The Cracked Pot (7 page)

I thought about the hat I'd wanted to look at in Kendra's shop, but as she was at the café, I knew Hattie's Attic was closed. Now that my belly was full, I was starting to feel guilty about shutting my shop, especially with David miss ing. Had he come back while I'd been gone? I found myself hurrying back to Fire at Will. The sign was still in the door, and the place was dark inside. If he'd come back, he hadn't bothered opening up.

"David?" I called out as I walked inside after unlocking the door. I had the weirdest feeling, as if expecting to find a dead body in my shop. To be frank, it had happened before, though I hadn't had a premonition about it as I was now. A part of me wanted to call Bill, or even the sheriff, but I had no idea what I would say to either one of them. One thing I knew for sure. I wasn't about to admit that I had a gut feeling that something was wrong. I could hear them now, cackling about woman's intuition, something I believed in wholeheartedly, and I wasn't in the mood to be teased or scorned for it.

"David, are you back there?"

Still no reply. I wasn't convinced the place was corpsefree until I'd searched every bit of space big enough to hold a body.

Carolyn, I chided myself after shutting a closet door, you are letting your imagination take control of you.

I turned on the lights, flipped the sign to "Open," and tried to get rid of that sick, dull feeling that was still linger ing in the pit of my stomach. I called David's cell phone, and then Hannah's, but I got their voice mails. Had my friend managed to find her son, or were they both ignoring any summons from the world outside their own? I hoped Hannah had found him, or would soon. She'd be able to set tle David down. At least I hoped she could.

Blast Richard Atkins anyway. What nerve he had show ing up like that after all those years. I was still cursing him under my breath when the telephone rang.

It turned out to be a call I wasn't particularly pleased to receive.

Chapter
4

"Sheriff, I don't know anything I haven't already told you," I said for the third time in the conversation. "David's still gone, and so is Richard. I haven't heard from Hannah, ei ther. Why the sudden interest in their lives?"

"It's not all that sudden," he said. "I don't want this to de velop into more than it has to. If you hear from any of them, call me."

"You'll be the first one on my list," I said, not even trying to sound sincere.

"That's good," he said, apparently missing my sarcasm. "I'd hate to see somebody get hurt."

"For once we have something we can agree on."

Without another word, he hung up. I had half a mind to call him back, but then the telephone rang.

"Where have you been?" My husband started in on me before I could get out an answer. "You were supposed to call me right back."

"I got distracted," I said. "It's been crazy here."

"Okay, I understand. Let me take you out to lunch, then. I'm starving."

"I really can't leave the shop right now," I said, failing to admit that I'd already eaten.

"Then I'll bring you something. How about a hamburger from Shelly's Café?"

There was no way I was going to put my friend in the po sition of lying to my husband for me. "I had one a few min utes ago," I admitted.

"I thought you were too busy to eat." His voice had that distinct sullen tone I knew all too well.

"I'm sorry, I should have called you back. I was wrong. Forgive me?"

Sometimes, the only thing to do is throw oneself on the mercy of the court.

To my delight, my husband accepted my apology. "If you had a burger, I'm getting one, too. And fries. And a shake."

"Hey, I had a Diet Coke with mine."

"Tough for you," he said with just a little too much glee in his voice.

"Enjoy your meal," I said. After all, being gracious in re turn was the least I could do.

"And pie," he added before he hung up. I thought about calling Shelly and vetoing the dessert, but Bill had probably earned it.

I was trying to figure out a new way to arrange the front window when I looked up to see Hannah tearing down the street. I raced out onto the sidewalk, but she blew past me, nearly knocking me over.

"Hannah? What's wrong?" I yelled at her back.

"I can't talk right now, Carolyn," she said, barely turning around.

"What is it? Did you find David?"

She didn't answer. In all the years I'd known her, I'd never seen my best friend act like that. Did it mean that she'd finally caught up with David, or had she found Richard instead?

This insanity had gone on much too long for my taste. It was time to call out the reinforcements. That meant the Firing Squad, my team of amateur potters, as well as one of the best informal investigation crews in our part of Vermont. If they couldn't find David, I wasn't sure what I would do, but at least we had to try. Butch answered on the first ring.

"Are you waiting for a call?" I asked him after I identi fied myself.

"I had a feeling you'd be giving me a ring," he said. "I haven't seen him."

"How on earth did you know I was looking for David?"

"Give me some credit, Carolyn," he said with a chuckle. "I know more about what goes on here than I let on. I've asked a few friends to keep an eye out for him, too, but so far, no luck."

"I appreciate your help," I said. "I need to call Jenna and Sandy, too."

"It's taken care of," Butch said. "I'm coordinating things from here, and I'll let you know as soon as any of us hear anything."

"I feel useless," I admitted. Butch had taken it upon him self to organize a search party, probably while I'd been stuffing my face at Shelly's.

"Don't say that," he said. "We need you."

"That's sweet of you to say, even if it's not true."

"Don't sell yourself short, Carolyn." He hesitated a sec ond, then said, "We probably shouldn't tie up the line."

"I thought you'd have call-waiting," I said.

"I do, but the last time I checked, you didn't. What hap pens if David tries to call you and gets a busy signal?"

"I hadn't thought about that. I'd better get off." I hung up. I'd have to thank Butch for his efforts by making a batch of my peanut butter and Hershey's Kiss cookies. He'd loved them since the first time I'd brought a batch to one of our meetings, and every now and then I liked to surprise him with the treats. He'd earned a double batch today.

I waited on a few customers, but the day still dragged. I kept expecting David to walk in. I had a funny fluttering in my stomach, and it wasn't because of anything I'd eaten at Shelly's. I feared something had happened to my young as sistant. The phone rang a dozen times during the rest of the afternoon. The Firing Squad kept checking in, all with null reports, unfortunately.

It was seven minutes past my regular closing time, but I couldn't bring myself to lock the door and go home. What if David needed me, and I wasn't there?

The door chimed, and I called out without looking up, "We're closed."

"You're not, but you should be," my husband, Bill, an swered.

"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be ankle deep in sawdust." He was busy working on new furniture pieces for Shaker Styles, a local furniture business, and I'd grown accustomed to his late hours.

"I was. Now I'm not. Let's go home."

"Are you telling me you stopped work to take me home? I'm not some kind of feeble old invalid who needs watching after."

He frowned. "That's not what I meant. I've been work ing too hard lately. I miss you."

What a sweet old bear. I hugged him, then said, "That's one of the nicest things I've ever heard you say. What ex actly do you miss most about me?"

"Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that I haven't had a home-cooked meal in weeks," he said.

I jerked away from him. "And you're not getting one tonight." He had a decidedly crooked smile when I looked at him. "Why are you grinning like an old fool?"

"I was just kidding."

"Well, it wasn't very funny."

He shrugged. "You were fishing for compliments. You know how I hate that. Come on, let's go home."

I could have fought him on it, but he was right. We hadn't been spending much time together lately, and I'd missed him, too. "I don't know if I should leave."

"I said I was sorry."

He looked hurt. "Actually, you didn't. But that's not why I want to stay. What if David needs me and I'm not here?"

"He knows where we live, Carolyn," Bill said. "If he finds this place empty, we're less than ten minutes away. Come on, I'll make you dinner tonight."

I wasn't in the mood for one of his evening breakfast meals. "Thanks for the offer, but I've had stew simmering away all day."

"That beats my eggs, I won't deny it. Let's go."

I looked around the shop, still not sure if I should leave. But Bill had a point. I had no idea if David would show up, and it didn't make sense for me to wait for him. "Let me just do a few things to close, and then I'll meet you at home."

"I can wait," he said.

"Are you going to just stand there and hover while I work?"

"No," he said. "I think I'll sit down instead."

My husband dead-bolted the front door, flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed," then walked to the back of the shop and flopped down on the new couch. It had been an ex travagant splurge, but one I'd happily made, eager to re place its predecessor.

I took the day's receipts from the till, totaled the report, then slid everything into my store safe—a ceramic piggy bank. It wasn't all that secure if someone knew where to look, but honestly, who would look in a piggy bank in a pot tery store for money?

"Let's go," I said as I finished my nightly tasks.

"Do you have a firing tonight?"

"No, I've got one going already, and I'm waiting until to morrow for the other one."

"Good enough. Let's go get some stew."

Out on the sidewalk, I bolted the door and turned to my husband. "Whose car should we take?"

Bill smiled at me. "You'd better drive. I went home and parked my truck, then I walked back here."

"What's gotten into you?" I asked. My husband wasn't exactly an exercise fanatic. "It must have taken you an hour to get here on foot."

"More like half that," he said smugly. "It was a pretty evening, and I've been stuffed inside that woodworking shop too much lately. I needed some fresh air."

"You're perfectly welcome to walk back home, then."

He raised an eyebrow. "There's no need to be obsessive about it. Let's go."

The first thing I did when we walked in the door at home was check our answering machine. It was dismally blank. I'd hoped that David would have at least checked in, espe ically given his hasty exit from the shop, but I knew he wasn't obligated to call. Even our sons didn't call us regu larly. Bill and I had raised our boys to be independent, to live their lives on their own. Some of my friends demanded daily or weekly calls and visits from their children, but I thought they were a bit daft. I, for one, refused to wait by the phone. I had a life of my own to live, and while I loved my two boys more than anything in the world, besides my hus band, I was proud of them for making their own way it the world. Birthdays, holidays, and a few times in between were usually the only occasions when we heard from them.

"Nobody writes, nobody calls," Bill said as he caught me staring at the phone.

"No news is good news," I said. The aroma coming from the kitchen was divine. "Let's eat, shall we?"

"I'm one step ahead of you. I already set the table."

After we ate, Bill asked, "How about a movie?"

"You're actually staying here? What about those dead lines?"

"They can wait. I want to spend a little time with you, and to be honest, I'm flat worn out. So, what would you like to watch?"

"We haven't seen
Casablanca
in a while," I suggested.

"Bogart it is," he said.

The movie hadn't even flashed back to Paris before Bill was sound asleep. Truthfully, it wasn't holding my atten tion, either, and I thought it was the greatest movie of all time. I nearly turned it off, but then remembered Bill's reac tion to silence. As long as the movie played on, he wouldn't stir, but if I turned it off, or even lowered the volume, he'd shoot out of his chair as though it were on fire. I grabbed a light sweater, tucked the portable phone in my hand, then went outside. The Vermont summer was fast approaching, by far my busiest season of the year. Not only did tourists descend on Maple Ridge, but also the town's children were out of school, so I would have summer camps and classes going almost continuously. We needed the cash influx to stay open the year round, but I didn't look forward to the rapid pace life would soon hold.

I hadn't done a raku firing in some time, and I realized I'd like to. The electric kilns did a fine job back at the shop, but the raku process was simple and offered spectacular re sults. 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 outcome would be. Oh, I'd have an idea of what the end result would look like, but it almost never com pletely matched the finished product.