Still Knife Painting

by Cheryl Hollon

  “He what? What’s he doing out there? I don’t have a record of an emergency.”

  “I was afraid of that. It looks like he answered the call without telling anyone. I desperately need help.”

  “Oh, of course. What’s the emergency?”

  “Deputy Spenser came to investigate a death up here at my place. It’s the old Buchanan Farmhouse out on the top of the hill at Pine Ridge. He took one look at the body of the cook and dropped into a dead faint. She’s been stabbed in the chest with her own butcher knife. Also, my second cook appears to be having a heart attack, but the fire rescue guys are taking care of her. Can you send someone else out right away?”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Trent. That’s a sore trial for sure,” said the dispatcher. “I’ll tell the sheriff to come out there right away. Just hang on a second.” The radio fell quiet.

  Miranda reckoned that the dispatcher was speaking to the sheriff on another channel.

  The static returned. “Miss Trent, you say someone has been killed. Who?”

  “Mrs. Childers, my cook.”

  “Which one?”

  That caused Miranda to pause. The dispatcher was right—there had to be dozens of women with the last name Childers in this area. It was a common family name.

  “Naomi. Mrs. Naomi Childers. She has been stabbed to death in my kitchen.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who stabbed her?”

  Miranda drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know. No one has been seen driving away, so if she was killed, the murderer is likely either nearby or still at my farmhouse.”

  After saying those words, Miranda leaned back and let the tears flow down her cheeks. Although they were never close, she had known Naomi Childers all her life. Widowed early, but part of a large clan of family members, Naomi had thrown her prodigious energies into volunteering both in her church and in the community. Her only close relative was an estranged niece who lived in Winchester.

  The dispatcher spoke once more. “Murderer? I’ll tell the sheriff to step on it.”

  Chapter 7

  Saturday Afternoon

  Miranda looked towards the porch and saw the firemen take Mrs. Hobb around to the back of the ambulance. One of them yelled out to her.

  “Can you have somebody move the patrol car? We can’t get the gurney around it.”

  Miranda raced into the house and found Deputy Spenser lying on the couch where Mrs. Hobb had just been. He was still pale, his eyes were closed, and the back of his hand lay across his forehead, covering his eyes, the mirror image of Mrs. Hobb only a few moments before.

  “Deputy, where are your keys? I need to move your car so the ambulance can leave.”

  Deputy Spenser unclipped a bunch of keys from his utility belt without disturbing the hand over his eyes. He held them straight out.

  Miranda grabbed them and ran back out to the road. She got in the patrol car, feeling like a teenager sneaking a stolen ride. She started it, put it in gear, then drove it about twenty-five yards down the gravel road. Then she waited for the ambulance to back out, turn onto the road, and make its way out toward Doctor Watson’s office in Campton. Little Jimmy waved his thanks to Miranda as they left.

  Miranda pulled the patrol car into the parking spot that the ambulance had just freed up, shut off the engine, took the keys, and walked back up onto the porch. Just as she was about to open the screen door, another patrol car arrived and drove beyond the already crowded driveway and parked in front of the outhouse. This car displayed “Wolfe County Sheriff” on the doors and the top of the trunk.

  Miranda hopped forward, then looked around when she was bumped in the back by the screen door. Kelly pushed herself out to stand at the edge of the porch. Of course, she let the screen door slam.

  Do these people have no mothers?

  “Who’s this now? Talk about activity. Grand Central Station is nothing compared to the commotion at this little farmhouse.”

  Another bang of the screen door announced her friend Linda. “What’s going on now? You’re up to your neck in officials, Miranda. Did you call this one, too?”

  Miranda folded her arms and pulled back her shoulders to stand as tall as she could. “We’re calling in the proper emergency services for an awful event. Could you both go back to sit in the front room please? I know everyone is anxious, but it would help the situation if you could try to stay put.”

  The women looked at each other and gave a “who cares” shrug before they went back inside. Miranda caught the edge of the screen door before it could slam again.

  The sheriff walked at a deliberate pace up the narrow dirt path to Miranda’s front porch steps. He was tall and lean with a trim salt-and-pepper mustache. He had put on his hat and rested his hand on the Colt .45 revolver in its holster at his hip. He was followed by a petite, dark-haired woman wearing black work trousers and a white oxford shirt and carrying a large black case. Both wore worried looks.

  When they reached the bottom porch step, he tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Trent. I’m Wolfe County Sheriff Richard Larson and this is my wife, our county coroner, Felicia Larson. I hear that you have a situation.”

  Miranda shook hands with them. “Yes, sir. Hello, ma’am. I’m relieved that you’re here. We have a horrible situation—no, a tragic situation, a terrible accident. Follow me.” She led them into the front room, where Deputy Spenser was throwing up into a dusty galvanized bucket.

  Miranda was thankful that someone had taken the trouble to fetch it from the coal shed. She was upset enough without having to deal with a terrible mess on her grandmother’s rag rug.

  “Dagnabbit, Gary. What do you mean taking this call without letting me know?”

  Gary looked up without lifting his head very far out of the bucket. He started to speak but instead retched into the bucket again.

  Sheriff Larson huffed in frustration. “You’re not helping, Gary. You’ve seen worse on the highways. Get out of here into the fresh air as soon as you can stop puking.” The sheriff turned back to Miranda. “Sorry ’bout this, Miss Trent. Gary’s only supposed to work traffic. We get a lot of reckless speeding and drunk driving on our roads and we simply have to have someone do it. He’s the only one who showed up when I asked for applicants to take the position. I might have to rethink my options.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows and led them through the dining room among the quiet and pale clients sitting or standing around the table, still sampling Dan’s moonshine. She elbowed her way through with the officials close behind her. Then she stopped at the doorway into the kitchen to let them go first.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday Afternoon

  Sheriff Larson took one step into the kitchen and stopped abruptly, causing his wife to bump into his back. “Oh shoot, honey. It is Naomi Childers, just like we were told.” He turned to his wife and squeezed her hand for a second.

  “The poor dear.” Coroner Larson stepped in front of her husband and placed her case on the floor over by the kitchen counters, as far away from the stricken cook as she should get. She opened the case and put on plastic gloves and grabbed a high-intensity flashlight. She knelt beside the dead woman on the floor and pressed two fingers to her flabby throat. She glanced at her watch. “I’m declaring Naomi Childers to be deceased at one twenty-five p.m.”

  Coroner Larson looked up at her husband. “Rich, we’ve got to call Lexington.”

  “Why? This is an accident. It looks like a kitchen accident.”

  She stood up. “I wish I could be that certain, but I’m not. I don’t see how such an experienced cook could accidently fall like this. I can see why you would wish that it was an accident, because investigating our neighbors and friends as murderers is not what I want to do either.”

  “Is there any chance?”

  “That it was an accident? Right off, no. I think it was deliberate.” She stooped beside Mrs. Childers and shined the flashlight on the area
where the knife entered the chest. “A kitchen accident wouldn’t involve such a deep wound. The stab location is also suspect—right in the middle of the chest. Most kitchen knife fatalities involve an accidental slice to an artery or a dismemberment. This is—at first glance mind you—a deep plunge into bone and muscle.”

  “I can see that.”

  She stared her husband square in the eyes. “You have to treat this like a crime, because we can’t afford to get this wrong. We need help with this. We don’t have the crime scene resources that they have in Lexington. We’re country. We’re limited.”

  “But—” said Sheriff Larson.

  “No buts.” She lowered her voice to a sharp whisper. “What if this is a serial killer? What if this is the start of a killing spree?”

  “Really, honey!”

  “I know. That’s an exaggeration, of course, but sweetie, there are lives and reputations at stake. You saw the crowd out there. How many of them have been in and out of this kitchen? Probably all of them.”

  “But—” tried Sheriff Larson again.

  “I know you want to keep what happens in Wolfe County private to ourselves. That’s how we were raised, but this needs everything that Lexington has to offer. You have to put your personal feelings aside. Do you want to be responsible for letting a killer go free?”

  “You know better than to ask me that. I’ll call them all right. Their forensic experts are the best, but you need to rein yourself in a bit. I know you would like to solve a serial murder case for some completely unexplainable reason, but this is not going to be that case.” Sheriff Larson pulled out his cell phone. “Right. No signal. I’ll go out and use the radio to get in touch with the Homicide Unit. They’ll be irritated, but it’s better if we ask nicely.” He turned back to his wife. “I’m sure you’ll be the acting coroner, no matter which organization gets the case.”

  With both hands propped on her hips, she turned to face the body of Mrs. Childers. “I know. I’ll be extra, extra careful.”

  The sheriff returned to the dining room.

  “Miss Trent, I think you heard that we’re calling Lexington in on this.” He glanced at the wide-eyed clients around the room. “Everyone, relax. I’ll be right back.” He skimmed over each client one by one. “I’m sorry to disrupt your schedules, but I’m sure you’re all willing to help us in any way you can. You’re all witnesses and I’ll begin taking statements shortly.”

  He hustled out of the house to use the radio in his vehicle.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday Afternoon

  Miranda closed her eyes and rubbed them until they stopped itching. Lack of sleep wasn’t helping the situation at all. She had been worried about how this cultural experience venture would turn out. The reality was far worse than her wildest nightmares.

  She took a deep breath. “Attention, please. May I have your attention?” Austin and Dan appeared in the front room doorway and leaned in. “We’re going to be stuck here for quite some time.”

  “But, why? We didn’t do anything!”

  “That’s ridiculous. We don’t even know these people.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “How about more shine?”

  Miranda held up both her hands. “Hold on! Let’s try to help instead of getting in the way. Dan, could you give everyone another sample of your strongest brew for a pick-me-up? Oh, I have an idea. Shefton, could you run down to Miguel’s and get half a dozen pizzas? Split them up any way you like as long as two of them are vegetarian.”

  “But the sheriff told us not to leave.”

  “I know—but he’s keeping us out of the kitchen and he knows I have tourists here. Besides, I don’t think he wants to talk to a bunch of starved witnesses. It’s been a long time since breakfast. Oh, get some sodas, too. I can’t get into the refrigerator. Wait a sec.” She pulled three twenties from her billfold. “You’ll need some cash. They don’t take credit cards down there.”

  Shefton took the cash. “I’ve got you covered, cuz. I’ll tell the sheriff where I’m going.” He smirked. “Wouldn’t want to be accused of trying to leave before they complete their investigation.” He started to leave, then questioned the room. “Wait, whose car can I take?”

  Dan dug his keys out of his front pocket and tossed them to Shefton.

  “Thanks, I’ll call in the order as soon as I get some signal. I should be back in about thirty minutes.” Shefton sped out the door.

  “Right,” said Miranda. “That’s food on the way. Austin, you know how to draw water from our well, don’t you?”

  “Born here, remember? Oh, I get it. We can’t get any running water from the kitchen sink. Good idea. I’ll get some drinking water from your old well. Everyone already has a water glass.” He left by the front door and headed for the still-working well in the side yard near the back of the farmhouse.

  With everyone’s immediate needs taken care of, Miranda walked into the front room and saw Deputy Spenser get up from the couch. Apparently, Dan had rustled up a washcloth and he held that to his mouth for a last swipe. “Excuse me, Miss Trent. I’ll just take myself off and go talk to the sheriff.” He tried to hand her the cloth.

  “Keep it, Deputy. I have plenty.”

  Deputy Spenser rolled his eyes but had no strength to speak as he trudged out to the sheriff’s car.

  “Could we at least get out of this room?” asked Linda.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to go the bathroom,” said Kelly, her expression pained. “Really bad.”

  “I do too,” said Linda.

  Miranda shook her head no. “The kitchen is being investigated by the sheriff and the coroner. They don’t know that they’re blocking the only way to get to the bathroom.”

  “But they can’t keep us from the bathroom,” said Brian.

  “That’s too cruel,” said Laura.

  “They don’t mean to be cruel, but that’s not what they’re thinking about. There are several old-fashioned solutions.” Miranda tried her best to keep her voice cheerful, but that seemed to alert her clients that something was in the works that might not be fun.

  “What are you talking about?” Laura looked dubious.

  Miranda paused. Her mother had predicted that her business would go wrong. Well, it can’t go more wrong than this, she thought. It was going to fail in a spectacular way. However, that was not the fault of these nice tourists. They deserved her best efforts.

  “Please, I’ve got to go!” said Kelly.

  Miranda pointed outside. “Out behind the barn for the men and boys.”

  “Great,” said Brian as he rushed outside. He grinned. “I’ll be back in a whizz.”

  “And for the women and girls?”

  “I’m so, so sorry. We are out in the country where in the past folks took care of things themselves. So, this morning I cleaned it.”

  “Cleaned what?” said Kelly.

  “The outhouse. The outhouse still works.”

  Miranda hadn’t seen a haughty look like that since she’d left New York City. It was typical to witness that look several times a day on every day she lived there.

  Definitely whenever she mentioned her address. She had subleased a tiny three-room apartment in Queens that had provided her with an obnoxious roommate. Her salvation was the one south-facing room that flooded with light. It was her painting loft. She made ends almost meet by working at the Museum of Fine Art in Manhattan. She slept on a cot in a corner of the loft and stored her sparse wardrobe using a few hooks on the wall.

  She got snooty looks when she appeared for art events. She owned one little black dress that she wore with black ballet flats. It also served as her work uniform. She had a collection of scarves that she used to change up her look. Since everyone in New York City wore black, she hoped it wasn’t noticed, but occasionally it was. Then she got the haughty look.

  Even though she never felt like she fit in, she knew her art had grown by leaps and bounds in both depth and ma
turity from the experience of living there.

  Sheriff Larson returned and stepped into the kitchen. He turned his head down towards the coroner. “Just to let you know, the Lexington Chief of Police is sending a homicide investigation team. He says they’ll be here in about two hours.” He left.

  The coroner was right behind him. She glanced back at the kitchen. “I’ve done all I can do here. Lexington will have to decide where they want the autopsy performed. I would expect them to take her to their morgue, but you never know, they might be swamped.”

  “Sure. Why don’t you drive Gary’s patrol car back to the station? He can help me here with keeping tabs on everyone. He should be feeling okay by now. I’ll let the dispatcher give you a call when they decide what they’re going to do with Mrs. Childers. Meanwhile, I’ll begin taking statements. I want their first impressions documented in the case file. In two hours, they’ll forget details.”

  He turned to Miranda and looked around the tiny farmhouse. “I’m going to need a private interview space. Any suggestions?”

  Miranda stepped back. “I’ve only just moved in so my bedroom is packed full of boxes. I haven’t touched anything in my uncle’s bedroom. It’s right over here.” She opened a wooden door that was tucked into the right-hand wall of the dining room at the bottom of the stairs. “I can move a couple of chairs in there for you.”

  Sheriff Larson walked into the bedroom that was sparsely furnished with a single bed and a small table holding an alarm clock. At the opposite wall was a wooden wardrobe. The wall that adjoined the dining room supported a row of pegs on the wall. Every peg held sporting gear of some sort: fishing rods, a fly-fishing vest, a bow and a quiver of arrows, heavy jackets, waders, two holsters containing guns, and hats of every type.

  In the far corner was a worn, overstuffed, comfortable reading chair with a foot stool and a side table stacked with books that Uncle Gene hadn’t gotten around to reading. Miranda looked at the stack and saw the bookmark tucked midway into a copy of Cyber Attack by Tim Washburn. I didn’t know he liked these kinds of books.