"If you want to know, ask him, not me." There was an overhead page, and the nurse I'd been speaking with abruptly turned to the one who had smiled at me and said, "Betty, that's for me. Take over."
After she was gone, I looked at her replacement. "I don't suppose you could help me."
"We're not allowed to give out any information that in volves the police. I'm sorry."
"That's all right," I said. I hadn't expected to learn any thing, but it hadn't hurt to ask.
I was ready to find a seat again when she said, "You're Carolyn Emerson, aren't you? Don't you run Fire at Will?"
I admitted as much. "Have you ever been in? I don't rec ognize you."
"No, but I've been meaning to come by. Isn't Rose Col ored Glasses near your place?"
"It's just down the River Walk," I said. "Do you shop there?"
"No, I'm new in town. Would you do me a favor? The owner, Rose Nygren, was here a few nights ago, and she left her reading glasses in the waiting area," Betty said. "I've been meaning to return them, but I haven't had the chance. She seems like a nice lady."
"She can be," I said. "I'd be happy to return them for you." As I took the glasses, the magnitude of her words hit home. "Did you say two nights ago?"
"Yes, she brought a friend of hers in to be seen. She must have sat in that waiting room three hours waiting for Mrs. Sampson. Who knows? It could have been longer than that. She was here when my shift started at seven, I know that much."
"Are you saying she was here the entire time?" I asked.
The nurse frowned, then said, "I really couldn't swear to it. Things were kind of crazy that night, so I wasn't keeping tabs on her. But yeah, I think so."
"Thanks," I said as I returned to my seat. Did that mean that Rose had an alibi on the night of the murder? My house was less than five minutes away from the hospital. Did she have time to sneak out, club Richard in my backyard, then make it back here without anyone noticing she was gone? I looked around the room, trying to see if the nurse's station offered a view of the entire waiting area; a few large plants and a television definitely blocked the view. It certainly gave me something to consider. I'd learned earlier that someone had beaten Richard to death, a particularly hide ous way to die. How much did you have to hate someone to bludgeon him to death?
I was still pondering the possibilities when I heard Bill's voice. "Are you going with me, or would you like to hang around here all afternoon?"
"What did the doctor say?" I asked as I looked at his hand. It was wrapped in a white bandage held on by a gauze strip two inches wide. A yellow liquid—no doubt, some kind of salve—had discolored part of the bandage.
"I'll be able to play the piano in no time."
"So there's a downside to this," I said. "Would you be se rious for one moment and tell me what happened?"
"Carolyn, when you work with power tools all day, something's bound to happen now and then. It's nothing, not much more than a scratch."
"So he just put some salve on it and wrapped it up?"
"No, the doctor put in a few stitches. Anyway, what makes you think it was a man? My doctor happened to be a very attractive young woman."
"She sounds too good for you," I said curtly.
Bill looked surprised. "Are you honestly mad at me about this?"
"I was sitting out here worried about you, and now I find out you were in there flirting with your physician. Some body should report her."
"She didn't do anything wrong," Bill said.
"Then they should report you."
"What for, talking to my doctor? Hey, I'm all right," he added softly. "I'm glad you came, but it's going to be fine."
"Let's go home, shall we?" He was right. I wasn't sure why I was snapping at my husband, but I clearly was. "Give me your keys. I'll drive."
"How'd you get here? You didn't walk, did you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. David brought me, then he took the Intrigue back to the shop."
My husband still hesitated.
"Hand them over," I said.
"Thanks, but I'll drive."
"Bill Emerson, I'm perfectly capable of driving that pre cious truck of yours." Honestly, sometimes I thought he cared more about that vehicle than he did about me.
"It's not that," Bill said. "I want to drop you off at Fire at Will."
"I have no intention of going back to work as if nothing happened," I said.
"That's just it. Nothing did happen, at least nothing de serving this much fuss. Carolyn, I'll call you if I need you, but right now, what I need is some rest. I've got a prescrip tion for the pain, and I think I'll fill it on the way home. The doctor told me they might make me sleepy, which is fine by me. Just because I'm going to take the rest of the day off doesn't mean that you should."
I knew that tone of voice. He didn't want to be pam pered, and I'd just end up getting frustrated if I went home with him. I let him drive me to the shop, then hesitated be fore I got out of the truck. "You'll get your medication, then you're going straight home, right?"
"I promise," he said. "I'm not exactly feeling up to going bowling."
"Call me if you need me," I said.
"You can count on it."
"Bill?"
He had put the truck in gear, but stopped. "Yes?"
"I'm glad it's not worse than it was," I said.
"Me, too," he said with a grin.
I walked inside and found David working on his clay cottage. "How is he?"
"He needed a few stitches, but he's going to be all right."
"You didn't have to come back," David said. "I can han dle things here."
"I know you can, but Bill asked me to give him some peace and quiet, so I'm here. Did anything happen while I was gone?"
"Nothing too exciting," he admitted. "A man called here looking for you, but when I told him you were gone, he said he'd check back later."
"How odd. Did he say what he wanted?"
"No, not a word."
"I think I'll make another cottage myself. It's quite fun, isn't it?"
"It's got potential," David admitted.
We were still working side by side when the door chimed. It was my cottage customer from before, and he had a bittersweet look on his face.
"Did you come back to give me a brochure on skiing this time?" I asked him.
"No, I'm sorry about that. I grabbed the wrong envelope from my jacket pocket."
"I wasn't sure it was an accident," I said. He looked suffi ciently contrite, so I decided not to give him a hard time about stiffing me. "What did your mother say?"
"She adored it," he said. "You should have seen her eyes."
"I'm glad she liked it."
He coughed once, then said, "I'd like another, if you don't mind."
"Did something happen to that one?"
"No, but my sister wants one as well."
"How about you?" I asked. "Wouldn't you like one?"
He shook his head sadly. "I'm taking Mother's. We lost her an hour ago."
"I'm so sorry," I said. I hugged him, and he let me.
"Thank you. You've been so kind about the entire thing, I just wanted to come back and tell you how much it meant to her."
"It was my pleasure," I said. How often did I get to give someone their dying wish? "I'm just glad she liked it so much."
"She did." He reached into his jacket and pulled out an other envelope. "Sorry about the earlier confusion."
"You don't have to do that," I said, refusing the envelope. "I was happy to help."
"Nonsense. You provided me a wonderful service, and I won't hear of you not taking payment. There's one thing, though."
"What's that?"
"Would you mind terribly if I had that auction leaflet back?"
I'd forgotten all about tacking it to the board behind my register. "Of course not," I said as I retrieved it.
"I'll be back for the cottage in a day or two," he said.
When I looked inside the envelope, four crisp onehu
ndred-dollar bills looked back.
I started for the door, and David asked, "Is it another brochure?"
"No, but it's too much."
I caught him on the sidewalk, just getting into a Jaguar. "You overpaid me," I said.
"Nonsense. If anything, I didn't give you enough. Please, keep it with my sincere thanks. I'll be offended if you try to return any portion of it."
I grinned. "Well, I wouldn't want that. Thank you."
"I should be the one thanking you," he said.
I walked back inside, and David asked, "What did he say?"
"He told me to keep it."
"Well, the customer's always right," David said with a grin.
"I suppose I'll have to live with it, then." I put the money in the till, then rejoined David at the bench. "Now I need to make another one."
"I thought you already were," he said, pointing down at my clay.
"I've got one already bisque-fired," I admitted, "but I wanted one for the window, too. We should make these to sell."
"Carolyn, not everyone's going to be willing to pay what your last customer did for these things."
"I know that," I said. "But it might make a nice addition to our display."
"Just as long as we don't mass-produce them," David said. "You know how I feel about production work."
I knew all too well. There were two types of potters in the world. One kind, those who had been raised to throw for production, worked incredibly fast and could generate a great deal of stoneware in a short amount of time. The other type, the category that David fell into, felt that pot tery was an art form that should be developed, with care ful consideration given to the options each step along the way. I liked both types, for different reasons. Without the production potters, I wouldn't have all of my bisqueware for my paint-your-own customers to enjoy, and without the artistic potters, I wouldn't have some of the breathtakingly beautiful pieces I owned, including some of David's work.
The phone rang, and I answered, "Fire at Will."
"Carolyn, it's Sandy. I was wondering if you'd had a chance to talk to Harvey Jenkins yet."
"As a matter of fact, I did. He claims the ClayDate infor mation dates from when Richard Atkins was in town twenty years ago."
"What? How can that be? I was sure it was more recent than that."
"It's an easy mistake to make," I said. "I shouldn't have rushed you like I did."
"I could have sworn I tapped into the current database," Sandy said. "I feel just awful. I must have made you look like a fool."
"It wasn't that bad," I assured her. "I appreciate your help."
"For all the good it did you. I'm not giving up. I'll keep digging. You can count on me."
"Sandy, it's fine; believe me."
She hung up, and I felt bad about telling her what the mayor had told me. I'd learned that it was easy to run into dead ends investigating without the benefit of the police de partment's resources. I never would have had the brashness to do it in the first place if I didn't believe that Sheriff Hodges was going to fail to follow all leads in his investiga tion. I wished the man would just go ahead and retire. Then perhaps we'd get a real sheriff, and I could go back to what I loved to do best, running Fire at Will.
David and I spent the rest of day making cottages out of clay; a lull in our foot traffic, as happened quite frequently, left us virtually undisturbed. As we loaded the last kiln and turned it on, I asked, "Shall we call it a day? I don't think anybody else is coming in."
"It's fine with me. I've got something I have to do."
"It's not about your father, is it?" I didn't want David go ing off on his own to investigate.
"I wish everyone would stop calling him that," David said, the irritation thick in his voice. "He walked out on us before I was born, and the first time I laid eyes on him was this week. As far as I'm concerned, he was a stranger, no more, and no less."
"That's kind of callous, isn't it?"
He slammed his hand down, smashing a cottage he'd been working on. "After what he did? You can't be serious."
I couldn't let him go out so angry. It wouldn't do to have the sheriff run into David and get a whiff of the young man's temper. "If you're not doing that, what's this urgent mission?"
He shrugged. "I'm going to talk to Annie. She's got to see that we belong together."
"David, it's her decision as much as it is yours."
He scowled, and whether I liked it or not, I could see some of his father in him. "Carolyn, don't you think I know that? I can't make her want to be with me, but I can at least try to get her back." He looked at me a second, then added, "I'm open to any suggestions you might have."
"I think pleading and groveling couldn't hurt. Also, if you can work it into the conversation up front, tell her what an absolute idiot you've been, and promise her you'll change. But only if you're really willing to."
"I am," he said. "Thanks. How about flowers? Should I take her some?"
"You've been dating her awhile. What do you think?"
"No, Annie's not one for frills. She'd probably be mad I wasted the money on them."
"Then there's your answer. Good luck, but remember: it's her decision, too, and you should respect whatever she wants."
"You know I will. Mom drilled that into me from the day I could talk."
After he was gone, I closed out the books on the day, turned off the lights, and locked up. It was time to go home and check on my husband. Looking into Richard Atkins' murder would have to wait. I decided to take some of my own advice and put my love life ahead of everything else. Just because Bill and I had been together since dinosaurs roamed the earth didn't meant that I still shouldn't show him how much I cared about him.
Chapter 10
Though it was barely seven by the time I got home from work, with a trip to the grocery store thrown in to get some of Bill's favorite foods, my husband was fast asleep; his snoring reverberated through the house. What kind of pre scription had they given him? I envied him the sound sleep, but not the pain he must be feeling. Though he'd protested that it hadn't been that bad, I knew my husband. That cut had hurt, and not just his pride, which was considerable. He fancied himself an accomplished woodworker, and he was—that was easy to see in the beautiful pieces he made— but even pros had accidents. I saw it as a mark of his skill that it had taken this long for him to have an injury that drew enough blood to require stitches.
I'd planned to make him his favorite dinner, homemade chili hot enough to blow the top of his head off. Even though he was sleeping, I decided there wasn't any harm in making it now. I'd simmer it on the stove, and when he woke up from this drug-induced nap, a bowl of it would be waiting for him.
I made two batches, a big one for him full of spicy addi tions, and something a little more bland for me, though it was still hot enough to bring tears to my eyes. As both pots simmered on the stove, I looked in on him again. He hadn't even shifted his position on the bed. It didn't make sense for me to wait to eat with him, since it could be hours until he woke, and I was hungry now. I dished out some of the milder blend, cut off a chunk of sharp cheddar cheese, grabbed some crackers and a cold glass of milk, then set a place at the table and ate. The meal was fine, but I missed my husband, even though he was just in the other room. Was this how it was for my friends who had lost their spouses through death or divorce? I wondered how many meals Jenna, a widow, had eaten alone. How did she stand it? I'd have to be a better friend and invite her over more of ten than I did, which was hardly ever.
After I ate, I cleaned up, took Bill's pot of chili off the stove, and mulled over what to do next. Television didn't in terest me, and I wasn't in the mood to read. I was still upset about somebody murdering Richard Atkins in my back yard, but I wasn't going to let them drive me from my land. I grabbed my coat, jotted a quick note to Bill, and propped it up beside his awaiting bowl. Then I walked outside, grab bing the flashlight by the back door as I left.
It was a crisp evening, a
nd the moon was full and bright, obscured only occasionally by scudding clouds. I loved our property, especially the way the land went back into the woods behind us. It gave me the illusion that we abutted some great, wild wilderness, though I knew the next street over was just a hundred yards away. I thought Bill had been foolishly extravagant when he'd bought the abutting lots along with our property, but I had seen his wisdom a thou sand times since. While our neighbors were surrounded by each other, we had the luxury of space around us, some thing that I cherished.
The Cracked Pot Page 14
