"Look, if I hear anything about his whereabouts, I'll call you," Molly offered, even though Brandy had turned away. "No matter what, you'll be just fine. You obviously have a good head on your shoulders."
Brandy raised her face and gave a slight nod. Molly retreated to her car, feeling like a complete jerk. Her theory about Keane had been shot to bits. If he had such an advanced case of arthritis that he couldn't open a bottle cap or turn a set of keys, there was no way he could squeeze the tiny syringe used to give George-Bradley the extra shot of insulin. But if Keane was innocent of the murder, why had he run away?
~~~~~
Molly stopped to pick up a dozen donuts. Sam Chance loved anything with sugar, and his apprentices were always hungry. Consulting her Seagrove area potteries map, she remembered that the landmark closest to Chance's Ware was the abandoned Chance Beans factory. The dilapidated building and overgrown lot proudly displayed a real estate sign. Molly was surprised to see that the sign read Sold.
Chance's Ware was down a long, gravel road, much like a hundred other potters in the area. The yard was deserted except for the polished Ford pickup resting under a carport.
"Someone has a new truck." She greeted Sam with a hug as he came out of the workshop.
His kind face broke out in a wide grin, scattering laugh lines across his cheeks and carving creases into the corners of his blue eyes. "Yes, indeed." He rocked back on his heels, hands tucked into his overall pockets as the two of them admired the sheen of the vehicle.
"Did some Chance Beans relative leave you a pile after they sold their land?"
"Now you know I'm no kin to them. If I were, I'd be messin' around with clay for fun and wouldn't trouble over sellin' a pot. Nope," he said as he patted the hood of his truck affectionately, "bought this by sweat and tears."
"I brought you something to cure your sweet tooth," Molly said as she handed him the box of donuts.
"Oh boy," Sam whistled. "This'll help, but my case is hopeless. Come on up to the shop."
They walked up the driveway to the metal-sided bam, which housed Sam's wheel, drying shelves, glaze barrels, and all the ware available for purchase. Molly looked around at his utilitarian pieces. He made plates, bowls, pitchers, candleholders, bean pots, casseroles, and birdhouses in four different glazes. His traditional pieces were concentrated on a single table where several face jugs with corncob stoppers and a few roosters proudly proclaimed their creator's right as a fifth-generation potter.
"So what do you want to cover today? Lord knows I could talk pottery to you until the cows come home, but I don't figure you've got all that much time."
Molly watched as Sam helped himself to a jelly donut.
"How about digging the clay and turning? Unless you want to talk about firing too."
"Well, you've been to C. C.'s," Sam said, "so you've seen the best kiln around these parts. He's got the genuine article in that groundhog kiln of his."
"Let's cover how a piece of wet clay becomes a jug," Molly suggested.
"All the action before glazing."
"Right."
Sam dusted sugar particles from his overalls, pointing to a shelf of unglazed pots. "It's called bisque ware when the pottery hasn't been glazed yet. Lots of us say 'biscuit' for short."
"If it sounds like food, then I can remember it." Molly accepted a chocolate-frosted donut for herself. "Where are all your apprentices today?"
"Oh, they're delivering a load to some gardening place in Asheville. Lady bought up all my flower pots and birdhouses except this one."
"That's great, Sam! And where's your talented son Justin, the famous sixth-generation Chance potter?"
A look of sadness surfaced in Sam's eyes, then darted away like a startled minnow. "He's going to law school."
"Oh. What does that mean for the future of your business? "
"Well, he's using the kiln at the university's main campus, so he hasn't quit pottery. But I don't think he's going to be a full-time potter. I can only hope that I live long enough to wait for him to retire from the law and take over the business."
Molly reassured her friend with a pat on the hand. "Maybe he just needs to spread his wings for a few years. He'll end up here eventually. And there aren’t too many parents who’d complain about their kids becoming attorneys."
Sam smiled, his good humor restored. "I know it, but we're a dying breed out here. Some things are more important than money."
Sam led her down to the banks of the creek that snaked through long grasses and stooped trees. There, a large depressed circle formed a wide bog. Molly poked at the clay with a stick and asked Sam if he had stayed at C. C.'s long enough to see the collapse of George-Bradley.
"I sure did. The whole town is a-twitter over it. It's a shame, him being so young and all."
Calling George-Bradley young was a stretch, but Sam always had a kind word for everyone. Molly knew that George-Bradley wouldn't have bought much from Sam because he wasn't as collectible as many of the other potters, but it didn't effect the potter's disposition. But then, Molly suddenly remembered how rude George-Bradley had been to Sam at the kiln opening, slighting him for creating "pretty dinner plates" instead of traditional art pottery. Was it possible that Sam wanted revenge for having his life's work insulted so publicly?
"Weren't you angry at him for what he said to you that morning? He insulted your work." Molly watched Sam's face carefully as he replied, even though she didn't really believe Sam had the capacity to hurt anyone.
"Shoot." Sam shook his head. "I can't get in a huff just 'cause some big shot doesn't like what I make. Those dinner plates have sent my two boys to college, and we've had full bellies every day of our lives." He grinned nonchalantly, rubbing his small pouch.
"Now, back to business. This is our clay pit." He pointed at the bog. "We dig it, mix it up with some commercial clay, and add some water. That gives it a good, plastic feel. You gotta have that to turn."
"I bet you get some serious mosquitoes from that pit." Molly felt itchy just looking at it.
"I wear overalls for more than one reason," Sam laughed, leading her back toward the shop where he pointed at a square machine the size of a refrigerator turned on its side.
"This is a motorized pug mill. It mixes the clay. Back in my daddy's day, they had a pug mill turned by a mule. Most people had those kind, but none of us keep mules anymore."
"Does this do a better job?"
"Not really, but we just got sick of puttin' that poor mule to work. Us kids were all crazy about that mule. She was our family pet." Sam rocked back on his heels, remembering.
"So she retired and lived a good life?"
"Not exactly. We stopped working her, and on her very first day of retired life she keeled over and died on us."
"That's a terrible story!" Molly laughed. "What did you call her?"
"Whiskey Girl. Whiskey jugs were real big when my daddy was turning. Everybody wanted one, especially with our corncobs stuck in 'em. So it seems like we heard that word about a million times a day."
Molly made a mental note to add the mule story to her article. "So what's next, after the clay gets mixed up?"
"Well, now you've gotta pick the junk out of it. You're gonna have all kinds of stuff in there. Stuff the screens don't get out. So you need to cut it up into slabs and pick it out."
Sam picked up a block of clay and sliced into it with a wire.
"Banjo string," he told her, cutting a bread-sized piece of clay that revealed embedded pieces of grass and stone.
"May I?" Molly helped herself to a slab and pulled out the invasive bits of nature. The clay was cool and moist, nestling comfortably in her hand.
"Now you've got to get it ready for the wheel. That means a good beating."
Molly jumped as Sam slapped their combined pieces onto the worktable. He picked up the mass, pushed it together, and slammed it down again and again.
"That looks positively therapeutic," Molly said.
"It helps
after a weekend of not selling a single thing."
Once the clay was worked into the right plasticity, Sam slapped it on the wheel.
"This is the hard part." Sam gestured to her to approach the wheel. "Give it a try."
He issued instructions on how to use the foot pedal, and as she pushed down on it the wheel sprung into action, and the clay mass lunged sideways, seeking a means of escape.
"Whoa, slow down there," Sam laughed, easing her foot off the pedal. "Now let's give this guy a shower."
Molly cupped the clay lightly in her hands as Sam drizzled it with water. As she spun the wheel, it moved through her fingers like the smooth back of a snake.
"Now, you can't go gentle with it. Gotta treat it like a spoilt child due for a lickin'. Cup it hard with the insides of your palms, I'm gonna help you center it."
Sam guided her hands and touched places on her forearms where she needed to use some sleeping muscles to coax the clay to the center of the wheel. Molly was surprised at the strength it took to force the clay against its will to move from the spot where it was placed originally. Now she understood why all the potters had arms like Pop-eye the Sailor.
"Good. Now I'm gonna open it up for you."
Sam leaned over the opposite side of the wheel with a tool comprised of a board with a metal ball in the middle. He pressured the ball into the top of the clay's mass, and an open mouth sprang into the clay's center, yawning crookedly as Molly tried to control the body with one hand and widen the mouth with the other. Her novice hands were no match for the clay. It bucked and kicked out like a rodeo pony, and she grew frustrated as she tried to bring it under the rein of her palms.
"This is hard," she said, forcing out a laugh. She was disappointed that she didn't have more skill.
"Yep. Takes years to really figure it all out. How does the clay feel?"
"Like it's alive. It sure has a mind of its own. I definitely respect it, but I'm mad at it too. It’s not doing what's in my mind's eye."
Sam chuckled. "Well, that's your first lesson. You don't think when your hands are on the clay. You let go—your body moves its body."
Molly watched in a semi hypnotic state as Sam pulled up her floppy bowl into an oblong shape and closed up the mouth into a thin neck. His hands moved slowly, with deliberate grace, and the clay immediately recognized him as a master and fell obedient.
"Let's put a handle on," he said.
Sam showed her how to slice a strip of clay for the handle. After he applied it to the jug, he slipped wire under the piece’s bottom and picked it up with large, wooden tongs. The simple implements reminded Molly of how men had moved ice blocks one hundred years ago. It was an interesting image considering potters now used them to carry a wet, fragile vessel that could last for a century or more once it was burned by the kiln.
"Wanna make a face?" Sam asked.
"Sure, how about a devil?"
"We'll have to let the jug dry a bit first. Come on into the house and I'll show you my collection."
They gave their hands a cursory washing in the rain barrel and moved on up to the large log cabin nuzzling a grove of pines. Sam's collection was held in the front room. He showed her face jugs from his father and grandfather's time and other family pieces dating before the Civil War. The greenish glaze, flaked with imperfections, was the same he now used. It looked much like C. C.'s, which made sense since both men worked together as apprentices when they were young.
On another bookcase, Sam had collected various pieces from other Seagrove potters. Molly recognized a Billy Ray Hussey lion and a water pitcher made by the Cole family, but the shelf of Jack Graham pieces immediately drew her attention away from all the others.
"I think he's wonderful," she said, admiring a crimson vase.
"These are early ones." Sam tilted the vase upside down to show her the kiln number. It was from kiln number 5. That would be way back in the early eighties."
"You must have been at the same openings as George- Bradley. I just saw his collection."
Sam nodded. "Oh sure, he'd never miss a Jack Graham sale."
"He missed number 43," Molly said.
Sam frowned, looking down on his collection. "I don't have any from that kiln opening either."
Molly started. Here were two men who never missed a Graham kiln opening, yet neither one had made it to the event debuting kiln 43?
"Was there something wrong with that batch?" she asked Sam.
A dark shadow passed across Sam's face, and without his customary smile, he suddenly looked older. He replaced the vase, hiding his exposed emotion by turning away from Molly.
"I just don't really recall. It was over two years ago." Sam's face was swept clean by the time he stood back up and gave her a little grin. Sam was lying—she could tell. What had he remembered at that moment about kiln 43?
Molly pointed to a humdrum brown vase that appeared to be identical to the two in George-Bradley's collection.
"Are those from later kilns?" she asked, amazed that the potter who had created such stunning work could suddenly produce something so bland.
"Yes. That's all he's made in the last two years. Brown vases. He gives them to C. C. to sell, but mostly a chain of florists from Winston-Salem buys them up. He doesn't sell to the public himself anymore. He's gone back to being a welder. Now," Sam said, obviously wanting to change the subject. "I've got some old Jugtown pieces on the bottom shelf, did you see those?"
Molly decided to press Sam just once more. "I would love to interview Jack. I want to see how he gets his forms so symmetrical," she said, trying to sound innocent.
Sam turned his gentle, frank face to her. "He’s not gonna talk to you."
Molly was surprised by Sam’s certainty. "Why not?"
"He just doesn't do interviews anymore."
"Oh." Molly wished the potter would offer more information, but he was moving toward the door. Not wanting to push her friend any further, Molly reminded Sam that her jug was incomplete.
Sam perked up and said, "Let's make that face."
Molly found she had some skill at creating the facial features. Using a knife, she cut ears, a nose, brows, and lips from a slice of clay. Sam showed her how to score, but he seemed distracted, his eyes wandering over to the edge of the woods. Memories were swarming around him like bees. She could practically hear them buzzing through the loops and curves of his cerebellum.
Molly applied two horns and poked shallow eyeholes using a pencil. Then Sam showed her how to cut pieces of broken dishes for the teeth. She made them especially jagged and pointy, to complement the devil's fierce scowl.
"When you're in town next, you can pick him up. What color do you want to glaze him?'
"Really?" Molly couldn't hide her pleasure. She decided to give the jug to Matt once it was fired. "A nice, deep blue. I'm going to give him to a coworker. He's a Duke Blue Devils fan."
"Oh dear." Sam shook his head in mock sorrow. "There's only one basketball team in this state, and I believe they're called the UNC Tarheels."
Molly swept her arm around the building and said, "Well, I see some devils here, but I don't see a single ram."
"I'll get right to work on that." Sam laughed heartily.
Molly cleaned herself off again and got ready to go. She thanked Sam for his time and for introducing her to the wheel.
"You oughta give it a shot. Takes some time to get used to, but it's hard to stop once you start."
Molly shook her head. "I like it, I just don't think I'd be any good."
"It's in you, I can tell," Sam said seriously.
Molly glowed. "I think I will look into taking a class at the Cultural Arts Center. Thanks, Sam."
He walked her to her car, hands in overall pockets.
"Molly," Sam said as he opened her car door, "Jack Graham won't give interviews because he and his wife had some real trouble a couple of years ago. It's changed him.
He's not the same man he used to be. I'm just telling you so you don't go
callin' him."
Molly couldn't tell whether he was worried for her sake or for Jack's.
"All right, I won't," she promised.
He seemed relieved. Backing down the driveway, she waved at the small, sweet man in mud-stained overalls.
Back on the main road, Molly's brain was spinning. Something happened with kiln number 43, but what? Was it an event that would make a good article? Or was it something more sinister?
Sam's phrase followed after her like a cloud of dust: They had some real trouble. It's changed him.
Trouble.
The word rumbled through her air conditioner and overpowered the music from the radio. It sat in the stifling air under the black leather seats and fogged up the windows with its weighted humidity. Molly rolled down the windows to let it out, but it refused to budge.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 9
The way of clay is to understand the nature of clay, its wonderful plastic response when handled with love and care, and its collapse and disintegration when maltreated, overworked and strained beyond its capabilities.
— HARRY MEMMOTT, from Discovering Pottery
Inspired by her trip to Sam s, Molly headed for the closest mega sized bookstore to learn more about the background of pottery making. Armed with a stack of heavy books and a cinnamon latte, Molly passed the afternoon lazily as she read up on wheel techniques, kiln building, and glaze recipes.
As Molly sat drinking her second cup of overpriced coffee, two young women sat down next to her and began poring hungrily over bridal magazines. One of them had apparently just gotten engaged and the other was her future maid of honor. Molly was distracted by their cries of "Look at this one!" as they ogled expensive dresses or squealed over the leg-of-mutton sleeves on some awful, fuchsia-hued bridesmaid dress.
Soon, the floor space between their two tables was littered with a pile of books and magazines opened to glossy pages of glowing brides, flower-rimmed wedding cakes, and glittering engagement rings the size of small icebergs. Molly glanced down at one of the magazine covers featuring an article called "Fashion for Older Brides: Ages 30-40."
A Killer Collection Page 10