The Cracked Pot

by Melissa Glazer

  "I think you've done enough damage for the moment," I said as I hurried back inside Fire at Will.

  I tried Hannah's office, and I thought I'd missed her, but she picked up after the seventh ring.

  "It's me," I said.

  "Make it dance, Carolyn, I've got a class in seven min utes."

  "Your ex-husband is back in town."

  She must have dropped the phone, from the way it sounded. I asked, "Hannah? Are you all right?"

  After a second, she came back on the line and said, "I'm fine. Where did you see him?"

  "He's standing right in front of me. He came into my shop a few minutes ago, and before I could stop him, he in troduced himself to David."

  I heard nothing but silence on the other end of the phone, not even breathing. "Hannah, are you there?"

  "What did David do?" she asked softly.

  "He ran away. I'm sorry, I couldn't stop him. I thought you should know."

  "Thanks. Let me talk to Richard."

  I looked at him as I said, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

  "Put him on."

  "Take it," I said to Richard, offering him the phone.

  Richard looked as though he'd rather take a beating than my telephone, but after a few seconds, he accepted it.

  I don't know what Hannah said to him, but it must have been flame broiled. The man turned three shades of white, and then suddenly his face erupted in red before he handed the telephone back to me and started for the door.

  "Where are you going?" I asked him as he rushed out.

  "I'm going to find my son."

  "Hannah, are you still there?" I asked into the receiver. Nothing. No doubt she'd hung up after delivering her scathing message.

  I wanted to follow Richard and help find my assistant, but I had no idea where David might have gone, or what to say to him even if I did find him. There was nothing I could do but be there in case he came back to the shop.

  I called Bill to tell him what had happened, but he didn't answer the phone. I left him a message to call me as soon as he got it, and hung up.

  The door chimed just then, and I half-expected to see David or Richard walk in. To my surprise, it was Sheriff Hodges, and he had a scowl on his face that was darker than usual.

  "I've got some news about that car," he said.

  "It belongs to Richard Atkins," I said before he could continue.

  "If you knew that, why didn't you tell me last night?" He looked angry enough to lock me up, which wasn't all that odd for him. "You could have saved me a great deal of time and energy."

  "I just found out myself. He was here to talk to David."

  "How did the boy react?"

  "How do you think? He tore off like his shoes were on fire. He's never met the man."

  The sheriff shrugged. "That's tough, but at least he's still alive."

  "I'm not sure for how long. When I told Hannah her exhusband was back in town, she was ready to kill him."

  Hodges put his hand back on the front door. "Tell her to watch her temper. We don't need any more violence around here."

  I rolled my eyes as he left, and wondered yet again how the man managed to get reelected time after time.

  The phone rang, and it was Bill. "What's going on? I just got your message. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. I thought you should know that I found out who really owned the car that was parked in front of our house last night."

  "Did the sheriff come by and tell you?" he asked.

  "I knew it before he did," I said, trying not to sound too smug.

  "Carolyn, have you been snooping again? That's a bad habit that's going to get you in big trouble someday if you're not careful."

  "Thanks for the lecture. Now, do you want to hear what I found out or not?"

  "I already know it belongs to Richard Atkins," he said.

  "How on earth did you know that?" Honestly, the man drove me absolutely mad sometimes.

  "The sheriff came by first and told me."

  "Here's something I'm willing to bet you don't know," I said. "He's also Charles Potter."

  "Who are you talking about? You don't mean Sheriff Hodges, do you? Have you been smelling fumes from the kilns again?"

  "No, you nit, I'm talking about Richard Atkins. He made up the name to hide his identity."

  Bill said, "Hannah's going to have little baby kittens when she finds out. Carolyn, I know how much you love to meddle, but stay out of this."

  "It's too late for that. I already called her."

  Bill sighed heavily. "How did she react?"

  "She wants to kill him."

  "You know what? I don't blame her a bit. Does David know?"

  A customer walked in, and I held up a hand. "I'll be right with you," I said to her. "Bill, I've got to go."

  "Did you tell David?" Bill asked again.

  "No, Richard did that himself, right here in the shop. Good-bye, Bill."

  "Call me right back," he said as I hung up.

  "May I help you?" I asked my new customer.

  The woman, a petite young thing who would probably be swallowed by a size 0, pointed to the display window. "I was wondering if you gift-wrapped."

  "We can, for a nominal fee," I said. "Which piece are you interested in?"

  She pointed to the Japanese tea set Robert Owens had created. "I'll take that."

  "Wouldn't you like to know the price first?" Owens was charging an outlandish premium for the set, and I didn't want to shock the girl when I rang up the sale.

  "It doesn't matter. It's for my mother. It's her birthday."

  I told her the price just the same, but she didn't even flinch. "That's fine. When can I pick it up?"

  Maybe I should have jacked the price up a little. I would make a nice commission on the sale, but every little bit helped. "I'll have it ready in ten minutes, if you can wait that long."

  "I'd be delighted. I'll browse around while you wrap it."

  I ran her card through the register, and after she signed the receipt, I boxed up the set and wrapped it. While I worked, she kept returning to the window for more items, and by the time I was finished ringing her up, she had just about wiped out the display. The only omission was my work. Out of everything she'd purchased, there wasn't a single ornament. In a fit of largesse, I retrieved one of my prettiest pieces and added it to her stack.

  "I don't want that," she said.

  "It's on the house," I said. "You get one free with every purchase over five hundred dollars."

  She plucked it from the pile, a look of distaste on her face as she handed it back to me. "That's all right. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not."

  I wanted to kick her out onto the curb in that instant, but the commissions I'd make on the sales would more than make up for my hurt feelings. Plastering a smile on my face I didn't feel, I boxed everything up, and when she wasn't looking, I slipped the ornament back into one of her bags. What could she do, return it?

  Hannah stormed into the shop two minutes after the young woman left. "Where's my son?"

  "I wish I knew. Hannah, I'm so sorry. Richard just showed up and blurted out that he was David's father."

  "I'll deal with him later," she said, with murder in her voice. "I just have to make sure David's all right first."

  "He didn't come back here," I said. "You might want to call Annie."

  I knew David's new girlfriend was a bone of contention between the two of them, but I never realized how deep the conflict was until Hannah said, "That's all right; I'll find him on my own."

  "Swallow your pride and call her," I snapped. "She might be able to help, and you can't afford to be stubborn about this."

  Hannah glared at me for several seconds, then calmly asked, "Do you have her number?"

  "I can ask her if she's heard from David myself, if you'd like," I said as I dialed Annie's cell phone.

  "No, that's all right. I'll talk to her," she said.

  After a few moments of whispered conve
rsation, Han nah handed the telephone back to me. "He's not with her, but she's going to call if he turns up."

  As Hannah started to leave, I asked, "Where are you go ing?"

  "I know his favorite places in Maple Ridge. If anyone can find him, I can."

  I touched her arm lightly. "If you find Richard first, don't do anything rash."

  "I'm not making any promises," she said, and then she was gone.

  I hadn't even had the chance to tell her that Richard was going by the name Charles Potter, if it was indeed the truth. All of that would come out soon enough. Hannah was right. The only thing that mattered at the moment was that she find her son.

  An older man with a luxuriant gray mustache and an ele gant three-piece suit walked into the shop. "Are you open for business?"

  "Certainly," I said. "How may I help you?"

  "Are you sure you're open?"

  Was he deaf? "Yes. Why am I having trouble convincing you of it?"

  "Your front window's empty," he said, gesturing to the uncluttered space up front. I hadn't had a chance to restock the display.

  "I'm trying to decide what to feature next," I said.

  "I'd put something there, if I were you. I nearly passed on by the place."

  "But you didn't, did you? Are you looking for a gift?"

  He looked around. "Is this a gift shop? I thought it was a pottery painting place."

  "It is," I said, though I couldn't imagine this man paint ing a bowl or a mug.

  "I don't want to do that," he said stuffily.

  "You don't want to buy anything or paint anything. I'm curious. Why exactly did you come in?"

  "Perhaps I've made a mistake."

  I had another thought. "If you're looking for a rifle or an antique pistol, you have."

  He looked quizzically at me. "Now why on earth would you assume that?"

  "It's the name," I said, gesturing to the sign out front. "Some folks think Fire at Will means we're a gun shop."

  "Then they're idiots," he said soundly.

  I still had no idea why he was in my shop, and I won dered if I'd ever know. I decided to wait him out, and thirty seconds later, he said, "I'd like to make something out of clay. You do that here as well, don't you?"

  "Absolutely. We have pottery wheels in back."

  "I have no desire to learn to throw pots," he said in his stuffy tone.

  "Of course you don't."

  He nodded. "I'm glad we understand each other."

  I couldn't help myself. I laughed. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

  "I want to build something from clay; a house, to be pre cise. Is that something I can do here?"

  "I don't follow you."

  He looked at me as if I were insane, grabbed a paper bag with "Fire at Will" emblazoned on it, then removed a pen from his suit pocket and proceeded to sketch out a house. "Here, this is what I want to do."

  "What scale would you like to build this?"

  "Life-size, of course," he said.

  "It's a little more than I can handle in my kilns."

  The man shook his head in obvious disgust. "Why does

  no one get my humor? I want to make something about the size of a tissue box."

  "That we can do." I handed him an apron. "You need to put that on. I'd hate to get any clay on your suit."

  He shunned the apron. "I'm most careful, I assure you. I won't need that."

  "Suit yourself," I said. "I can help you with the basic shape, and then you can embellish it however you'd like. Fair enough?"

  "I believe so."

  I handed him a thick round dowel and a lump of clay. "You have to work the air out of that and get it ready."

  He studied the clay in obvious distaste without touching it. "Would you mind?"

  "Not at all." I kneaded the clay until it was a smooth con sistency and handed it to him. The only problem was, he re fused to take it. "What's next?"

  "You have to roll it out," I said.

  "Show me, please."

  If he hadn't added the "please," I would have refused, but what else did I have to do at the moment? I rolled the clay out into a wide sheet until it was about a quarter of an inch thick, my favorite thickness for hand-building. "Now cut your walls and I'll show you how to put it together."

  "I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good at that," he said.

  Why wasn't I surprised? I cut the walls, floor, and roof out of three-quarters of the clay and quickly assembled the house. "I don't have any idea how you want to embellish this, but there are plenty of tools to cut out the shapes you'd like."

  Instead of taking my not so subtle hint, he said, "Let me sketch out what I'd like."

  He quickly embellished the house he'd drawn earlier, adding window boxes, a grand front door, and a chimney along one side. "You can do this, can't you? Or is it too dif ficult?"

  "I can do it all right. But I thought you came in here to do it yourself."

  He said nothing, just kept staring at his drawing. I de cided it would be easier to do it for him than argue with him about it, and after a few seconds, I nearly forgot he was there. I added the chimney and door, then started to cut out the windows.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "I'm trying to match your windows."

  "I want it to be solid," he said. "Can't you apply win dows to the walls?"

  "Sure," I said. He was awfully picky. "How's that?"

  "Perfect," he said as he looked at the house. "Shouldn't there be shingles or something on the roof?"

  "How about a thatched roof instead?" I was really get ting into the model building.

  "No, I'd prefer shingles."

  I took my knife and scored in lines of shingles on the rooftop. "Is there anything else you'd like?"

  He studied it a moment, then said, "No, it's perfect. Do we paint it now?"

  "It has to be fired first. If you come back in a few days, we can add the coloring then."

  He frowned. "Does it really take that long?"

  "I have to wait until I have a full kiln," I explained. "It's too expensive to fire a single item."

  "I see," he said as he dipped his hand into his jacket. And why shouldn't he? The man hadn't bothered to dirty his hands the entire time he'd been in my shop. He retrieved an eel-skinned wallet and plucked a brand new hundred from it. "Will this cover your firing fee?"

  "I think so," I said as I accepted the bill.

  "Good. Then I'll see you this time tomorrow."

  He was gone before I could even get his name, but if he wanted to be anonymous, he was paying for the privilege. I had a few other pieces to fire, so I decided to do a bisquefiring immediately. It was against my normal policy, but then again, I wasn't in the habit of hand-building projects for my customers, either. If it paid that well all the time, I'd have to start, though. I was just about to close the kiln and turn it on when I realized that I really wanted to see what the cottage would look like with a thatched roof. No one was in my shop, so I had time to make a cottage of my own. I set to work, creating a cottage completely different from that my customer had designed, and the results pleased me. Maybe I'd have to add a building segment to one of my classes.

  My stomach growled as I turned the kiln on, and I real ized that I'd nearly missed lunch. With no prospect of David's return, I had two choices: I could either raid the pal try contents of my shop pantry, or I could shut the place down and go get a decent lunch. If I hadn't just earned that hundred-dollar firing fee, I might have made do with the remnants in my shop, but that bill was pure profit as far as I was concerned, and I was determined to spend it. Normally every dime I made went into my shop books, but this once, I was going to make an exception. There was a hat I'd been admiring on my strolls past Hattie's Attic, and though I wasn't all that eager to do business with that busybody Kendra Williams, I did think it would look smart on me. I got out the sign that said, "Gone to Lunch," put it in the store window, and locked up.

  As I glanced back inside to see if
I'd left any lights on, I noticed just how stark the front window really was. My gen tleman customer had been right. It wasn't very inviting; it made the shop look more like a place for lease than a going concern. My stomach growled again, but I ignored it and headed back inside.