Murder Can Haunt Your Handiwork

by Rose Pressey

  When I got closer, I peered at the ground, putting a look of concentration on my face. At least now I would hear their conversation. This would be perfect as long as I wasn’t caught. Based on their body stances, waving of arms, and scowls on their faces, I figured they were in a bit of a heated exchange.

  “This is scintillating,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  Unfortunately, Stan and Tasha stopped talking now that I had moved closer. Tasha opened the door of the car next to her. Stan watched as she reached inside. A few seconds later, she handed him something, but I couldn’t make out what.

  “What is this about?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked.

  That was what I’d like to know. Stan stepped away from Tasha without another word. She turned and headed back into the restaurant. Mr. Vanderbilt and I watched Stan as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Now what?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked.

  “I guess we’ll go into the restaurant,” I said.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he said.

  As we walked closer to the restaurant, I noticed the license plate on the car that Tasha had gotten into to retrieve the item for Stan. The plate on the back was personalized with the word SCARY.

  “That’s interesting.” I pointed toward the car.

  I hoped no one saw me talking and gesturing. Maybe I should have pretended I was talking on the phone. Otherwise, people would think I was talking to myself.

  “What’s interesting?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked.

  “The license plate has the word ‘scary.’ I wonder if that’s really her car?”

  “I wonder if it’s a description of her personality? She seemed a bit scary when she was fighting with the security guard.”

  “Yes, she did seem scary. I’ll see what I can find out from her.”

  “How are you doing that?” he asked.

  “I’m going in.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt and I stepped inside the diner.

  The woman at the front door asked, “Table for one?”

  I held up two fingers. Oops. I lowered one finger. “Oh, one, yes.”

  She grabbed a menu and escorted us across the room. Of course, to everyone else, I was alone.

  The woman placed the menu on the table. “Enjoy your meal.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt slid onto the booth across from me. I picked up the menu and pretended to peruse the food options.

  “I really hope Tasha will be my waitress. I never thought about that.” I talked with my mouth hidden by the menu so that, with any luck, people wouldn’t see me talking to myself.

  “That would be fortunate,” he said.

  Scanning the room, I spotted Tasha. So far, she hadn’t noticed me, so maybe she really wasn’t waiting on my table. Maybe I could question whoever came to help me about her. But that would be difficult. I wasn’t even sure how I would ask Tasha questions, much less someone else. It would be an awkward conversation, no matter how I went about it.

  “What are you having?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked as he studied the back of the menu. “The desserts are probably divine. That chocolate lava cake . . . oh, my.”

  “Are you ready to place an order?” The female voice startled me.

  Tasha stood beside the table. She hovered a pen above a notepad, waiting for me to speak. Of course, now I was tongue-tied. I suppose I would have to order and wait for her to come back with the food before I could ask questions. If I managed to find my voice.

  “I’ll have the cheeseburger,” I mumbled.

  There was no way the burger would be as good as the ones my Aunt Patsy made back in Tennessee. Her burgers were like magic. I thought of Caleb. Aunt Patsy’s diner had been the first place we’d gone together. Ever since I took him there, he’d been hooked on my aunt’s hamburgers.

  “Anything else?” she asked while staring at her order pad.

  “That’s all,” I said.

  She grabbed the menu and took off.

  “She’s not very friendly,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “Which will make it even harder to ask her questions,” I said.

  As I waited for the food, I chatted with Mr. Vanderbilt. He told fascinating stories about the estate. His eyes sparkled when he talked about the construction of the mansion, the grand parties that had taken place there, and the large staff that kept it running. Yet oddly, he didn’t mention himself in the stories.

  I sensed someone watching me. The woman at the table to the left of me was staring. She didn’t bother to look away, either. I supposed she wanted me to know she’d been watching. I realized it was because she thought I was talking to myself. Oh well, she’d just have to think I was bonkers.

  “That woman was watching you,” Mr. Vanderbilt whispered as if she’d overhear him.

  “Because I was talking to you. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. I can’t not talk to you while we sit here.”

  “You’re a sweet person,” he said with a smile.

  Soon, Tasha returned with the burger. She placed the plate down on the table in front of me.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  At least she acknowledged me this time.

  “Can I have ketchup?” I asked.

  Okay, that wasn’t the question I wanted to ask.

  She pointed at the condiment bottle on the table next to me. In a split second, she turned to walk away. I couldn’t let her leave without asking something.

  “Wait,” I called out. “There was one other thing.”

  When she turned to face me again, I noticed her tight lips and clenched fists right away.

  “She’s not happy,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  She was unhappy that I had stopped her, but it would be even worse when she realized I was asking odd questions. I couldn’t just come out and ask her if she had stolen the painting. I definitely couldn’t ask if she had murdered Ellen.

  “I think we have a mutual friend,” I said with a smile.

  “Oh yeah? Who’s that?” She placed her hand on her hip.

  “Stan Knowles. I’ve been to his art gallery,” I said.

  That wasn’t a lie. I had been there. Though the fact about him being a friend wasn’t true. For all I knew, she wasn’t friends with him, either. I had definitely taken a risk by saying that. Tasha stared at me without saying a word. Panic set in. What would I do now?

  “You should say something,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “I saw you talking with Stan when I pulled into the parking lot. I would have said hi, but you all stopped talking before I had a chance. He is your friend, right?”

  Did I sound convincing? I wasn’t sure. She remained silent. Her behavior was odd, to say the least.

  “Try again,” Mr. Vanderbilt urged.

  “How do you know Stan?” I asked.

  “I don’t know him well,” she said.

  At least she had spoken this time.

  “Through the art?” I pressed.

  “Yes . . . that’s it, the art gallery,” she said.

  “That doesn’t sound truthful,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “I think I’ve seen you somewhere else before,” I said.

  “Oh no, Celeste. I know where you’re going with this, and I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.” Mr. Vanderbilt’s voice was full of worry. “I don’t think you should say it.”

  Unfortunately, I didn’t take his advice.

  “Do you also work at the Biltmore? I’m at the arts and crafts fair on the grounds. I thought I saw you around,” I said with a smile.

  “What do you want?” She raised an eyebrow. “Did they send you here to question me?”

  “Uh-oh.” Mr. Vanderbilt leaned back in the chair and placed the back of his hand to his forehead as if he might faint.

  “Who are they?” I asked. “No one sent me here.”

  “Oh, now you’ve made her angry. This is what I was worried about,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “Perhaps you should pay for the meal and leave.”

  “You know they fired me, and that’s why yo
u came here,” she said.

  Now I had to act surprised by her dismissal.

  “I had no idea. I’m sorry that you were fired,” I said.

  “They got it all wrong. I didn’t steal nothin’,” she said.

  “I believe you,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “I imagine it is a stressful time for you.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt smacked his hand to his forehead once again. “Oh no. I know what you’re going to say now, too. For heaven’s sake, please stop. I can’t handle it.”

  “Because I was fired?” she asked. “Yes, it is stressful.”

  “That and the murder at the Biltmore,” I said.

  Mr. Vanderbilt leaned back again in the seat in a dramatic fashion. “Oh, I can’t handle the stress.”

  The expression on her face instantly changed. She’d seemed angry before, but now she had taken her agitated expression to a whole new scary level.

  “You a cop?” she demanded.

  “Of course not,” I said. “It’s just that I figured the murder was on your mind. I know I think about it when I’m there. The idea that the killer could be around is scary.”

  “The idea that you’re possibly talking to the killer right now should be scary for you,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “You should get out of here.”

  The notion that Tasha might be the killer hadn’t been lost on me. I was terrified at the thought. However, I didn’t let that stop me.

  “Did you know Ellen?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t know her,” Tasha snapped.

  “You never spoke at work? I would think that most of the tour guides were acquainted with one another, even if just in passing.”

  “Well, yeah, I saw her, but other than that, I don’t think I ever spoke with her.”

  Interesting. Something didn’t add up. I mean, at least she would’ve said hi to her.

  “Were you working at the same time?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  It seemed like most of my questions would be met with the same response from her. It was probably pointless to continue asking questions. I would have to change my tactics.

  “I’m out of there now, and none of this concerns me,” Tasha said.

  “What about the fact that Stan Knowles is an art dealer, and a priceless painting was taken from the Biltmore?”

  “Are you implying that he took it?” she asked.

  “It’s possible, no?” I asked.

  A middle-aged man in a stained chef’s uniform called out to Tasha from behind the counter.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I bet Stan did it. Now I have to get to work.”

  Tasha spun around and walked away.

  “Her behavior is highly suspicious,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  I took a couple bites of the burger, but I was too anxious to eat. Tasha kept her eye on me while she waited on other tables.

  After a few minutes, I put cash on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I thought you’d never say that.” Mr. Vanderbilt jumped up from the table.

  I felt Tasha’s stare on me as I hurried out of the diner. Bursting out the diner’s door, I dashed to my truck and locked the door once inside. A cold chill ran up my spine when I saw Tasha standing at the diner’s door, watching me.

  “Her stare is chilling,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  I cranked the engine. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  Once out of the parking lot, relief fell over me, but still, I had little information to help me solve this crime. The fact that Stan and Tasha had been talking had to mean something, although she had brushed it off as nothing. However, I thought they were involved in some nefarious activity.

  “Be thankful you got out of there safely,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “Although she could come for you. After all, now she knows you’re at the craft fair.”

  “Thanks for making me feel better,” I said as I stopped at a red light.

  “Just stating the facts. You can’t ignore them. If you are aware of the possibilities, you’ll be better equipped to deal with them if they actually happen.”

  I suppose he had a good point.

  “I think there’s more to her story than she wants to tell,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “You’re right about that, but how will I find out? If only I knew more about her interactions at work. Like through video,” I said.

  “Whatever that means, yes,” he said.

  CHAPTER 18

  Travel Trailer Tip 18:

  Invest in organization storage for your

  trailer. It will save you time in the long run.

  Another day at the craft fair, and it was once again time to sell my art. Saturday typically was the most lucrative at the fairs, with Sunday a close second. I had everything set out and was trying to focus on the fair instead of a murder investigation. In the past twenty-four hours, I’d sold five paintings. A portrait of Van gazing into the sunset with shades of amethyst and garnet streaking through the candlelight-orange horizon had brought a nice price. I knew others would see his beauty shine from the canvas.

  Van was at my feet, resting on his comfy blue-and-white paw-print bed, while Mr. Vanderbilt was roaming around close by. It had been a busy morning, but at the moment, I had a lull in customers. Since it was a bright and sunshiny day, I anticipated a lot of people showing up for the fair this afternoon.

  I needed to work on a new painting. That feeling was creeping into my mind again, and I hoped that something would show up in the images. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and realized that I had a new customer. But this wasn’t a stranger. I recognized her right away. I wondered if there was an ulterior motive for her presence at my booth.

  The odd employee was eyeing me as she stepped up to the booth. I had a feeling Cheryl wasn’t here for my paintings. What had I done? Was she coming to tell me to mind my own business? She could have told me that when I was asking about Tasha. Something was fishy about this visit.

  I pushed to my feet and walked over to her. “Hello, how are you today?”

  I was trying to be as friendly as possible.

  “I’m just enjoying the beautiful weather and all the crafts,” she said with a smile.

  Why the turn of attitude? Her personality turned on a dime. I wasn’t sure if she was being genuine. Was this all an act? This woman was definitely strange.

  “I wanted to check out your lovely artwork,” she said.

  I wasn’t trusting her change of heart. She was up to something. But what? Where was Mr. Vanderbilt? He was intuitive about these things and seemed to be able to read people well. Van stared at her as if waiting for his chance to nibble at her ankles.

  “Well, I have quite a few pieces,” I said.

  “I see that you’ve been busy,” she said.

  “I like to stay busy. Whenever the inspiration hits . . . I paint,” I said.

  She walked around, studying each painting. I remained quiet but watched her movements, wondering when she would reveal her true reason for being there.

  “You have lovely paintings, and if I had a great place to hang them, I certainly would buy one.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said.

  “I’ll see you around,” she said.

  That was it? She was just going to leave without saying anything else? I wasn’t sure I believed that. I watched as she walked away, strolling over to another booth selling beaded jewelry.

  A slow period settled over the craft fair, and I had no customers, so I decided to continue my painting. Staring at the canvas in front of me, I was happy that I had the wonderful process of artistic creation ahead of me. The most exciting part was when I started something new. Or maybe when I finished. Okay, all of the process was equally exciting.

  With my paints beside me, I held the brush in my hand, ready to go. I just had to allow the image to come to mind. I continued swiping the brush against the canvas. After a short time, I finished a painting that depicted the scene of a massive-s
ized room inside the estate. Mahogany with streaks of spicy brown running throughout the wood covered the walls, and heavy crimson red velvet draperies adorned the windows.

  “It’s wonderful,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “Thank you,” I said, proud of my work.

  “I wonder if there are any other hidden images in there,” he said.

  “I hope so, but I doubt it. Earlier, I sensed that there would be. I had that feeling, but sadly, that feeling is gone.”

  After a while, I was satisfied that apparently this was only an image of the inside of a section of the estate—nothing more. Though it was beautiful, I had hoped for more. I just had to hope that I would find another image that gave me a clue.

  “This is thrilling,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “Hurry and get the jar again.”

  The jar was right there, waiting beside me where I’d left it. I picked up the glass and held it to my eye, scanning the canvas for a sign of more skeletons. It only took a couple of seconds until I spotted them. Two were standing outside the window, as if they’d been in front of the estate. They were smaller and harder to see, but I thought they were arguing, too. This time, they were the same size; one wasn’t taller than the other. But what did this mean? What kind of clue was this offering me?

  Just as with the other skeletons in the painting, these were telling me nothing more than two people had a confrontation. I had expected that. As a matter of fact, it seemed as if a lot of that was going on around the estate. A lot of friction between employees. What was this telling me? That Tasha and Ellen had argued? That was possible, but it was only a guess.

  How would I find out for sure? I wished I could get more insight into what was really going on during the work hours at the estate. One way to do that would be to see surveillance videos. But that would be a lot of video, and how would I get access to that in the first place?

  “What do you see?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked excitedly.

  “Sadly, not much,” I said.

  “Oh dear, that’s disappointing,” Mr. Vanderbilt said. “What will you do?”

  “I have a plan,” I said.

  CHAPTER 19

  Travel Trailer Tip 19:

  Arrive at your destination before dark. You