Paint the Town Dead

by Nancy Haddock

  Both the café and the inn spaces had been updated from time to time, of course. I knew from having been upstairs that the inn now featured a 1930s ambiance from the furniture to the light fixtures suspended from the high ceilings. The bathrooms were modern, but with showers, pedestal sinks, and fixtures with a vintage edge.

  In contrast, the café’s decor didn’t scream a particular era, yet it wasn’t hard to picture cowboys climbing the staircase on the back wall—either alone or escorting a lady of the evening. The wide plank pine floors were original, as was the long oak bar with its dark patina. An eclectic collection of round and square tables, and mismatched bentwood-style chairs, dotted the dining area.

  As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the lunch crowd had cleared. Full-bearded and barrel-built Clark Tyler bussed a table in the empty café while Lorna was at the long bar pouring two cups of coffee. She didn’t look nearly as care-worn as when I’d last seen her, though there were wisps of gray in her brown hair I didn’t recall seeing before today.

  “Hi, Nixy, Eric,” Lorna greeted us. “How’s the case going?”

  “Slower than I’d like, but going.” Eric used his aw-shucks small town cop tone. “I came to tell you we’re releasing the room. Here’s the number of the cleaning service I promised to bring by.”

  Lorna took the white business card with black printing with one hand, held the coffee carafe up with the other. “Y’all want a cup?”

  “No thanks,” I said as Clark set the mound of dirty dishes, glasses, and cutlery on the bar, and topped the mess with the cloth napkins Lorna insisted they use to kick up the ambiance factor.

  “Thank you for this information,” Lorna said. “I sure hope the crew can come quickly. That dead woman’s brother made a reservation, although it doesn’t seem right to give him the room, uh . . .”

  “That Kim died in?” I supplied.

  Lorna lips pinched. “Exactly. Of course, I could give him the other room, but then he’d have to share a bathroom with Georgine Boudreaux. That would not do.”

  “Maybe Georgine will move,” I said. “It can’t hurt to ask her.”

  Lorna tapped the card on the bar. “I doubt she’ll want that room either.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but the worst she can say is no.”

  Clark snorted. “You sticking your nose in this murder like you did the last one?”

  “Don’t start, Clark,” Lorna warned.

  He glared, first at her, then at me, his bushy beard making him look even more menacing. “That’s why you’re hanging out with Shoar. I know it is.”

  See why I don’t much care for Lorna’s hubby? I plastered a smile on my face and stared him down.

  “Detective Shoar,” I said, deliberately using Eric’s title and willfully stretching the truth, “does not discuss cases with me.”

  Clark looked away. “Yeah? At least I’m a witness this time, instead of one of your suspects.”

  “Witness?” I added two and two with blinding speed. “You’re the person who saw Doralee Gordon in the square on Sunday?”

  “Saw her a block from here when I was coming back from my golf game.”

  “That’s why I was late getting to the lawn party Sunday,” Lorna said. “I held down the fort while Clark played his round.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. I remembered now. Lorna with Sherry. Me getting sweet tea from the fridge, and then seeing Doralee with Ernie when I came back outside.

  “It was a nice get-together,” Lorna commented, and she might have said more, but Eric’s cell rang.

  Yep, rang. He’d programmed a plain ring tone into his cell.

  “Shoar,” he said and turned away to listen. “What? Where?” Another pause. “Secure the scene. I’ll be there in ten.”

  “It’s not another death, is it?” Lorna asked, her eyes huge.

  “No,” he said with a glance at me. “It’s new evidence.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I wasn’t crazed with impatience waiting to find out what kind of evidence Eric had run off to see. Nope, not me. I kept busy.

  First, I dropped back by Great Buns. Yes, an éclair had been calling my name earlier, but I also wanted to be sure I hadn’t offended Judy by basically bringing Eric to her instead of waiting for her to contact him. Not that I thought she’d hold a grudge, but then I hadn’t known her long. But Judy was slammed sorting out an order for a baby shower, and serving other customers, so I merely waved and mouthed, “Later.”

  Second, I took Eleanor’s camera to Gaskin’s Business Center right next door to the emporium to have prints made of some of the photos. Carter and Kay Gaskin operated the store, which specialized in printing but provided other services. They also sold office supplies and some Arkansas kitsch like key chains and shot glasses.

  Kay extracted the memory card from the camera, inserted it in the magic machine, and helped me select which shots I wanted in hard copy. I got the hang of editing them—just for the sake of clarity, you understand. Then I selected the sizes I wanted, from 4 x 6 to 8 x 10 inches. Last, I pushed the button conveniently marked PRINT. Voilà! I soon left with physical copies of Margot and Dennis in case Eric needed them for the case, and with more than a dozen shots of the emporium for Mrs. Gilroy. And all right, I made some select copies for myself, too.

  By the time I got back to the emporium, the day was winding down, but gossip had spiked. Word on the Lilyvale grapevine was that the police had found a bloody smock a few miles out of town in the countryside filled with a pine forest, a few farms, and fewer houses. The garment had apparently been stuffed in a large garbage can that animals had tipped over. The owners of said garbage had been out of town for a wedding.

  A few minutes before we closed the store, Doralee called. She had talked to the police and she had news. Sherry invited her to bring Zach to dinner. Thankfully an early dinner because, come on, we all wanted the scoop.

  The big reveal had to wait until we’d eaten and moved outside to the farmhouse’s front veranda. A white porch swing and various white and natural-colored wicker, willow, and reclaimed wood chairs outfitted with cushions provided plenty of seating. Some seats were more rustic than others, but they were comfy enough for us to relax awhile and enjoy the sunset.

  I’d claimed a seat on the top porch step. T.C. and Amber had been fed, and had stayed in the parlor while we ate, but now lay at my hip. T.C. batted at Amber’s ear halfheartedly, but it looked like playtime was over, both of them sleepy from their busy day and full bellies. Puppy tummy, as Aunt Sherry called it.

  When Maise declared it was time to hear the story, not just the scuttlebutt, Doralee complied with Zach inserting a detail here and there. No shock to learn the smock belonged to our gourd artist. But its condition had been grossly and gorily exaggerated. Rather than being blood-soaked, it was merely blood-smeared—along with the paint and wood stain spills that had already been there.

  “I’m still glad,” Doralee concluded, “I didn’t have to see my smock in person. The photos of those rusty-colored places were bad enough.”

  Zach reached over to pat her hand. “If there are any usable prints in those stains, they won’t be yours,” he assured her.

  “Prints?” the rest of us exclaimed in unison.

  “Goodness, are you really worried about fingerprints, Doralee?” Aster asked. “After all, you’ve never hidden the fact that you owned the thing.”

  She shrugged. “No, I haven’t, and I am relieved the darn thing turned up. I have to trust the detective will decide once and for all that I’m innocent.”

  “As long as you’ve been candid with him,” Sherry declared, “I’m positive Detective Shoar will clear you. Now how about dessert and decaf?”

  Guilt skittered in Doralee’s eyes when Sherry mentioned being truthful with Eric. Shoot. Was she protecting herself or someone else?

  * * *

 
Knowing I wouldn’t be able to grill Doralee until the next day, and then only if I was lucky, I opted to box up leftovers and take them to Mrs. Gilroy.

  “Did you bring the photographs this time?” she demanded as she towed me through the typically gloomy living room and into the dim kitchen.

  “I tucked them in the box.”

  Tonight the drab brown curtains at the back and side kitchen windows were open, and the setting sun offered a bit of light. Bernice didn’t bother to turn on the overhead fixture, and the room always looked sadder to me at night. Her binoculars rested on the table again tonight, and the chair faced the side window where she could see Sherry’s veranda. I sighed. Much as I’d like to freshen up the house with paint and new curtains, I knew Bernice wouldn’t hear of it. She liked her simple, reclusive, no-frills life.

  Of course, the no-frills thing didn’t include her large flat screen, or the state-of-the-art computer I swore she had stashed in the second bedroom. How had she bought her smart phone and all the other electronics? How had she managed to get the devices up and running? She wouldn’t say, but I hadn’t ruled out fairies.

  “Sissy!” Bernice said, snapping her fingers an inch from my face.

  Reflex made me jerk back. “What? Wait, did you call me Sissy?”

  “It gets your attention. I’ll swan, for a woman so young, you sure drift into space a great deal. Now hand me those containers and be quick about it. My show comes on at seven.”

  “What show is that?” I said as I passed food and she loaded the fridge.

  “NCIS. It’s gonna be a good one.”

  “Isn’t the series in summer reruns?”

  She slammed the fridge door and glared. “I like reruns. You have a problem with that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You should watch yourself if you’re getting involved with this murder case.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I’ve told you before, I’m old, not stupid or senile.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, not daring to grin. “You’re far from either.”

  She gave me a brisk nod. “Show me those pictures now.”

  I hadn’t thought much about how Bernice would react to the photos, but her response surprised me. She murmured “Oh, my” a few times as she flipped through the dozen photos, then raised her face to the ceiling before she looked at me with a hint of tears in her eyes.

  “These remind me of when Sissy ran the store as a five and dime. She always had a kind word and a piece of hard candy for us children.”

  “What was your favorite kind?”

  “Butterscotch and root beer barrels.”

  “I’m glad you approve of what we’ve done, Bernice.”

  “Yes, well, time for you to leave. Come see me another time.”

  As she bustled out of the room ahead of me, she handed back the pictures. I placed them on the table next to her binoculars.

  * * *

  The sun had set by the time I got back to the apartment with Amber and T.C. They’d romped with Fred and Dab at the farmhouse awhile, but I decided we’d have a last walk of the day before we wound down for the night.

  The critters sniffed and did their things while I thought about that flash of guilt in Doralee’s expression. It bugged me that she was still holding back. Was it something to incriminate Ernie?

  And what about Ernie? He hadn’t meant to tell me he’d seen Doralee out walking alone near the square on Sunday. Once he’d let it slip, he’d been more cautious giving me the rest of his account. Did he have doubts about Doralee’s innocence?

  I considered how I could get the two to come clean. No, not my job, but they’d asked for my help in the first place. Time for them to step up. Besides, Eric was busy investigating in ways and with means I couldn’t. I’d talk with Doralee and Ernie—and anyone else I could think of. Whatever information I gleaned, I’d pass on.

  * * *

  The clock read eight twenty when I cracked my eyes open on Wednesday. Hump Day. Middle of the workweek. Two days short of the end of our grand opening. The day we were to host a petting zoo.

  That thought made me want to hide in bed all day.

  Yep, Lilyvale 4-H Club teens were providing the animals, and their parents and one or two sponsors were in charge of staging the parking lot behind the emporium. Snap-together fences would create covered enclosures and open pens.

  Of course, since all the businesses on the block shared the parking lot, I’d needed their okays as well as a city permit. Fortunately, the merchants and city hall approved, and I laid odds that a selling factor was that the kids would also be on cleanup duty.

  How did I get us roped into Project Petting Zoo? It began when Maise and Aster proposed a presentation on nutrition, one that featured recipes using local produce. I agreed it was a great idea, and a program Maise and Aster could give in their sleep. But no. They insisted I call Robin Cooper, the director at the county extension agricultural office, to get a speaker. Next thing I knew, the cheerful woman had talked me into holding the zoo event in the late morning and then the nutrition lecture at noon.

  Okay, more than a lecture.

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to make summer fruit smoothies for the attendees?” she’d gushed. “Everyone will be thirsty after being outside with the animals, plus you’d get the parents inside to see the emporium.”

  I had a hard time picturing a group of children who were either overstimulated or overtired from the zoo experience being anything but cranky. Then again, the most contact I’d had with children in eons had been at the lawn party. Besides, Robin assured me that she and her cohort, Jerri Yarrow, coordinated these kinds of events all the time and would supply everything including the berries, yogurt, ice, and blenders.

  After rolling out of bed at last, I did my version of the Amber and T.C. stretchercize, and then went through the rest of my morning routine. The critters ate their kibble while I munched on a protein bar from my newly replenished stash. Maybe I’d fix myself a balanced breakfast sometime next week. Hope springs eternal, right?

  I dressed in green cargo shorts and a plain white sleeveless tee because I needed to launder my emporium tees. Wearing sandals around farm animals didn’t seem like a bright idea, so I laced up my tennis shoes. My emporium logo apron might look weird with shorts, but today I didn’t care. I needed to get a move on.

  When I opened the back door that led to the alley, four teens and three men were already at work. Some unloaded white fence panels from the bed of a dark blue pickup. One teen and a rugged-looking guy in a cowboy hat plunked traffic cones around the perimeter of the parking lot. When Cowboy Hat noticed me, he waved and loped to meet me and my critters.

  “Hey, I’m Clifton Drover. Cliff,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re Nixy, right?”

  “That’s me,” I said, smiling as I gripped his calloused hand. “And these two are Amber and T.C. You’re already setting up for the zoo?”

  “Just prepping right now,” Cliff answered after submitting to a thorough sniffing inspection by my pets. “We don’t want to have to track people down later to move their cars.”

  “Like mine.” The Camry sat front and center in the lot. “I’ll move it when I get back.”

  “No problem. If we’re not here, we’ve gone to Great Buns for a bite. Just move the cones out of your way, and put ’em back soon as you can. The bulk of the 4-H kids will be here to get the animals settled about ten.”

  I called Sherry to remind everyone to park on the street.

  “We remembered, child. Fred’s leaving his truck at home, and Dab will drop him off in the back.”

  “I don’t need no droppin’ off. I walk just fine,” Fred groused in the background before Sherry disconnected.

  I set a brisk pace with Amber and T.C., taking them along the streets a block off the square, where they’d
have more grass to sniff. I thought about stopping at the police station to see if Eric was in yet, but decided against it. If he had any new information, he probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.

  Sometimes he really was no fun.

  * * *

  Parents towing children all the way from toddler to elementary school aged began showing up just before eleven. The 4-H Clubbers had the animals ready, and most of the visitors seemed enchanted. Walk-in pens held baby ducks, chicks, and rabbits, and the children could enter a few at a time to hold them. Larger animals—calves, pigs, goats, and even a miniature horse—were housed in corral sections. Or that’s what Cliff called them. These animals ambled up to the portable fences to be petted, and if I’d harbored any concern that they’d bite or simply break out of the fencing, their placidity put those fears to rest. The miniature horse, a gorgeous palomino with a golden coat and near-white mane and tail, was particularly sweet.

  Word must’ve spread more than I’d imagined because a caravan of SUVs deposited children and teachers from two day care centers at the curb beside the emporium. Soon more cries of wonder rang out and echoed in the square.

  Dab took our pets out back to see the show, sure that they’d behave and that the visiting animals wouldn’t have a problem with two more. I stood at the back door just in case, but he was correct. Amber stayed on her leash, of course, and T.C. in her harness, but they blended right in and garnered attention of their own.

  Back inside, I met the county extension ladies when they came in the store to set up. Both women wore jeans, tennis shoes, and white-collared shirts with the Hendrix County logo embroidered over the left breast. Robin Cooper’s dark blonde hair curled around her face, her blue eyes twinkling as if she knew a secret. The secret of getting me to approve the petting zoo, I bet.

  Jerri Yarrow specialized in family and consumer-oriented programs. She was about my height of five foot three, but she looked tiny. With hazel eyes and a gentle smile, she projected a calm I figured she’d need later during the smoothie tasting.