked in the door at home was check our answering machine. It was dismally blank. I'd hoped that David would have at least checked in, espe ically given his hasty exit from the shop, but I knew he wasn't obligated to call. Even our sons didn't call us regu larly. Bill and I had raised our boys to be independent, to live their lives on their own. Some of my friends demanded daily or weekly calls and visits from their children, but I thought they were a bit daft. I, for one, refused to wait by the phone. I had a life of my own to live, and while I loved my two boys more than anything in the world, besides my hus band, I was proud of them for making their own way it the world. Birthdays, holidays, and a few times in between were usually the only occasions when we heard from them.
"Nobody writes, nobody calls," Bill said as he caught me staring at the phone.
"No news is good news," I said. The aroma coming from the kitchen was divine. "Let's eat, shall we?"
"I'm one step ahead of you. I already set the table."
After we ate, Bill asked, "How about a movie?"
"You're actually staying here? What about those dead lines?"
"They can wait. I want to spend a little time with you, and to be honest, I'm flat worn out. So, what would you like to watch?"
"We haven't seen Casablanca in a while," I suggested.
"Bogart it is," he said.
The movie hadn't even flashed back to Paris before Bill was sound asleep. Truthfully, it wasn't holding my atten tion, either, and I thought it was the greatest movie of all time. I nearly turned it off, but then remembered Bill's reac tion to silence. As long as the movie played on, he wouldn't stir, but if I turned it off, or even lowered the volume, he'd shoot out of his chair as though it were on fire. I grabbed a light sweater, tucked the portable phone in my hand, then went outside. The Vermont summer was fast approaching, by far my busiest season of the year. Not only did tourists descend on Maple Ridge, but also the town's children were out of school, so I would have summer camps and classes going almost continuously. We needed the cash influx to stay open the year round, but I didn't look forward to the rapid pace life would soon hold.
I hadn't done a raku firing in some time, and I realized I'd like to. The electric kilns did a fine job back at the shop, but the raku process was simple and offered spectacular re sults. I'd take pieces we'd already bisque fired, then after glazing them, bring them to my backyard, where I had my equipment set up. After a quick firing in my outdoor gas-fed brick kiln, I'd pull out the red-hot pots and bury them in wood shavings or wadded-up newspaper. Thermal shock caused the glazes to shrink and crackle. It was a process I loved, partly because there was no way to exactly predict what the outcome would be. Oh, I'd have an idea of what the end result would look like, but it almost never com pletely matched the finished product.
Leaves had collected in the pit area where I moved the pieces after their firings; I'd need to clean up the area if I was going to fire again.
As I walked closer to the pit, I noticed the leaf pile had a peculiar shape to it. It was as if—no, it couldn't be. I brushed a few leaves from the pile, and my worst fears were confirmed.
It was a body, and the instant I saw the man's long hair, I knew it was David.
* * *
"Bill, wake up. Call the sheriff."
"What?" he asked groggily as he sat up. "What hap pened?"
"Where's the phone?" Why wasn't he listening to me?
"Take it easy, Carolyn. It's right there in your sweater pocket."
I'd forgotten I had it. My fingers were shaking too much to dial the numbers, and I shoved it into his hand. "Call Hodges. I found David. By the kiln. He's dead." The sobs were coming now, stealing my breath, and to my husband's eternal credit, he ignored the phone and wrapped me up in his arms. After a few minutes, I managed to catch my breath and I pulled away from him. "Sorry. I lost it for a second there."
"You're entitled. Are you going to be all right?"
"I think so," I muttered.
"Good. Stay right here. I'll be back in a second."
The last thing in the world I wanted was to be left alone. "Where are you going?"
"I have to check myself."
"You don't believe me?" My voice had a hysterical pitch, but I couldn't seem to suppress it.
"Of course I do. It won't take a second."
"I'm going with you," I said.
"You don't need to."
"You're wrong. I do."
He studied me a second, then said, "Come on."
Why on earth had I volunteered to see David again? I couldn't decide which was worse, the prospect of seeing Bill turn him over and staring into David's lifeless eyes, or being in that house alone, waiting for my husband to return.
"Let me grab my flashlight," he said. A minute later, we were outside by my kiln. I wondered if I'd ever be able to bring myself to fire there again. I doubted it, with the image of David constantly hovering in my mind.
I stayed back a few paces, but Bill walked up to the body and knelt beside it. "What are you doing?" Why was I screaming?
"I've got to make sure he's really dead."
Oh no. I hadn't even considered that possibility. What if my reaction had robbed David of his last chance to be saved? Hannah would hate me for eternity, and I wouldn't blame her.
My husband reached down and tried to find a pulse. I stood there watching, afraid to utter a word.
He shook his head, then stood. "He's dead all right, but it's not David."
"Are you sure? The hair looks just like his."
Bill said, "That's because you looked at it in the twilight. It's too gray to be David's, but unless I'm missing my guess, it's his father."
I felt a momentary flood of relief wash through me, but it was soon gone.
"What's wrong?" Bill asked me. "I thought you'd be happier about the news."
"I'm glad it's not David, but you know who the sheriff is going to suspect. Hannah had every reason in the world to kill him, didn't she?"
"From what I've heard around town, she'd have to get in line." He started dialing the phone, but I put a hand on his. "Do we have to call him right now?"
"You know we do," Bill said. "It's the proper thing to do."
"I guess," I said, "but I'd like to see if I can get Hannah first and warn her about what's about to break loose."
"It'll have to wait until I call Hodges," my husband said firmly.
Thirty seconds later, after listening to Hodges's warning not to touch anything, Bill handed me the phone. "I'd call her as fast as you can. You're right; she deserves a heads up about what's about to happen."
At least my hand wasn't shaking anymore. I dialed Han nah's number, and instead of saying hello, she answered with a question. "David, is that you?"
"It's Carolyn," I said. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you."
"It's David, isn't it? He's dead." There was an utter lack of emotion in her voice as she said it, as if she already be lieved it in her heart.
"I found a body, but it wasn't your son's. It's Richard. Somebody killed him and his body is in my backyard."
"Oh, no," she said, and then hung up the telephone be fore I could warn her that the sheriff would likely be coming after her and her son.
Bill asked, "What did she say?"
"As soon as I told her about Richard, she hung up on me."
He shook his head. "I hope she doesn't run away from this. Panicking is the worst thing she could do right now."
"She didn't kill her ex-husband," I snapped at Bill.
"Take it easy. I didn't say she did. But you know how she can be."
I was saved from answering by the sound of sirens near ing. A minute later, Sheriff Hodges came into the backyard, followed by half a dozen other officers.
"You can go inside," he said to us after he heard how I'd stumbled across the body. "I'll be in later to get an official statement from you."
"I just told you all I know," I said.
"Bill, will you take her inside? We've got work to do."
He nodded and put an arm around me. "Come on, Caro lyn. Neither one of us can do anything out here."
"You're taking orders from the sheriff now?"
He whispered, "I'm doing this for you. Do you really want to see them examining the body? I thought I'd save both of us from that nightmare."
"Okay, I understand that."
I walked inside with my husband, who said, "You might want to put a pot of coffee on. It's getting chilly out there."
"They can go to the convenience store and get their own coffee," I said.
"They can, or we can do the right thing and offer them something ourselves. Carolyn, I know you don't like the man, but it wouldn't hurt to be civil. He's just doing his job."
"I'm not sure I agree with that."
"Blast it all, I'll make it myself then." As Bill started to ward the coffeepot, I waved him off. "I'll do it. After all, I don't want them to arrest you."
"Why would they do that?"
"Some folks might think having to drink your coffee was a crime."
At least it gave me something to do. After the coffee had brewed, Bill grabbed a tray and filled it with mugs, and I got the pot.
To my relief, the body was gone by the time we got out there. The sheriff said, "I thought I told you to stay inside."
"We brought you and your staff some fresh coffee," I said as I took in the scene: crime tape surrounded my kiln, portable lamps lit up the yard, and an officer was filming the whole thing.
"That would be nice," he admitted as he took a mug from me.
"So, do you know what killed him yet?" I asked as casu ally as I could manage while Bill handed out mugs to the rest of the force.
"Is that why you're suddenly being so nice?" he asked. "Are you out here trying to mine me for information?"
"Forget I said anything," I said.
After a few sips of coffee, Sheriff Hodges said, "Sorry. Murder always puts me on edge. I'd tell you if I could, but it's not time to release that information yet." He gestured with the cup. "Thanks for the brew."
"You're welcome," I said.
After he was finished, he handed me the mug. "That was mighty hospitable of you, Carolyn."
"It was Bill's idea," I admitted.
"Tell him I said thanks, then." He paused and said, "He was beaten up pretty bad." Then asked, "Did David ever turn up?"
"You honestly can't suspect him of killing his own fa ther, can you?"
He paused a second before answering. "There's no telling what a shock like that might do to his system. Now, don't get in an uproar. I need to talk to him, that's all. Surely you can see that yourself. How about Hannah? Why isn't she here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Carolyn Emerson, I'll give you ten to one that you called her right after your husband called me. Don't make me pull the phone records to prove it."
"What makes you think I didn't call her before I called you?"
"I doubt Bill would let you. So let me ask you this. Why isn't she here? She's got a stake in it—even you have to ad mit that."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said as I turned and walked away.
As Bill and I collected the rest of the mugs, I did my best to avert my gaze from the raku pit. It was as dead to me now as Richard Atkins.
My thoughts returned to David. His disappearance would look bad for him, but why would David kill Richard? The man was his father, albeit an absentee one. Then I real ized that Richard, in the guise of Charles Potter, had also been his hero. There was no telling what he might do given that combination. Could Hannah have killed him? She had reason enough. At least she had twenty years ago. But that was a long time to hold a grudge. Or was it? There had to be other suspects, including the ones Shelly had mentioned earlier that day. I wondered if the mayor, Harvey Jenkins, or that gossip Kendra Williams had alibis for this evening, or if Sheriff Hodges would even get around to asking them. No, most likely he'd focus on David and Hannah, two of my fa vorite people in the world. I was not going to let him pin this murder on either one of them. Whether Bill liked it or not, that meant that I was going to have to do a little digging on my own.
Chapter 5
"I'll see you this evening," I told my husband the next morning after I kissed his cheek.
"Where are you going at this hour?" he asked as he sat up in bed. "It's the middle of the night."
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"It's 6 a.m.," I corrected him. "I have some errands to run before I open Fire at Will."
"Hang on a second. Let me get dressed and I'll go with you." He started to get up, and I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Go back to sleep. I'm perfectly capable of being on my own."
The Cracked Pot Page 6