A Murderous Glaze

by Melissa Glazer

  “Like I said, I’d be glad to put a little pressure on anybody you need. Just say the word and drop a name, and it’s as good as done,” Butch said.

  Jenna patted his hand. “You’ll do no such thing. We’ll approach this on the proper side of the law. You’re reformed now, remember?”

  He grinned at her. “I know, but I could have a relapse, especially if it might help Carolyn’s situation.”

  “Honestly, I just need you all to snoop around a little. Nobody should lean on anybody, okay? That’s it. That’s why I asked you all here.”

  Martha looked at the clock, a salt-glazed piece reminiscent of Salvador Dali’s melted timepieces. “I’ve got a sitter until nine. Is there any reason we can’t have a little fun while we’re here?”

  “No reason in the world,” I said, suddenly glad for the distraction. After all, I’d opened Fire at Will for just that reason, to share my passion for clay with the world. It was time, if only for an hour or two, to forget all about Betty Wickline and focus on what had brought us all together in the first place.

  David’s cell phone rang, and from the troubled look on his face, I didn’t need more than one guess to tell me it was Hannah. He said defensively, “I’m busy. No, I didn’t go to class tonight. Fine. All right. I’m going.”

  He slammed the cell phone shut, then said, “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  “That’s all right. We really are finished.” I started walking with him toward the door when he said softly to me, “I can let myself out.”

  After he was gone, Butch said, “You know something? I want to start a new project.”

  “Not getting tired of porcelain figures, are you?” I asked. Butch loved doing miniatures, and even with his large hands, he had a delicate touch with a paintbrush.

  “No, but I thought I might branch out a little. The other day, you promised me you’d teach me to hand-build a coiled pot, remember?”

  “Ooh, that sounds like fun,” Jenna said.

  Martha smiled. “If it’s okay with you and Sandy, would you mind teaching us all how to do it?”

  Sandy glanced at her watch, then said, “I’d love to stay, but I’ve got a date. I told him if we finished up early we could still go out to dinner.”

  I smiled. “You need to scoot, then.”

  She looked at the table where we’d be working. “I don’t know. This sounds like fun; maybe Jake will give me a rain check.”

  “Or maybe he won’t,” Martha said.

  “If he doesn’t, he’s nuts,” Butch said.

  “Why, aren’t you sweet.” Sandy leaned over and kissed his cheek. Though Butch was a big man, and there was no doubt in my mind he must have been a rough customer when he was a crook, he blushed from the kiss.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said as he wiped Sandy’s lipstick from his cheek.

  “You didn’t mean what you just said?” Sandy asked innocently, trying to hide her laughter.

  “I…you know…I just…”

  Jenna said, “Stop torturing him.”

  “But it’s so much fun,” Sandy said as she headed for the door.

  I followed her and called out to the others, “I’ll be back in a second.”

  “You don’t have to walk me to the door,” Sandy said. “I know the way.”

  “I’ve got to lock the place up behind you.” The last thing in the world I wanted was for somebody to stumble in on us, especially while I was planning to circumvent a police investigation, and like it or not, that was exactly what I was about to do.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think about that. Of course David would have his own key.”

  I undid the dead bolt and pulled the door open, but Sandy didn’t go out right away. “I should have something for you tomorrow,” she said.

  “I don’t want your work to suffer.” I was beginning to regret the decision to bring the Firing Squad in on my investigation. At the moment, I was the only one directly involved in Betty Wickline’s death. Well, not really involved. Not in the murder, anyway.

  “Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in ages. I’m willing to bet if I snoop around long enough, I’ll be able to come up with something on Betty.”

  “Just don’t take any chances,” I said.

  Sandy laughed. “Nobody will know it’s me. The Internet is the great new faceless society. I promise, not a soul will have any idea who’s asking the questions. I know how to cover my tracks on the Web.”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Have a nice date, then,” I said.

  “Oh, I will. Jake’s a good guy, but it’s not like he’s my Mr. Right, or even Mr. Right Now. He’s fun—we laugh when we’re together—and for the moment, that’s all I’m looking for.”

  After she was gone, I headed back to the workshop area of my store. I could handle up to twenty-four adults at the six tables up front in the paint-your-own-pottery section, or fifty children, which was more than I really liked to have in the place at one time, even with David’s help. I tried to offer a diverse selection of more than just the standard fare of plates, cups, bowls, and saucers. David was always coming up with new shapes and designs, sometimes with mixed results. While his enthusiasm could be charming at times, some of the things he’d thrown or hand-built would sit there and gather dust until long after I was gone.

  There was a lot of potential activity crammed into my small shop space, and I made every inch of it count.

  Butch, Martha, and Jenna were waiting impatiently for me at the large table in back, eager to get going.

  “Sorry I took so long,” I said. “I appreciate you all waiting.” I walked over to the broken old refrigerator where I kept my clay. The material had to be stored in an airtight place, and a discarded fridge was the perfect solution, since I needed the clay to be kept from the air, not chilled.

  “We didn’t have much choice,” Butch said. “I wanted to get started, but Jenna insisted we wait for you. I’ve read a few things about it already, you know,” he said proudly.

  Jenna patted his arm lightly. “I know that, Butch, but we all want to learn this together.”

  I opened the fridge, unwrapped a slab of clay, then cut off a hefty chunk, enough for the four of us. After I divided it with a cutting wire into four roughly equal portions, I gave each potter a block and kept a roughly shaped cube for myself.

  “Now let’s knead the clay,” I said as I leaned into the brown doughlike substance. “We’ve got to get the lumps out, and the air bubbles, too.” It was much like kneading bread, something I’d enjoyed from the first time my hands hit the clay.

  After everyone had kneaded their clay to a smooth consistency, I said, “First I’ll show you how I do it, then you can try it yourselves. Take a large wooden dowel and roll out your clay until it’s about a quarter-to a half-inch thick. You can use cheaters if you’d like.”

  I demonstrated by putting two half-inch slabs of wood on either side of my clay. Then, with a practiced motion, I gently rolled the clay out until both sides of my improvised rolling pin touched the wood.

  Once I was satisfied with the thickness, I said, “Cut out a section for your base and set it aside. Then take the knife and cut ropes from the rest of your clay. Next, cut out a circle for your base piece. That’s the bottom of your pot, so you need to put it on a turning platform to make it easier to work with.”

  “That’s just like our lazy Susan, at home,” Martha said.

  “We have one, too. Next, take one of the ropes you cut and roll it with your hands out on the canvas tablecloth to make it into a snake. You don’t have to wet the base with slip for the next step, but you can. Coil the snake you’ve made on top of the perimeter of the circle and work your way up in a spiral. When you run out of one coil, grab another piece and keep going until you’re at the height you want. I think six inches is a good start.”

  “It looks like a snake charmer’s basket,” Butch said as he studied the result of his work. “I wanted smooth sides.”


  “We’ll take care of that next,” I said as I grabbed a hard-wood modeling tool that was really nothing more than a round stick with a softened edge. I smoothed the inner wall by using the tool inside the pot and light pressure from my hand on the outside. All it took was a little carefully applied force. After that, I reversed the process, and I had a nice looking pot instead of the stacked coils of clay.

  “Is that it?” Jenna asked. “Somehow, I thought it would be more difficult to do.”

  As I refined the outside even more with a rubber rib, I said, “It’s not as easy as it looks, but I’m sure you’ll all get the hang of it in no time.”

  As they each worked on their own pots, I offered suggestions when they were needed. Soon enough, my crew each had a pot ready for the first firing.

  “Can we each do another?” Jenna asked. “That was quite enjoyable.”

  I glanced at the clock. “Sorry, but it’s getting late, and I’ve got a big day ahead of me tomorrow. I’ll fire these soon, and you can glaze them at our next meeting.”

  They helped me clean up as they always did—something I loved about the Firing Squad—and in no time the place was ready for tomorrow. I put our hand-built pots into one of the kilns, along with some other pieces I wanted to fire, set the temperature, and locked up the store. I suddenly regretted leaving the Intrigue in the upper parking lot on the other side of our downtown, since it was now quite dark out. I tried not to run as I rushed back to my car.

  Was someone in the shadows watching me? I glanced back over my shoulder, but I couldn’t see anyone. Honestly, I’d raised two sons and ran a semisuccessful business, but now I was dodging shadows. Finding Betty’s body must have been harder on me than I’d realized, if it was making me this jumpy. Or was I being paranoid? It was possible, I had to admit, that someone might really be lurking in the shadows watching me. But the real question was, were they there to protect me, or was it something much more ominous? This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman, and now suddenly I was afraid of the dark?

  “Is someone there? You might as well come out. I see you standing in the shadows.”

  I saw a figure move in the darkness as I groped in my purse for my pepper spray. From now on, I promised myself, I was either going to carry that umbrella from the shop or start wearing running shoes at night. There was no way on earth I could make a getaway in the shoes I was wearing; my only option would be to kick them off and try running across the pavers in my socks.

  “Enough of this foolishness. Come out, I said.” I tried to make my voice as harsh as I could, but there was more than a little quiver in it. Should I abandon my shoes and try to run anyway?

  As the figure approached—at my insane bidding, no less—I braced myself for an attack. Perhaps my chances of defending myself were no better than Betty Wickline’s had been, but I’d surely make my attacker rue the day he came after me.

  I nearly collapsed when I saw the figure step out into the light. It was my husband. “Bill Emerson, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

  “I didn’t want you walking to your car in the dark by yourself,” he said.

  “Then why on earth didn’t you come to the shop and announce yourself instead of hiding in the shadows like some kind of mad fiend?” Honestly, the man could drive me bonkers sometimes.

  “Didn’t think you’d like it if I just showed up like that,” he said gruffly.

  The poor dear, he was probably right. I don’t respond well to coddling; I never have. I kissed his cheek, something that clearly startled him, then said, “You have my blessing to walk me to my car at night anytime you’d like.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now let’s get you home. I can’t have you out taking chances like this at night. Do you want to be next?”

  If only he knew to stop while he was ahead. There were a dozen things I could have said in response, but for tonight, I decided to let him have the last word. “Let’s go home.”

  He nodded, and I put my arm in his as he walked me to my Intrigue. My husband, no matter how bristly he could be at times, was quite a lovely man.

  “Carolyn, you’re so brave carrying on like you are doing. What with all the talk around town.” Kendra Williams—owner of Hattie’s Attic and the biggest gossip in Vermont—had cornered me on the sidewalk the next morning before I even made it to my shop. I’d parked in the upper lot again, out of habit instead of having any legitimate reason this time. I was more than a little grumpy before Kendra even spoke.

  Hannah had begged off on our morning coffee, and I’d gone without myself. Blast it all, I needed that jolt to get my day started, and quite frankly, I loved having a few minutes with Hannah in the morning, too. But she’d claimed she was buried up to her eyebrows in essays on Shakespearean comedies and couldn’t meet me. I didn’t believe her, not for one second. Hannah had been angry when she’d found David at the shop instead of at the university, and she was clearly taking it out on me. I’d have to make things right with her, and soon, even if it meant banishing David to an education he only tepidly embraced.

  Now I had the owner of Hattie’s Attic on my back, too. “Kendra, you need to believe me when I tell you that I didn’t kill Betty Wickline.”

  She actually managed to look shocked by my abrupt declaration. “Carolyn, I never thought you did. I just meant that some of the tongues around here are wagging about what might have happened to poor Betty.”

  “Let them wag. I have to go.”

  Kendra called out to my rapidly departing back, “Call me if you need to chat. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather eat a turkey, raw,” I said softly. I thought the woman wouldn’t be able to hear me, but she must have had the ears of a basset hound.

  “What did you say?” she called out sharply.

  “I said thanks for the offer. I might just give you a call.”

  She didn’t believe me—the arch of her eyebrows was clear about that—but she waved and said, “Please do.”

  “When pigs fly,” I whispered, but just in case the old bat really could hear me, I added, “I said I’ll try.”

  I’d have to watch what I said around the woman, no matter what the distance was. The last thing on earth I wanted was for Kendra Williams to have it in for me. As my key neared the lock of the door to Fire at Will, my hand actually shook. What was I going to find there today? Carolyn, I said softly to myself, you’re acting foolish. You’re a grown woman, a success in marriage and business. Go in the shop. Now.

  I didn’t quite believe the pep talk I’d just given myself, and for a moment, I wished Bill was there with me. There was no danger of that, though, not after the scolding I’d ended up giving him after all. My, how brave and independent I’d been in the safety of my own kitchen.

  How cowardly I felt right now, though.

  “Hello? David?” I called out as I walked into the shop.

  On the minus side, my assistant wasn’t there yet, though he’d been scheduled to come in early today.

  On the plus side, there weren’t any new bodies left scattered around the place.

  I checked the store’s answering machine, and found a “2” on it. The first message was from a woman in Burlington asking about discounted glaze, and the second was from David.

  “Hey, Carolyn. Listen, I’m sorry, I know you were counting on me, but I’m not going to be able to make it in today. I’ve got to catch up on the work I missed last night. I’ll talk to you soon.” The poor boy sounded angry and cowed at the same time.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Hannah’s number at the university. I had a sneaking suspicion that if I called her cell phone, she wouldn’t pick up.

  “Hello, Professor Atkins.”

  “Hi, Hannah, I know you’re busy, but I need a minute.”

  “You’ve got just that,” she said curtly.

  “Then let me come right out with it and say that I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to interfere with David’s education. I know how import
ant it is to you.”

  Hannah snapped, “It’s important to him, too, you know. After he gets his degree, I don’t care what he does with his life, but until he does, he’s got to go to classes. You can’t let him skip any more lectures, Carolyn.”

  “Wait a second. I can’t make him go to class any more than you can.” I’d already raised two boys, and I wasn’t about to take David on as a surrogate third.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I took a deep breath before I trusted myself to speak. I was on dodgy ground here, torn between my responsibilities to my friend and those to my employee. Being in the middle of a fight was not where I wanted to be. “I won’t keep him here at the shop late,” I said, “but he wants to be here in the day. Don’t take Fire at Will away from him, or he might drop out of school altogether.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath and then dead silence. I wondered for a second if I’d killed her. “Hannah? Are you still there?”

  “I am, but I’ve really got to go.”

  “Blast it all, I really am trying to apologize.” Hannah could be more stubborn than Bill sometimes, and that was saying something.

  “I know. It’s fine. We’re all right, but I really do need to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Bye,” I said as she hung up.

  Had I made it better with that last comment, or perhaps worse? David’s employment at my shop was a sore point with Hannah, but we couldn’t keep tiptoeing around it. He wanted to be a potter, and he found something working for me that was lacking for him at school. There was no doubt that David had a gift for clay, but what he lacked was the discipline, the patience of a master potter. As for his attendance record in school, they’d have to work it out between themselves. I had a shop to run. I glanced at the schedule to see if we had any groups coming in, and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that we were clear of group lessons. In a moment of temporary insanity, I’d offered the teachers of Maple Ridge Elementary an overly generous discount, and most of them had taken me up on it. Things were just starting to slow down again, and I was looking forward to a quiet day—despite my worry about the lack of business.