As Molly climbed into back of the car to dig out plastic bins, Bunny suddenly appeared at Susan's side. Inside the SUV, Molly pivoted her body to watch as Bunny raised her hand and pointed a shiny, manicured talon at Susan's chest.
"How dare you!" Bunny breathed heavily. "How dare you show up here and bid on my husband's things!"
Susan was completely unruffled. She looked Bunny up and down in disgust and shook her coiffed crown of hair. "Last time I checked, this was a public auction."
"You piece of trash. I know where you came from. People like you never shake off the trailer park dirt, no matter what you drive or wear." Bunny waved at Susan's clothes in dismissal.
Through the open car door, Molly could see the heat rise in Susan's face. The "trailer park" comment had hit home.
"You husband didn't seem to mind," Susan retorted in a low, taunting voice. Then she ran her hands over her small hips and smiled evilly.
Bunny looked as if an arrow had struck her straight through the heart. Molly was afraid that the malicious look on Bunny's face meant she was about to do something rash. Instead, she simply hissed, "You were just another thing he collected!"
Turning away, Bunny seemed to think of one more verbal dagger she could thrust into Susan. "By the way," she said, turning back to Susan and grinning slyly, "My lawyer paid me a visit this week. You know, to review my husband's estate. He gave me a sealed letter that George-Bradley had left for me to read in the event he should die before me. I found it most interesting. Do you want to know what it said?"
Susan stood silently, her face empty of expression. She looked as though she had forgotten how to breathe.
And then, leaning in as if she were going to kiss Susan on the cheek. Bunny began whispering something into her ear. Molly brazenly scooted over the warm surface of Susan's leather seat in order to get closer to the open door, but the only thing she was able to catch was "your little car ride in the backwoods that day."
Susan's face, which had been screwed up in anger, rapidly blanched chalk white and her eyes grew round in shock. She stood rooted to the ground, fists clenched at her sides like a hoplite statue. All the fight was gone from her. Triumphant, Bunny walked away, slowly and with careful dignity. Molly saw her opportunity to leave, grabbed her bins as quietly as possible, and scurried back to the gallery.
As she watched Susan drive off with all her pottery left behind, Clara came to stand beside her.
"Susan left without her pottery!" Clara exclaimed. Sinking down into the nearest chair, she mused tiredly, "Who won that fight, I wonder."
Molly thought about the circumstances that had driven the opposing women together. Bunny was now a widow, desperately trying to hold on to her public image as George-Bradley's happy wife. Susan, whose passion for pottery had once united her with the same man, now sought to buy all the pieces George-Bradley had owned.
Somehow, Susan's relationship with George-Bradley had soured. They had become rivals, fighting over pottery at C. C.'s kiln opening like two children squabbling over a toy in the playground.
What had Bunny whispered about a "car ride" to elicit such a powerful reaction? It must have meant something awful to Susan to make her leave behind thousands of dollars of pottery, even temporarily.
Molly sighed, thinking about her first impression of George-Bradley. He had been rude, lecherous, and greedy. Why would any woman fight over a man like him?
She shrugged. "No one won. Ma. In fact, I think that was just Round One."
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 12
Pottery making is a discipline that, once one is thoroughly hooked, is like an addiction and almost impossible to separate from.
—ROBIN HOPPER, from Functional Pottery Form and Aesthetic in Pots of Purose
Late that afternoon, Molly reviewed the note cards scattered in an arc across her desk space. After carefully forming the outline for her next article, she planned to go home and spend the rest of the day reading out on her cozy deck. "Hello, love." Clayton stood before her wearing a pink and blue striped shirt and designer jeans with cowboy boots.
"You always look so good, Clayton."
"Honey, you look like last week's wash. Look at your nails. You have been terribly negligent of those cuticles," Clayton admonished her. “I believe a spa day is in order.”
"Doesn't anyone take a day off around here?" Molly asked testily.
'Temper, temper. I just sashayed over to share some exciting news about that Keane fellow. See, I was on having a lovely phone conversation with darling Francis over at the Sun Times and oh, that boy has the face of an—"
"Clayton! Don't be a tease," Molly interrupted him.
Clayton sulked. He liked to build up his story before getting to the good bits of gossip.
"All right, I'm sorry. Tell me about Keane now and then you can go into minute detail about Francis and his many attractions over a cappuccino after work. My treat," added Molly.
Clayton relented. "Yummy. And since I can't resist your wide-eyed pleading look, it's a deal. So! It seems that Keane got his liquor on pretty early the day he nearly hit that jogger. Started out at a truck stop where he was giving a little lift to his coffee out of a flask. From there, he ended up drinking beer at some pool hall that calls itself a restaurant. Heading back to his seedy motel, where he's been holed up for the last week, he almost hit that marathon man." Clayton grimaced in distaste. "I mean, Sweet Jesus, who stays in a motel anymore? Hello? Book a hotel, with an ‘h’."
"Was this seedy motel in Asheboro?"
Clayton paused to think. "No. Just outside Hendersonville. The waitresses at the truck stop all remembered him because he came in every morning to drink coffee laced with bourbon. Thing is, the little dear could never get the cap back on his bourbon flask. Bad case of the shakes, I guess."
"Not exactly, " Molly said. "Keane was acting like a guilty man who happens to be afflicted with rheumatoid arthritis. He may have stolen pottery, but now I know he couldn't have killed George-Bradley. It’s a wonder he could drive at all with those hands."
Molly was finished viewing Keane as a murder suspect. Clara was right. Keane was interested in pottery, not violence. He was guilty of greed and a stringent case of envy, but Molly believed Bunny or Susan had given George-Bradley the extra dose of insulin. Poison was more of a woman’s method anyway and Molly considered an overdose just another means of poisoning the body.
Her thoughts turned back to the scene from the auction. She recalled Bunny's menacing whisper and Susan's shocked face. What else had George-Bradley written in that letter?
And the calm rage Bunny had exhibited was certainly a side of the widow that Molly hadn't guessed the older woman possessed. Bunny must have committed the murder. She was alone in the house with her husband and was the only other person who had access to his medicine. Of course she had wanted revenge. Her husband had made fool of her for years. But why now? Molly needed to get into Bunny's house and find out more about George-Bradley's widow. It was time to arrange an interview with Mrs. Staunton.
"Miss Molly," Clayton interrupted her thoughts, "I do believe you haven't listened to a word I was saying. Let's go get that cappuccino and a manicure. I can see that you need a break."
"You're right. Let me just check my messages first. I forgot to listen to them yesterday."
There was only one new voice mail message. As Molly listened, a muffled voice began to speak in a near whisper. A flat, cold tone filled with malice hissed through the receiver. "Stay out of things that don't concern you," the voice threatened slowly. "Some stones are better left unturned. If you don't butt out, you'll be sorry. I’ll be watching you." The message ended.
"Molly? Honey?" She heard Clayton's voice as if from a long way off.
She handed him the phone and replayed the message.
"Mother Mary and all the Saints!" Clayton cried, dropping the phone as if it were on fire. His hands fluttered in the air like startled birds as he shrieked, "We've got to call the pol
ice!"
Clayton dialed and released a loud and frantic tirade to the unfortunate soul who answered the phone.
Wanting to avoid listening to the message again, Molly walked numbly to the ladies' room where she splashed cold water on her face and tried to digest the threatening message. It had not sounded familiar; the voice was too muffled to be distinctive. She couldn't even tell if it had been a man or a woman. It had been recorded last night, but that meant nothing. She needed to sit down and think this through.
Who had she talked to about her theories? Only to people she knew well. So who had called her? Bunny? She had no idea Molly suspected her of murder. Susan? Could Susan have killed George-Bradley and Bunny had discovered proof within the letter? Was that the frightening secret Bunny had whispered in Susan's ear?
There were no clear answers and none of Molly’s theories explained why she’d received the call last night.
Clayton suddenly interrupted her thoughts in his full dramatic glory. He flung open the restroom door with a cry and dragged her into the break room. Clucking like a mother hen, he plied Molly with coffee and a stale cheese Danish and wrung his hands over her until a policeman arrived.
Molly issued a brief statement, and though Clayton did his best to elevate the seriousness of the matter, the policeman didn't seem overwhelmingly concerned.
"Press people get anonymous threats all the time," he said flatly, removing one of Clayton's hands from his arm. "Usually not at newspapers writing articles on old stuff, but it happens. Just let me know if it you get another call." He turned to Molly, giving her his card. “Seems like it was from a throw-away cell phone, so we have no way to trace it. Probably some kid getting his kicks by crank calling people.”
"Thanks," Molly mumbled, taking his card. She was relieved that she hadn’t shared that the threatening call was undoubtedly related to George-Bradley’s murder. The policeman would probably assume she was reading too many mysteries and was only looking for attention.
Clayton followed him out, gushing about the shock it had caused him. Molly heard a third voice enter the conversation as she stacked her index cards and packed her bag to go home. It was Matt's soft tenor coming from the lobby.
"Are you all right?" he said, appearing at her side, his face creased in concern.
Thinking back to his leggy blonde visitor, Molly replied without meeting his eyes. "Yes, I'm fine."
As she picked up her bag and moved to leave, Matt blocked her path. Startled, she looked up at him.
"Clayton told me what happened. He's a wreck, but I'm worried about you. Can't I do something?" he asked.
"No." Her voice softened. Matt really was a nice guy, even if he had a girlfriend. "Thank you, though."
"I don't think you should be alone tonight. Do you feel up to going out for dinner?"
"Can't. I already promised my mother I'd come over. And to be honest," Molly began, eyeing Matt shrewdly, "I'd like to go out to dinner with you, but I'm not sure that blonde I saw you with the other day would approve."
Matt looked confused, and then laughed aloud as if Molly had delivered the punch line to a great joke. "Amy? Amy Byrd? That was a business meeting. Amy's a rep for Grant's Auction House over in Wilson. They are going to start running full-page ads with the paper every week. She's not my girlfriend."
"Oh." Molly was embarrassed. "It's just that I heard her saying she'd see you later that night and I assumed..."
"We were both invited to a party for one of my med school friends. She's dating an old buddy of mine. I wish she wasn't dating him, though, because she's an awful flirt. But I’m not in the least but attracted to her." He smiled at Molly, "I don't go in for stick figures."
"What a lovely thing to say, Matt Harrison." Molly was pleased. She forgot all about the intimidating message as she gazed into his twinkling blue eyes. "And just what is your type?" She was astonished by her boldness.
Matt opened his mouth and spoke as many words in one breath as she had heard him utter in the two years they’d worked for the same paper. "I like a woman with smarts. Someone with a good heart and a quick laugh. I like a woman to look like a woman. Someone who will eat dinner with you instead of pushing two pieces of lettuce around on her plate while she looks around to see who might be admiring her. I like a woman who believes in family, friends, and the American flag. A woman who has framed photos of her cats on her desk." Matt exhaled. He looked as surprised as Molly by the length of his monologue. "I like a woman like you. You're my type," he finished with a soft whisper and then leaned in to kiss her.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 13
Despite the falling rain and crackling of the flames, everyone heard the detonations . . . Generally it is the larger, thicker-walled wares that suffer the most; the smaller pots in the case showed no damage at all.
—CHARLES G. ZUG III, from Turners and Burners
Monday morning dawned at the Staunton Estate without its usual birdsong and squirrel chatter. Instead, a row of pickups and workmen in jeans broke the pastoral tranquility with the sharp staccato of hammering, the whine of hand-held saws, and the crackling of snapping wood.
Two men in jeans and black T-shirts carried the massive shelves that once held George-Bradley's pottery collection outside. Handmade from solid walnut, they were both heavy and attractive, but Bunny told the foreman he could keep the whole lot.
"What's Walt gonna do with these?" one worker asked another.
"Use 'em," grunted the second beneath the weight of the shelves, "for books."
"Books?" The first man laughed as they slid the shelves onto the bed of one of the trucks.
"He's a Civil War buff, remember?"
The two men headed back inside. The oriental rugs in the main hall had been removed and sheets of plastic covered the hardwood floors. A thin layer of dust had already settled upon the sheet, and the buzz of power tools grew louder inside the wing where George-Bradley had once spent most of his free time.
Inside the music room, two men were ripping up the dark brown carpet and rolling it in wide strips to be hauled outside. In the office, the last of the shelves was being removed while two men stood over the massive mahogany desk and admired its waxy surface. The drawers were still stuffed with stationary, rubber bands, staples, and sundry supplies.
"Hey chief!" one of the men called out.
A tall man wearing a short-sleeved, plaid button-down stepped inside. He removed his John Deere baseball cap, wiped the sweat from his brow, and surveyed the room.
"What've you boys got?"
"What's the plan for this desk?"
The foreman, Walter Hogue, ran his calloused fingers over the leather and wood desktop. He understood, without being knowledgeable about antiques, that the piece had been made by hand. The workmanship was so fine that he had trouble finding the joinery.
"Hidden dovetails." He nodded in admiration. He stood and gestured outside. "Unfortunately, it goes out to the garage for now. The lady doesn't want anything left in this area."
"Just clear the whole place out, is that the plan?" one of the men asked.
"Yep. Seems the lady's sister is moving in and this is going to be her part of the house."
"Shoot, there's enough room upstairs to house the whole choir of Shady Grove Baptist, why go through all this renovation?"
Walt shrugged his wide, bony shoulders. "Don't know. Everyone needs their own space, I guess. Anyway, when the customers pay in cash, I don’t ask too many questions."
"Well, it's her money." The two men strained under the weight of the desk and Walt jumped in to lend a hand.
Passing the library, he noticed the rest of his crew standing in a group before the wall facing the window.
"Y'all studying something?" he called out. “We’re being paid to work, not to sightsee."
One of the workers pointed at the fine mahogany wall paneling with his sledgehammer. "Chief, are we really supposed to tear all this out?"
Another man lifted his crowbar.
"It seems crazy to dig into this stuff. It must of cost a fortune. Are you sure she wants it all smashed to bits?"
Walt gazed around the room again. He had gone over every detail with Mrs. Staunton, making sure that he had a crystal clear understanding of her instructions. Yet it wouldn't do to make a mistake when it came to such fine paneling. He had asked her the same question. Such excellent and costly workmanship—was she sure she wanted it removed? But Mrs. Staunton replied that she was positive. She’d even handed him a can of paint called perky periwinkle to use on the newly stripped walls.
"Look boys, the lady said all this wood made the room too dark and too masculine for her sister, so she wants it out. We're painting these walls purple."
"Chief." The man with the sledgehammer shook his head solemnly. "It's a sheer crime, that’s what it is."
"I know. Let me do the hard part for you." Walt grabbed the hammer and swung it into the nearest wood panel. A gaping hole of splintered wood appeared. He grabbed the edges around the hole and pulled, tearing out slices of wood and throwing them in the center of the room.
"Ouch," one of his men murmured, then dug his crowbar around the seams, splitting wood and popping out nails.
Walt returned the tool to its owner and pointed at the gaping rent in the polished paneling. "Spell's broken. Get going."
Shaking his head at the destruction of such a fine room, Walt returned to the garage where other members of his crew had carried the desk. They stood beside it, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Walt was annoyed to find his workers idle.
"Waitin' on keys, chief," one of them quickly volunteered. "Door's locked."
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