The Cracked Pot

The

Cracked Pot

Melissa Glazer

Handle with care . . .

I hadn't done a raku firing in some time, and I realized I'd like to. The process was simple and offered spectacular results. I'd take pieces we'd already bisque fired, then after glazing them, bring them to my backyard, where I had my equipment set up. After a quick firing in my outdoor gas-fed brick kiln, I'd pull out the red-hot pots and bury them in wood shavings or wadded-up newspaper. Thermal shock caused the glazes to shrink and crackle. It was a process I loved, partly because there was no way to exactly predict what the end result would look like.

Leaves had collected in the pit area where I moved the pieces after their firings; I'd need to clean up the area if I was going to fire again.

As I walked closer to the pit, I noticed the leaf pile had a peculiar shape to it. It was as if—no, it couldn't be. I brushed a few leaves from the pile, and my worst fears were confirmed . . .

Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Melissa Glazer

A Murderous Glaze

The Cracked Pot

The

Cracked Pot

Melissa Glazer

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business es tablishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsiblity for author or third-party websites or their content.

Kilns, cutting knives, and other craft tools can be hazardous, if used carelessly. All participants in such craft activities must assume responsibility for their own actions and safety. The information contained in this book cannot replace sound judgment and good decision making, which can help reduce risk exposure, nor does the scope of this book allow for disclosure of all the potential hazards and risks involved in such activities.

THE CRACKED POT

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2008 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

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ISBN: 1-43621757-1 BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

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For my agent, John Talbot.

"Thanks for everything."

Chapter
1

I've lost a great many things in my life, including my tem per, my car keys, my mind, and—a long, long time ago— my virginity, but I'd never lost an entire person before Charles Potter came into my life. Or didn't. I know it sounds confusing, but the truth sometimes is.

Let me assure you, there are some things that are certain in my life. My name is Carolyn Emerson, and I run a paintyour-own pottery shop called Fire at Will in the quaint little town of Maple Ridge, Vermont. I've been married to the same man for nearly thirty years, I've got a great assistant, a nearly perfect best friend, and a group of potters known as the Firing Squad who are always there when I need them. And before it became clear exactly how and why the man who called himself Charles Potter disappeared, I would have to lean on every last one of them.

* * *

"Is he here yet?" my assistant David asked breathlessly as he rushed into Fire at Will. Barely into his twenties, David was a nice-looking young man who just happened to have a long blond ponytail that was still hard for me to get used to seeing on a guy. Tall and a little on the skinny side, David had fingers that any potter would covet, long and slim with a strength to tame the wildest clay. "I didn't miss him, did I?"

"Honestly, David, he's not a rock star. He's a potter, just like you are."

"Come on," David said, "he's Charles Potter. That man can do things with clay I can only dream about."

"I know, I know, he's your hero, but to be honest with you, he didn't sound like a hero when I talked to him yester day. He was kind of scatterbrained." At David's urging, I'd called Mr. Potter and asked him to come by the shop before his presentation at Travers College, the small liberal arts school on the edge of town. To my surprise, he'd agreed. He was giving a lecture and demonstration at Travers later that night, but he said he'd be delighted to come by Fire at Will on the way. I glanced at the clock and saw that he was now a half hour late. David had gone to the bank for me earlier, al beit reluctantly, and now, waiting on the potter's appear ance, he was panting like a dog after a steak.