Still Knife Painting

by Cheryl Hollon

  “My late Uncle Gene loved hunting and fishing.” Miranda felt her voice rise in pitch and speed.

  Ugh! I’m babbling again. It wasn’t necessary to explain the stuff in the room—he’s a clever man and will figure it out for himself.

  “This is fine.” He stood with his hands on his hips. “Not ideal—but better than in the barn. I’ll get Deputy Spenser to bring in a dining room chair.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. Why don’t we start with you?”

  “Sure.” Miranda could feel her heart pounding against her chest. Surely, her nervousness was plainly visible and would indicate to Sheriff Larson that she should be arrested immediately for the murder of the best biscuit baker in Wolfe County.

  But no, he didn’t arrest her.

  While Sheriff Larson explained to the still-pale deputy about the importance of keeping control of the potential witnesses, Miranda snagged the nearest dining room chair and placed it in her uncle’s bedroom next to the reading table. It looked like a stage setting in a play. She imagined the billing lit up on the theater marque:

  MURDER AT THE FARMHOUSE

  STARRING JANET LEIGH

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts. I need to settle down and concentrate. Finally, Sheriff Larson turned his attention her way.

  “Now, Miss Trent, let’s get to the bottom of this.” He reached into his top shirt pocket and took out an official-looking notebook with a badge insignia on the cover. He settled it on his knee. Then he pulled out a pen from the same shirt pocket and clicked it to start writing.

  “First, give me the names of everyone who is here. Start please by separating the staff from the tourists who came for your event, and then also I need to know who the locals are.”

  “But surely, you know who is local?”

  “I need to hear it from you. People lie. That’s important information.”

  “Sure, first the tourists are Joe Creech from Dothan, Alabama. Laura and Brian Hoffman are the newlyweds from Akron, Kelly Davis and Linda Sanders are from New York City. Of course, you already know our only local tourist. That’s Shefton Adams.” She took a deep breath.

  Sheriff Larson had been taking notes. He peered into Miranda’s strained face. “You’re doing fine. Keep going on.”

  “The distillery representative is Dan Keystone from Lexington. The other locals are Ranger Austin Morgan, Viola Hobb and, of course, the late Naomi Childers.” Miranda expelled a pent-up breath and folded her hands in her lap.

  “That was great—you have an organized mind. Artists often have a completely different way of looking at things. That helps quite a bit.” He scribbled for a few minutes, then raised his eyes. “Now, rumors running around town are saying that you and Mrs. Childers had words about your new business. Some pretty loud arguments, in fact. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Doris Ann wasn’t the only opponent against my serving moonshine on the tour. Mrs. Childers strongly objected to serving the moonshine with the cultural meal. But I increased my donation to her pet project, the church roofing fund. She still wasn’t happy, but at least she stopped complaining about it. I should have offered her more money sooner.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “What?” Miranda stood straight up out of the chair. “What a horrible thing to ask! I can’t believe you asked that.” Miranda sat back in the chair and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Sheriff Larson leaned in close and whispered, “But that’s what I need to know.”

  Chapter 10

  Saturday Afternoon

  Miranda sat in her late uncle’s bedroom on a dining chair that she had brought into the room with her. She found it hard to believe she was being interviewed by Sheriff Larson for her possible involvement in the death of her cook.

  He had just asked her if she had killed Mrs. Childers.

  She just stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak and felt her jaw drop but no words came. She couldn’t answer.

  The sheriff leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Miss Trent, I understand that you’re shocked by what has happened. Mrs. Childers is dead. The investigation will be intense and personal. It will disrupt everything in your life. It’s what you must expect if justice is to be done.”

  He stared into her eyes, making doubly sure his message was received. “Are you ready now to give your statement?”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Do you think you need one?”

  Miranda gulped, sat forward, and straightened her shoulders. “No, sir, I do not. I am innocent. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with telling me how you decided to hire Mrs. Childers. She doesn’t usually work for anyone but the church. Mrs. Hobb, now, she is always looking for extra money, but I was surprised to hear that Mrs. Childers would be your cook.”

  Miranda tightly folded her hands together to keep from digging at her nails. “It was my mother’s idea. She knows everyone who’s anybody in Wolfe County. She and Dad grew up here and Mrs. Childers is—was—the best traditional Southern cook. So her meal recipes and presentation would be completely authentic.”

  “That’s important to your tour?”

  “Yes, tourists can always sniff out a scam and then they love to spread the word on social media like a house afire. The more real culture I provide, the better for my business. She also has a reputation for her influence with the city council, so I was counting on her spreading the good word about my business. I really needed her help.”

  “And what about Mrs. Hobb?”

  “That came about after I told Mrs. Childers how many people could be in each group. I can handle up to ten for the painting session. She said it was too much work for just one cook.” She paused recalling Mrs. Childers’s sharp, insistent tone.

  Sheriff Larson looked up. “Go on.”

  “When I saw how much preparation is needed for these meals, I was staggered. I’ve never cooked for a large group. Anyway, she recommended Mrs. Hobb. She also appeared to need an audience, and they were best friends from all the way back to first grade. I think another reason was that it also gave her someone to order about.”

  The sheriff had a coughing fit after that last remark. He leaned back in the easy chair and let the fit progress to an out-loud laugh. “That’s perceptive. I had noticed the same behavior myself.” After noting down something, he leaned forward again. “Now let’s start going over the activities of your event from the first thing until now.”

  Miranda took in a long, slow breath, and then just let the words spill out as they wanted to. She heard them tumbling over each other in no particular order and in no particular logic that she could see.

  After she finally stopped talking, Miranda folded her hands tightly. Her index finger was bleeding at the nail. She didn’t remember biting it. She pressed her thumb to the wound to stop the bleeding.

  She must have made some sense because when she stopped, the sheriff didn’t seem annoyed with her account.

  The sheriff continued to write in his notebook for what seemed like a century.

  Finally, he looked up. “Thank you, Miss Trent. That’s a big help with the general situation. I have a better understanding of your business and how things were meant to go.”

  “Is that all?”

  “From me? Yes. If I have time before the Lexington gang get here, I may have a few more questions after I talk to everyone else that I can squeeze in.”

  She stood and was surprised that her legs were shaky. “What happens now?”

  Sheriff Larson stood as well. “I’m going to continue taking statements. I’m sure the Lexington officers will want statements as well.”

  “What can I do to help? I could round up folks.”

  “That’s generous, but I think that Deputy Spenser is capable of shuffling everyone in here for their interviews. But I would appreciate it if you could tell him to send in Ranger Morgan.”

  Miranda didn’t see Deputy Spenser, but found Austin and told him
that he was next to be interviewed. He raised his eyebrows. “This ought to be interesting.” He quietly opened the bedroom door and slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a sharp click.

  Miranda looked at the kitchen doorway and a shudder ran down her spine. How long would poor Mrs. Childers have to lie there? It seemed so callous. She hoped that the Lexington officials would hurry. The weather was cool, but . . . Miranda shuddered again.

  Your thoughts are getting ghoulish, girl. Stop it.

  She was desperate to get a bandage for her finger, but she couldn’t get to the bathroom. She went into her backpack in the dining room and got the first aid kit, and used a handy wipe to clean her hands. Then she wrapped her finger in one of those stretchy bandage strips. That would stop her from tormenting that finger, but she knew she would begin picking at the bandage, so she slipped another one into her pocket.

  Everyone was hanging around in both the front room and the dining room with the condemned atmosphere of a dentist’s waiting room. Deputy Spenser was standing next to the front door.

  In the dining room, the pizza boxes had been cleared away and a single box containing the leftovers remained with its lid open. Miranda was surprised to feel hungry. She opened one of the Ale-8 bottles and grabbed the last meat slice. She ate it where she stood and downed the lemon-lime soda in one long swig. She put the empty bottle in the returnable carton on the table and began to make her way to the front door.

  Deputy Spenser stepped into her path. “The sheriff said to keep everyone close by.”

  Miranda was about to speak when she heard a pitiful whimper from her bedroom. “Oh shoot, it’s Sandy!” She opened her bedroom door and rushed over to the crate. “Sweetie! I’m so sorry. I forgot all about you. I’m a miserable puppy mommy.” She opened the crate and Sandy bounced into her arms, whimpering and giving her puppy licks at double speed.

  She kissed the top of his head, went out into the front room, and headed for the door. Deputy Spenser stepped in front of her. “No one can leave.”

  Miranda held the wriggling puppy within an inch of his face. “Do you want to clean up after him? He’s about to poop everywhere.”

  “Um, uh—” Deputy Spenser stepped back, retched, and slapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Absolutely, I’ll be right outside. That’s close enough for you to keep an eye out just by standing here in the front room.”

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  “I live here, remember. This is my house. Just where do you think I’ll go?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sandy did his business as soon as Miranda set him on the grass. He’s such a good puppy. That was a long time to be crated. While Miranda cleaned up, Sandy found a small stick under the big maple tree and brought it back to her for their usual game of fetch-a-stick. It was part of Sandy’s potty-training routine. Miranda was happy to be outside in the fresh autumn air. It was good to be away from the gloom inside.

  After playing a good deal longer than usual, she picked Sandy up and they collapsed into the porch swing and snuggled into the quilt that permanently lived there. It was the first quiet moment since she had left the farmhouse that morning for Hemlock Lodge. It seemed like a million years ago. In less than a minute, Sandy was napping in her lap.

  The screen door opened and Austin joined her on the swing, taking care not to wake Sandy.

  “How was it?” she asked him.

  “I’ve known Sheriff Larson since I was a kid. He’s a great guy. That’s why he keeps getting reelected for Sheriff. He’s fair, but I’m as likely a suspect as anyone else.”

  “I wish I felt the same, but this is the first time I’ve met him. I am getting a horrible feeling that I’m an outsider, a flatlander for heaven’s sake. My family has been in this area for generations. This ‘you’re not from here’ treatment must be what tourists experience when they visit. That’s what I want to change. It’s awful.”

  “That’s unfair. The sheriff is trying to protect everyone here from the Lexington Police Department. Past events have taught Wolfe County folk to be wary. That group is going to be the real outsiders.”

  “Who’s in there now?”

  “The newlyweds. They insisted that they were going to have to get back to Lexington to catch some sort of event that they had already paid for.”

  “That worked?”

  “Sure, it’s not really the sheriff’s case, is it? The Lexington officials have already alienated everyone here and they haven’t even arrived to be horrible in person.”

  Miranda and Austin let the silence between them rest easy. It was such a beautiful day to swing in the fresh air with nothing but falling leaves, hummingbirds, squirrels, and fluffy clouds to watch.

  “This is not going to end well, is it?” asked Miranda.

  “What do you mean?” Austin stopped the swing from moving with his boot.

  Sandy whimpered and began to fidget. Austin released his foot to resume the gentle swinging. Sandy nuzzled further into the quilt and puffed a great sigh.

  Miranda patted his little bottom. “With the two organizations both working on the same case, there’s bound to be some territorial competition. No, that’s not right. Sheriff Larson won’t work against them, but they won’t use his local expertise. I’ve heard the same thing happens in differing precincts in New York City. This case is going to take a back seat to crime in Lexington, isn’t it?”

  Austin nodded. “That’s unkind, but unfortunately, I think you’re right on target.”

  “But do you think this is a real possibility, not just coming from my imagination? I have an intense and sometimes overactive imagination.”

  “Yes. I can see that,” he chuckled, then looked at her frown. “I think it’s a good thing.”

  “Everyone in these parts knew that Mrs. Childers disapproved of my plan to serve moonshine at my events. She knew about the clause in the will that called out for me to start a distillery in the barn. She threatened to speak to the town council about denying my planning permit.”

  “You don’t know that for certain. It’s possible that she wouldn’t have been able to sway the council. She didn’t have complete control.”

  Miranda frowned. “She is, I mean was, a righteous force of nature. My mom claims that she was a powerful influence in this area for decades. Mrs. Childers had arranged for members of her church to go out talking to their neighbors and making sure that everyone would be on her side of the issue. I was definitely in danger of having that permit denied.”

  Austin opened his mouth to protest, then frowned. “You may be right, but in the end, what will you do if you fail to get a permit?”

  “Good question. I haven’t even given that a thought.” Miranda scratched the softly snoring Sandy behind his ears. “I just can’t figure this out. Why would anyone want to kill her?”

  Miranda paused for a moment then continued, “How long do you think it will take the authorities to find out who killed Mrs. Childers? They’re not even here yet and we’re assuming that the Lexington crowd will think it’s an accident. Sheriff Larson didn’t make any headway with suggesting that it didn’t look like one. Even with the coroner supporting a further investigation, I don’t think that Lexington will pay much attention.”

  “Don’t jump the wrong way. We think it was murder, but the authorities could still prove that this was an accident.”

  “You don’t seriously believe that, do you? If this incident goes like most things around these parts, it will get sidetracked, shoved under the rug, relegated to a cold case, and remain unsolved. That’s a thousand times worse.”

  “Worse than her death?”

  “Yes, it will spread doubt about my business and I’ll lose the farm. It’s my first event. Everyone is watching to see how things go. No one will trust me to hold events or drink my moonshine. Without community support, I’ll lose the farm and have to go back to Dayton to live with my mom.”

  Austin was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t loo
k at it like that.”

  Miranda stood. “I think my best decision is to do a little investigating on my own.”

  Chapter 11

  Saturday Afternoon

  The sound of heavy car doors slamming alerted Miranda to the arrival of the Lexington law officials. She rushed outside and saw three uniformed officers exit a Ford Interceptor. Then from a second Ford, out came a detective in a suit and tie, along with two technicians carrying large black cases.

  Deputy Spenser followed her and grabbed her arm. “Hey, you’re supposed to stay inside. Remember what the sheriff said?”

  “Don’t you want to know who’s coming to see us?”

  Deputy Spenser noticed the cars and froze on the spot. His eye widened and he swallowed before he yelled, “Sheriff Larson! Lexington is here.”

  Miranda slipped her arm out of his grasp unnoticed and he ran into the house.

  The first blue-and-black Fayette County vehicle had found a parking space by the outhouse. The man in the suit stretched his back like he had driven from California instead of the sixty-five miles from Lexington’s Main Street station. She thought that it would probably have taken them more time to assemble this large a team than it would to make the drive.

  Why such a large force?

  The man in the suit reached into the back seat and pulled out a black Stetson, which he seated and ran a finger around the brim. When he turned, she saw that he had a pitch-black handlebar mustache. He carried off a swaggering walk with unconscious grace. He approached the house to look up at Miranda, who moved to stand at the edge of the porch.

  Miranda stared. She thought he looked like Hugh O’Brian from the old Wyatt Earp TV series on the Western cable channel she was obsessed with.

  “Is this the Buchanan Farmhouse?” His nasal twang exploded the Earp image.

  Miranda opened her mouth to answer but standing inside the house, Sheriff Larson bellowed, “Hey, Detective Otis E. Peterson! Is that you? I thought you were too important to be called up to investigate a back-country crime.” Sheriff Larson walked out the screen door and stood at the edge of the steps, effectively blocking access to the porch and deliberately holding the high ground.