Still Knife Painting

by Cheryl Hollon

  “I don’t talk about it anymore and I never go out on the hiking trails out there.” Her voice trailed off into an emotional sob. There was a long pause while Doris Ann got herself back under control.

  Miranda stood silent and felt Doris Ann’s sadness seep into her bones.

  Doris Ann sniffed noisily and then sat up in her chair and straightened her shoulders. “He was only seventeen.”

  Chapter 25

  Late Tuesday Afternoon, Campton, Kentucky

  Miranda fussed at herself for being such a dolt. She had forgotten that she needed to pick up a box of art supplies that they were holding for her at the post office. She had already missed the farmhouse delivery both times. It had to have a signature. Next time she wouldn’t do that.

  Painting supplies were expensive, of course, but this wasn’t New York City. They could have been delivered to her front porch with no risk of someone filching them. She was wasting a lot of time chasing it down.

  Anyway, today was the last day to pick them up in person before the post office returned the package to her supplier. As usual, she had cut things a little too short, which meant that the post office closed in only a few minutes.

  She hopped out of the van and pulled open the door, then was nearly knocked over by Joe Creech. He was looking down at a sheaf of documents he had pulled out of a large padded envelope.

  She shouted, “Watch out!”

  Joe jumped a foot and looked at her like a cat that had been stealing milk. “Sorry, my fault. I wasn’t looking.” He looked back down at the documents.

  “Be more careful. You could have broken my nose.”

  His head tipped up but his gaze went right through her. Then he muttered, “Sorry,” again and headed for the parking lot.

  “Hey, Joe. You got a second?” Miranda realized that she was the one who didn’t have time. She turned around and waved a friendly hello to the clerk, hoping that would give her an extra minute. The clerk smiled and waved back. Good.

  She turned back to face Joe. “Do you have a second?”

  “What?” His voice sounded scratchy and he then coughed a bit. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Joe, you’re practically sleepwalking.” She pointed to the papers. “Have you received some bad news?”

  “What? No, definitely not.” He cleared his throat and stood a fraction straighter. “I’ve got an appointment with a source that can provide solid documentation for my research.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “Absolutely, the more substantiation I get, the easier it will be to attract the major research grants.” He paused for a moment as if he had lost his place in a memorized speech. “I need the money to continue. Funding is always difficult for rural projects. I can’t get complacent, ever.”

  “Who are you meeting?”

  Joe frowned and pressed his lips tight into a thin line. “Does everyone here have to know everyone’s business? Keep out of this.” He turned and marched to his car, mumbling all the way.

  Miranda shrugged. “That was rude,” she muttered, and then walked up to the counter window.

  The clerk tilted her head towards the parking lot. “Hi, Miranda. Did he run you down?”

  Great, someone else who knows my name, but I don’t remember hers.

  “Almost, but I dodged out of the way just in time.” Miranda was searching her memory for a clue to the clerk’s name. She looked about the same age, but life in Wolfe County could be harsh so she might be younger. “He seemed distracted by the package that he had just opened.”

  “Yeah, he’s here almost every day with some sort of special delivery. He’s the talk of all the old ladies around town.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s been interviewing them for his new book. They’re thrilled to be in a book.”

  Miranda searched her memory yet again. “Do I know you?”

  “Oh, probably not. I’m a second cousin on your dad’s side.” She lifted her employee badge for Miranda to see the name, Faith Trent. “I was three years behind you in school—well, four by the time I finally graduated. I got held back in the third grade for not being able to read properly.”

  Again, Miranda was stunned by how much personal information was given freely to a comparative stranger who had merely walked up to the window. Then she replaced that thought with the fact that she was locally known as her Uncle Gene’s oldest niece. So maybe she was not a complete stranger. “I haven’t been back for any longer than a weekend since I went to New York City. Anyway, I think there’s a package you’re holding for me, right?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s just in the back.” She dashed through a door and came back with a box about two feet square. “Here ya’ are. Just sign right here and we’re good.

  Miranda signed, dated the receipt, and handed it back to Faith. “Thanks for staying open for me. I know it’s after closing time now.”

  Faith rolled her eyes. “We’re pretty relaxed about time in these parts. Unless I have a date, o’course. You have a good day, now, ya’ hear?”

  Miranda sincerely hoped that this wouldn’t be the last package of art supplies she needed. While she was in town, maybe she should drop in on Sheriff Larson. There should be news about the autopsy as well as maybe some idea about what was happening with the Lexington Police.

  It was a bit late in the day, but she managed to walk into the sheriff’s office before the end of the public office hours. The hours posted on the door were a little longer than the post office. That made sense, but it seemed like it was normal for businesses to stay open until their customers were served. Quaint. That certainly wasn’t the case in New York City. She had experienced walking right up to a post office service window and having it slammed shut in her face.

  The building had to date from at least the 1800s and looked like it had been consistently starved of proper maintenance for the last few decades. The ceiling had at one time been lowered with acoustic tiles, but there had been roof leaks, so most of the tiles were missing. Another major clue was a few five-gallon buckets strategically placed around the office. They looked permanent.

  The sheriff’s desk was in the back of the room facing the window out onto Main Street. The wooden desk was old but tidy. No cluttered surfaces here. The sheriff had a large green blotter, telephone, lamp, and a coffee cup on the surface of his desk. On a nearby table sat a computer screen that had gone into sleep mode with a spiraling gizmo as screensaver. A single document lay in front of him on the surface of the blotter.

  “Hi there,” she offered.

  Sheriff Larson smiled. “Miranda, what brings you here? Has something else happened at the farmhouse?”

  “Nothing since the house was ransacked. That still doesn’t make sense to me. Have there been any other cases of mischief reported in the county?”

  “I see you’re catching on. We have tons of unreported crimes.” Sheriff Larson leaned back in his chair. “It’s getting close to Halloween, and this is the time of year for teenaged trouble, all right. But, typically, it’s mostly shoving over outhouses and tipping cows. We haven’t had an arsonist since I’ve been in office. Your farmhouse seems to be the focus of something else. Like someone is looking for hidden treasure. All we have around here is lost silver mines and valuable ginseng root.”

  “Is there any news about Mrs. Childers?”

  “Funny you should ask.” He glanced down at the typed form that he had been studying. “This spells out pretty much what you saw. Fatal stab wound with the cause of death as exan- exanin-exanguine—”

  “You mean exsanguination?” There was a familiar tease in her voice.

  He looked up her with a sheepish grin. “You know I can’t pronounce that word. Bleeding out for us simple country folk.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Simple, my foot.” She got serious. “Was it ruled an accident?”

  Sheriff Larson’s gaze flicked upwards. “No, not in the report. The report gives the cause of death, but our coroner doesn’t make a
conclusion. She has a personal opinion, of course.”

  “Well, we all thought it was an accident at the time. Have you heard anything from Lexington?”

  “You are getting a little pushy now. New York City ways won’t get you very far down here. Anyway, I don’t have confirmation that they think it is anything but an accident as far as they are concerned.”

  “Officer Young was looking around the farmhouse earlier today, claiming that he had forgotten to finish his sketch of the surrounding outbuildings when they first came out to investigate. He was uncomfortable when I confronted him. Do you think they’ve changed their mind about it only being an accident?”

  “Hmm. That’s certainly possible. But that’s not good news for you. You would be their first choice as prime suspect.”

  Miranda frowned and her shoulders drooped. Was he trying to set her up for his own reasons? Paranoia sometimes reveals problems with other issues. In any case, this meeting wasn’t going in a good direction.

  “I want to help.”

  “You should really stay out of this. You’re not trained as an officer of the law.”

  “Maybe not, but I am a trained professional artist. I am extremely observant and detail oriented. For instance, I can completely verify that Ranger Morgan couldn’t have murdered Mrs. Childers. He was walking up from his house on the road. The newlyweds saw him from the barn. I must admit that I have my concerns about Dan. He could have killed her in the kitchen, walked back down to his parked truck and then showed up late. He was visibly upset, which he could easily pass off as annoyance for being late.”

  “As I said, you are not a trained officer and I already knew that from the statement that the newlyweds gave.”

  “That reminds me. What happened to the statements that you took at the farmhouse? Did you send them over to Detective Peterson?”

  Sheriff Larson pressed his lips closed as if holding back a curse. “Miss Trent, it’s really none of your business. However, he hasn’t asked for them. I suspect he only trusts the statements that his people documented.”

  “So, you haven’t sent them?”

  Sheriff Larson narrowed his eyes and let a long silence build. Miranda took this as a challenge and held her gaze and just stood there.

  Suddenly, the sheriff turned around in his chair and tapped on the spacebar to wake up his computer. “The detective didn’t ask for them, but it’s a small thing to officially submit them into their system. That could trigger a new investigation thread. Someone on his staff will have to process them.” His fingers were flying on the keyboard, followed by a pronounced tap on the enter key. He turned back to face her. “I’ve sent them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You need to stop interfering in this. This is not a Hallmark cozy mystery television series where everything is cupcakes and kittens. It’s not even similar to your childhood Nancy Drew storybook adventures. You need to leave this to the experts. The fact is that Mrs. Childers is dead and someone killed her. Hands off. I’m serious.”

  He sounded angry, but Miranda would have bet anything that he was frustrated. Frustrated with himself. Annoyed for not having done the right thing at the right time. He knew he should have sent those transcripts whether they were asked for or not. At least she hoped that was the case.

  Chapter 26

  Early Tuesday Evening, Miranda’s Farmhouse

  Miranda hurried home to take care of Sandy. She had stowed her art supplies and just put his bowl of warm food on the kitchen floor when she heard the distinctive sound of crunching gravel as a vehicle pulled into her driveway.

  What now? This farmhouse was becoming as busy as Grand Central Station for the morning commuter rush.

  She went out onto the porch to find Austin walking up the pathway. He was carrying a casserole dish covered in a dish towel.

  He stepped up onto the porch and offered up the wonderful-smelling dish. “Hey, I whipped this up thinking you might like a change from venison chili. That is all you’re eating, right?”

  “Yes,” She smiled. “That’s on the menu for as long as it will last. I’m watching every cent. How did you know?”

  “Everyone knows everything here. You know that.” He nudged by her into the kitchen and put the hot casserole dish on one of the stove top burners. “Anyway, I heard down at the Kroger’s earlier today that you were only buying Sandy’s puppy food.”

  “For everyone knowing so much in this county, I’m surprised that we don’t know who killed Mrs. Childers.”

  “That would be because everyone keeps secrets from everyone as well. Your time in New York City has dulled your country instincts.”

  Miranda hustled to set up the kitchen table with two plates, napkins, and cutlery. “It smells wonderful.” She sniffed the aluminum foil wrapped dish. “Chicken?”

  “Chicken and rice casserole with fresh peas and asparagus. My specialty.” He got two wine glasses down from the cupboard and put them on the table. “It’s the only thing I ever take to potluck events around here. My mamma taught me that everyone needs a specialty dish. This is mine.” He opened the refrigerator. “I think I saw some white wine in here the other day. Okay for you?”

  “Absolutely. This is very nice. I was just going to have a peanut butter sandwich.” She paused a moment and laughed. “Followed by more chili.”

  “Just as I suspected. Sit. Relax a bit.” He poured the wine and scooped out the chicken casserole onto their plates. They ate in friendly silence. “Well, it must be good. You haven’t spoken a word.”

  “This is fantastic and not just because I’m starving.” Miranda forked the last mouthful from her plate and then got up to serve them both seconds. “You’ve got a winner here.”

  After they finished their seconds, Miranda collected the dishes and put them to soak in the sink. “I’ll take care of these later. Why don’t we have one of my cocktails out on the porch? I have something I want to discuss.”

  Miranda expertly prepared the Shine & Soda cocktails in full-sized mason jars, then filled a small dish with walnuts, roasted pecans, and raisins. She put everything on a tray, then Austin opened the front door for her. “It’s getting a little chilly, but there’s a couple of quilts out there.”

  They sat on the swing with the tray between them. After a few moments, Miranda cleared her throat. “I want you to know that when I reported your movements to Sheriff Larson this afternoon, he confirmed that he had needed an independent testimony to eliminate you completely. The newlyweds had witnessed your walk up the road and I confirmed that with Sheriff Larson.”

  Austin nearly choked on his drink and stopped the swing by planting his boot on the porch. “He said what?”

  “Well, not in so many words, but I told him in my statement that you didn’t have a single moment to yourself at the farmhouse. I told both the sheriff and the lieutenant at that first interview. All my clients kept peppering you with questions while you were holding court in the front room. I don’t think you were left alone for a minute. True?”

  “But—”

  “I know you told the sheriff the same thing, but he said he needed corroboration and so I gave it to him.”

  “Thank you, I think, but why are you telling me this?” Austin lifted his boot and they resumed gently swinging.

  “I need help to clear my name and get back to working on my business. You’re close by and seem as interested as I am for this to get finished. Could we join forces?”

  Austin said, “Sure. I was going to do my own investigation anyway. It would go a lot faster with your help.”

  “Goody. Let me show you my murder workbook. I’ve been keeping track of everything I’ve discovered.”

  Austin lifted a single eyebrow. “Murder workbook?”

  Miranda dashed into her bedroom and got the black-and-white composition notebook and handed it to Austin. He opened the notebook to see the list and quickly turned through the pages, stopping on the one with his name at the top.

  He looked over at
her. “You are amazing. There’s only about ten lines in this sketch, but it’s more like me than a photograph. You did the same with everyone?”

  Miranda glanced over and realized that the sketch of Austin was quite a bit better and more emotional than the others. Why was that?

  “I’m an extremely visual artist. I need to sketch what’s on my mind in order to work through problems both on canvas and in real life.”

  “We’re not used to artists around here. That kind of thinking isn’t talked about.”

  “That I know. My mother spent a lot of time drying my tears when people told me I was wasting my time trying to draw. They called it laziness. My mom called it creativity.”

  “Summers here must have been rough.” He turned back to the first page in her workbook.

  “Eventually, I figured out that country people used their creativity in different ways. The quilts, for instance, were first made to conserve precious fabrics and wools. They were pieced together from clothing that had been ripped apart at the seams to either provide material for another garment or set aside for the quilts or rag rugs. Nothing was wasted.”

  “It’s a common misconception that a lack of money automatically means a miserable life. We know different, don’t we?”

  Miranda gazed at him and spoke softly. “We do.”

  He cleared his throat. “So far, you’ve eliminated Mrs. Hobb and me, right?” He looked over her notes. “You are basing her innocence on what, exactly?”

  “Her reaction to her friend’s death appears genuine. They have been friends since they were in grade school.” Miranda looked at the sketch in the notebook. “There’s also the fact that she wouldn’t be able to keep it secret. Mrs. Hobb is a well-known chatterbox. I’m convinced that she would have confessed two seconds after the murder.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re not trying to build a court case out of these notes.”

  “Yes, I’m an artist, not a lawyer. Anyway, that leaves all the clients and Dan Keystone. They were all here.”

  Austin flipped to the next page in the notebook. It was labeled “Joe Creech.” “What about him?”