Also by Cheryl Hollon
Webb’s Glass Shop Mystery Series
Pane and Suffering
Shards of Murder
Cracked to Death
Etched in Tears
Shattered at Sea
Down in Flames
Paint & Shine Mystery Series
Still Knife Painting
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Still Knife Painting
Cheryl Hollon
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Recipes for Moonshine Cocktails
Recipes for Meals
Teaser chapter
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Cheryl Hollon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2524-0
First Kensington Books Mass-Market Printing: July 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2525-7 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2525-5 (eBook)
First Kensington Books Electronic Edition: July 2020
Dedicated to my late grandparents
Della Mae and Howard Courtney Buchanan
Acknowledgments
This first book in a brand-new series has been a lovely trip down memory lane. My parents are both from the area where this story is set, Wolfe County, Kentucky. I’ve spent most of my summers running barefoot in the soft grass, gazing up at the Milky Way in the evenings, and hiking the hundreds of trails in the Daniel Boone National Forest. Although I’m a good cook, I’ll never reach the standard of biscuit perfection that my grandmother baked every single morning. I can still taste them. I hope I have done justice to a complicated part of my upbringing.
I have so many people to thank for getting this book out of my head and onto the page. It’s always a long journey and sometimes the path disappears or wanders away. Luckily, I have a tribe of supporters.
I thank my parents for a wildly original raising. Mom and Dad thought that children should be shown how to live, not lectured into it. My mom taught her two girls and two boys how to cook, clean, knit, sew, paint, draw, and not be afraid to tackle anything new. She praised the trying—not the result. My dad is gone now but he taught us all to hunt, fish, camp, track, shoot, garden, and how to use power tools. They both instilled in me a work ethic that I still appreciate.
My mother’s parents let me run loose on their little truck farm most summers. I loved the smell of barns, gardens, and wildflowers. I treasured the freedom to paddle in the creek, climb the big hill, pet the cow, torment the chickens, and generally make a huge nuisance of myself. They’re buried in a peaceful cemetery overlooking the tiny bend in the road village of Trent, Kentucky.
My mother’s parents were hardworking, generous, kind, and clever back-country folk. My Grandma Buchanan was the best biscuit maker in Wolfe County. That was an important skill in those days. She made at least an iron skillet full every morning from knee-high until way into her eighties.
My mother’s middle brother, Harold Gene Buchanan, inspired the Uncle Gene character in this series. He left us too early but managed to leave behind an inspirational and scientific legacy to his family and friends. He was a big personality full of boundless energy, curiosity, and drive. He showed me, by example, that your background doesn’t limit your ability to achieve your dreams.
Ramona DeFelice Long is an amazing award-winning writer, editor extraordinaire, and refined woman with deep roots in the southern heart of Louisiana. She knows what makes a good story and can tell me in a way that doesn’t scare the ever-loving bejesus out of me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
First readers are important and I have a powerful one. We exchange pages every month and meet to discuss them. Sam Falco, you’re my hero.
I’m crushed to report that my wonderful agent, Beth Campbell, has left BookEnds Literary Agency to pursue the next stage in her publishing career. She has inspired me to write better and try harder to produce the best writing I can. I wish her the very best. I know we’ll hear about her soon.
My new agent is James McGowan, the latest member of the cast of rock stars that make up the fabulous staff that Jessica Faust of BookEnds Literary Agency has gathered. He’s enthusiastic about this new series and my new projects. I’m counting on him to be my champion in negotiating the twisty passages of modern publishing.
My extraordinary editor at Kensington Publishing Corporation, Elizabeth Trout, has managed to take my jumbled plot threads and wibbly-wobbly emotional crises and unfailingly guide me to a much better story. Larissa Ackerman has been devoted to this series by consulting with me to brainstorm new promotional and marketing themes with creative and fresh ideas. I finally met Michelle Addo, who rocks Kensington’s new CozyClub Mini-Cons held all over the country. When I appeared with the other cozy writers at Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Scottsdale, Arizona, it was a bucket list event for me.
I wouldn’t be published at all if not for the Sisters in Crime organization and their online chapter, the Guppies. The fishy name comes from the following: The Great Unpublished. The chapter started out as a collection of unpublished writers sharing information about the confounding world of publishing. The secret to its success is that after reaching that revered status of published, the members stay in the group and reach back to help others. Out of more than 860 members, the split is now about 50/50 published to unpublished. If you have any inclination to follow the writer’s journey, you need to sign up right now. Here’s the link for the national group: https://www.sistersincrime.org
I am grateful for the dedication of booksellers everywhere who love readers and are kind to writers. My local bookstore in downtown St. Petersburg, Florida, is Haslam’s Book Store at 2025 Central Avenue. The owners have welcomed me w
ith unstinting support and I’ve even been honored to meet all four of the bookstore cats: Beowulf, Teacup, Clancy, and Emily Dickinson.
My next favorite local bookstore is owned and managed by the irrepressible Nancy Alloy of Books at Park Place. She has moved to a new location in nearby Pasadena Shopping Center near our beautiful beaches. I enjoy talking all things books with her and her dog, the very skeptical Watson, who greets me with subtle and rare affection.
Finally, I’m delighted to announce the new gun in town, Tombolo Books. Owner Alsace Walentine makes it her personal mission to get to know the people in her community so that she can provide a succinctly curated bookstore. I am so lucky to live in the Tampa Bay area.
In today’s online world, book bloggers influence who discovers your books. I met my first real live book advocate at Malice Domestic, Dru Ann Love, who runs https://drusbookmusing.com, posts reviews, cover reveals, new releases, and interviews. Her main feature is “A Day in the Life” essays in the voice of the character of a new mystery. Thanks, Dru—I’ll hug you in the hotel lobby at the next mystery conference.
My muse of many years, Joye Barnes, is completely responsible for my lack of writer’s block. Every time I get a little stuck, I mentally look her in the eyes and ask, “What would you be thrilled to have happen next?”
Many writers struggle through their writing process hideously alone without the support of their families. I’m not one of those. I have the devoted encouragement of my sons, daughters-in-love, grandchildren, parents, brothers, sisters, and a large extended family.
I am so grateful to you, the readers. There is no greater reward than to hear that one of my books helped someone get through a difficult time by providing a few hours of distraction. That’s one of the reasons I write. Other than the fact that I’m completely addicted to writing, of course.
George is my constant cheerleader, relentless taskmaster, overall handyman, and ever ready book bag carrier in support of my writing dream. He has earned the title of trophy husband for his role in this adventure.
Chapter 1
Saturday Afternoon, Miranda’s Farmhouse
Miranda Trent felt the color drain from her face as she stared at the blood on her kitchen floor. Of the many nightmares she had experienced over the last few weeks, none held a candle to the living reality of death at her feet.
The brilliant fall morning had started with such promise.
Her rescued puppy, Sandy, had slept through the night for the first time.
She perfected her morning cup of coffee by simply using a filter to purify the tap water and adding organic half and half.
Her Kentucky farmhouse smelled pine fresh and lemony clean after yesterday’s manic efforts to get it spic-and-span ready for her clients.
Every detail was as perfect as she could make this first day of a new venture.
Promises were destined to be broken.
But she didn’t expect so many at one time.
Chapter 2
Saturday Morning, Hemlock Lodge
Miranda paced like a soldier, her fists clenched, her heart beating fast, as she chanted under her breath, “Please don’t let me die. Don’t let me die of embarrassment.” Weeks of planning, permitting, construction, advertising, practicing, and loss of sleep had brought her to this point of excited anticipation. Her business was a real enterprise.
The thick treads of her hiking boots echoed on the oak wood floor, and her threadbare black corduroys swooshed with every step. Her path crossed in front of the two-story stone fireplace, the focal point inside the lobby of Hemlock Lodge.
It was built in the typical architecture of the 1960s. Perched upon a dramatic ledge, it offered stunning views from the wraparound balconies that overlooked the Red River far below. Deep in the Daniel Boone National Forest in the highlands of eastern Kentucky, it supplied the best accommodations nearest the hiking trails. It was the quiet time of the morning, right after the lodge guests ate a massive breakfast and headed out for the day’s adventure hikes.
Miranda glanced at the wall near the entry door to make sure her flyer was still pinned onto the bulletin board. She had replaced it three times in the past week. Someone was removing them and she thought it might be the receptionist. An entire stack from the brochure stand had disappeared as well.
She considered it a positive sign that six clients had managed to overcome the miserable internet access to find her website and sign up for her cultural adventure tour. Miranda pulled a loose thread from the small red logo embroidered over the front pocket of her special-ordered khaki shirt. It was designed to be untucked to give her a wide range of movement. The logo branded her new business, Paint & Shine.
She scanned the wide-angle view of the valley below through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The trees sparkled with the excitement of change that fall colors brought to the rugged cliffs of eastern Kentucky. For the first time, the beauty of the trees didn’t calm her.
Sleepless nights didn’t help her mood. Her worries thrived and multiplied in her restless mind—a creative mind that kept coming up with more and more ways for her business to fail. Statistics revealed that four out of five new businesses failed within the first year.
She fiddled with the six pin-on badges in her hands, one for each client who had paid for a three-hour cultural adventure. It combined a group painting at a scenic overlook with a traditional Southern dinner at her farmhouse, and finally a moonshine lecture with samples presented by the owner of a distillery. Six backpacks sat beside the fireplace loaded with the supplies her clients would need to complete a painting of the overlook at Lover’s Leap.
Group painting classes were popular in New York City, where last month she had been eking out a scant living as a classical portrait artist. Typically, each client would bring a bottle of wine or growler of craft beer, paint along with an instructor, and take home a finished painting and memories of a great night out. Her business was a new concept for this area of outstanding natural beauty. The nearest competitor was in downtown Lexington, Kentucky—more than an hour’s drive away.
Her mother had questioned her choice. “You, a teacher? You’re too quiet!” That had stung, but Miranda felt strongly about sharing the simple joy of painting a beautiful view in the great outdoors on a mountain trail—no screens, no music, only nature. This is important; I’ll deal with my introversion.
“Are you waiting for someone, honey?” The white-haired, sharp-eyed, plump woman behind the registration counter looked over her red half-moon reading glasses at the still pacing Miranda.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m waiting for my class to arrive.” Miranda walked over to the counter. “My name is Miranda Trent. I’m the art instructor for today’s outdoor painting class. It’s the notice that’s pinned up over there.” She pointed to the bulletin board.
“Trent? Are you one of those Trents out by Laurel Valley? You have their look about you.”
Miranda nodded. “My grandparents used to run the post office and general store over in Laurel. Well, actually, Grandma ran the post office while Grandpa ran the store. It was mostly a gathering place. In summer, Grandpa sat out on the porch swapping knives and whittling wood sticks with the other old men. In winter, they moved indoors to sit around the wood stove beating each other at checkers.”
“I declare, now that I look at you, there’s a faint resemblance to your mother all right. You’re lucky to get the wavy black hair and green eyes.” The woman leaned forward and smiled. “It looks like you skipped out on inheriting the broad Trent nose. How’s your momma faring?”
“Very well, ma’am. She says she’ll come down from Dayton to visit me every other weekend.” Miranda nervously shifted her weight like a schoolgirl. She stopped when she noticed it. “I think she’s a bit homesick.”
“Along with half the folks in Ohio and Indiana. We went to high school together many, many years past. Well, you tell your momma that Doris Ann Norris says hi and that I still miss her wonderful Peanut Butter Potato Pi
nwheels.”
“I’ll mention that the next time she calls.” Miranda twisted her lip sideways, uncertain of Doris Ann’s feelings towards her. “And since I moved here, she calls several times a day.” Without thinking she pulled her cell from her back pocket and checked for messages. There weren’t any, yet.
“She must be worried,” said Doris Ann.
Miranda tucked away the phone. “Maybe. When I moved to New York City, it was once a week at best. As soon as I move back to her hometown, she’s like a mama bear with a truant cub.”
The front door opened, and Miranda snapped her head to look at an old couple with their arms hooked together and using canes on their opposite sides. Definitely not her clients.
“Did I hear right?” continued Doris. “That you moved back into your late Uncle Gene’s farmhouse up on Pine Ridge?”
“He left it to me in his will. I wasn’t expecting it. He was always interested in my paintings—he even bought a few—but I thought he was just trying to give me some cash for art supplies. I was shocked to be the sole beneficiary.”
“He was a good upstanding man, your uncle. He had a big heart.”
“My mom sent me to stay with him most summers. I keep expecting him to come into the house with a stomping of dusty boots on the porch and a slamming of the screen door.” She pressed her hand to cover her mouth for a moment.
“I wonder why I didn’t see you those summers. Most youngsters are up here climbing all through the trails in these woods.”
“I mostly helped Uncle Gene with his big garden. After chores, I sketched outdoors and then after supper, I read books in my room. The neighbors barely knew I was there.” She looked at her watch—only ten minutes yet to go.
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