The Cracked Pot (13 page)

He chuckled, a sound I normally enjoyed. Just not at the moment. "What's so amusing?"

"I know enough. Now quit stalling and tell me what hap pened."

"If you must know, the sheriff came into the shop and took David in with him."

"When did he finally turn up?"

"The sheriff? About ten minutes ago. Why?"

"Not the sheriff, David. Stay focused, woman."

"David came to the shop this morning."

Bill hesitated, then asked, "Are you trying to tell me he just waltzed right in there of his own free will? Why don't I believe that you didn't have a hand in it?"

"You're just not very trusting, I guess," I said.

"With reason, from the sound of it. Does Hannah know where the boy is?"

"She left here thirty seconds ago. From the way she was talking, I expect to see Clarence Darrow's heir-apparent show up at any minute. She was pretty fired up when she left."

"Wouldn't you be? I don't suppose there's a chance in the world you're going to stay out of this, is there?"

"What do you think?"

"I know, I know, that's why I said that. Just be careful, okay? There's a killer loose in town."

"Why on earth would he come after me?" I asked, hon estly startled by the premise.

"We don't know why he got Richard, do we? You could be next on his list."

"Or you," I retorted.

"Me? Why would anybody want to do me in? You're the closest thing to a threat on my life."

"Bill Emerson, why would you say something like that?" Sometimes my husband could utter the most inane things.

He laughed. "Cause you're the beneficiary on my life in surance policy."

"What is it, fifteen grand? You're worth more than that to me alive. Barely, but still."

"Hey, as long as it's in the plus column, I should be okay. If you need me, call. I'll be in my shop at the house, though, so leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"I'll be fine," I said, then I hung up the telephone. I'd grown accustomed to my husband's disappearances into his workshop. He was almost impossible to reach there, with all the constant sawing and hammering going on. I'd be in dire shape if I were depending on Bill coming to my rescue, especially if I had to get him on the telephone. My cell phone was charged enough, so I put it in my purse in case I'd need it later.

It was nearly lunch when Hannah came back to Fire at Will. She had two bags from Shelly's Café with her. "Feel like a quick bite with me?" she asked.

"That depends. Are you going to take my head off again?"

She looked contrite. "Carolyn, I'm sorry. When it comes to David, I tend to be a little overprotective sometimes."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. I'm surprised you're not with him right now. Is he still with the sheriff?"

"With the way Jenna was watching out for him? Hardly. She's quite vigorous defending him."

"So you're not getting a hired gun from New York or Los Angeles?"

"What gave you that idea?"

"When you left here, you said you were going for a le gal-eagle gunslinger."

Hannah smiled. "I got one, too, didn't I?"

"David hired Jenna, remember?"

She snorted. "Does it really matter who chose her? They're back at Jenna's house now, deciding how to handle this. I was asked to leave, since the attorney-client privilege doesn't extend to mothers. Now are you going to accept my apology and eat with me, or do I have to have both burgers myself?"

"I forgive you," I said as I reached for one of the bags.

"You're too easy," she said, smiling.

"Hey, what can I say, you've found the best grease there is."

"Don't you like Shelly's burgers?"

I nodded. "Of course I do. I'm not talking about that kind of grease. I mean to make an apology go smoothly. Rela tionship lubrication is what I'm referring to."

"What can I say? I do my best," she said.

As we ate, we tried not to talk about what had happened to Richard, or why the police were focusing on David. It made for a strained conversation, but by the time we were finished eating, we were both at ease with each other again. I hated when Hannah and I fought, and I always felt better when we'd patched things up.

After we cleaned up, Hannah said, "I hate to eat and run, but I've got a class to teach."

"I thought you had TAs for that," I said.

"Believe it or not, some of us in the profession actually

like to teach. Besides, my dear assistant is in love again, and that means her focus won't be on the modern novel."

"So, you feel pretty comfortable about Jenna helping David?"

"For the moment," she said. "I don't have much choice, do I? David insists that Jenna is the only lawyer he trusts, and if I'm hard-pressed, I'd probably have to agree. There's nothing I can do now, so I might as well teach my class."

I shrugged, and she must have read more into it than I'd meant to convey. "Do you think it's heartless, me teaching the day after my ex-husband died? I know women who would still be partying."

I looked her dead in the eyes. "But you're not that kind of woman, are you?"

"No, I'm not. I was devastated when Richard walked out on me, but that was a long time ago. Being with him wasn't all bad. We had our share of joy, and I got David in the bar gain. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't about to nominate him for sainthood, but I didn't hate him. Now if I could just get the sheriff to believe me."

"Has he been pressuring you as well?"

"Let's just say he's keeping an eye on me. What are you doing about the situation?"

I picked up a glazed mug and pretended to study it. "What do you mean?"

"Carolyn Emerson, there's no way on earth you're stand ing idly by. I know you too well. You're looking into Richard's murder, aren't you?"

"I might have asked a few questions around town," I ad mitted reluctantly. The sheriff had already scolded me about my behavior, and my husband had as well. I wasn't in the mood to hear it from Hannah, too.

She shocked me by saying, "Well, keep it up. Don't let anyone talk you out of it."

"Excuse me for saying so, but you're usually not this supportive when I start snooping." That was an understate ment.

"I've got a vested interest this time. Besides, if the sheriff is focusing on David and me, somebody else has to look for the real killer. Keep me posted, okay?"

"Sure," I promised.

After Hannah had gone, I wondered about her change of heart. Did she want to be notified of my progress for David's sake, or for her own? I might have to wonder about that, if I were a suspicious person, which normally I wasn't. Well, I wasn't. Okay, maybe sometimes, but only if it was merited. Anyway, it could be argued that Hannah wanted to know what I was up to so she could see if I was getting too close to the truth. Could she have had something to do with Richard's murder, despite her earlier declaration? Or did she believe in her heart that David had killed his own father in some kind of fit of rage? Nonsense, I couldn't believe it of my best friend in the world, or her son. Still, just to be cautious, I decided it couldn't hurt to keep quiet about what I found out, at least until I was able to come up with some thing definitive.

"Hi, is this where I can paint my own pottery?" a petite young woman with fine blonde hair asked as she came into the shop an hour before closing.

"This is the place," I said, trying to keep my sarcasm to myself. I looked around at the bisqueware, the bottles of paint and glaze, and the tables, and wondered what else she thought it might be. "Is there anything in particular you're interested in?"

"I think I'll look around first," she said.

"Be my guest. If there's anything you need, just let me know." I wasn't exactly worried about shoplifting, at least not from the unglazed section; some of the pieces I had on display were worth quite a bit of money, but I figured it'd be difficult for her to get a teapot under her dress, as snugly as it fit.

It was fascinating watching her study each item in turn, picking it up, looking at all sides of it, then placing it deli cately back down. Forty-five minutes later, she was still just halfway through my stock. "I'm afraid if you don't make a selection soon, there won't be time to decorate it," I told her.

She looked pensively at me. "I just hate to rush my deci sion."

"I understand," which was a total and complete lie if there ever was one. "I just thought you should know."

"Perhaps I should come back tomorrow."

People took less time to choose a mate. "I'll be here."

She thought about that another minute. "That's what I'll do then. I'll come back tomorrow."

That's what she said. What she did was just stand there, staring at the pottery she'd yet to examine. Finally, reluc tantly, she left. I couldn't wait for her return. If David man aged to come into work the next day, she was all his. Maybe with my handsome young assistant she'd make a decision in less than a month.

I normally hated to close the place early, but that woman had gotten under my skin. So what if I lost a customer or two? I flipped the sign, dead-bolted the door, then started cashing out the register.

I'd just started my report when I heard a knock at the front door. "We're closed," I called out without looking up.

"Open up the door, you daft old woman," my husband, Bill, called out from the sidewalk.

I walked over to the door, but I didn't unlock it. "You'll need to talk a little sweeter than that if you expect me to comply."

He stared at me a few seconds, as if deciding what to do, then grinned slyly. "If you don't let me in, you won't know why I'm here. Let's see your curiosity stand that."

"I can take it if you can," I said, turning my back on him. Honestly, the man should have learned by now not to order me around. I gave it thirty seconds, then turned back to him.

He was gone.

But where? I leaned out through my display window try ing to catch sight of him, but my field of vision was limited to a few squares of the sidewalk on each side of my shop. I unlocked the door, and the second I did, he popped out from next door.

"Got you," he said with delight.

"Get inside, you old goat."

"Now who needs to talk sweet?" he asked. "It's not nice, calling your husband an old goat."

"Which part do you object to, 'old' or 'goat'?"

He frowned. "Both of them. What do you think?"

"I think they fit, sometimes," I said. I noticed a few win dow-shoppers looking our way. "Now get inside. You're making a scene."

As he followed me into Fire at Will, he said, "You were the one yelling."

"I was not yelling," I said, trying to keep my voice soft. I had a tendency, when aggravated, to increase my volume, or so I've been told. I wasn't sure it was true, but enough peo ple had pointed it out that I was beginning to doubt it could be a conspiracy. "Now what is your news?"

"Speak up. I can barely hear you," Bill said, cocking one hand behind an ear.

"You heard me just fine, and you know it. What's going on?"

"I got another commission," he said. "It's for five Shaker-style nightstands for a bed-and-breakfast over in Newberry."

"Olive Haslett is working you too hard." Olive owned the business Shaker Styles where my husband was em ployed. What had started out as a hobby after his retirement had developed into a full-time job.

"Olive's got nothing to do with this," he said. "I got this order on my own."

"Do you mean to tell me you're soliciting business on the side? Don't you have enough to do?"

He said, "I thought you'd be happier about it. I'll make twice as much as I do working for Olive."

"We don't need the money," I said. "Besides, you're sup posed to be retired and enjoying yourself."

"If I had to sit on that rocking chair on the porch all day waiting for you to come home, I'd climb up on the roof just so I could throw myself off."

"Gee, thanks. I was wrong before. You know just what to say to get my heart fluttering."

He took me in his arms, something that still managed to take my breath away after all the years. "You know what I mean."

"I do," I said. "You need to stay busy to be happy."

He pulled away and smiled. "That's what I just said."

"In what language, Urdu? That might be what you meant, but it was certainly not what you said."

"Don't quibble," he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "What do you think?"

I looked at it and saw an old-fashioned wooden handplane on it, along with my husband's name and tele phone number. Above it all, in bold letters, it said, "Old-Fashioned." I handed it back to him. "Is that the best name you could come up with for your business?"

He took the card back, studied it a second, then frowned. "What's wrong with it?"

"Since I know for a fact that you're not a bartender or a spinster, I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

"It's furniture, and you know it."

I tapped the card. "I know it because I know you, but someone else might not. Why don't you add the word 'fur niture' below it, if you're stuck on the first part."

"I could write it in with a pen," he said as he looked at the card yet again.

"You will do no such thing. You're handwriting's a mess."

"You could do it, then," he said.

"I could, but I'm not going to. Let me think about it a minute." I started playing with names, trying to come up with something more clever than "Old-Fashioned." It cer tainly shouldn't be that hard. "How about 'Brand New An tiques'?"

He thought about it, then said, "Yeah, that's kind of nice. I'll have new cards made up when I run out of these."

"How many did you have made up?"

"I got a deal on a thousand. That's not bad for twenty bucks, is it?"

I reached over into the till and pulled out a twenty. "I'll trade you this bill for the rest of your cards. That way you'll break even."

"You should make it forty for me to do that," he said.

"If that's the way you're going to be, give me back my twenty and you can pay for the new ones as well."

"Not so fast. I was just kidding," he said. "You free for dinner? I feel like celebrating."