Draw and Order

by Cheryl Hollon

  The son slipped out of the cab and stood along the driveway, his eyes wide. Miranda tried to hide her fear that her fermenter would soon be rolling down the hill. She was certain that a punishment would be in his future.

  The furious father ground gears putting the truck in reverse, but one of the tires was in the air and two others were slipping on the thinly graveled dirt road. A cloud of dust and diesel smoke rose and fouled the air. He tried many different combinations of wheel-turning, gearshifting, seat-bouncing contortions, but nothing worked. The truck was stuck.

  Miranda could only stand there with her heart sinking. If they upended the fermenter so that it fell off, she would be forced to wait until all the insurance battles cleared before getting another one on order. She had enough money for the current business plan, but not enough to cover a duplicate order.

  “You idiot. This is going to cost us more than we’re getting to deliver this. I told your mother I didn’t think you would be anything but trouble. So far, I’ve been right.” The father pulled out his cell phone and looked around. “No signal.” He looked at Miranda as if she were his assistant. “Y’all got a phone?”

  Miranda responded in a low, calm voice, “I do have a phone.” Then she smiled and waited.

  “Well, fine. Can I use it?”

  “Absolutely, follow me.” She turned to let him into the farmhouse and spied the plume of dust that signaled a car going too fast down the gravel road. She groaned. The only person who knew that road well enough to take it like a NASCAR driver was her mother, Dorothy Trent. Miranda exhaled a long sigh and showed the deliveryman the phone in her front room.

  She walked back outside and saw her mom’s white Mustang skid to a stop just inches from the jackknifed flatbed. The door flew open and her mom hopped out of the car. “What is this doing here? You can’t put up with this? This is a public road!”

  Miranda ran across the yard, jumped over the drainage ditch, and wrapped her mother in an enormous hug. Her mother hushed and hugged her back and then started to cry. “Oh, honey. I’m so upset. I can’t believe after all this time they’ve finally found our Howard.” Dorothy released Miranda and held her at arm’s length. “Oh, sweetie. You look so thin. Are you eating?”

  “Yes, yes. I just have a fast metabolism. You know that.”

  Miranda heard shouting coming from her living room as well as some terrified barking from Sandy. She left her mother in the road and ran back into the front room.

  “I need that tow truck now. I’m renting the flatbed and it’s an hourly charge. This is costing me big money!”

  Miranda couldn’t hear the speaker, but she heard Sandy’s frantic clawing on the sides of his crate. She rushed into her bedroom. Sandy immediately stopped clawing and sat as innocent as an angel. “Don’t play with me, young man. I saw that.”

  She lifted him up for lots of snuggles. He was still very much a young puppy and still needed comforting when experiencing new things. Men yelling in her farmhouse was definitely a new thing.

  She went back to the front room.

  “An hour? Is that the best you can do? Well, git on out here!” The deliveryman turned and started to dash out of the house.

  Miranda stepped in his path in front of the door. “What’s the verdict?”

  He skidded to a stop as if she were a strange animal he had never before encountered. “Oh. He’s coming out in about an hour. He says he knows this road and should have us to rights in no time.”

  “Thanks, I feel much better. That’s a very expensive piece of equipment. I’m sure your insurance company will be happy that you’re doing the right thing.”

  “Humph!” he called out as he left the house.

  Oh my God. I’ll bet the man has no insurance. What next?

  The US mail truck pulled up behind her mother’s Mustang.

  Chapter 8

  Monday Afternoon, the Farmhouse

  “A tow truck is on its way,” Miranda told the mailman. “If you leave the mail here, I’ll deliver it to everyone down the road.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Miss Trent, but not especially legal. I know a back road down over the ridge. It’ll take me a little longer, but I can manage.” He backed up the mail truck to a little road that shot off away through the woods across the valley and went along the properties that were adjacent to Miranda’s farm.

  I really need to get out and explore this area. I have no idea how many people live along this road. I’m glad he didn’t take me up on that rash promise.

  “Mom, we’ve got to get your car out of the way. The big tow truck will be here in about thirty minutes. Let’s unload your car and I’ll drive it down to my neighbors’ to park. It’s only a short walk.”

  “Okay, but I brought a lot of food. I don’t know just how long I’m going to be here dealing with Howard’s death. Aunt Ora is going to be beside herself with grief. She’s been holding on to the hope that he had merely left and decided not to contact his family. That happens.”

  Miranda had her mother pop the trunk of the Mustang. It was loaded for bear. With every square inch filled, her mom was fully prepared for any eventuality. Hands on her hips, Miranda said, “Mom, this looks like you’re moving in! There’s enough here to feed Washington’s army for the entire Revolution.”

  “Don’t fuss, baby. I’m only staying for a few weeks, maximum.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened. “A few weeks? Really?” That was not particularly welcome news. Mom could be interfering and in the past was known to turn cantankerous if things didn’t go her way.

  The son of the delivery-service owner came over. “I’ll help with this.” He lifted the largest suitcase and put it on the front porch. Miranda followed his lead. In no time, a big pile of clothes, bedding, and food was out of the car and onto the porch.

  “Thanks so much, young man,” said Dorothy. “That was very kind of you.”

  He glanced over at his dad, who had crawled back into the cab and sat fuming while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. The father looked over at Miranda from the cab. “You better get that car out of the way or I’ll charge you wait time if that tow truck doesn’t have complete access from the start.”

  Dorothy stretched to her full five feet one and her eyes narrowed. Miranda had seen that look all her life. She almost felt sorry for the dad—almost.

  Pointing a perfectly manicured index finger within an inch of his nose, Dorothy said, “Don’t you even think about starting to fuss at me, you crass old bully. If you had the sense the Lord gave a duck, you wouldn’t have made your son nervous by yelling at him while making the turn.” She turned to look at the son. “That’s what he did, didn’t he?”

  The son bobbed his head forward the tiniest bit possible.

  “See,” Dorothy continued, “you brought this on yourself. Don’t you dare push the fault on anyone else.” She put her hands on both hips. “I’m going to get a soda for that youngster. Are you thirsty as well?”

  The dad twisted his lips into a frown, but he silently mouthed a yes.

  Miranda got her mother’s keys and drove the Mustang in reverse all the way to Roy and Elsie’s house. She parked it along a little turnout next to their house and went inside to explain the situation and give them the car keys in case it needed to be moved. Their farmhouse was perched on the cliffside and flat ground was at a premium.

  She was walking back to her house when a giant tow truck rumbled its way up the hill and started toward her farmhouse, kicking up an enormous cloud of road dirt. It came to a halt behind the jackknifed delivery truck. A young man with a plaid shirt and baseball cap on backward jumped out.

  “Howdy! This is completely messed up. Who drove this? How did you miss the turning? You should’ve backed in. You know that, don’t you?” The young man spoke at the staccato pace of a popcorn popper. He left no time for answers.

  “Hold on, youngster,” said the owner of the delivery truck as he lumbered over to the tow truck, hitching up his britches as he walke
d. “You just hold on.”

  The young man stopped talking, smiled broadly, and tilted his head to listen.

  “Your job is to get this rig out of the ditch. That’s all. No lip—no opinion—no questions. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.” The young man took out a plug of chewing tobacco and with a penknife sliced off a chunk and stuffed it in his mouth. Talking around the chaw, he said, “I’ll just need to assess the situation before I commit this rig to the job.” He looked the truck owner right in the eyes. “If I hear one more word from you, I’m leaving. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Wha—” The owner started to protest, but quickly closed his mouth. Miranda thought he must be remembering how difficult it had been to find a large tow truck closer than Lexington.

  After circling the precariously situated delivery truck, the tow truck driver opened one of his truck’s storage compartments and pulled out a set of enormous chains. He began attaching them to various points on the flatbed. Occasionally, he would spit in the road, but he worked quickly and said not one single word.

  Miranda admired the professionalism of the tow truck driver. He pulled the rig a few feet, then reset the chains and pulled the rig again. In less than an hour, he had the delivery cab and the flatbed back on the gravel road positioned so that it was an easy reverse for them to back into the barn and safely unload the fermenter.

  The tow truck driver spritely walked over to the older man with an invoice. “Here’s your bill.” He turned the bill around on his cap and tipped it. “Pleasure doing business with you. You can pay cash now for a ten percent discount or you can mail in a check for the full amount.”

  Reaching into his back pocket, the owner peeled off a roll of bills and handed them over. “Mark this here invoice that I’ve paid in full.”

  “My pleasure.” The tow truck driver wrote on the invoice, signed it with a flourish, tipped his hat again, and in a flash was speeding down the road, radio at full blast with a mournful country ballad and the dirt road cloud of dust trailing behind.

  Miranda smiled. She appreciated a well-run business where the owner knew what was what. She palmed her forehead. Was her moonshine distillery cursed? Every single step in the process had so far been plagued with setbacks, disasters, paperwork snafus, and just plain trouble. If she weren’t so practical, she might conclude that her uncle’s spirit didn’t want her to replicate his wonderful brew.

  While the delivery truck was righted, Miranda had helped her mother put away all her belongings in the newly cleared and cleaned attic bedroom. Doing that had taken them both about a dozen trips up the narrow stairs. Then they had stuffed Miranda’s cupboards and refrigerator with supplies.

  “Okay, sweetie. Thanks. I’m gonna give Sandy a long walk, then start a late lunch while you get that thingamajig of yours put in the barn. I don’t think that delivery company knows what they’re doing.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Miranda walked out back and was just in time to see the fermenter placed on its waiting concrete pad. It was the final piece of equipment she needed to start making large batch moonshine.

  Shady Street Delivery was bolting it down when Miranda finally got into the barn. The equipment looked exactly like she’d imagined when she sketched out her plans. Now, all she needed to do was start brewing with it.

  “Okay, Miss Trent. That’s it,” said the son. He and his dad were looking over at her late uncle’s original still she had installed in that part of the barn. The son said, “Say, are you going to be making Gene Buchanan’s brew?”

  “Yes, I’m surprised that you know about it.”

  “It’s famous among real ’shine experts. How long before you’ll have a batch? I’ll tell my friends.”

  “I’ll probably start the mash as soon as I clean out the fermenter. Maybe even today.”

  “If you ever need help—even part-time—I used to help your uncle when he needed it.” The son pulled a towing-business card out of his back pocket. “Call this number and ask for Lance Campbell. I’d be willing to intern for no money just to be around Gene Buchanan’s distillery.”

  “Thanks.” Miranda took the card.

  Lance’s dad had no patience for his son’s interests. “Come on. We’re done. Let’s get out of here. I want to forget we were ever here. We lost money on this one thanks to you.” Lance’s dad tromped out of the barn and got in the passenger’s side of the cab. “Do you think you can back this rig out this time without me having to call back that tow truck?”

  The son gave Miranda an apologetic half smile. “He’s really not as bad as he seems. He crippled up his leg last year so he can’t drive. He’s in terrible pain and frustrated. He only goes out with me when he can’t stand to work in the office anymore.”

  “You’re more understanding than he has a right to expect.”

  “Maybe.” Lance turned to go out to the truck. “He’s the only dad I have.”

  Miranda stood in the doorway of the barn and watched while the son carefully and slowly backed the rig out of her driveway and onto the gravel road. He executed the maneuver perfectly, and she waved as they went down the road.

  Miranda tapped the card against her fingers. She was going to need some help and the price was right.

  “Miranda!” called her mother. “Lunch is ready. It’s a bit late, but come and get it!”

  Walking into the back porch and into the kitchen, Miranda was met with the aroma of her favorite meal as a child. Grilled cheese sandwiches with a rustic basil tomato soup. How her mother managed to rustle up everything she needed so quickly, Miranda had no idea, but she made no complaint.

  She sat at the kitchen table and tucked in with the eagerness of a child that had been playing outdoors all day.

  Her mom sat opposite with a large mug of coffee steaming in her hands. “You handled things very well outside.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows but didn’t stop eating. Her mother didn’t often compliment her. It was better to wait until she could figure out the reason for this ploy before she spoke. Many times in the past she had regretted the commitments she made after a seemingly innocent compliment.

  “I mean, it’s a side of you I have never seen.” Dorothy sipped from her mug. “It’s going to take a while to get used to you being an independent businesswoman.”

  Miranda used the last crust of her grilled cheese sandwich to sop up the dregs of the tomato soup. She leaned back in her chair. “That was wonderful. Exactly what I was craving. Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  Miranda steepled her hands and looked closely at her mother. “I was an independent businesswoman in New York City. This isn’t new for me.”

  “It was different up there. You were working for your art. You created your paintings on your own. You didn’t have”—Dorothy waved her hand around the kitchen—“property, staff, large-equipment deliveries. This is different.”

  Miranda returned a weak smile. “It’s different all right.”

  “And it suits you. You don’t look like a scared rabbit not knowing when the farmer was going to trap you for dinner.”

  “Did I look like that?”

  Her mom slowly nodded. “Yes, The whole time you were trying to scratch out a name for yourself up there.”

  “Okay, maybe I did feel a bit out of my depth. But this feels right. It feels solid. I mean, like this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Right here in Uncle Gene’s farmhouse trying to brew up his famous moonshine.”

  Miranda smiled. It was rare to receive real feedback from her mother. Her mother’s usual philosophy was to let Miranda try to make her own way in life.

  Dorothy coughed into her hand. “Now about these bones you found up on the Indian Staircase . . .”

  Aha, here’s where the penny drops.

  Dorothy shifted in her seat. “I understand, of course, that you didn’t know Howard very well, your interests were so different, but I agree that they’re his remains.”

  �
�Mom—”

  “Now, don’t interrupt me.” Dorothy put a flat hand out toward Miranda. “I’ve got what I’m going to say all figured out. Where was I? Oh, yes, I’m convinced that the bones you found belong to Howard. He was a little older than you and he was the first baby in the family of the current generation. We all doted on him.”

  Dorothy paused and took another sip of her coffee before continuing.

  “He was such a charming, chubby, happy baby. It was unsettling to see him grow up into a surly, lanky, unruly teenager. It was hoped that college would straighten him out. He was the first child in our family to even graduate high school, so everyone had high expectations.”

  “Wait!” Miranda leaned forward. “You didn’t graduate from Wolfe County High School? You never told me that.”

  “Never mind that now,” her mother huffed.

  Miranda jumped in. “You’re not getting away with that. Why didn’t you graduate?”

  After a disparaging look, Dorothy finally said, “We didn’t have enough money. As soon as I was sixteen, I started to work at the drugstore to help out. It was the way of the times. That’s not at issue here. What’s important is to make sure that you get to the bottom of who killed Howard.”

  “Me?” Miranda sat back in her chair so quickly, it nearly tipped over. “Why me?”

  “Because I want my sister to have the full truth of his death. We can’t let Sheriff Larson shirk his duties just because he’s being punished for overspending a stupidly tiny budget. It’s true he could have been caught off guard up on the mountain, but if Howard didn’t die by accident, you have the skills to find out what happened.”

  Chapter 9

  Early Monday Afternoon, Sheriff’s Office

  Felicia Larson was on edge. It wasn’t a condition that fell upon her often, but it had arrived with a full marching band today. She’d arrived back at work after a quick shower and a nap to await word from her friend Dr. Barbara DuPont.