Nancy wheeled around. Danny Acero was bearing down on them, brandishing a small pot at Theresa. “Please, Theresa, don’t stop talking because of me.” Danny oozed sarcasm. “But first, tell me, is this your pot or what?”
Danny shoved the pot into Theresa’s hand. It was sooty black and looked damp. Nancy caught a slight whiff of motor oil.
Theresa looked startled. “Where did you get this?” She was wearing white jeans and held the pot gingerly at arm’s length.
“Do you admit it’s yours?” Danny asked. “I found it when we dumped the ashes out of one of the raku trash cans—one with motor oil in it.” Pointing to Nancy, he added, “She saw the whole thing, right?”
Nancy nodded cautiously. Why was Danny so mad?
Theresa wrinkled her nose. “Motor oil? Give me a break, Acero. I would never mess up one of my pots with motor oil.” She put the pot aside. “I haven’t done raku since school.”
“So you say,” Danny scoffed. “Cut the act, Theresa. This pot—of yours—has been raku fired.”
“Looks that way, but I didn’t fire it,” Theresa defended herself. “You know raku isn’t my thing.”
“So you’ve said more than once. But obviously you’ve been doing a little raku on the side.”
Theresa propped her hands on her slim hips and looked right up at Danny. “Look, no way I fired that pot. I’ve been here all day.”
“It wasn’t fired today,” he pointed out, shaking his longish dark hair off his forehead.
“How do you know that?” Nancy asked, not liking Danny’s attack on Theresa but curious in spite of herself.
“The pot was in the accumulation of ash at the bottom of that barrel, which was contaminated with motor oil from a previous firing.”
Danny turned to Theresa. “You pretend to look down on raku and the kind of work I do, then when no one’s looking you try your hand at it.”
“That’s crazy,” Theresa told him. “I don’t hate what you do, Danny. I like it, and I like raku. It just doesn’t suit my work.”
“Whatever,” Danny snapped. “Just remember I’m in charge of raku here and the safety of the people involved. Next time you use a barrel, clean it out.”
“I didn’t use that barrel!” Theresa insisted, but Danny just threw up his hands and stormed away.
“What’s his problem?” George wondered.
“Me,” Theresa responded, clearly embarrassed and looking a little hurt. “He’s jealous. He’s got me pegged for being a snob because of where I went to school, and then that Home and Design spread came out.”
“I didn’t realize potters could be so competitive,” Nancy mused.
“Generally people aren’t, especially when they work in such different styles. Danny’s is very organic, free-form, loose. It’s really beautiful. I love it. Mine’s what people call refined and more classical. Anyway, I guess he’s really ticked off now.” She pressed her palms to her temples, blew out her breath, then flashed a quick, tight smile at Nancy. “Customers,” she said, heading back to the front of her booth. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure,” Nancy replied. “And don’t forget about the teacups,” she said, grabbing a Post-it from a pad near Theresa’s cash box. “Here’s my e-mail address to let me know when they’re done and if you still have some to spare.”
Theresa smiled. “You’ll get first dibs.”
“And if you’d save these mugs for us,” Bess added quickly, “we’ll pay for them Wednesday when we come for the workshop.”
“Thanks,” Theresa said, running off to help a couple.
Nancy, Bess, and George ambled off to check out the rest of the show. As soon as they were out of Theresa’s earshot, Bess remarked, “I didn’t figure Danny for having such a temper.”
“Me either,” Nancy said as they stopped in front of a leather worker’s display.
“More to the point, what was that really all about?” George wondered. “I think Danny heard something Theresa was starting to say to you. Maybe that’s what sent him over the top, Nan.”
Nancy frowned. “Theresa hadn’t really said much, just that something strange was going on here. She was about to fill me in on what was bothering her when Danny interrupted.”
“Yeah, he walked up ready for a fight,” Bess observed.
“To put it mildly,” George added.
“I’ve got the feeling there’s some bad blood between him and Theresa,” Nancy concluded. “Guess I had him figured wrong. I thought he was a pretty cool guy. But the way he treated Theresa just now was definitely uncool.”
That night Carson Drew came into the study of the comfortable house he shared with Nancy and their housekeeper, Hannah Gruen, jangling his car keys. Nancy looked up from the computer and grinned at her dad. “Back from dinner out already?” she asked, swiveling around to face him.
Tossing his keys on the desk, Carson Drew returned her smile. “Actually it’s pretty late.”
Nancy glanced at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen and winced. “Must have lost track of time.”
Her father peeked over Nancy’s shoulder at the screen. “Good online sleuthing?”
“I’ve been checking out pottery web sites,” she answered.
“So I take it your new interest in pottery has something to do with John Kim’s daughter?” her dad asked, pleased.
“I looked her up and found her,” Nancy said. She then told her father about the raku workshop. “And I found something to give Hannah for her birthday. Two lovely cups and saucers. They’re just not ready yet.”
“Speaking of Hannah,” Nancy’s father said, looking at his watch. “Can that really be the smell of her brownies in the kitchen?”
“Not just brownies, but super-spectacular brownies,” Nancy responded.
“Now I’m glad I skipped dessert,” her father said. “I’ll grab a couple and check out the late news. There’s a pretty heavy rainstorm headed this way. I hear it did some major damage west of here earlier today.”
While her father made for the kitchen, Nancy scrolled down the screen until she hit a link for raku. A raku potter had thoughtfully written a brief history of the firing technique, which had originated in Japan in the late sixteenth century.
Contemporary American raku pots were displayed beside antique Japanese masterpieces. Nancy was intrigued by the photographs. The old Japanese pots were simple, hauntingly beautiful, yet even on a computer screen she could easily tell the difference between these rugged pots and the delicate, thin-walled work of Theresa’s more classical pieces. Some of the American raku tea bowls were nearly indistinguishable from the Japanese originals. Others were wildly patterned or had bold, bright glazes.
The article explained that Japanese raku ware, both antique and contemporary, was highly prized and collectible, then gave the name of a ceramics auction site. Curious, Nancy surfed through the site and checked out the bulletin board, wondering if any of Danny’s or Theresa’s pots had turned up for auction, or if their names were mentioned.
The latest posting on the bulletin board caught Nancy’s attention. It warned of counterfeit antique Japanese-style raku pots appearing on the market, through online as well as traditional auction houses. The posting suggested visitors check out buyersbeware.com for more detailed information.
With a click of her mouse, Nancy surfed to the new site. As she read through the web page, she was startled by the scope of what the writer called “this round of counterfeiting.” Suggesting the existence of a whole counterfeiting ring, the site disclosed that not only were there numerous ceramic fakes, mainly masterful copies of important Asian pieces, but skillful, nearly perfect copies of Americana from the seventeenth century on. Descriptions and photos of pewter candlesticks and jugs, and handcrafted colonial furniture, including desks, chairs, tables, and lap desks, filled the web site.
Just then Nancy’s computer beeped, signaling her that she had just received an e-mail message.
Nancy groaned. “Bess, I bet. Dying to know if I’ve decided to do that workshop.” Nancy bookmarked the web page, then opened her message. She saw the sender’s name and laughed. “Theresa!” She began to read the message.
Nancy—Sorry about the scene today at the festival. I do hope you decide to come to the raku workshop—and don’t be put off by Danny. Whatever his problems are, they have to do with me. He’s a great raku teacher and a lot of fun. It would be great to be able to visit with you during those four days. I’m teaching, but I have some free time, and we could hang out some. Oh, who am I fooling. Nancy, this isn’t just a friendly invite. I really need your help. As I started to tell you earlier, I’ve come across something strange here. I’m not exactly sure what it means, though I have my suspicions. I was down by the river to take a quick swim one afternoon last week, when I discovered some shards. You won’t
Suddenly the message ended. “Now what?” Nancy wondered, waiting a moment to see if Theresa’s message would resume. When nothing happened, Nancy shot off a quick e-mail, asking what happened. She stayed online for a few more minutes, but Theresa didn’t reply. It made no sense. Probably some computer glitch, Nancy thought. Frustrated, she heaved a sigh and started for the phone. Maybe Bess had a telephone number in the packet of information Ellie May had given her for the workshop.
“Hello?” Bess answered on the first ring.
“Did I wake you?” Nancy asked, suddenly realizing it was past eleven.
“No way, I’ve been checking out raku web sites,” Bess said. “I am sooo excited about next week. Have you made up your mind?”
Nancy couldn’t help but laugh at Bess’s enthusiasm. “Not quite. But almost.”
“Almost what?” Bess asked, in a pleading tone.
“Almost yes.”
Bess cheered, but Nancy went on, “Almost, Bess, not definitely. Do you have Theresa’s number at the village? If I do decide to go, I’ll call first thing in the morning.” Bess gave Nancy the number.
Nancy dialed.
The phone rang six times. Nancy winced. Maybe it was too late to be calling. On the seventh ring someone picked up the phone.
“Hello?” a woman answered in a voice thick with sleep.
“Theresa?” Nancy couldn’t recognize the voice.
“Why—” The voice began, then Nancy heard a shrill, distant scream and the phone went dead.