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  A TIME TO KILN

  A Jade Blackwell Mystery

  GILIAN BAKER

  a misterio press publication

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  Published by misterio press LLC

  Cover art by Elliot Next

  E-book design by Kirsten Weiss

  Copyright © 2017 by Gilian Baker

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/authors’ express permission is illegal and punishable by law.

  A Time to Kiln is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or the events in their lives, or to any businesses or organizations, is entirely coincidental. Some real places are used fictitiously. The town of Aspen Falls, Wyoming is fictitious.

  The publisher has no control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites and their content.

  Dedication

  To my longsuffering family—my partner in life and figurative crime, David, and our beautiful offspring, Alexandria. I can never repay you for your love and support…or for your contribution to the plotting of mayhem.

  I’d also like to offer my deepest gratitude to the authors at mistero press for their compassionate guidance and support. I’m deeply honored to be among you. And to my beta readers for your generosity in helping make this story better.

  Books by Gilian Baker

  Blogging is Murder

  A Time to Kiln

  Chapter One

  Paula Hexby narrowed her eyes and hissed something inaudible at her husband. Giving him no time to respond, she poked him repeatedly with her index finger. Dillon Hexby stood quietly, looking down at his oily work boots, permitting her to continue her tirade.

  A hush had fallen over the Tea & Sympathy clientele when the two had stomped through the door, already in mid-fight. Holding our collective breaths, we waited to see what would happen next.

  Paula stopped speaking in mid-sentence, and they both looked around, finally comprehending they were putting on a show. Having lost her steam, Paula sniffed and wiggled her curvaceous backside up to the counter to retrieve her takeout order. She left without another word, slamming the door behind her. Dillon stood there, mouth agape, as she left him to fend for himself.

  A few other males in the tea shop also had mouths agog at the lovely little spectacle Paula made of her exit. As usual, she wore her uniform of short-shorts and tank top with no bra. Seemed as though she’d made some of the fellows in town sit up and take notice. Though several of them studied her with unblinking eyes as she sashayed back to her studio, Roger Gaber watched Paula jiggle back across the street with a small, private smile on his face.

  With flushed cheeks, Dillon spotted us and sauntered over to our table.

  My daughter Ellie recovered more quickly than I, greeting her friend as he approached. “Hey, have a seat, Dillon.”

  “Hi, Ellie. Mrs. Blackwell.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. His sandy brown hair was in desperate need of a cut, causing his unkempt bangs to flop over in front of his eyes. As he moved them back with his hand, I could see it shaking, even though he was trying to play it cool.

  “How are you, Dillon?” I asked, hoping to put him at ease. “Are you happy to be back in Aspen Falls?”

  He gave a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, it’s nice to be back. I’m not a city boy, so I never got used to Cheyenne.”

  “You look worn out. What have you been up to?” I asked, trying to keep the small talk moving.

  “I keep real busy between working nights and watchin’ the baby during the day.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “‘Course, Mom and Dad watch her when they can. I’m hopin’ when Paula’s gallery and studio starts bringing in some cash, I can move to workin’ days so I can sleep.” Another nervous giggle escaped his mouth.

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be a success soon.” I said. “I’m learning a lot and having a great time in her class.” I glanced down at my clay-splattered self. One of these days I might even manage to keep the clay on the wheel. "Paula’s pottery is so amazing. How does she make that gorgeous iridescent glaze?”

  I’d been reluctant to mention Paula after the scene they’d created, but since he’d brought her up first, I plunged ahead and asked a question I’d been curious about. “Was it Paula’s idea to start her business here in Aspen Falls or did you want to move back? Wasn’t Cheyenne a better location?”

  “Oh, it was hers. She got a burr under her saddle to move an’ thought Aspen Falls would be a great place to raise Harper.” His face lit up when he said his daughter’s name. “She figured with both Route 287 and the I-80 runnin’ through here, it’d be a good place to set up her own gallery. You know, with all the tourists using those roads to head to Salt Lake and Fort Collins.”

  His ruddy complexion made it hard for him to hide his misgivings about the plan. He blushed again and changed the subject.

  He turned to Ellie seated next to him. “So, I hear you’re workin’ for The Aspen Falls Globe while you’re home for the summer. Got any big scoops yet?”

  Watching Ellie take a bite of her scone before answering, I was once again stunned by how alike we looked—same emerald green eyes, same auburn hair, though mine was now manufactured, and same oval face. Fortunately, she’d gotten her father’s height and slightly wavy hair. I’d spent most of my youth dreaming of having something other than my stick-straight mane.

  Ellie snickered. “I think ‘Aspen Falls big scoop’ is an oxymoron, Dillon, but I’m enjoying the job. They have me working on a wide variety of writing assignments, even though I’m not a journalism major. I’m more than ready for a quiet, low-key summer in my hometown.” She smiled broadly at him

  I could tell she was still fond of him, even though she claimed he’d been just a high school fling. ‘Not my type, Mom’ was what I’d heard when I’d asked her about him recently. I guess having gotten through a year of college had aided her in ‘finding her type.’ I hoped that wasn’t a euphemism for something better left unsaid, especially to one’s mother.

  I let them visit uninterrupted for a while as I gazed out the window. The glass reflected back my pale face, complete with splattered specks of clay. I dipped my napkin in my water glass and worked at removing them from my cheeks.

  Removing my glasses, I was reminded of my recent need to purchase my first pair of bifocals. I frowned as I wiped the last of the clay from my nose. Just one more consequence of my age. I sighed.

  But on this gorgeous day, I’d put those thoughts behind me. I closed my eyes, intent on soaking up the rays coming in through the large window. Allowing my mind to wander, I listened to my daughter and her former boyfriend reminisce about their school days as if they’d occurred twenty years ago.

  When I was their age, I’d been married and finishing my Master’s in modern literature and rhetoric. A few years later, I’d become a mother. Blogging hadn’t even existed back then. I’d been forced to type my thesis on an ancient typewriter with sticky keys. A far cry from the current version of myself—a successful online entrepreneur, using my writing prowess to earn a living.

  Four years ago I’d turned in my virtual gradebook at the University of Wyoming after nearly twenty years as a literature professor. Now I was my own boss, which isn’t always as glorious as it sounds.

  Catching snippets of their conversation, I wondered, not f
or the first time, why Dillon had married Paula. He was cute, in an aw—shucks kind of way, and he’d been popular enough in high school. When I looked at him, I was reminded of a lovable, lost puppy waiting for someone to come and guide him home. In high school, there’d been plenty of girls happy to play that role, but Paula didn’t seem the type. Instead, I got the impression she led him around by the nose.

  I’d always had a soft spot for Dillon, though I was glad when he and my daughter went back to just being friends instead of dating. He was very sweet, but I imagined my daughter with someone more ambitious and independent, like she was.

  “Dillon.” Shelly Blankenship’s loud, sugary voice woke me from my reverie. “I thought that was you out here. How are you? It’s been ages since you’ve been in.”

  She tucked a piece of Dillon’s hair behind his ear with a thick finger and then straighten the collar of his faded work shirt.

  Hmm. Seemed Shelly hadn’t gotten over her crush as easily as Ellie.

  Dillon pulled back from her touch as red rose on his cheeks. “Oh, hiya, Shelly,” he said halfheartedly.

  “You don’t have anything to eat or drink, Dillon.” She made a fake pouty face at him, then clapped her hands together and beamed. “I just frosted some of them cinnamon buns you love so much. I’ll go getcha one.” She turned and rushed off, leaving him with his mouth open ready to decline. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me across the table.

  We were silent for a few beats, Shelly having broken the spell of their intimate retrospective. Ellie started the thread of conversation back up, but it seemed the magic had been lost by the intrusion.

  Shelly came bounding back a few minutes later with a huge bun and a glass of milk. Her chestnut curls bounced as she moved across the floor. Bending her tall frame over the table, she set the snack in front of Dillon. “Ta da. I bet you’re starved after working all night.” She wiped her hands on the flowered apron that covered her big-boned frame before turning her enormous blue eyes toward the counter.

  Millie, the feisty octogenarian who owned the little tea shop, was giving her a warning look that implied she needed to stop fawning and get back to work. “Okay, then. If you’ve got everything you need, I’d better get back to the kitchen. See you soon, Dillon.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  I tried to make light of the situation, seeing how mortified Dillon was. “She does know you’re married, right?” We all chuckled while he rubbed the back of his neck again. I wondered if he had the funds to pay for the gooey treat Shelly had brought him. Things must be tight with him working a blue collar job while Paula tried to get a business off the ground, not to mention having a two-year-old to care for.

  Slapping my hands flat on the table, I said, “Well, break time’s over for me. I’ve got work waiting.” The clients I ghostwrite for were waiting for their content, and I needed to get a marketing campaign finished for my blog, A Writerz Block. It was time to get home and plow through my to-do list.

  I stood, pulling my five feet, four inches up as tall as possible, and then straightened my shoulders and leaned back to stretch out my vertebrae. Hunching over a pottery wheel for a couple of hours killed my back and tended to wreak havoc on my posture.

  I grabbed the bill from our table, and told Dillon his was my treat. I got a shy smile and a light pink blush in return. I gave Ellie a kiss on top of her head, and told her I’d see her at home later. When I left, they had their heads together, laughing.

  ***

  Two days later, Christian was sitting at the kitchen table reading the sports page of The Laramie Chronical with a mug of coffee in his hand and his bifocals perched on his nose. I sat beside him, still in my robe and slippers, and handed him a bowl of granola. He took it with a grunt and handed me the rest of the paper without looking up from the scores. Oh, the joys of married life.

  Flipping open the paper, the headline grabbed me by the throat: Aspen Falls Potter Found Murdered in Studio.

  I had three thoughts in quick succession. My first was, Oh no. That poor woman. My second, much to my embarrassment was, Shoot! Now I’ll never learn how to make my own mugs. The third was, Looks like Ellie may get her scoop after all.

  Chapter Two

  Around 11:30 p.m. Monday night, the Albany County Sheriff’s Department was called to the scene of the first Aspen Falls murder in decades. Though still under investigation, a spokesman for the department announced the owner of Paula’s Pottery Barn, Paula Hexby, was discovered by the night janitor at approximately 11 p.m. Hexby, originally from Cheyenne, was found garroted with a wire clay cutter, the tool used to cut finished pottery from the wheel. Hexby’s next of kin, husband Dillon Hexby, has been informed and is assisting with inquiries. The Sheriff’s Department will issue another statement once more information becomes available.

  The article went on to state facts about Aspen Fall’s low crime rate, but I focused instead on the picture of Paula, smiling proudly while sitting astride a pottery wheel. To my surprise, tears welled up in my eyes.

  I slowly put the paper on the table, trying to take it in.

  “Guess I won’t be going to class today after all,” I murmured.

  “Urmph,” muttered the love of my life.

  I rolled my eyes, though the action was lost on Christian, who still had his head buried in the sport section.

  As I cleared the breakfast dishes, I speculated on whether or not Ellie knew about Paula’s murder. She’d left early for work, before the paper had arrived. Although she only worked at the weekly Aspen Falls Globe, surely she’d know by now. It was bound to be the only topic of conversation in the village.

  I dragged myself upstairs to dress in my standard work attire of yoga pants and t-shirt. Though I hated to admit it, my gloomy mood had more to do with the loss of my one creative outlet than the loss of a young woman’s life.

  Absentmindedly folding clothes from the laundry basket, I reflected on how the class had come at the perfect time for me. After successfully helping my friend Liz beat the murder wrap of a cyber-stalker a few months ago, I’d been relieved to get back to my routine.

  But all too soon, my renewed enthusiasm had waned, and my routine became a rut. I’d registered for the class as a way to maintain a healthier life-work balance, but it had more importantly served to engage my mind in a new challenge.

  The clothes folded, I grabbed a clean t-shirt from the stack with a sigh. Sitting on the edge of the bed, an intriguing idea started to form. What if I were to go ahead to the pottery studio as usual? Not to throw pots this time, but to learn more about the murder. After all, I had cleared up one case for the sheriff already. Who was to say I couldn’t do it again?

  Staring down at the t-shirt in my hand, I liked the idea more and more. I felt a slow smile spread across my face. The pottery class now at an end, I’d need a new challenge to keep my mind occupied, since my work no longer did that. What better brainteaser was there than solving a murder?

  ***

  Paula had converted a dilapidated pole barn on the edge of town into a rustic showplace for her pottery. Behind the gallery was the studio, complete with pottery wheels, glaze buckets and all the other tools needed to create beautiful, yet functional art.

  Rounding the final switchback on the way to the barn, I noted I wasn’t the first looky-loo on the scene. Deputy Doug Pitts was directing traffic to free up the bottleneck that had formed along the road. Although the road did get some traffic, which had made it a good location for Paula’s business, it had never had enough to cause a traffic jam. In fact, folks around here never dealt with gridlock, unless they ventured to Cheyenne. People in rural areas like ours were just as likely to ride their horse into town as drive their car.

  I pulled into the makeshift parking area, causing a flustered Deputy Pitts a moment’s hesitation. I could almost see his wheels turning: should he come after me, his archenemy, or continue directing traffic as assigned. After a few seconds, he must have decided to let
me be someone else’s problem because he stopped looking in my direction and leaned down to speak to one of the fine citizens through their open window.

  During my first case, I’d been responsible for Doug’s demotion to desk duty after complaining about his multiple blunders as the first on the scene. He was a nice guy, but the fact he’d kept his job appalled me. He was more suited to taking the odd statement about noise pollution from a car radio or coaxing a kitten out of a tree than detecting.

  Ross Lawson came ambling out of the barn. When he saw me, he stopped in his tracks and scuffed his cowboy boots in the dry earth, sending up a swirl of dust. Ross is the Albany County Sheriff and an all-around nice guy. He, Christian and I had grown up together and remained close friends, though I’d recently put that friendship to the test. Based on his reaction, he was already on guard, wondering what I was up to.

  “Jade, why am I not surprised to see you here?” He offered me a weary smile.

  Giving him my most beguiling look, I indicated the tackle box that held my pottery tools. “I just arrived to attend my pottery class.” Trying to look around his broad-shouldered frame, I asked, “What’s going on?” I turned down the corners of my mouth a little and pulled my eyebrows together.

  He took a deep breath, cocked his head to the side and squinted at me. Before answering, he took off his Stetson and dusted it off by hitting it against his knee. “Well, it was already in the paper, so I guess it won’t hurt to tell you… Paula Hexby was found murdered late last night.” He put back on his hat and adjusted the brim.

  “Oh, no!” I let my tackle box drop to the ground, hoping to add realism to my reaction. “Who would do something like that to her? She was so young and has a small child.”