Draw and Order

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Oh, sure. We’re about to have a cold supper. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I should be finished with the roof tomorrow. Thanks for letting me crash in the loft. I’ll be ready to start work as soon as it gets light.”

  “No problem. I’ll be in for my supper in a few minutes.”

  She walked into the barn and felt like ripping Ron from limb to limb. Tools and scraps of wood, tar paper, and shingles were everywhere. Not a single foot of the barn was free of his mess.

  “Oh, no,” she groaned. He had set up his chop saw in the middle of her gift shop. It looked as if it had been hit by a sawdust tornado. She should have moved her stock before Ron started his repairs. Now, everything would have to be thoroughly cleaned before she could offer anything for sale.

  Ron was lucky that the quality of his work was so good because the magnitude of his mess was epic. She grabbed a wheelbarrow and filled it full of jams made by Lily and Iris. She could at least get them out of danger and safely on the shelves in the woodshed. All the clothing, T-shirts, and custom aprons would have to be washed.

  She could feel an important source of income dwindling away. Sometimes her business seemed more like a janitor’s job of endless cleanups.

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday Evening, the Farmhouse

  Miranda managed to get through a frosty supper without losing her temper and firing Ron. Was he really her only choice? she wondered. It would be difficult to find someone else at the last minute, but maybe not impossible.

  Another complication was that she felt it would upset her mom, who hadn’t looked this happy in years. Ron and her mom were reliving their teen years with tales of yesteryear and lots of silly jokes and giggles.

  I need to calm down and manage the repair with a kinder attitude.

  Her problems were simple compared to Aunt Ora’s. The shock and grief over the death of an only son must be overwhelming.

  After helping her mother clear the kitchen, Miranda loaded up the wheelbarrow with another batch of her gift shop items. She stood back and admired the selection of local foods. No matter what else happened tomorrow, she at least had something to sell.

  Tourists were happy to buy locally prepared foods and genuine craft items, not that mass manufactured stuff from China. The steadily growing profits from selling local crafts from her little gift shop in the barn were vital to the health of her business. She thought it might expand into a local co-op for the small farmers near her. She was beginning to attract some traffic, which reminded her that she needed to address the parking problem. With only a small driveway, she was limited because there wasn’t a lot of flat land around the farmhouse.

  She tucked Sandy up in her bedroom and drove her mother over to Aunt Ora’s house. They arrived early at a quarter to seven but the sheriff’s car was already there.

  Miranda frowned at her mother. “He told me seven. I’ll bet he has upset Aunt Ora to the brink of hysterics.”

  They walked up onto the front porch. Miranda could hear her aunt’s high trembling voice through the screen door. “Oh, no. You are completely wrong. Howard would never worry me with foolishness like that. He was a very careful boy. He never wanted me to worry.”

  They were too late. The interview had begun.

  “Aunt Ora,” said Miranda as they walked into the front room. “What’s wrong?”

  Her aunt looked right through her to see that Dorothy was following right behind. “Oh, Big Sissy,” said Aunt Ora. “They’re saying that Howard was murdered. How can that be? Who would murder my Howard?”

  Aunt Ora looked an ugly crying mess. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy. Tears were streaming down her face. She gripped two floral cotton handkerchiefs, one in each hand. She sat in her favorite overstuffed rocker by the front window. Her knitting had been thrown in a tangle into a large wicker basket beside her footstool.

  “Oh, Little Sissy,” said Dorothy as she hurried over to give her sister a smothering hug. “What they have told you is true. You must have thought that Howard might have come to harm. I’m sorry this has upset you. I was supposed to be here when they told you.”

  Aunt Ora looked over at Sheriff Larson and Coroner Larson. Each was sitting forward at the edge of the floral couch looking stunned at such a powerful surge of emotion from Aunt Ora.

  Miranda power-whispered to Felicia, “Why didn’t you wait? This is going to be hopeless. She’ll never calm down, at least not tonight. I told you.”

  Felicia rolled her eyes at the sheriff and whispered back, “Some of us have no patience with the emotional side of the job.”

  Miranda stood in front of her aunt. “Where are Anna Belle and Anna Sue?”

  Aunt Ora pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “They’re down at Porter and Sons Funeral Directors picking out a casket for Howard. I couldn’t face it.”

  “Of course not.” Miranda patted her hand. “Would you like some fresh hot tea, Aunt Ora? I know you have chamomile. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Her aunt pulled another flowered handkerchief from the deep crease in the left side of her chair. She blew her nose, automatically stuffed the two used handkerchiefs into the opposite chair crease, then looked up at Miranda. “Oh, sweetie, you are so thoughtful.” Aunt Ora coughed and spoke in a clearer voice. “I don’t know what has happened to my manners. That would be very nice. Make a very large pot, please.”

  Sheriff Larson had a look on his face that betrayed his irritation. He frowned, fumed, and fidgeted like a toddler during church prayers.

  Aunt Ora sniffed loudly. “There’s also a plate of fresh gingerbread cookies in the pie safe. Everyone will want some. Right?” She began to recover her senses by way of habit—she had hostess duties—as Miranda had hoped; long-held traditions were strong patterns of behavior.

  Sheriff Larson sat back on the couch and eyed Miranda. He tipped his head toward the kitchen as a signal for her to get the tea served so that he could continue with the interview. He did not look happy.

  Miranda sighed. Does everyone feel the need to tell me what to do?

  Dorothy had brought in a straight-backed chair from the eat-in kitchen and placed it right beside her sister. Dorothy sat down and took one of Aunt Ora’s hands in both of hers and rubbed it to bring back some warmth.

  Felicia struggled to get out of the deep soft couch. When she finally freed herself of its smothering softness, she told Miranda, “I’ll help.”

  They went into the kitchen. Miranda opened the door to the pie safe and grabbed a cookie for each of them from the yellow cookie jar. That jar had magically always held cookies. Miranda didn’t remember seeing aunt actually bake the cookies. As a small child, Miranda assumed that cookies refilled the jar every night. It was a special memory.

  “I’ll find the tea. You start the water.” Miranda had never rummaged through her aunt’s cupboards, but she knew the typical pattern for most of her women relations. The dishes would be in a china cabinet and the tea would be in a cupboard near the stove.

  Felicia spoke while filling up the huge stainless-steel teakettle at the sink. “All this upset wasn’t necessary. I’m so sorry. I knew we should have waited until you had prepared your aunt, but patience isn’t one of the sheriff’s virtues.” She put the filled kettle on the stove. “That helps his investigations most of the time.”

  Miranda found a serving tray and started loading it with her aunt’s company-best cups and saucers. “She’ll be fine. By the time we’re serving tea using her bone china, she’ll snap out of it. This set only comes out during the holidays.”

  Felicia smiled. “Clever. What a beautiful pattern. Is there a matching teapot?”

  “Of course.” Miranda found it along with silver spoons and a fancy plate for the gingerbread. The final effect would have looked perfectly at home in the latest issue of TeaTime magazine.

  They returned to the front room to find a calmer Aunt Ora still being comforted by her sister. Sheriff Larson had settled back on
the couch and seemed resigned to let this interview progress much slower than he had intended.

  Aunt Ora sat up straight when she saw the lovely tea tray. “Oh, Miranda, how sweet. You’re gotten out my company-best china.” Her mood changed from helpless victim to charming hostess at the first sight of her treasures. Aunt Ora beamed and directed the serving of the refreshments like a pastor’s wife.

  After everyone had been served to her Southern-lady satisfaction, Aunt Ora sat up straight and said in a clear voice, “Now that we’ve had a bite, Sheriff, did you have some questions for me about my poor Howard?”

  “Yes.” He glanced over to Felicia and mouthed a thank-you. “We’ve been searching through Howard’s past, his college years in particular., We want to know if you knew that he was a member of a group that calls itself the Risky Business Adventurers. And if so, what do you know about them?”

  Aunt Ora lowered her head. “I’ve been trying to remember back to those days. It was a painful time that first year that he was gone. While he was in college, he only came home during Christmas and Easter. His sports scholarship was generous in support of his classes and books, but he really only had whatever pocket money I could send him. His spare time was taken up by classwork. Then there were all the practice sessions. Then, of course, the team played so many out-of-town games.” She looked from Sheriff Larson to Felicia and back to the sheriff. “You understand that all that meant that he couldn’t hold a job.”

  Aunt Ora stopped for a moment, but no one spoke. “That first Christmas visit was a big shock. He had changed so much from the gangly teenager that went off to college that fall. He returned as a mature, fit, focused athlete—a growed-up man, I hardly knew him.”

  Another pause. “But he seemed happy. He said he had made friends with a group that shared his love for sports. They were planning to rent a house together for their sophomore year. All freshmen have to stay in the dormitories for their first year, you know.”

  Sheriff Larson leaned forward. “Did he mention their names?”

  “Not at first. He would occasionally let a name drop when he was telling me funny stories. I’m sorry, I don’t remember more. I was just so happy that he had found friends. He didn’t make friends easily.”

  The sheriff continued, “What about after graduation? Did he keep in touch with them?”

  “Not that I remember. He stayed here at home for a few weeks. He had a small break before he started work.”

  “We’ll be checking with them about his vacation time,” said Sheriff Larson. “They will probably contact you now that his death is confirmed. Please refer them to my office.”

  “That company of his’n wasn’t very helpful when Howard disappeared. They told me that they had stopped his employment because he hadn’t called in sick by the third day. Really? What a terrible people. They called several times after that. It upset me something awful.”

  Sheriff Larson glanced at his wife. “Go ahead. Show her.”

  Felicia nodded slightly and pulled a small evidence pouch from her large black bag. “Mrs. Cable, we found this among the remains. Do you recognize it?” She opened the pouch, poured the bracelet into her palm. Felicia struggled out of the couch, even slower this time holding the bracelet. She placed the silver jewelry into Aunt Ora’s outstretched hand.

  Aunt Ora’s left hand dipped into the side crease of her chair and pulled out a pair of bright red reading glasses. She put them on and caressed the delicate bracelet. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. I have no idea where Howard got this. I thought they were all accounted for within the family.”

  She looked up and there was a distant look in her eyes.

  Dorothy started patting Aunt Ora’s hand again. “Concentrate, Little Sissy. Tell the sheriff what this means.”

  Aunt Ora continued, “This was made by my father. I would recognize this anywhere. He didn’t make very many.”

  “Do you know why Howard would have carried that up the Indian Staircase with him?” Felicia asked.

  Aunt Ora continued to caress the bracelet as if she could summon her father by rubbing it in the right spot. “By tradition, these bracelets have been given to young women as a pre-engagement gift. It was a signal that an understanding had been reached, but there was still a bit of negotiation yet to be agreed on before the formal engagement was announced.”

  Tears again started rolling down her florid cheeks. “My late husband somehow convinced my father to make one. He presented it to me on my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Where did your father get the silver? He was a farmer, right?” asked Sheriff Larson.

  “Let me answer, Little Sissy,” said Dorothy. She patted Aunt Ora’s hand again and looked directly at Sheriff Larson with cold, calm eyes. “Our father was a frequent forager in the surrounding hills. He searched for coal to burn, dug ginseng roots to sell, trapped small game for the table, and collected the wild berries that my mother used for jellies, jams, and pies. He was intimately familiar with the land. He also found enough silver to make small gifts.”

  “If he found silver, why didn’t he sell that?”

  “He didn’t find enough to do more than make these bracelets. He loved silversmithing, and if he had found a good vein, he would have certainly sold the silver to help out with the family. As it turned out, my sister is right, he only made a few bracelets.”

  “Where is that bracelet now?” Felicia asked.

  Aunt Ora wiped her eyes and pointed the soggy handkerchief at Miranda. “Sweetie, go into my bedroom, and under the bed on the left furthest from the door, bring me a small wooden box.” She made a shooing motion with the handkerchief. “Hurry, now. Everyone is waiting.”

  Miranda leaped up and rushed into Aunt Ora’s bedroom. She stood at the door and let her hand search for the light switch. After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found it much lower than normal. She blew out a frustrated puff. Old houses. Flipping the light switch, an overhead fixture lit up the profoundly floral-dominated room. The room was small, so although it only contained a bed, a dresser, a chest of drawers, and two nightstands, there was barely enough room to squeeze around to the far side of the bed.

  Miranda wasn’t sure how her aunt managed to move around in here. Pushing aside the images of her aunt’s delicate frame moving in this overcrowded space, Miranda lifted the dust ruffle and reached under the bed. She encountered a neat but compact horde of shoes, boxes, gift bags, and rolls of wrapping paper. Determined to find the wooden box without having to go back out for a flashlight, Miranda reached and stretched her way through a series of stacked boxes of greeting cards to land her hand on it.

  “I found it!” she yelled, mostly as a reward to herself, but also as a way to relieve her aunt’s anxiety over letting someone, even though she was family, search underneath her bed. Miranda brought the box out to the front room and placed it in aunt’s lap.

  “Thank you, sweetie.”

  Aunt Ora carefully opened the small wooden box. “I haven’t been into this for a long, long time.” She held up a small velvet pouch, opened the string tie, and looked inside. The florid pink in her cheeks turned to ash. “It’s missing. My bracelet is gone.” She pointed to Felicia. “That’s got to be my bracelet. I don’t understand why Howard took it. He had to know I would have let him have it for his sweetheart.”

  “If a reason comes to you later, and that’s often the case, just give me a call. Anyway, that brings me to my last question,” said Sheriff Larson. “Did Howard have a will?”

  Aunt Ora sighed and hung her head down for a moment. She grabbed another handkerchief from an apparently endless supply tucked into the crease of her chair and wiped away the flowing stream of tears.

  “He did,” she sniffed. “We didn’t understand it, but it hasn’t been to probate yet. He has been known to be missing, not deceased. But he did have a will. That’s quite unusual for such a young man. He left everything to his girlfriend, Jennifer O’Rourke.”

  Chapter 21

/>   Thursday Afternoon, the Farmhouse

  Miranda felt her lack of sleep. She was restless and on edge after the visit to Aunt Ora’s last night. She had so many questions that it was going on 3:00 a.m. before she dropped off. Relaxing on the front-porch swing with her mother and a hot cup of fresh ginger tea seemed the perfect reward for such a nice day.

  For once, the tour had been routine and completely uneventful. Her clients each produced a great painting of Lover’s Leap. They enjoyed both the traditionally Southern meal as well as the moonshine cocktails paired with each course. They even purchased most of the items she had displayed in her temporary gift shop.

  “Mom, do you know why Howard chose to study geology in college? It seems to me that it’s an odd choice. I would have thought that maybe sports medicine would have been a better fit. Or given our farming background, agricultural studies. Why geology?”

  Dorothy took another sip of the hot tea. Then she inhaled a long breath. “That’s a good question. Your aunt Ora was confused by his choice as well. Something inspired him that summer before he went off to college. I don’t know what happened, but he changed his major from sports medicine to geology right away.”

  “With the bracelet turning up with him, it seems like there should be a reason that he took it from his mother. Do you think he was going to make a copy to give to Jennifer? Or maybe he thought there might be silver somewhere and this bracelet was proof?”

  “I think both ideas are very good possibilities. You should put that information in your murder notebook.”

  “I will. But first, I need to check on Ron. He’s been far too quiet out in the barn. I’m betting he’s still sleeping off a hangover. What do you think?”

  “Fine, but don’t forget.”

  Miranda ran through a mental list of things on her mind. Howard’s murder was at the top. Her nonrelation-ship with Austin was next. The possibility that her mother’s visit might be permanent. Her business could stall without the addition of the distillery. Sandy was misbehaving and needed consistent training.