“Tsk-tsk. I heard that from Lily and Iris. They were sore disappointed.” She shook her head with a sad expression. “You know that Mrs. Childers had a dark premonition about your touring. She was very concerned about the evils of drink.”
“Not just her. Doris Ann at the lodge is not a fan either.”
“Doris Ann has good reason. It’s because her baby brother was sent to prison for drunk driving. He served hard time and was never the same boy after that. He was only sixteen.”
“They sent a sixteen-year-old to prison?”
“It was a long time ago. Sixteen would have been considered a pretty near growed-up man. It was one of the few ways her folks had of getting cash money, you know. You can grow your own food, but you can’t grow shoes or winter coats. There’s more, but she’ll have to tell you.”
“She already told me about her brother, but I’ll try to be more kind.”
Miranda placed the wriggling Sandy in the ample lap of Mrs. Hobb. He tried to jump up to lick her face and she giggled. “How’s my widdle snuggly-wuggly baby puppy?” Sandy rolled over for belly rubs and whimpered with puppy pleasure. “I missed you, Sandikins.” She lifted him to look into his face. Mrs. Hobb looked over at Miranda. “Don’t you just love puppy breath?”
“Of course. How could you not love that?” Miranda smiled. “Can I put your presents away for you?”
“Honey, that would be a blessing.” She pointed to the pile beside the swing. “Just pop the casseroles into the fridge and put the candy on the counter. I don’t like cold chocolates.”
Miranda complied, then returned to sit in the rocking chair, angled to see Mrs. Hobb but also with a view of the street. Every driver that passed the house either waved at Mrs. Hobb or tapped the horn. In response, she nodded her head in acknowledgment, along with a little queen-like wave.
Definitely holding court. But neighbors are more connected here. Not just acquaintances like in the big cities but linked through events that have occurred over generations.
“You look so much better now. How are you feeling?” asked Miranda, hoping a gentle opening would lead to a lengthy conversation.
Mrs. Hobb sighed deep and long. “Oh, my dear child, thanks for asking, but I’m feeling quite poorly. I’m not over the terrible shock.” She patted her large chest with quick little taps.
“What did your doctor say about your condition?”
“Young Doctor Watson is such a gentle man. He takes after his dear late father. God bless his soul. It was a blessing to us all that he followed in his father’s footsteps. Our little town is lucky to have a working clinic, let alone an old-fashioned family doctor.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He even makes house calls to his longtime patients.”
“Really?” said Miranda. She didn’t know that anyone did that anymore. Certainly not where she was from. Malpractice insurance would have put a stop to that.
“He checked me over and said to take to my bed for a few days. He stops by on his way home every day now.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He loves my sweet tea.”
Miranda thought if she was up and about enough to be making tea for company, that wasn’t her definition of bed rest. But Mrs. Hobb belonged to a different generation.
Mrs. Hobb leaned forward and pointed to a white two-story house across the street. “He and his lovely bride are just two houses down.”
Miranda smiled. “Did you tell him why you were so upset? I mean, finding your friend dead with a knife in her chest was shocking.”
“Of course I did.” Mrs. Hobb reared up on the swing. “Why wouldn’t I tell my doctor everything? He needs to know.”
“Yes, yes, absolutely. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please, go on.”
Mrs. Hobb resettled herself on the swing and rearranged the shawl covering her shoulders. “It was such a shock to see my dearest friend violated—yes, I know that’s a harsh word, but that’s exactly how it felt. Violated. Violated with her best kitchen knife.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“That knife had been handed down to her by her mother, who had it from her mother. The handle was carved especially for the blade by her grandfather. Even though it’ll never be used again, I hope the police are taking proper care of it.”
I’ll bet it’s lumped in with the rest of the bagged evidence. It will be in terrible condition if it’s ever returned. It’s merely routine procedure to them—they don’t know what it’s like to have things handed down. “I’m sure it’s safe, but it will be a long time before it will be returned. You know they’ll need it for a trial.”
“That’s right. I don’t know who it would go to at this point. Maybe her niece.”
Miranda returned to the point of her visit. “I’m just trying to make some sense out of this. Where were you before you found her?”
“You know all about that, girl.”
Miranda pulled out her murder notebook and showed it to Mrs. Hobb. “I’m trying to get myself oriented on who was where at the time, so I’ve made this little book to keep track of things.”
Mrs. Hobb put her hand out for Miranda to give over the notebook. “Let me see that. What on earth are you up to, child?” She didn’t want to let Mrs. Hobb see it, but she did. There really wasn’t anything much in the book at this point. Mrs. Hobb turned it over in her hands, flipped through the portraits, and then went right back to the page she had created for Mrs. Hobb.
“Oh my goodness. These are wonderful likenesses of everyone who was there.” She pursed her lips. “You should make a page for Mrs. Childers so you have a place to write down what you find out about her.” She gave the notebook back.
“That’s awesome!” Miranda dug out a drawing pencil and flipped over to a fresh page. In just a few seconds, she had sketched Mrs. Childers and looked back at Mrs. Hobb. “I’m trying to keep track of things by writing them down. There are so many people involved, I don’t want to get the stories scrambled.”
Mrs. Hobb pursed her lips and paused. She certainly seemed to see the point of Miranda’s efforts. “As you know,” she continued, “I was borrowing a cup of sugar from Elsie. I wanted to sweeten up your cobbler with a little sprinkling of sugar, then just pop it under the broiler for a few seconds for the sugar to scorch. It’s a simple trick, but it brings out the taste of the crust something wonderful. I can’t understand why you didn’t have any sugar.”
“I ran out right after I finished the cobbler. Back to my point, did you see anyone while you were out?”
Mrs. Hobb wrinkled her brow. “Why are you being so forward? Is there a reason for all these questions? I don’t remember you as a particularly curious child. Of course, you were only here during the summers.”
Miranda sat silent for a few seconds. Should she tell Mrs. Hobb about her need to clear up this murder so that her business wouldn’t fail? How much would already be gossip? Actually, it would all be gossip.
“I’m desperate to get beyond this horrible event. It’s horrible in so many ways.” Miranda ticked them off on her fingers. “One, I don’t like the notion of being the prime suspect in a murder case. Two, I don’t want to lose the business because of the murder investigation. Three, I don’t want to lose the farmhouse because I can’t pay the taxes. It’s been in the family for such a long time. Four, the last and most important thing, Mrs. Childers deserves justice.”
Mrs. Cobb nodded absently while petting Sandy, who had curled up in the folds of her calico apron. He had fallen victim to her warm lap and drifted off to sleep. “Child, that’s a long list of sorry.”
“Yes, and I’m going to investigate your best friend’s death myself so we can both begin to sleep. Plus, there is the fact I can’t keep the farm if everyone cancels my tours.”
It was Mrs. Hobb’s turn to sit silent. She looked at Miranda, then looked down at Sandy sleeping in her lap. She raised her head to reveal a steely look. “I’ll do what little I can to help you. I’ll never have a friend like that again. You can’t start over with a ch
ildhood friend as close as a sister. That has real meaning around these parts.”
Mrs. Hobb cleared her throat. She paused for a few seconds, then wiped the tears from her eyes. “She helped me weather a bad marriage. She helped me recover from the death of my daughter. She helped me raise my lovely granddaughters. I owe her my sanity. What else do you want to know?”
Miranda felt the tension in her neck relax. She had hoped against all odds that she could get this kind of help. Mrs. Hobb knew everybody and everything. Miranda wrote down what Mrs. Hobb had told her.
“That notebook idea of yours is very smart, young lady.”
Miranda grinned and felt a flush of pride spread in her chest. It was important to her what the elders of the community thought. “Now, tell me, what did you see on your trip back from Elsie’s?”
“I saw two people going to the barn when I was on my way down to Elsie’s. I think that was the honeymooners, but since the images were really only shadows, it makes me doubt that. I also saw someone out behind the woodshed when I got back just before I stepped into the kitchen, but that could have been anything. I wasn’t thinking about where people might be. I was hurrying as fast as I could to get the sugar on that cobbler.”
Miranda continued to scribble in the notebook as fast as she could. She looked up. “How about any background information on the locals?”
“Oh, dear. You mean Shefton Adams?”
“Yes, please.”
“He’s been a bit of a wild child all his life. Nothing ugly or criminal, but he’s a handsome one and has a lovely voice. He’s a struggling singer trying to break into the big-time. That means he’s always out late. He hangs around the bars and honky-tonks down in Nashville. I think he’s a good boy with a powerful desire for fame.”
“What about Ranger Morgan?”
“Little Austin? He was raised up near Stanton, in Powell County. His family has been there since before the Civil War. He took over your neighbor’s farm when that part of their family died out without anyone to hand it down to. That doesn’t mean that there might not be trouble, but I haven’t heard of anything bad coming from them.”
Miranda repressed a relieved breath. That didn’t mean he was innocent, but if Mrs. Hobb hadn’t heard anything, it was unlikely that he had ever been in trouble. “Okay, I’ve got that. Any else?”
“You haven’t asked about Joe Creech.”
“He’s from out of town. I didn’t think you knew him.”
“That’s true, but on that terrible day, he came by to see Mrs. Childers while we were preparing for your fancy Southern dinner.”
Miranda frowned at the word “fancy.” Her time in New York City had certainly changed her view of fancy. Afternoon tea at the Ritz—now that was fancy. Not a wholesome meal around a farmhouse table. She shook her head to stop her thoughts from wandering.
“Sorry, can you say that again?”
“Joe Creech came by and upset Mrs. Childers.”
“But he was one of my clients and met me at Hemlock Lodge. He couldn’t have been in two places at once. When did he come by?”
“I don’t know. It was just minutes after you left.”
“Okay. He must have driven really fast. He was the last one to arrive. Well, not exactly the last one. Shefton didn’t even make it in time to hike up to the painting site with the rest of us. At least Joe made that.”
“She burst into tears every few minutes. She had finally stopped her crying fits just before y’all showed up.”
Miranda’s brow wrinkled deep. “How did he know her?”
“She wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t think it was my place to ask.”
That flies in the face of reality, thought Miranda. You just didn’t get a chance to ask.
“Anything else?”
“That fancy-pants Officer Young came by this morning to ask me some of the very same questions you’re asking, except that he was treating it as an accident.”
“Really?” So, they’re finally getting serious pursuing the case.
“He wanted to know if she had a drinking problem, or had fainting spells. He even asked if she had a family history of strokes.”
“They still think it’s an accident. Argh—frustrating!”
“Not only that, but he said that you were next on his list of witnesses to check. He probably shouldn’t have told me that, but Officer Young is still young.” She put a hand over her mouth to giggle. “Sorry, but it is funny. You probably passed him on the highway coming over here if you took the Mountain Parkway.”
“Actually, no. I drove the old Highway 15 way. It’s so beautiful this time of year—I automatically take that route and it’s only about five minutes longer.”
Mrs. Hobb smiled. “I love that about you, dear. You always see the beauty in things—even as they’re dying.”
Miranda wrinkled her nose. She was a little uncomfortable with that as a judgment.
Sandy woke and stretched in Mrs. Hobb’s lap. Miranda knew what Sandy’s next need was going to be, so she stowed the notebook then grabbed Sandy up and put him in the grass. Sure enough, he immediately squatted for a pee.
“I’d better get back to the farmhouse and perhaps avoid annoying Officer Young.” She chuckled. “I do think that he has the perfect name. There were so many of them bustling about, it was hard to keep track of what was going on.” She let Mrs. Hobb give Sandy one last cuddle and put him in his travel crate in the van. “Thanks for everything.”
Mrs. Hobb waved at her from the swing. “Come back soon. I’ll put out the word that you want information.”
Putting out the word was another way of saying spreading the gossip. That is a very scary thought.
Chapter 21
Monday Afternoon, Wolfe County Sheriff’s Office
Coroner Felicia Larson normally discussed cases with her husband over dinner in their new apartment. Originally built in 1942, Wolfe County High School saw over sixty years as an educational institution. Then it closed in 2005. After sitting vacant for nearly a decade, the beloved Wolfe County landmark, listed in the National Register of Historic Places, had been transformed into nineteen units of mixed-income housing for residents fifty-five and older.
Although Felicia wasn’t yet fifty, Sheriff Larson had recently reached the magic number and they became eligible to move into the luxury apartments. She loved the freedom from gardening, chickens, and house maintenance.
On the downside, it meant she had to leave her precious flower beds with those ribbon-winning dahlias that she tended like children. It was also a struggle to live in only two bedrooms, using the second one as an office. But with her recent promotion, she had even been able to hire a weekly housekeeper who also handled the laundry.
Today, she marched into her husband’s side of their shared office and plopped down in his guest chair. She folded her arms, crossed her legs, and bounced one foot in a quick rhythm.
“I have a bone to pick with you.”
Sheriff Larson looked at his wife’s face and sat straight up in his chair, all attention. “I can see that. What have I done now?”
“It’s a case of what you haven’t done. You simply must get more involved in the Childers murder. I don’t care about jurisdiction, political issues, or old high school rivalries. This is murder. I just got off the phone with the coroner in Lexington. He’s been told the case is”—she finger-quoted—“an unfortunate accident.” She huffed, refolded her arms, and tilted her head awaiting his response.
“But, honey, your report is inconclusive. You’ve stated that the victim died of a stab wound that pierced the heart and that she bled to death.”
“Yes, but I also feel that the activities in the kitchen haven’t been properly taken into account.”
“Felicia, you need to be clear with me. What do you mean?”
She stood and leaned over the desk and pointed her finger. “Rick, I looked at the scene and the whole forensic team took pictures of the scene, but no one seems to have come to the o
bvious fact that nothing was being sliced in the kitchen.”
“But she had just made fried green tomatoes.”
“That’s right, and every tomato had been sliced, battered, and fried already. The cutting board was in the dish drainer by the sink. I would bet my life that the knife had been washed carefully and was sitting in the drainer, too. You can’t let a good knife sit around with tomato acid on the blade. This is not an accident.”
“Okay, don’t get in a snit. That level of detail is beyond the understanding of city officers. In fact, I doubt that I would have picked up on that, either.” Rich leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have to talk to Peterson.”
He checked his watch. “Ah, look. It’s too late.”
She raised her eyebrows. “My buddy says that Detective Peterson is staying late tonight. Something about performance appraisals that are due in the morning.”
He looked up at Felicia. “This is not going to be fun.”
She folded her arms and began to tap her foot. “Your job is to enforce the law. It isn’t meant to be fun.” She softened the harsh comment with a smile. “But you love it and you always do the right thing. That’s why I love you.”
He stood and took her into his arms.
Sheriff Larson gave his wife a kiss, put on his hat, then started up his patrol car. He got on the highway without second-guessing the logic of trying to talk Detective Peterson into changing his mind. Larson stopped thinking about it. He was afraid that he might turn around and head back to the safety of his home office. The image of Felicia tapping her foot dispelled that doubt.
* * *
At least he had the hour drive time to dream up an approach for convincing the detective to treat the case as a violent crime. It wouldn’t be easy to work around their differences, but he had to find a way. Felicia was always right. It was annoying, but if she said it was no accident, he needed to convince the investigative team to pay attention.
Sheriff Larson found a visitor’s parking spot at the Lexington Police headquarters. He leaned over and locked his weapon in the glove box. He stood beside his car, patted down his pockets, and threw in his pocketknife as well. Without an appointment, he would have to wait a good amount of time for the high-and-mighty detective to see him.
Still Knife Painting Page 14