Still Knife Painting

by Cheryl Hollon

  Miranda plopped down on Doris Ann’s guest chair. “Wow! I thought I knew family drama, but this is new territory for me.”

  “They’ve stirred things up around here, that’s for sure.” Doris Ann started eating the fourth pinwheel.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t a clue, do you?”

  Miranda squinted and shook her head. “I’ve been distracted, to put it mildly. What am I missing?”

  “They’re married.”

  “They’re what?”

  “Yes, I saw them kissing on the balcony. In full view of anyone passing by.” Doris Ann shook her head. “Where do they think they are? So, the next time they came through the lobby, I asked them if they were aware that most folks around here still believe that homosexuality is against the law. Even worse, some think it is an abomination against the will of God.”

  “You said that? Out loud?”

  “Hold your horses,” said Doris Ann. “Don’t get ahead of me. I wanted them to be more careful. I thought they needed to be shocked. I know they’re married, but that doesn’t really protect them from discrimination here in the lodge or, even more serious, out on the trails. They need to act like just good friends around these parts. Friends, not lovers. Certainly not out in public.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Good thinking to warn them. I’ve been so focused on my own problems, I forget how narrow-minded some people around here can be and actually have always been. Why on earth did Linda and Kelly come here in the first place?”

  “It defies logic. There must have been a reason.”

  “Maybe not. The Kentucky tourist board has been doing a good job of promoting the beauty of this area. They wouldn’t want to point out how harsh some of the locals can be.”

  “You’d think since this area has turned into a world-class tourist destination, they would have seen the good that brings to the whole community.”

  “That’s a high road some of our Wolfe County locals will never travel.”

  Miranda reached into the tin for a pinwheel and let the sweet sugar and peanut butter flavors melt in her mouth. A flashback memory appeared of her first attempt to make the family treat. It had been a disaster. The base potato mixture wouldn’t thicken no matter how long she stirred, and she stirred it a long time.

  Her mother rescued the batch by removing a quarter cup of the failed mixture into a new bowl and folding in another box of confectioner’s sugar. That did the trick and Miranda never forgot that lesson—always start out small. She smiled at Doris Ann, who was working on her fifth piece.

  “Change is hard, and most families have been hit hard with the loss of jobs and also their favorite cash crop—tobacco. Which is why it just mystifies me no end why they aren’t welcoming tourists with open arms. Although, I hear that the rock-climbing adventure tours are doing well in the Red River Gorge just up the road from here.”

  “We don’t see many of them up here. They’re mostly the backpacking and camping out in the grass sort.” Doris Ann tapped her finger on the desk. “Some of the wealthy ones stay here. Most of them are from Europe. I hear all sorts of foreign gibberish from them.”

  “At some point, assuming my business survives, I need to connect with that group. They are just the sort that would enjoy a cultural adventure.”

  Doris Ann cleared her throat. “No one has signed up for your tour tomorrow. Someone is spreading a rumor that you’re probably a murderer.”

  Miranda dropped her head down to her chest. “Who would do that?”

  “All they had to do was read the headline in the paper. It’s put the kibosh on your tours.”

  “Perfect, just perfect. I’ll tell Dan and the Hobb sisters.”

  Doris Ann put the lid back on the tin and slipped it into her desk drawer. “You know that one client of yours on that first day, the professor, I think. He was here asking me a passel of questions about the old days.”

  “You mean Joe Creech? He said he was conducting some background research on the oldest families around here. He’s got a small financial grant but needs to collect more supporting data so he can get an even larger grant. Then he’s sure his book will get published. What was he asking about?”

  “He was asking about what happened to unwed mothers around here in the old days.”

  Miranda wrinkled her brow. “Really? That’s not what he told me about his research. I wonder why he didn’t ask me the same question.”

  Doris Ann looked down her nose. “Sweetie, you’re far too young to have any experience with that sort of disgrace. Those poor doomed babies.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too upsetting and I never talk about it. If you really must know, go on down to the Wolfe County Historical Museum. There’s a small exhibit about those poor children. Tragic.”

  “Thanks. I need to make a stop by there anyway to research more traditional recipes.” Miranda stood up to leave.

  “Wait, you know about the Lexington policeman, don’t you?”

  Miranda turned an about-face. “No. What about him?”

  “He was asking all kinds of questions about you. He talked to the two girls that were in your class and he talked to the chef and the dining room staff just for good measure.”

  “What did he find out?”

  “It doesn’t look good for you. He was asking about the arguments that you had with Mrs. Childers.”

  “Everyone knows that we didn’t agree on having moonshine as part of the cultural Kentucky experience.”

  “He was asking about your folks, about why you inherited your uncle’s farm, and about why you want to start a distillery business.”

  Miranda sighed deeply. “It isn’t widely known that there’s a clause in the will that I need to open a moonshine distillery in order to keep the farm.”

  “I’d say that’s a closely held secret,” said Doris Ann.

  Miranda nodded “Yes. One I would appreciate if you could keep.” It didn’t look good that there had been so many arguments with Mrs. Childers. Miranda had been positive that she would get her to change her mind eventually. Could the detective stay focused and get to the bottom of the murder?

  “Does the detective believe it was murder?” asked Doris Ann.

  Miranda’s eyes widened. “What’s the local gossip about the murder? Who do they think would have done it?”

  “Right now, everyone thinks everyone else has done it. It’s no help at all.”

  Miranda scratched the back of her neck. “Anyway, could you look out for Linda? As you say, they’ve been indiscreet with their relationship, and now Kelly seems to have driven off in a huff. Linda thinks she’s gone back to New York, but I think she’ll cool down and be back before morning.”

  “Doesn’t she know that there aren’t any flights out of Lexington this time of night? I think the last flight out is at eight p.m.”

  “They’re not used to limited services. She might have made the last one, but there’s not a direct flight, so she might be in the air to Chicago or Detroit.” Miranda smiled. It was quite an adjustment to get used to stores not open 24/7. Worse, there wasn’t a single Chinese restaurant takeaway closer than the twenty-minute drive into Stanton.

  Doris Ann glanced at her watch. “Speaking of limited services, my shift ended a half an hour ago. I’ve been thinking of Mrs. Childers so much, I lost track of time.”

  “Me too. I need to get back to the farmhouse and give Sandy get some exercise before we settle in for the night. If Kelly returns, could you have the night manager text me a message on my cell? I sometimes get texts at the farmhouse.”

  Doris Ann grinned. “Oh, sweetie, how cute. There’s no night manager here. We only have a night watchman. He mostly sleeps behind the desk here.”

  Before Miranda reached the main entrance to the lodge, she caught a glimpse of one of the Lexington officers getting out of his patrol car and adjusting his utility belt. She turned around and ran down the stairs that led to the lower floor of the lodge. Th
en she circled around the back way and came out to the parking lot.

  She saw Officer Young talking to an obviously annoyed Doris Ann. Couldn’t he tell she wanted to leave? She had her purse hanging over her shoulder and her car keys in her hand.

  I wouldn’t want to be in the way of Doris Ann getting home. It’s not only his name that’s young—he’s bad at reading people.

  She reflected that perhaps she had assimilated more than she thought from her summers out here in the country. A deep-seated suspicion of law enforcement was a common attitude, given the early corruption that most families had experienced during Prohibition.

  Miranda sprinted down the parking lot and hopped into her van. She was glad that it was still plain white. She had researched the cost for getting it wrapped with her Paint & Shine logo, but that would have told Officer Young exactly where she was. She didn’t have enough evidence to prove that she didn’t kill Mrs. Childers, and as yet, she couldn’t tell him who did it either.

  She started up the van, slowly backed out, and drove down the steep decline at a snail’s pace. She was grateful that her hybrid van was as silent as a snail too. As soon as she left the park and pulled out onto the Mountain Parkway, she floored the van to hurry home.

  Saving your skin was harder than it looked.

  Chapter 30

  Wednesday Night, Miranda’s Farmhouse

  “Sandy, we need to get out of here for a while.” Miranda raced into the farmhouse, letting the screen door slam. She opened a can of puppy food, filled his bowl with water, and fed a starving Sandy. She wolfed down a bowl of venison chili topped with corn chips while he ate.

  Then she tucked Sandy back into his crate in the van. She went back into the house, got a quilt, made a thermos of chamomile tea, and grabbed two packets of peanut butter crackers. If they were going to stay away long enough to avoid the Lexington police, it might be a long night.

  She drove back along the road. Instead of continuing straight on towards the highway, she made a right-hand turn just before she got to Roy and Elsie’s house. It was a primitive single-track dirt road. She turned off her headlights and let off the gas so that the van moved slowly along at idling speed. She didn’t think anyone would be able to hear her.

  In a couple of minutes, she pulled over into a driveway that was once going to be the homesite for her newly married cousins. Instead, it had been abandoned after the site was graded, leveled, and even the foundation poured. The cousins set up housekeeping over on the other side of the county to be closer to the bride’s family.

  She parked the van to face towards the farmhouse. This site overlooked the intervening valley for a perfect sightline of her farmhouse and all the outbuildings. She took Sandy out of his crate and put him in the front seat. She snugged both of them under the quilt and sipped from her cup of tea. The night was clear and the Milky Way was just becoming visible.

  In no more than ten or fifteen minutes, a Lexington patrol car came barreling down the gravel road leading to the farmhouse. It left a plume of dust that hung behind the car like a ghostly superhero cape. She watched Officer Young get out of the patrol car and knock on her front door. He pulled on the handle. It was locked.

  She held her breath with her hands clenched around her thermos as Officer Young felt along with top of the door frame, lifted up the welcome mat and turned over the chair cushions on the porch furniture. He was looking for the hidden key.

  “Sandy, he has no chance of finding a key. I left one with Austin and I also left one with Roy and Elsie. That’s gonna stop anyone from waltzing in for a rummage of my bedroom.”

  The officer looked in every window with his heavy-duty flashlight and then he walked down the driveway to have a snoop around the barn.

  “I wonder if he has a warrant.” She snuggled Sandy, who licked her chin like it was an ice cream treat. “He would need a warrant to enter. He must not have one or he would have broken down the door.”

  Finally convinced that she wasn’t home, he got back into the patrol car and careened down the dirt road again, stirring up another huge cloud of dust. At least no one had laundry hanging out this time of night. That jerk would have dirtied an entire clothesline full of clean clothes.

  Miranda released the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Sandy had been eerily quiet even though she knew he was curious. “Let’s give him ten more minutes and I’ll get out and let you have some fun, I promise.”

  They waited and then just as she got out of the van and placed Sandy on the ground to do his business, Miranda heard the crunch of gravel across the valley. It was the patrol car inching down the road without lights.

  Miranda picked up Sandy and stood by the van. “Those city boys don’t have a clue about being in the dark out in the country, do they, Sandy?”

  When the moon is out, we can see almost as well as we can in daylight. Do they think they can catch me this easily? She snuggled Sandy while she watched Officer Young pull into the driveway, make another pass around the house with flashlight beams glaring all over the place. Again, after a few knocks on the door, he gave up and sped down the road, lights on, and dust trail rising.

  Great, now I’ve gotten the Lexington Police angry. I’m not winning here.

  Miranda waited another twenty minutes. She returned to the house, betting that the young officer didn’t have enough patience to wait around any longer. And if he did, she would face her arrest like she did most events—straight on.

  The farmhouse was chilly and felt dampish because the fire had died down. Miranda added more wood and stoked it back to life. Then she went into the kitchen and dragged out bowls, flour, eggs, cinnamon, nutmeg, and everything she would need to bake a five-layer spice cake. It was at least a three-day job to create an authentic spice cake. The longer it sat in the refrigerator, the better. It would be a fitting tribute to the funeral supper for Mrs. Childers.

  Her family recipe called for ten thin layers, but she only had room in her oven for five cake pans, so she made her layers a little thicker and planned to add more homemade apple butter between the layers to make it about the right height. The whirr of the upright mixer and the warm smells coming out of the oven calmed her.

  She made herself another cup of chamomile tea and sat at the kitchen table waiting for the cakes to bake.

  There must be someone I can find to get more information about Mrs. Childers and her history. She must have known her killer or they couldn’t have gotten so close to her with all the people around. So, who knew her?

  History. That’s what Doris Ann said. She looked down at Sandy, who had curled up to sleep by her feet. “Sandy, since I have the whole day off, I’m going to take you for a long walk tomorrow morning so that you’ll nap for most of the day. Then, I’ll check out the Campton museum. I need more information about the history of Mrs. Childers.”

  After she wrapped up the cake layers to cool on the counter, she set her alarm so that she could be out of the house in case they drove back in the morning. She bumped noses with Sandy and they turned in for the night.

  Chapter 31

  Thursday Morning, Campton

  The Wolfe County Historical Museum found its home in the first merchandise stores to be built along Swift Creek. The origin of the town was in its name: camp town.

  Austin was waiting on the sidewalk when she parked in front of the museum.

  “What on earth are your working hours? You seem to be able to come and go as you please.”

  “It’s more like when do I ever have any time off? I’m on call 24/7 and I’m usually working any time I’m in the truck. Good, huh?”

  “Okay.

  “So, good morning. What are you expecting to find in here? It’s mostly full of attic relics donated by old-timers. There isn’t much order to the place—basically new contributions are added wherever there’s a bit of room.”

  Miranda was surprised at how young Austin looked in regular jeans with a white T-shirt tucked into the slim waistband. His ranger u
niform added maturity, or maybe it was authority, to his appearance. It certainly made him look older than his years. She realized that she liked both looks—a lot.

  Austin opened the door for her and they entered to the ringing of a little bell fastened to the door. The smell of musty, dusty papers and books hit them as soon as the door closed. It took a few moments for Miranda’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. Apparently, they only turned on the lights when absolutely necessary. One of the challenges of a volunteer-run museum was getting enough cash donations to pay for ongoing utilities.

  Display cases, bookcases, tables, wall-mounted shelves, anything that could provide flat surfaces were jam-packed into the long, narrow building. The morning sun illuminated the dust motes that danced in the air.

  From the back of the museum, they heard, “Who’s there? Is someone there?” A white-haired gentleman popped up from a desk piled high with stacks and stacks of paper. “Howdy, Austin. What brings you in here—you’ve never set foot in this place.”

  “Good morning, Doc. I’ve brought you a customer. She’s curious about the history of Campton.”

  The old man wore faded bib overalls with a white oxford button-down shirt underneath that had apparently seen more than a few seasons of wear. His workman’s boots were stained with the earthy dust of farming in this area. Not what she expected for a museum curator.

  “Howdy, miss.” He shook Austin’s hand, then stretched out a weathered hand to shake hers. “Do I know you?”

  Miranda smiled, accustomed to reciting her credentials at the first meeting with anyone. “I’m Miranda Trent, the oldest niece of the late Gene Buchanan from Pine Ridge.”

  “Well hello, punkin’. I knew your mother when she was just a wee lass. My condolences on the death of your uncle. He was a great gentleman.” He waved a hand at the jumble of stuff stacked to the ceiling in many places. “Welcome to our museum. We’ve just recently started sorting things out so that it’s easier to view our collection. We started over there in that corner and hope to keep adding more display cases as we go.”