Still Knife Painting

by Cheryl Hollon

  He had thought about calling ahead to make an appointment, but that would probably have meant having an argument over the phone and no chance to plead his case in person. Interagency courtesy meant that if he showed up in uniform, he was very likely going to get a chance to speak to Peterson. It might be the same result, but the chances were better.

  As he expected, after a lengthy interview with various gatekeepers, he was shown to a conference room to wait for Peterson to find time to see him. He had remained patient during the questioning and endured the disdain of the impatient underling clerk who had been told to escort him.

  Although she didn’t appear particularly annoyed, she didn’t chat. Not the usual situation with visiting officers. The staff had at least treated him with enough respect to let him keep his smart phone with him in case anything happened in Wolfe County.

  After nearly twenty-five minutes, the same underling opened the door. “He can see you now.”

  Sheriff Larson hopped up and followed the quickly disappearing clerk down the hallway. She opened the door and waved him into a corner office with an incredible view of the lighted cityscape. The enormous chrome and fake wooden designer desk made the detective look small. Peterson’s eyes were red and looked stressed. Not a square inch of desk surface was visible beneath stacks of folders, reports, notepads, and priority envelopes.

  On the credenza behind the detective sat a coffee maker sputtering a new full pot of dark black coffee. The smell made the sheriff’s mouth water. He loved coffee—cop coffee—black coffee.

  Papers were also stacked along the walls and piled to the tipping point in the three side chairs. Sheriff Larson cautiously made his way through the office and approached the only clear chair in front of the massive desk.

  Detective Peterson stood and crossed his arms in front of his chest. A civil handshake wasn’t going to happen. His mouth curled. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought I saw the last of you back at that miserable farmhouse,” he barked in a scathing tone.

  The sheriff spoke calmly. “Good afternoon, I’ll be quick. I know your time is valuable.” With deliberate politeness, he sat in the chair and pointedly waited until Detective Peterson sat down behind his desk. “I want to discuss the murder of Naomi Childers.”

  A red flush crept up Detective Peterson’s face and a vein in his right temple began to twitch. “You want to what?”

  “I want to—”

  “I heard you. This is a complete waste of my time. The case has been analyzed and we’ve determined that it was an accident. Case closed.” He signaled that the interview was over with a chopping motion. “Now, get out of my office. I have real work to do.”

  Sheriff Larson never considered the administration paperwork real work. He wondered why the detective had a different view. He tilted his head and took in a deep calming breath. “I understand that is the official status, but the examining coroner does not agree.”

  Detective Peterson stood, leaned forward, and gripped the inner edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I don’t care what Felicia thinks. Your wife isn’t in charge here. I am.” He jabbed his chest with a finger.

  The sheriff matched his tone. “Just because we have an ugly past doesn’t mean that we can’t work together to solve this case.”

  Silence fell like a wool blanket. Detective Peterson clenched his fists and stared daggers across his desk. “This has nothing to do with the past. That’s over and done with.”

  “I disagree. You interfere in every interaction between our departments. You petition against us at every budgetary meeting. You block promotion and staffing requests. Why would you single out Wolfe County if not for our past?”

  “I said this has nothing to do with our past.”

  “Then it’s high time for you to stand behind that statement. If our past is truly a closed issue, I expect to see measurable changes in how things happen between our organizations from now on.”

  Detective Peterson’s face contorted with the effort of keeping his voice calm and he slowly relaxed his fists. He looked down at the stacks of paperwork on his desk and muttered barely loud enough to be heard, “Noted.”

  Sheriff Larson released a pent-up breath and spoke in a calming, businesslike tone. “I’m here to officially report to you, in the spirit of official cooperation, that Mrs. Childers did not die in an accident. I will follow up this courtesy call with a written report detailing the particular issues that support additional action by your organization. Is there anything else?”

  “Anything else?” Irritation flashed across the detective’s face. “What I want is none of your business. This case is closed. Leave before I have you thrown out of here.”

  “Fine,” said Sheriff Larson. “I understand your position clearly and I will be reporting to our upper management that you have refused to cooperate with the Wolfe County Sheriff’s Office. Not just this case, but I’m also turning in our problems from the past. I’m kicking this issue up the chain to your superiors. You’ll be hearing from me after I catch the killer.” Sheriff Larson left the office and slammed the door behind him.

  He was out of that building and into his patrol car in a flash. Frustrated and angry, he fumed all the way back. He felt it had been the right move to tell Detective Peterson about his wife’s assessment of the case. Unfortunately, he had predicted the outcome as well.

  He phoned Felicia to say he was on his way home. It was well after dark when he pulled into one of their two parking spots in the basement. It had been a big decision to sell the little truck farm her parents had given them when they first married, but with the three kids gone and living out of state, the farmhouse was too quiet for both of them.

  Also, Felicia’s new job meant keeping long, erratic hours. Keeping up with the daily farm chores just wasn’t possible. She had struggled for too many years to back off now. They had considered hiring help, but in the end they moved into a two-bedroom unit overlooking town.

  He took the elevator to the top floor.

  The comforting smell of chicken and dumplings floated through the apartment. She had anticipated that he would need a suitable reward. Even better, Felicia met him at the door with a warm, delicious kiss.

  “There’s spiced layer cake with ice cream, too,” she said as her eyes twinkled.

  Yep, this was his favorite part of the day.

  Chapter 22

  Monday Afternoon, Miranda’s Farmhouse

  “Good grief,” Miranda fussed at herself. I hadn’t thought about Doris Ann broadcasting my every move to every man, woman, or child she met. What on earth have I done? Well, it can’t be helped. That may be the best way to get things moving in these parts.

  Miranda took the faster route by way of the Mountain Parkway for her return and even risked driving a bit over the speed limit. She managed to arrive just as Officer Young was coming up along the pathway around the backside of the barn.

  What was he doing poking around back there? He shouldn’t be out behind the barn. Not that I know of anything there for him to find. If he was looking for the hidden money, his face doesn’t look like he found it.

  She pulled in the driveway without blocking his patrol car and grabbed Sandy in her arms. “Officer Young. What can I do for you?” Sandy yipped a warning and struggled to get down from Miranda’s arms. “Easy, easy boy. I’m not letting you go.”

  Officer Young smiled but there was a hard edge in his eyes. “Miss Trent, I’m here to verify the statement you gave us about the incident that occurred here. There are some details that need more illumination.”

  Miranda shook her head. Illumination? Officer Young pronounced the word as if he’d just found it in his spelling list and needed to use it in a sentence. “Illumination? So, you need more light?”

  Officer Young frowned.

  “Yes, er, no, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you here at home, but we haven’t been able to contact you by phone.”

  Ma’am. Really? I’m not that old. Why
is he doing that? Anyway, that was a lie, Why was he lying? Her cell phone recorded all missed calls. Even when she was in a dead spot. “Fine. I’m fixing to make some coffee. Will you have some?”

  She dug the front door key out of her handbag and unlocked the door.

  “Most folks around here don’t lock their doors,” said Officer Young.

  “I know that. But most folks around here haven’t had a murder in their kitchen,” replied Miranda.

  “The Lexington Police Department hasn’t officially declared that this was a murder. We’re investigating it as a probable accident. Anyway, Detective Peterson wanted more information about the layout of the farmhouse and all the outbuildings. I’ve sketched it out for him.” He stuttered as he said the last word. Miranda thought there might be a glimmer of hope for him. She smiled to herself. He wasn’t a good liar.

  “Shouldn’t that have been done at the time?”

  Officer Young nodded. “Yes, it should have. It was my job to do the site sketches, but—”

  “But you forgot? Is that why you’re poking around my property?”

  “No, ma’am. I turned in my sketches of the farmhouse.”

  “Yeah? Then why have you come all the way from Lexington to make a second set?”

  Officer Young just stared at her.

  She pushed open the door and motioned for him to follow her into the front room. “Have a seat. I’ll put the coffee on.” She set Sandy down and went back into the kitchen.

  She could hear the rocking chair creak as Officer Young sat and waited. He drummed his fingers on the flat oak arm. Peeking from the kitchen, she could see that Sandy was sitting in front of the chair tilting his head from side to side. Miranda smiled. As an eight-pound bundle of golden fluff, Sandy’s protection instincts were impressive.

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black, please.”

  Sandy yipped and menaced Officer Young with an adorable growl that wouldn’t have scared away a butterfly.

  “Stop that, Sandy,” said Miranda as she handed Officer Young his coffee. “If you don’t behave, you’ll have to go into your crate.” She sat on the couch and wrapped her hands around her warm coffee cup. “Now, I presume you’ve re-created your sketch, but how can I help?”

  Officer Young sipped the coffee and his eyes lit up in surprise. “Thanks, this is good.” He looked around for somewhere to set the cup down, but the rocker had nothing near it for him to use.

  Miranda pretended to be oblivious of his plight and replied, “Why thank you. I’m very proud of my coffee. I get the beans from our local roaster in Campton and she grinds them specially. I only use a French press for brewing. It makes the best coffee ever.”

  Officer Young put the coffee cup on the floor. Sandy immediately darted forward to lick at the contents. Officer Young grabbed up the cup again. He pressed his lips into a straight line. Miranda could tell that he was embarrassed and felt sorry for his predicament. He didn’t seem to fit into the Lexington crowd.

  Miranda hopped up and grabbed a small stool from beside the couch. “Here, use this.” Then she pointed a finger at Sandy. “No, Sandy. That’s not yours. No. You’ll burn your tongue. Sit.”

  Sandy sat obediently for a few seconds, then plopped down on his belly and put his head on his paws, guarding the stool for all he was worth.

  Officer Young gulped down more than half the coffee and set the cup on the little stool. “Thanks, that’s really kind.”

  “You seem uncomfortable. You must not have had a lot of experience for this part of the job.”

  “I’ve had training, yes, but actual experience, no. All my training seems to evaporate when I’m called on to really interview someone.”

  “That is strange. When did you know that you wanted to be a police officer?”

  “As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a policeman and help people.” His voice sounded shaky, even though he was sitting taller with more confidence.

  “I believe you. Did you say you had some questions for me?”

  Looking like a chastised third grader, he pulled out his notebook and a pen from his upper shirt pocket. He clicked the pen and put the notebook on his knee. He cleared his throat. “When did you meet Mrs. Childers?”

  “When?” Miranda scowled and looked up at the ceiling and rubbed her chin. “Oh yes, I remember that very clearly.” She looked at Officer Young directly in the eyes. “I guess I was about three years old and she had come to visit my grandparents. It was right here in this room and I think she sat in the very chair you’re using.”

  Miranda took another sip of her coffee and watched Officer Young scribble in his notebook. He stopped and moved his gaze back to Miranda.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “That’s exactly what you asked. You asked me when I met Mrs. Childers.” She paused. “I was three years old.”

  A red flush crept up Officer Young’s neck. He cleared his throat again. “Sorry. What I meant was in reference to your new business, when did you first talk to Mrs. Childers about cooking for you?” He raised his pen, ready to copy down whatever Miranda said.

  Miranda nodded her head. “Yes, that’s much more specific.” She stared at Officer Young until he looked up. “It was about a month ago. I asked her if she wanted to be main cook for my cultural adventure tour.”

  The red flush on Officer Young crept up to his ears. “And then what?”

  “She said she would be proud as punch to show off her family recipes to tourists. Then she negotiated a deal that we both liked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She wasn’t interested in money for herself. She wanted me to bypass writing checks to her and complicating her taxes. She wanted me to donate her wages directly to her church’s roof replacement fund. It was a very good value for me and she was going to be able to contribute more to the fund.”

  “What about the moonshine?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he swallowed. “I mean,” he coughed. “I mean that we heard there were arguments about the serving of moonshine at your events, many arguments.”

  “Do you think it’s unusual to have an argument with a cook?” Miranda stood up. “Of course there were arguments. She was a cook! How much experience do you have running a business?”

  “None, of course.”

  “Well, you certainly have some experience eating in restaurants, don’t you?”

  He frowned. “Yes, although I don’t eat out often. My mom is a great cook.”

  “You mean you still live at home?”

  Officer Young didn’t say anything. “That’s beside the point.”

  “Well, my point is that there are always arguments between the front of the house and the back of the house. It’s not the least bit unusual.” She scooped up Sandy. “If that’s all you have for clarification questions, I need to get back to work.”

  “But—”

  She tipped her head down and gave him an unruly-client stare, liking the feeling of confidence that coursed through her spine. “I said that’s all.”

  Officer Young’s face drained of color again. Miranda was beginning to think Officer Young must have a medical problem of some sort with so much blood rushing up and down his face. He stowed his pen and notebook.”

  “Thank you very much, ma’am. That’s all I have for now.”

  “If you think of anything else, you might want to meet me at Hemlock Lodge. It would save you quite a bit of driving time.”

  Officer Young silently agreed and left.

  Miranda stood on the front porch watching him drive down the dirt road.

  She whispered into Sandy’s ear, “He’ll be back with more questions. My arguments with Mrs. Childers were spectacular. Everybody knew that.”

  Chapter 23

  Monday Afternoon

  Miranda fixed herself a peanut butter and honey sandwich and poured a glass of cold milk. Although there were a million things she
knew she should be doing, none of them were going to get done right now. She went out and sat on the porch swing to let her spinning mind unwind. There were so many things to think about that she felt the most important thing to do right now was to not think about anything at all.

  Sandy was exploring the front yard and found a bright red maple leaf to attack. Miranda heard a vehicle on the gravel road and smiled. Austin pulled into her drive and walked up to the porch. “Howdy. You busy?”

  Miranda tilted her head. “Nope. I’m not even thinking. I don’t have the energy.”

  “I have a suggestion.” Austin pointed to the front door. “Why don’t you air out some of that gear of your Uncle Gene’s. Let’s go fishing for some trout. I know I get my best thinking done while casting on a creek. It might work for you, too.”

  “That sounds like a terrific idea, but I’ve got so much to do.”

  “It doesn’t look like you’re in a hurry to get started.”

  She smirked. “Smarty-pants.”

  Austin smiled. “Well?”

  “Bait or fly fishing?”

  “Do you know how to fly fish?”

  “Definitely! I’ve used most of the tackle that Uncle Gene has in his bedroom. He taught me how to cast a fly when I was about eight years old.” She whistled. “Sandy, let’s put you in your crate for a nap. I’m a-goin’ fishing.”

  Miranda grabbed a fly rod, her own small vest, and her waders. That’s when her uncle had known she was a dedicated fisherman—when she invested in a properly fitted pair of waders. She took a small selection of her uncle’s flies best suited for the fall.

  Austin helped her stow her gear in his truck. “I am surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be. You and your uncle had a lot in common.”

  She got in the passenger side and buckled up. “He tried to teach me how to tie my own flies, but I didn’t have enough patience. He was so disappointed, but I just couldn’t meet his exacting standards. Where do you want to try first?”