Clara watched her daughter's eyes glow in wonder, turning over the vase she held.
"There's nothing like it—to fall in love with something another person loved to create."
"I can sense it," Molly said softly, feeling a little embarrassed. "I can tell what he put into this piece. It’s like his hands are still moving over it."
"I told you," Clara said triumphantly. "Once you've got the bug, you can't go back. Kiss all of your money and your sanity goodbye! Lex, I think you'll have a new bidder at your next sale."
Molly turned the vase upside down and a small piece of paper fluttered to the ground.
"Looks like a portion of a newspaper article." Molly stooped to retrieve the scrap. "It's been highlighted."
"What does it say?" Clara craned her neck over her daughter's shoulder as Molly proffered the article. It read:
E.M.—Now, I know you don't make human figurals, but how about animals?
J.G.—No. I stick to pieces I can make by turning.
E.M.—Do you ever think you'll make a figural in the future? How about an experimental cat or a horse?
J.G.—No, I'll leave those for the more talented potters out there. I just never had the notion to make anything off the wheel.
E.M.—Well, if you ever made one I'm sure it would be exceptionally valuable.
"E. M. must be the interviewer and J. G. must be Jack Graham," Molly said. "I wonder why George-Bradley kept this." She then began to examine the bottom of the vase she held. Jack Graham had signed his initials instead of using a metal stamp like most of the other potters. He had also scraped a number into the unglazed clay.
"What's this number?" she asked her mother.
Clara took the vase from her hands. "That's the kiln number. There are fifty to seventy-five pieces of pottery that survive each kiln load. This is an early one. He made this piece, put the number in the clay, and fired the kiln for the fifth time."
"Fifth time ever?" Molly wondered how long ago that was.
Clara nodded. "Yes, from the time he began numbering pieces. I think he made a few kiln loads without numbers first, before he really began selling as a full-time potter. He started off as a welder."
"And he quit his job to make pottery? Did he have any experience?"
"No, he just loved it. It didn't run in his family like it did for most of the other potters. He just tried using the wheel one day and knew he had to learn. Remember what C. C. said, that he had to make pots whether people bought them or not."
Kitty stood over the music stand and thumbed through the large black book that had been resting on its polished surface.
"Hey guys, I think this is the inventory book." She offered it to Lex.
Lex looked over the book's contents. "OK," he said holding it out to them decisively, "first thing we do is make sure all these pieces match with the descriptions recorded in this book. George-Bradley has added details about every piece down to what riverbed
the clay came from, so we already have a great start for the catalogue descriptions."
"When will we pack this up?" Kitty asked.
"We only have a couple boxes in the van. I wasn't prepared to pack today. I'll come back on Monday with the big truck and some guys to get it all at once."
"Let's start in the office and work our way back," Clara suggested.
As Lex read from the inventory list, the three women located the pottery and he checked each one off with a pencil.
"Number 3124. A Ben Owen ovoid vase in red glaze."
It should have been easy to find the pottery. The ware was grouped together by maker, the shelves were labeled, and each bore an orange inventory sticker.
"Not here," Clara said, reexamining the shelves. "Maybe he has some upstairs."
"Maybe it's mixed in with some of the other pieces in the other rooms," Kitty offered doubtfully, checking again on the bottom shelves.
After looking through two rooms, including closets, the group discovered that three pieces were missing from George-Bradley's collection.
"Onto the music room," Lex directed.
Checking off from the list, Lex announced that a small Meaders rooster, a Jugtown teapot, and a Northstate vase were missing. That made six pieces in total from the mixed collection.
"Didn't Bunny say all of George-Bradley's saleable items were in this wing?" Clara asked.
"That's what I understood," said Lex.
Molly reviewed the descriptions of the pottery from the inventory book. "They're all smaller pieces," she noticed.
"Maybe they're getting repaired," Kitty suggested.
"George-Bradley was very particular about his pottery," Clara dismissed the notion. "He'd never need to have a piece repaired. He only bought pieces in mint condition."
"Unless the cleaning lady chipped them," Kitty persisted.
"I think George-Bradley took care of cleaning the shelves himself." Lex pointed to a feather duster hanging from a hook on the side of one of the shelves. "Those six pieces have to be somewhere else in the house. When we're done with the Jack Grahams, I'll ask Bunny."
The Jack Graham collection was as orderly as the rest. George-Bradley had one or two pieces from every firing from number 1 to number 42. That piece was a long- necked pitcher called a Rebecca pitcher. The next piece, number 44, was a simple, brown shoulder vase, probably the only piece in the collection that seemed to lack personality. Piece number 45 was identical.
"Where's number 43?" Kitty asked.
Lex frowned over the book. "He doesn't have it written down."
"He has every kiln number but that one?" Clara was surprised.
"Must have missed that sale." Lex shrugged. "Let's write a quick list of the furniture and then head out."
"Good, I'm starving," Kitty whined. Lex put his arm around her waist and gave it a squeeze. As he began whispering endearments in his wife's ear, Clara cleared her throat loudly.
Unabashed, Lex gave Kitty a kiss on the check and declared, "Lunch is on me, ladies. We'll have one of our IHOP specials."
Dreaming of crepes and bacon, cheeseburgers and fries dipped in ranch dressing, and huge glasses of sweet tea, the foursome got back to work.
They finished taking inventory quickly, driven by hunger and Lex's anxiety to return to the auction gallery to pick a date for what would likely be one of his finest sales.
"Let me find Bunny to tell her we're done for today."
"Don't forget to ask about the six pieces of missing pottery, sweetie," Kitty reminded her husband, blowing kisses at him.
"Oh, I won't, sugar pie," he said sweetly.
Clara rolled her eyes in disgust.
Back in the main hall, the group listened for any stirrings in the rest of the house. The door to Bunny's wing was slightly ajar, so Lex pushed on it while giving a cautionary tap.
"Mrs. Staunton? Ma’am?"
He knocked a little louder. The sounds of a woman's voice floated out to them. Bunny spoke, and then there was a pause, then she spoke again.
"She must be on the phone," Molly deduced. "I'll just poke my head in and give her the hand sign that we're leaving."
No one else wanted to go, so her offer was readily accepted. Truth be told, Molly just wanted a peek of the other half of the house, knowing she wouldn't be back for Lex's subsequent visits.
She entered the spacious living room, wincing at the bright yellow wallpaper and heavy flowered curtains, getting a glimpse of two plush green chairs facing a yellow- striped sofa strewn with embroidered pillows in yellows, pinks, and greens.
The overdose of color propelled her forward into the hall, but not before she noticed the wedding portrait over the mantel. It was Bunny and George-Bradley, radiant with happiness and expectation. Bunny was gazing at her new husband with a look of pure adoration, a look that Molly had trouble imagining on the present Bunny's face. There were also a dozen photographs lining the mantel. They were all of a happy Staunton couple, taken over a space of twenty years.
Bunny'
s voice was coming from the furthest room, the one mirroring George-Bradley's music room. Before Molly could announce her presence, Bunny's angry words cut through the air.
"But that is simply ridiculous!" she yelled in frustration, emphasizing every word. "I told you, he took his insulin every morning before breakfast. He took it that morning and I would know because I gave it to him!" There was a pause as the caller spoke. "He would fill the syringe and hand it to me. No, I don't know how much was in it. I never looked."
This was followed by another pause as Bunny listened to the reply. Molly didn't know where to turn. Her feet were rooted to the ground, curiosity overcoming good manners.
"Look, my husband was very predictable. First the shot, then some coffee, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, three eggs over easy, and four pieces of bacon. Every morning for ten years. He hated giving himself the shot and I certainly didn't mind giving it to him. After all, I am his wife," Bunny added in a defensive tone.
Bunny paused again, sighing in annoyance.
"Well, that may be the case, but I'm telling you, he had his morning shot at home!"
Molly heard Bunny slam down the receiver in anger. "Why don't you ask me if I'm glad that my husband had diabetes?" Bunny raged aloud in her office, unaware that she
had an audience on the other side of the door. "Why don't you ask me if I'm glad that he's dead?"
Molly backed quietly out of the hall. Once she was standing in the yellow living room she coughed loudly
"Mrs. Staunton?" she called innocently, walking back into the hallway.
Bunny poked her head out of the office door, a manila envelope held protectively to her chest
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I just wanted to let you know that there are a few pieces of pottery listed in your husband’s inventory book that aren't on the shelves." Molly talked faster as Bunny stared at her in disinterest. "Could they be anywhere else in the house?"
"No. All of his pottery is in that wing."
Molly shifted from one foot to another. "Do you have a cleaning service?"
Bunny frowned. "We do. Two wonderful ladies who’ve been cleaning for us for years. If they broke anything, they'd tell me immediately. I have complete trust in them."
The phone in the office began to ring again. Bunny scowled. "They were probably taken by some of his collector friends. They were always dropping by to see his collection, whether he was here or not." She began to turn away, and then paused and added, "And what did I care? I let them in. Now, if you'll excuse me." Bunny returned to the safety of her office and shut the door before Molly could ask her the names of these "friends."
Back in the main hall, Lex cocked an eyebrow at her. "You're making a funny face. What did she say?"
"I'll tell you in the car," Molly said, relieved that they were leaving.
The Staunton house might be beautiful, but there were some dark corners in the polished mansion where mysteries lurked. Why would a woman who hated her husband keep so many pictures of him near her? Had George-Bradley received his daily insulin shot and then absentmindedly given himself another one? Or had Bunny deliberately given her philandering husband an overdose? And where, in a house that guarded its secrecy beneath a facade of expensive decorators and immaculate landscaping, were the missing pieces of pottery?
~~~~~~~~~~
Interlude
The hands that held the rabbit were not gentle. They were smooth and oily, missing the calluses of work and the coarseness that comes with creation. They were damp, greedy hands that put too much pressure on the clay's hollow neck. Strange smells that were not of the earth, but spoke of dead trees and ink, seeped into the clay's pores, and it protested as the crush of an old piece of newspaper encircled its form.
From its place in the darkness, the rabbit could feel the sway of the man's body. It could smell the odor of stale sweat lining the inside of the cloth pocket, carrying a pungent memory of the compost pile outside of the potter's shed.
The potter's scent was different. His was the smell of salt-tinged sweat, little rivulets of it slipped down his arms and face as he turned like rainwater on a craggy stone. The potter's scent was damp leaves, the hidden skin of pine bark, the soil beneath the cucumber vines, newly sprung mushrooms, dried moss in the deep wood. The potter was connected to the earth.
The clay was moving away from its home now. It could feel the distance yawning wider and wider. The wheel where it was birthed was gone. The movement was too fast, things passed by in a blur of senses. It could feel the air changing, filling with too many scents of man. Polluted, tainted.
The rabbit was afraid. There were too many noises. Voices were raised. A woman was shouting, shrilly, like a jay yelling over the ledge of its nest. Lights seeped in through the newspaper but the rabbit felt more than saw the slow movement of shadows. Then it was placed inside another cloth and felt the binding of tape wind around its body. The hands were gone. All was still.
The rabbit could not detect any sound, any sight, any smell. It had been made prisoner within a cave of darkness. There was no hum of the potter's wheel or music from his radio. There was no firefly glow from his swinging bulb or the afternoon sunlight leaning in through the shed window like a heavy branch. The other forms of clay, the brothers and sisters, were not here to provide warmth and memory in the night.
The clay was lost.
It longed to be back in the riverbed where the darkness was innocent. If it could return to the moist womb of its mother, it could be comforted by the weight of water and see the broken stars swimming above. It longed for escape, to be unknowing, unborn, unmade. But it had lost its power. The man who took it did not hear the calling.
In the darkness, the clay was forgotten.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 6
Throughout the civilized history of mankind, after the gradual change from nomadic hunter and gatherer to settled farmer and animal breeder, clay has probably been the most consistently used material for improving the quality of life.
—ROBIN HOPPER, from Functional Pottery: Form and Aesthetic in Pots of Purpose
On another humid Monday morning, Molly sat in the newspaper’s break room, jotting notes on the Staunton collection. She liked the buzz of peripheral noise as other staffers talked and snacked around the gurgling coffeepot.
She needed as much help as possible to shut out the other buzzing in her head—the questions about George-Bradley’s death and the whereabouts of his missing pottery.
Clayton, the self-titled Queen of Advertising, marched into the room and sat down across from her.
"Well, Miss Thang," Clayton began, rolling up the sleeves of his silk peach sweater, "I’ve heard some tantalizing news about you."
Aside from being the most flamboyant dresser and the bread and butter of the paper, Clayton was an infamous gossip. Molly had exchanged some catty comments with him about their boss, and though Clayton might sling a few him, but aside from tossing verbal barbs around the break room, he was a kind-hearted, loyal, and generous man.
Slicking his salt-and-pepper hair into place, Clayton leaned back and examined her. "I do declare, Miss Molly, you have a crush on Matt Harrison."
Molly squirmed in her chair and did her best to look preoccupied with her notepad.
"Don't even try that act with me. You know I have supersensitive radar when it comes to this kind of thing. Besides, a little birdie told me y'all went to dinner together."
"Clayton, it was just a working date."
"But you wish it was more, don't you? He is a fine-looking specimen of a man!"
"Shhh!" Molly pleaded in a whisper as another staff member came in. "So you found me out. What are you going to do with this information?"
"Darling! What do you think of me? And why look so glum? If I had your eyes and your complexion, I'd drive straight to Hollywood and demand my own decorating show. I'd get it too."
"Thanks, Clayton, but I've got some extra curves you don't have."
&nbs
p; "Honey, you've got more curves than a mountain road and there’s not a thing wrong with them. Marilyn Monroe was no stick figure. There’s no such thing as an anorexic icon! Don’t look now but I have seen your man checking out your—" He bit off the end of his sentence as Matt entered the room carrying a brown bag in one hand and chopsticks in the other.
"Hi, you two. Care for some Chinese?" he asked.
"A man who eats fatty foods. You are so sexy, Matt Harrison." Clayton twirled Matt's tie around his finger. "Is this a Burberry? Oh, you just get more and more delicious!"
Matt nodded in assent and smiled. "Thanks. Plates for you both?"
"Oh no, not for me!" Clayton trilled. "I've had so many frozen mochas I just can't sit still." He sauntered off, whistling.
"Molly?"
"Sure." She grinned, pleased to be alone with him once again.
As he helped himself to pieces of sesame chicken and steaming white rice, Matt asked Molly what she was working on. She told him all about the visit to the Staunton mansion. She tried to explain how fine the antiques were, but Matt was more interested in the architecture of the house and in Bunny's phone call.
"Do you know who was on the other end of the line?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. Not a friend. Maybe an insurance agent or lawyer," Molly said. “She was adamantly defending the fact that she hadn’t given her husband more than his usual dose of insulin.”
"Maybe she was talking to a doctor."
"Because of the additional insulin found in his body?" she asked.
"Yes. There must have been enough to catch someone's attention," Matt suggested.
"I still say he'd never overdose on purpose."
Matt frowned. "But didn't you say his marriage was on the rocks? If Bunny didn’t inject George-Bradley, maybe it was self-administered."
"Their marriage has been strained for years. Why would he commit suicide because of that now? He could have just gotten divorced. He wouldn’t need to kill himself. Plus, I think the person who really suffered in that marriage was Bunny."
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