“But could it have been murder?”
“I don’t know, Deborah. We dressed him after he was dead, so I suppose somebody could’ve undressed him.”
She got up and added a little more hot water to her mug. “Either way, it just about sent Mr. Amos out of his mind. Everybody says he doted on Donny. And just about the time he was finally getting over Donny’s death, somebody kills James Lucas. I thought he was going to have another stroke.”
“And now with Tom . . .?”
“It’s like he can’t take it all in. He keeps saying he might as well be dead himself because it’s the end of Nordan Pottery. And I guess it is. Both sons gone. The grandson he counted on gone. And after the way he treated Davis, he’ll never come back over here, will he?”
“I seriously doubt it.” I could feel the caffeine working in my system, yet I still got up and poured myself a fresh cup.
“So that grandson might as well be dead, too, for all the good it does him,” said June.
“What about Libbet?”
“She’s only a kid. And a girl. They say she’s going to be another Nell Cole Graves, but that doesn’t cut it with Mr. Amos. One of the reasons he’s so bitter about Sandra Kay is that she and James Lucas never had a son.”
“This Bobby Gerard, June. I haven’t met him yet. Was he working here when Donny died?”
“If you could call it that. He didn’t come in that morning, but when I went looking for Jeffy after lunch, he was back working in one of the sheds.”
“What about him, then?”
She shrugged. “He’s unreliable when he’s drinking, but I never heard of him being violent. The only thing he cares about is where his next drink’s coming from.”
“Sandra Kay was over at the pottery yesterday,” I said.
“To pick up the rest of the collection, yes.”
“Who do you think killed them?” I asked bluntly.
“Are you thinking Sandra Kay?” she countered.
“It was her car that went through the lane last week, wasn’t it?”
“I thought it was,” she said reluctantly, “but really, I don’t know much about cars. Just their color and if they run. That’s about all. Course, Mr. Amos always thought she had the hots for Donny . . . I never saw anything, but then I wouldn’t, would I?”
I had forgotten that June didn’t move into Amos Nordan’s house till after his stroke. Sandra Kay had left James Lucas so soon afterward that their overlap time would have been quite short.
“But maybe the way he was left was some sort of feminine revenge?”
She let my words hang between us almost as if she were examining them. Examining and then rejecting with a firm “No. I just don’t believe Sandra Kay could do something like that. Get mad and fly off the handle, maybe, but nothing like what was done to Donny if he didn’t do it to himself.”
“So who, then?”
She sighed in frustration. “I’ve been over it and over it in my mind and there doesn’t seem to be any reason to kill all three of them. Maybe Mr. Amos is right. Maybe it is about somebody trying to shut down his pottery.”
She swallowed the last of her tea, then got up and began unloading the dishwasher.
“Have they set a time for the funeral?” I asked.
“Probably Wednesday morning.”
The sink was full of dirty plates and glasses and as soon as the dishwasher was empty, she started reloading it. “You through with your cup?”
From the den came the sound of Jiminy Cricket’s song. I guessed that Jeffy had brought a Pinocchio tape in his backpack. I remember some of my sisters-in-law grumbling about endless Disney when their children were little. What would it be like to know that your child would never outgrow Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny?
Fernwood Pottery reminded me a little of Cady Clay Works, another relatively new pottery with a modern sales shop attached to the front of the work area.
The showroom at Fernwood was only half as big as Cady’s, but it, too, was flooded with natural light and had a much more modern feel than Nordan’s. The walls and shelves were painted in a pale green that set off the darker green and cream of her wares.
Capitalizing on her name, Fern Woodall’s plates and platters were decorated with fronds and leaves and occasional acorn patterns. Very pretty. She also seemed to model small animals: squirrels, rabbits, and turtles in impressionistic free forms that captured characteristic poses.
“Oh, they’re darling, just darling!” cooed the expensively dressed woman darting around the little shop when I entered. “I want one of all of them.”
The blond-haired woman at the sales counter, whom I took to be Connor’s wife, gave me a friendly if harried smile and a be-with-you-in-a-moment gesture as she tried to decipher the customer’s wants. “One of each animal?”
“Each animal and each pose. They’ll make wonderful prizes for my bridge club,” the woman said gaily. She was wearing quite a lot of gold on her wrists, neck, and ears and several rings with impressive stones on her fingers. The Lincoln parked outside was probably hers, too. “How many different molds do you have?”
“Molds? These aren’t molds,” Fern explained. “I model them each individually. No two are exactly alike.”
“Really? How perfectly clever you are.” She sighed extravagantly. “It must be wonderful to be able to make things with your own two hands. I don’t have an ounce of creativity. All I can do is appreciate the work of those who do. Now, let me see . . . three tables times four players . . . If I buy a dozen, will there be a discount?”
I pretended to be absorbed in a set of cream-colored stoneware mugs banded in a narrow border of ivy leaves while she agonized over which twelve she wanted.
As Fern Woodall wrapped each figure in newspaper, the woman wrote out a check, chattering away the whole time. “Your life must be so wonderful. That is your sweet little house next door, isn’t it? It’s so charming. And all you have to do is step out of your door and here you are! No long commutes, no time clocks, no bosses standing over you. You can just spend your days in uncomplicated creativity. I really envy you.”
Still burbling about the satisfactions of honest craftsmanship, she eventually carried her package out to the Lincoln and drove off to her terribly complicated but uncreative life in Charlotte or Greensboro.
When she was safely out the door, I turned to Fern and said, “How on earth do you keep from smashing one of your platters over the head of customers like her?”
She looked startled and then smiled. “Deborah Knott?”
I pleaded guilty and she laughed. “It probably helps to remember that I’m married to a sheriff’s deputy. Ah! Speak of the devil.”
Through the side window I saw a car pull up next door, and Connor got out and waved.
Fern pulled the door closed and we walked across the parking area to join him at their front door.
“I hope you don’t mind that it’s just soup,” she said. “Con didn’t give me much notice that you could come today.”
“I love soup,” I said truthfully. “Anything except borscht.”
She grimaced. “Beet soup? Yuck!”
“I see you two met,” said Connor as he opened the side door for us to walk in.
The fern motif continued inside, but it wasn’t cutesy and it wasn’t overwhelming. All the walls were painted white, framed botanical prints were grouped over the green-and-white plaid couch in the den, and baskets of ferns hung in the windows in front of crisp white curtains.
Since Fern would have to leave if more customers came to the shop, we went straight out to the kitchen. The table there was a modern circle of white Formica with green place mats already set with her cream-colored soup bowls, each of which had a fern frond painted in the bottom.
“Well, it’s charming,” I said, mimicking Fern’s customer. “Just charming. And so creative!”
She giggled and Connor laughed, having heard similar over the years. Conversation flowed easily between us as he poured
the tea and sliced a loaf of soft brown bread while she reheated a pot of fragrant mushroom and barley soup and set out a simple salad of mixed greens. Delicious.
I gave Connor the regards that Dwight and my brothers had sent, showed him some pictures of them that I had in my wallet, saw pictures of their daughters, who were at school that day, and heard more tales of potting in the modern age.
“The scholars are even worse than the patronizing customers,” said Fern. “They worry that too many new potters have come into the area and that the tradition is going to be diluted or polluted. Heck, we are tradition. They also think the craft should have stopped dead in its tracks around 1950.”
“Tell her about that snob from over in Chapel Hill,” Connor encouraged, and she grinned at the prospect of new ears for an old favorite.
“Well, one of them is lecturing a friend of mine for using an electric wheel instead of the old kick wheel,” she said. “My friend nods and keeps working, but every once in a while, he cranes his neck, trying to see out the window.
“Then the guy starts ranting about potters who burn in electric kilns instead of wood-fired groundhog kilns. And my friend just nods, but now he leans over to see around the man. The guy starts a tirade about using electric pug mills, but finally he can’t stand it any longer. ‘What are you looking for out there in the parking lot?’ he asks.
“My friend shrugs and says, ‘I was just trying to see where you’d tied the horse and buggy you must’ve rode over on.’”
As we laughed, she said, “These are the same people who disapproved of us when we got together and created a group site on the web. We started posting all the pottery stamps about three years ago so that people across the country would know what they have. The purists think you ought to be able to tell who made a pot just by looking at it.”
“I’d be curious to see what the Nordan stamp looks like,” I said, wondering if they would have the original on their website or the slightly crimped one that Sandra Kay had described.
Fern jumped up. “Oops! Customer alert. Gotta run. Come by the shop before you leave, and I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour and let you go online.”
Left alone, I told Connor that Davis had gone back to Raleigh and he nodded. “I spoke to the deputy and read his report about last night. You really stepped into it, didn’t you?”
He wanted to hear my version of events and I told him everything I’d seen or heard, while he took notes.
“And it was nice of you to try and spare Davis about Amos Nordan’s motives for inviting him over to Seagrove, but Amos blew it last night after Libbet shot at us.”
Connor turned red from my compliment. “Are you completely convinced that he was telling you the truth? Because he did walk from Rooster Clay back to Nordan’s through that lane. He could’ve found a snake there and decided to up the ante on Tom a little.”
“Sandra Kay was through there, too,” I reminded him. “And so was Betty.”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind about all these people,” he said, “but I have a real hard time picturing Betty Hitchcock sticking a snake in her own son’s car. Sandra Kay, now . . .”
Even though she’d asked me to, I felt a little like a traitor as I told him about my visit with Sandra Kay and how she’d admitted driving through the lane and past the kiln around the time someone pushed James Lucas into it.
He was not as surprised as I’d expected. “I sort of thought she might be lying to me about that.”
“She’s scared you’ll think she did it.”
“Well, she sure has a habit of being around when things happen. She was there when Donny and James Lucas died—”
“Then you do think Donny was murdered?”
“I didn’t say that. And neither did the ME. He had sustained a blow on the side of his head shortly before he died, but he might have banged into something himself. It was enough to daze him, the ME says, and maybe even enough to knock him out, which could have contributed to hanging himself.”
“Or made it easier for someone else to do it,” I said. “Sandra Kay?”
“Well, she was certainly there Sunday morning when the snake got in the car.”
“I still wonder if that snake might not’ve been meant for Davis. Amos Nordan was telling anybody who’d listen what a great potter he was and what a happy day it was to have him in the family. Didn’t you think he was setting Davis up as his heir?”
Connor nodded. “That’s what I was hearing all week.”
“If the killer was aiming for Davis and accidentally got Tom instead, then it really would be about the pottery, wouldn’t it? There’s no other reason for anyone over here to kill Davis.”
CHAPTER
27
This turning process determines shape possibilities . . . Fullness of shape on a traditional southern pot comes from curves at the belly and shoulder and, to a lesser degree, at the foot.
—Raised in Clay, Nancy Sweezy
I declined coffee after my talk with Connor and toured Fern’s workshop instead. Even though she tried to tell me my money was no good, I bought a lovely little bowl for Karen and a lidded rectangular box about the size of a tissue box for me. I’ve been wanting a container of some sort for my car keys and loose change when I come home rather than dumping them all over the kitchen counter, and this one was perfect.
She showed me the website she and her friends had put up and I browsed through their index of area pottery stamps, which they’d started posting a few years back. (The Nordan stamp was the crisp-angled original, not the repaired one used on their counterfeit pieces.) Then Fern went back to work and I was left at loose ends for the rest of the day.
I called Sandra Kay and told her that Connor hadn’t been overly surprised to hear she’d lied. “He’ll probably be out to see you again today, but if you just tell him the truth, you’ll be okay,” I said, hoping I was right.
“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you a cardinal bowl.”
“That’s okay,” I told her. I’d already decided I couldn’t give Karen a counterfeit piece. Even if she never suspected, I wouldn’t like knowing I’d fooled her.
The afternoon stretched before me as I considered my options. I could check out a few more potteries and maybe find the platters I needed. I could read over what I planned to do about the Sanderson deadlock in court the next day. I could even try to find relatives of the late Ms. Nina Bean and convey my daddy’s belated respects.
Instead, I called Judge Neely’s office and learned that Will Blackstone was holding court in Carthage that afternoon.
And yes, Carthage is twice as far from Seagrove as Asheboro, but hey, if things worked out, I expected to have twice as much fun.
Mondays are usually pretty busy and the Carthage courtroom to which I was directed was still actively in session. It was a little before four when I got there, having dallied briefly on the way at an irresistible antique store. Judge Blackstone was in a low-voice conference with the DA and defense counsel and I slipped in unobserved and sat down on an empty back bench.
He eventually spotted me, of course, and I was gratified by the sudden widening of his eyes and an involuntary smile that he immediately sequestered. I sat demurely and listened with professional interest, but it seemed to me that he disposed of the remaining cases in record time. When he adjourned promptly at five, he waited for me at the side door that led to chambers.
“This is a surprise,” he said. “I thought perhaps you didn’t get my message.”
With a deliberate smile, I said, “Oh, I got your message,” then, to keep him confused, added innocently, “Fliss Chadwick is very reliable.”
“Are you staying over tonight?”
“With Fliss, you mean?” I teased.
“Naturally.” But I saw the spark that glinted in his deep-set brown eyes.
“I have court tomorrow morning, but I was hoping perhaps we might have an early supper?”
We took his car.
The restaurant was a few
miles down the road toward Southern Pines, a comfortable old southern inn with antique sideboards in the lobby, starched linen on the tables, and a continental chef in the kitchen. We had a couple of drinks in the lounge while we waited for a table and we talked about the violent deaths stalking the Nordan family. The area grapevine was as efficient here as it was in Colleton County, but I was able to add some details he hadn’t heard.
Over smoked salmon and risotto—a pleasant change from the fried shrimp and hushpuppies that Kidd Chapin considered gourmet dining—we discovered mutual friends and acquaintances. Will was easy to talk to and he made me laugh as we compared some of the zanier cases we’d heard lately. It was all still pretty new to him. Indeed, he’d be attending his first conference of district court judges down at the coast in June.
“They’re a cool bunch,” I assured him. “You’ll love it. Lots of really helpful information, too.”
“The sessions don’t go all night, do they?”
“Only if you want them to,” I drawled.
On the drive back to Carthage, he asked if I was still interested in seeing his collection of Nordan pottery he’d acquired while representing Amos Nordan. Not the most original line I’ve ever heard, but the evening was still young and it would do.
We picked up my car at the courthouse and Will led the way to his townhouse in a newer section of town.
“My ex-wife wanted the house worse than I did,” he explained as we went up the short walk to his front door. “I have to say, though, that I don’t really miss mowing grass or clipping hedges. The association’s maintenance crew takes care of all that here.”
Inside was pretty standard affluent bachelor furnishings except for the half-dozen pieces of red cardinal ware that sat on individual ledges over the long low cabinet that housed his sound system.
He tossed his robe over the nearest chair and put his arms around me as if kissing were the most natural thing in the world for us to do. And a very good kiss it was.
Uncommon Clay (A Deborah Knott Mystery Book 8) Page 21