She and Sandy tumbled in the dewy grass, missing the ladder by inches. “Sandy! You little scamp. Sit.” Sandy obeyed instantly with his big puppy eyes looking innocent. “Who’s up there?” she yelled up the ladder.
“It’s me.” Austin stood at the edge of the roof with Ron’s heavy-duty nail gun hanging from one hand. “Sorry to wake you, but I thought you might want the place to be watertight. It’s going to rain today.”
“My goodness, Austin. You didn’t have to do that. I planned to call around today for another handyman.”
“It’s what neighbors do. I’ll only be a few more minutes.”
Miranda smiled. “Come in after you’re done and have breakfast with us. I can be neighborly, too. Be careful.” She turned away and soon heard more rat-a-tats from the roof. She took Sandy on his morning walk and then went back in through the farmhouse front door.
“Good morning, sweetie,” Dorothy said as she was coming down the stairs into the dining room. She moved one step at a time, hanging on to the banister with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. “What time is it? Who’s making all that racket?”
Miranda waited at the bottom of the stairs and gave her mother a great big hug. “It’s Austin. He’s nailing a tarp over the giant hole Ron made in the barn roof. He says it’s going to rain, but it’s as clear as a bell outside. I think he wanted to be useful. That’s sweet.”
Dorothy put the tips of her fingers on both temples and rubbed gently in small circles. “It feels like rain to me. He might know more about the weather than either of us since he spends so much time outdoors. Have you started the coffee?”
“Just getting ready to. How does that predicting-the-weather talent feel? Is it passed down to certain people? Austin predicted there would be a storm coming when we were up the Indian Staircase. I don’t feel anything.”
Her mom followed her into the kitchen. “I’m starving and I’m sure Austin hasn’t eaten yet, either.” Dorothy rummaged in the refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs and a package of thick bacon slices. “Feeling the approaching weather isn’t fun. It’s either a gift or curse depending on how it takes you. For me, I get a sharp headache right behind my eyes. Then I know rain is due in less than an hour. For some people, their old injuries ache. I’ve also heard that some people feel light-headed.”
“It sounds terrible. I’m glad I don’t have it.”
“Is an onion-and-bacon scramble good for you and Austin?”
Miranda beamed. “I love those. I’m sure Austin will, too.” She turned to focus on making the coffee. Miranda put spring water in the kettle and measured out coffee into her largest French press. As soon as the water reached the boil, she poured it in the press, gave it a quick stir, and set it on the kitchen table to steep.
Moments after Dorothy pulled the iron skillet out of the oven and placed it on the kitchen table, Austin came in through the back door. “Wow, that looks fantastic and smells even better.” Miranda tried to thank him. He just waved a hand at her and tucked into his breakfast.
Dorothy tried to put another helping on Austin’s plate, but he put a hand over his empty plate and pushed his chair away from the kitchen table. “That was delicious, but I can’t eat another bite.” He stood. “I need to get in to work. There’s a work order about a section of trail that eroded the night of the big storm. It’s not a popular trail so it didn’t get reported until late yesterday.”
Miranda stood as well. “I’ve got a little time before I lead today’s tour. I think I’m going to do a little doodling around in my murder notebook. We gathered quite a bit of information last night. I don’t want to forget any of it.”
“I’ll clean up the kitchen before the Hobb girls arrive and then I’m going to go over to my sister’s place for the day,” said Dorothy. “I think her other daughter is due to arrive today, but I can’t remember which one. I told her at the time that naming them Anna Belle and Anna Sue would cause confusion. Anyway, I’ll stay with Ora until whichever one of them gets there. You go on and get your sketchbook going.”
Miranda went into her office and pulled out the composition notebook she’d started last night. On the first page, she sketched an image of Howard Cable from the portrait in the Wolfe County High School yearbook. She looked at it for a long time. It was an excellent sketch, but instead of showing the shining promise of a bright future, she had sketched him with an expression of resigned disappointment. That felt right to her.
She turned to the first page and wrote “Suspects” at the top and listed the names of the members of the Risky Business Adventurers club:
Alfred Whittaker Client #1—a freelance reporter
Ben DeBerg Client #2—a criminal defense lawyer
Jennifer O’Rourke Client #3—a jewelry artist
Kevin Burkart Client #4—owner of a financial services business
Kurt Smith Client #5—a cosmetic surgeon
Stephanie Brinkley Client #6—a licensed pharmacis
Then she added his closest relations:
Ora Cable Howard’s mother
Anna Belle Cable Howard’s younger sister
Anna Sue Cable Howard’s older sister
Finally, casting her net even wider, she made a list about anyone else who might be a suspect:
A high school rival?
A university enemy?
A lover or past romance?
A boss at the oil company?
A coworker at the oil company?
That was a long list, but she had long ago figured out that when you were in brainstorming mode, you wrote down every little thing that occurred to you while the thoughts came rushing into your brain. This free-associative technique had led to emotionally powerful paintings by opening her creativity to its fullest.
Then she flipped to the next page in the notebook and wrote “Alfred Whittaker” at the top of the page and drew his portrait in seconds. Sometimes those quick drawings could reveal personality traits that would later become important.
On the next page, she did the same to Ben DeBerg, then continued to create a page for everyone on her suspect list up through Anna Sue Cable.
After all that, she felt absolutely drained. She had sketched quickly without a rest between people, trying to capture their essential characters. Maybe one of them was telling her something subliminally. She didn’t doubt it, but when flipping through the pages again, none of them felt as if they were the cause of her unease.
She closed the sketchbook and prepared for her cultural tour. It was a relatively light workday. She had only four clients, and they had signed up for her most popular offering, the view of Lover’s Leap and a traditional venison-chili dinner back at the farmhouse. She could conduct this tour with her eyes closed.
She called out, “Mom, don’t forget that Sandy needs to be in his cage before you leave.”
Miranda had her hand on the front door when the phone rang. She checked her watch; still a few minutes early, so she answered it.
The call was from Felicia Larson. “Morning, Miranda. Have you got a minute?”
“Only a couple. I’ve got a group to collect at the Hemlock Lodge.”
“Okay. My friend Barbara has found something curious among the remains of your cousin. I’m hoping you can help us with some details about its origin.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a silver bracelet with a thistle charm attached. It looks handcrafted, so anything you can tell me would be helpful.”
“Well, the Scottish thistle is a family symbol. It goes all the way back to our first Scotch-Irish ancestors. It’s a popular decorative theme in almost everything that my family creates. Did you want to bring it over or should I stop by the sheriff’s office?”
“Please come by the office. Barbara also found a map that is too fragile to handle without damaging it further. I’d like for you to tell me what you can about the notations on it. It looks like some sort of code or maybe it’s a language I don’t know.”
“No problem. I’ll see you right after my tour this afternoon.”
“Fine. Try to stay dry. It’s going to rain this afternoon.”
Miranda looked up at the clear blue sky and exhaled. Some of the tension she had been carrying slipped away. At last she felt some hope that she was on the right track to solving Howard’s death. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 17
Wednesday Afternoon, the Sheriff’s Office
Miranda arrived at the sheriff’s office and walked right in. Felicia, apparently expecting her, stepped outside her office and waved her inside. After the door closed, Felicia placed a small silver bracelet into Miranda’s hands. It was beautifully crafted. The links were delicate but sturdy. The fastening was an old-fashioned spring ring clasp, and a single charm hung from the center link of the bracelet.
“This looks like the work of my late grandfather Buchanan. He worked silver in his spare time to supplement the family income.” Miranda held the bracelet up to the light. “There should be a maker’s mark on it someplace. I don’t remember where he hid them.”
“I didn’t know your grandfather was a silversmith.” Felicia tilted her head a bit.
“It’s not widely known, but my mother has a bracelet very similar to this. Do you have a flashlight? I know there’s a mark.”
“Hang on a second. Richard, are you here?” Sheriff Larson appeared at the door to her office. She used a soft voice the polar opposite of her professional tone. “Honey, I need a flashlight. Do you have one handy?”
“Sure, baby.” Sheriff Larson went back to his office, apparently rummaged in a desk drawer, and returned with a huge flashlight. “Will this do? I use it on night patrol.”
“That’s enormous. Really? That’s all you have?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” He splayed his hands out palms up, then stood waiting for what was next.
Felicia rolled her eyes but flashed him a flirty smile. She flicked on the flashlight and it lit up the bracelet like a Broadway spotlight. She carefully examined every nook and cranny in a focused state of mind Miranda recognized.
That same altered state sometimes took over Miranda when she was painting something intense. Each of those paintings sold in a heartbeat when she was working in New York City. The trouble was that she didn’t experience it often enough, and her ordinary paintings were just that—ordinary. Miranda shifted her weight. She needed to get her art studio set up in the barn before she lost all incentive to ever paint again.
“I found it.” Felicia looked up at both Miranda and Sheriff Larson. “Your grandfather was a clever fellow. This is masterful.” She shone the light onto the clasp. “See this little flat space on the clasp? He stamped a tiny mark here. There’s a tiny lowercase b.”
The sheriff bent over to see the stamp. “Right, but what does this tell us? Why would Howard be carrying a family heirloom?” He turned to Miranda.
“Grandpa Buchanan worked on his silversmithing mostly in the winter when the demands of the farm were a little lighter.” Miranda folded her arms. “I wonder how he got the silver. They had no cash money at all. The garden fed the family and the cow. He raised at least two pigs and they had chickens. His cash crop was tobacco, but that went for taxes and shoes.”
“That wasn’t unusual even as recently as ten years ago,” said Felicia. “It’s more difficult now with cell phones, cable TV, the internet. Those services need real money. They can’t be paid for in trade goods or services.”
Sheriff Larson tilted his head in thought. “It’s possible he found a silver mine that was too small for anything but making his bits of jewelry. I’ll ask around. Some of his old cronies still hang around the Senior Center. Do you want to stop in and get them to talk about the old days?”
“Perhaps, but what about the map?” asked Miranda.
“Oh, sorry, it nearly slipped my mind.” Felicia handed the flashlight back to the sheriff and waved her arms to shoo him out of her office.
As he was leaving, he tossed out. “Are you two cooking up something that will get us all in trouble?”
“Of course not. These are personal artifacts. I want Miranda’s opinion before I have to speak to Howard’s mother about them. Ora seems on the verge of an emotional breakdown. I don’t want to push her over the edge with mealy-mouthed questions that produce no helpful answers. Now scoot.” Sheriff Larson left.
Felicia led Miranda to a table at the other end of her office. A discolored map was resting on an archival-quality backing board. It was covered with an overlay of tissue paper. Felicia lifted the tissue paper. “What do you make of this?” She handed Miranda a large magnifying glass.
Miranda bent over the table and examined the map. From the symbology, it was clearly a topographical map, but it was tattered and horribly discolored. In a flash of understanding, Miranda realized why it was in such bad shape—it had been with her cousin as his body decomposed.
Miranda straightened up and felt her stomach roil.
Felicia stepped close and grabbed Miranda by the upper arms. “I know what you’re thinking. Take some really deep breaths. Try to put that aside.”
Miranda pressed a hand on her belly and took breaths until the sick wave passed. She looked over at Felicia. “Thanks for that. It’s gone now.”
“Good.” Felicia pointed to the edge of the fragile map. “We need to know if these words mean anything to you. Are they some sort of code?”
Miranda examined the faint lettering. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember why. “I’ve been clearing out the farmhouse attic. This looks like some of the letters I’ve been sorting through and turning over to the Campton Historical Museum. Can I take some pictures?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve already exhausted my limited language knowledge.”
Miranda snapped about twenty shots of the map with the high-quality camera on her smartphone. “I’ll let you know if I can match any words. Some of those old letters go back a long way.”
“Perfect. I’m packing it up to send over to a language specialist at the University of Kentucky. It will take him a few weeks to get back to me. That’s assuming he can decipher anything at all. I’m betting that you’ll have better luck.”
“May I have the language expert’s number? I may want to see the original again.”
“No problem.” Felicia looked him up in her phone contacts and read off the number.
There was a tentative knock on the door. Felicia didn’t even look up. “We’re still talking about the case.”
The sheriff poked his head in from the outer room and blurted, “You’re not giving her evidence, are you?” Sheriff Larson noted the look of irritation on his wife’s face and backpedaled, using a softer voice. “Are you?”
“No,” Felicia answered in her professional voice—not her wife voice. “I’m consulting her about the writing around the edge of the map that Howard Cable had with him. It’s an old one and I think it may be a shorthand dialect of Scots-Irish. I remember listening to my relatives speak it to some of the old-timers at family reunions. I haven’t heard anyone speak like that lately. I’m sending it over for the University of Kentucky specialists to drool over.”
“How do you think that affects the case? Howard Cable mostly likely died of exposure after breaking his leg.”
Felicia pressed her lips together in a tight line.
Miranda noticed the amount of self-control she used to maintain an even-tempered discussion with her husband-sheriff.
Felicia glanced at the sheriff. “I’m tending to agree with Miranda that this is more than just a case of disoriented hiker. We still don’t have a full report from the autopsy, and I want to get this document in the hands of the experts before you pull the plug.”
Sheriff Larson stood silent. He dropped his head a few inches. “Fair enough.” He turned on his heel and returned to his office.
“One for the coroner.” Felicia grinned. “Anyway, I’ll send this along and tell them that you might want to examine it again.�
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“Thanks, Felicia. I’m off to talk to the clients that were up on the Indian Staircase on Sunday.”
“Why?”
“I want to know why they didn’t tell me that Howard was a member of the Risky Business Adventurers.”
Felicia squinted her eyes into a questioning look. “But you didn’t fess up to thinking it was Howard until your group was already packed up and heading down the trail. I don’t know if any of them heard you say you needed to stay to represent the family.”
“Rats, that’s right. Let me think.” Miranda closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “I don’t remember any of them being close enough to hear me. I certainly didn’t tell them.”
“This will need follow-up. I think you’re best suited for getting that information out of the Risky Business Adventurers members.”
“You mean you think Sheriff Larson will provoke them into silence?”
Felicia smiled. “The sheriff is sharp-sighted, but not particularly subtle.”
Miranda scratched the back of her head. “I see what you mean. I’ll stop by their cabin and see what I can gather. I’ve got some drawings to return.”
Chapter 18
Wednesday Afternoon, Big Rock Cabin
With the charcoal sketches stacked on the seat beside her, Miranda drove over to the bed-and-breakfast where the Risky Business Adventurers were staying. The Big Rock Cabin wasn’t far from the most popular natural attractions in the area. It was run by an antiquarian-book dealer who owned a rare bookstore, Glover’s Bookery, in Lexington. His wife worked as an electrical engineer with Lexmark. They had built Big Rock Cabin as a weekend and holiday sanity retreat. After it was finished, they couldn’t let Big Rock Cabin sit empty for most of the year, so they decided to rent it out to their families and friends. Word spread about its charms, and they expanded their offering to the online rental sites.
Miranda parked the van and spied Alfred Whittaker standing on the porch that ran the full length of the cabin. He had a mug of coffee cupped in both hands and a plate of shortbread nearby on a small table between two comfortable-looking rocking chairs.
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