Draw and Order

Book 2: Paint & Shine Mystery

by Cheryl Hollon

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Appalachian artist and local guide Miranda Trent opens a new murder investigation after her Paint & Shine tour group discovers the remains of a missing hiker along an ancient trail . . .



For her latest excursion, Miranda is thrilled to take a close-knit group of rock climbers, the Risky Business Adventurers, up the challenging Battleship Rock Trail to paint and sample moonshine. But the outing is cut short when they discover a skeleton near the trailhead. Even more startling, the bones belong to Howard Cable, Miranda's cousin . . . and a former classmate of the Risky Business group.



The sheriff chalks it up to a hiking accident, but Miranda isn't convinced that Howard, an experienced woodsman, died within sight of a well-marked trail. So, with the help of Ranger Austin Morgan, Miranda sets out on her own investigation and discovers that the Risky Business group is keeping plenty of secrets. But is one of them hiding the truth about Howard's death?

Release date: June 29, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Short, earsplitting shrieks blasted from the fire alarm over the stove in Miranda Trent’s farmhouse kitchen. She startled, fumbled, and then almost dropped the final portion of her scratch-made country-fried chicken onto the linoleum floor. She held the dripping, golden-brown breast in her tongs over the spattering cast-iron skillet. Like a waiting-in-the-wings vacuum robot, her puppy, Sandy, skidded into the kitchen, toenails scrabbling for footing, and added crackly voiced wolf howling to the smoke detector wail.

“Iris! Grab the stepladder and turn that screeching thing off.”

The hot bacon-grease-and-butter mixture crackled like fireworks in the ancient skillet. A roiling plume of smoke rose from the angry frying pan. Miranda hurried to put the chicken on the draining rack, move the skillet to a back burner, and turn off the flame.

Grabbing a pot lid from the open shelf next to the stove, she slapped it over the still-sizzling skillet. Miranda sighed relief and wiped both hands on her logo-imprinted apron. She turned around to watch Iris Hobb, one of her local cooks, set up the stepladder right next to her huge commercial range. “I wanted crispy chicken, but I think I went a little too far.”

Iris stepped onto the ladder, grabbed the smoke alarm, gave it a quick twist, took it off its mounting plate, and then removed the battery. The resulting silence was beautiful.

“Where’s the fire?” Lily, the second cook and sister to Iris, walked in through the back door. She planted her hands on her hips. “I thought that thing only went off for a fire.”

Miranda opened the window over the sink on the other side of the kitchen. “It was the crackling of the grease. The modern ones are sensitive to airborne particles.” She flapped a kitchen towel toward the window opening. “Pump the back door open and closed a few times and help me clear the air.”

The chilly morning rushed through the kitchen as Iris and Lily helped Miranda whoosh away the smoke. Meanwhile, Sandy, her fluffy blond terrier-mix puppy, ran around the kitchen begging to play and nearly tripping them all. He thought smoke clearing was a wonderful game.

After a few minutes of door swinging and apron flapping, the smoke in the kitchen dissipated and the burning smell faded. “Go ahead and put the battery back in. Maybe we’ve blown things out enough for the little beast.”

Iris replaced the battery and the alarm didn’t make a sound.

“Perfect,” said Miranda. “Put it way over there.” She pointed to the counter next to the sink. “We’ll let it sit over there for a few days. If it stays happy, we’ll remount it over the back door instead of over the stove. Southern cooking involves lots of bacon grease and butter so we do get a lot of spatter.”

As the owner of Paint & Shine, a cultural-adventure tour business set in the Daniel Boone National Forest, Miranda wanted her clients to enjoy the best examples of Southern food possible. Her eastern-Kentucky farmhouse was normally the location for the meal. But today’s offering was an old-timey packed lunch to eat out on the trail overlooking the cliff formation called Battleship Rock.

“Thanks for coming in early on Sunday, ladies.”

“It’s no problem,” said Iris. “Although Grandmother Hobb was mighty upset with us.”

“We take her to church every week,” said Lily. “In fact, we’re using this as the perfect excuse. We don’t enjoy the fire-and-brimstone preaching anymore.”

Iris added, “We never did, but now that we have a paying job, she can’t say nuthin’.” They smirked and winked happily at each other.

“Thanks. Iris, is the dining room ready for packing up the lunch boxes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Iris. “We only needed the chicken.”

“Great.” Miranda grabbed the draining rack with the eight golden-fried chicken breasts and went into the dining room. On the large round table was an assembly line for packing each picnic meal into a vintage handwoven white oak basket. Miranda placed the chicken next to a roll of waxed paper.

“Okay, let’s first wrap the chicken in the waxed paper and put it on top of the gingham square at the bottom of each basket, like this.” Miranda demonstrated. “Then we put the green beans, pickled cabbage, pickles, and the mustard potato salad in the lightweight cardboard box.” That idea was supplied by her mom. She had told Miranda that Tupperware containers hadn’t been affordable for most farming families when reusable containers came to hand absolutely free. “Wrap the corn on the cob and the corn bread individually in aluminum foil. The cobbler gets wrapped in aluminum foil as well, and then finally, we put the lemonade moonshine cocktail in a mason jar.”

“Won’t the drink get warm?” asked Lily.

“It will be fairly cool up there, but I’m going to tuck in a few ice cubes. Realistically, if they want an authentic picnic experience, then lukewarm lemonade is what it must be.”

“This pack is already heavy,” said Iris as she hefted one of the backpacks with a Paint & Shine logo patch sewn onto the back. Miranda did the sewing herself and saved the cost of ordering them already attached from an imprint specialist.

“These clients have assured me that they are fit athletes and can carry more than twice the weight of these day-trip packs. We’ll see. I mean, as a group they call themselves Risky Business Adventurers. That must mean something. This is my first remote-trail offering. I hope it’s a success.”

Miranda was anxious. As a way to calm her worries, she was taking extra food to feed Ranger Austin Morgan and extra drawing supplies in case some got ruined, and finally she packed some emergency equipment in case of, well, an emergency. She would make sure Austin knew about them. All that made her feel more confident.

Austin was her down-the-road neighbor. An experienced forest ranger, he was a vital, colorful, but unplanned part of her cultural adventures. He usually stopped by the trail overlook site she had chosen for the painting session and gave her clients a history of the area’s geology. In addition, he knew a thousand tidbits of local lore to sprinkle into his ranger talk.

Iris wore a logo apron over a T-shirt she had embroidered with a strip of her namesake flower down one long white sleeve. She frowned. “You’re going to have Austin up there, aren’t you? You’ll feel better after he arrives to give the group one of his ranger talks.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “I will.”

Iris continued, “You’re worried that he might not make it all the way up the Indian Staircase to the view of Battleship Rock.”

“He hasn’t missed an event yet.” Miranda realized that she sounded a bit defensive. Could it be that his part of her events was becoming important to her in more than a business way? “He must enjoy them.” Or could it be that she felt grateful for his help solving the case of the murdered cook when she first opened the business last month? What a calamity.

Lily, wearing a T-shirt with lilies embroidered down the opposite sleeve to Iris’s, slipped the last lunch basket into the sixth and final client backpack. “The lectures are part of his job, but he does seem keenly dedicated.” Lily and Iris exchanged a knowing glance.

Iris looked up and down at Miranda’s light jacket, logo shirt, sturdy jeans, and hiking boots. “Is that all you’re going to wear? November weather can be pretty tricky up on the cliffs.”

“Good catch. I forgot to pack my all-weather jacket and pants. Thankfully, they fold up into small self-contained packets. I’m also going to put in my emergency pop-up tent. Each of the backpacks already have a tiny survival kit.”

“That should do it,” said Iris.

Miranda’s clients had requested a specific location for their cultural adventure. Given the distance of the hike and its remoteness, Miranda had chosen to provide a lesson in charcoal sketching rather than the normal activity of creating an acrylic painting of the Battleship Rock overlook. After all, everything hauled up to the vantage point had to be hauled back down.

Lily and Iris helped her load the pile of backpacks into Miranda’s white van.

She was just about ready to leave when the phone rang in the living room. Iris dashed into the house to answer it before it rolled over to the answering machine. In another moment, she opened the screen door and yelled, “It’s the distillery supplier. He says there’s a problem.”

“You mean another problem.” Miranda glanced at her watch. She had a few minutes to spare. She went into the living room and picked up the phone. “This is Miranda Trent. What’s the problem this time?”

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m the owner of Custom Metal Craft. I’ve run into an issue with your stainless-steel fermentation tank. It’s not a serious one, but there will be a small delay.”

“Another delay? You’ve missed every date that you’ve promised. Every date.”

“Yes, ma’am, but your specifications are unique.”

“Unique?” Miranda formed a fist and shook it at the phone. “What you really mean is that you have no experience with anything but the standard size of fermentation tank. Don’t tell me this is the first special order you’ve ever built?”

There was absolute silence on the other end of the line.

Miranda placed her hand on her forehead and looked up at the ceiling. “This is your first special order, right?”

Again the silence drew out into a long pause. “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know how I’m gonna make this up to you, but I promise that I will. Your fermentation tank is an absolute genius of a design.”

“What is your new delivery date?”

“Miss Trent, I swear on the grave of my dear granny that your tank will be delivered on tomorrow.”

She had no choice but to agree. She mentally calculated the impact of another day of delay to her production plans. It was disappointing. It appeared that the moonshine spirits of the mountains were plotting against her.

Her late uncle Gene Buchanan had left her the ancestral farm. But the will stipulated she had to establish a distillery to produce his legendary moonshine. The deadline for acquiring her license was at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. It was still a few weeks until Thanksgiving, but time was getting tight.

She had so far endured delay after delay. First, from the county officials in getting the right permits. Then next, it was getting permission to upgrade the tobacco barn. More rejected drawing plans, more delays. Each of these issues was not catastrophic, but they added up to a significant financial risk if she didn’t get production of her new moonshine started soon.

At the moment, she was still on good terms with the owner of the Limestone Distillery over in the outskirts of Lexington. He was happy to supply her with as much moonshine as she could sell out of her little gift shop. He provided her with sampling supplies free of charge. That was how small distilleries helped one another.

Miranda went out to the van and called to Iris and Lily, “Don’t forget to tuck Sandy up in his cage.”

She started up the van and heard a ding. She let her head fall against the steering wheel. The “low fuel” warning symbol lit up and continued to ding.

Sunday Morning, Hemlock Lodge

After stopping at the gas station at the Slade Hill exit for a fill-up, Miranda Trent arrived at Hemlock Lodge only a few minutes late. Set back into the cliffside of the Natural Bridge State Park, the lodge offered basic rooms with balconies that overlooked the mountainside. Miranda’s tours started in the lobby in front of a two-story fireplace built with local honey-colored stone.

A roaring fire crackled as Miranda rushed over to a group of six people dressed in matching bright red T-shirts. Their high-tech outerwear proclaimed them ready for an outdoor adventure.

In general, there were two types of visitors to Hemlock Lodge this early on a Sunday morning. One, the churchgoing families getting a filling breakfast meant to last during a long service, or two, the hikers off to an early start on the trails.

Miranda made a beeline for the red shirts.

“Good morning, are you here for the Paint and Shine cultural adventure?”

The tallest man in the group smiled broadly and stepped forward with his hand stretched out. “Hi, you must be Miranda. I’m Alfred Whittaker, the unofficial leader of our little adventure group, which we’ve been calling Risky Business Adventurers.”

Miranda shook hands in a strong grip to match his. “Good morning, I’m so sorry to be a little late. I hope you’re all set to sketch the overlook at Battleship Rock.”

There were nods and murmurs from the group. “We are,” said Alfred, who returned to his spot across the room near the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“First, I would like to welcome you to a Paint and Shine picnic tour. This is a unique experience blending art, adventure, food, and drink in one package. Although you know each other well, I would like an introduction before we head out. Just your name and profession and where you’re from if you don’t mind. Alfred, you first.”

He flashed a little self-possessed grin. “I’m a freelance reporter with the Lexington Herald-Leader and I live over near the Blue Grass Airport.” He nodded to the short, bald, trim man next to him.

“I’m Ben DeBerg. I’m a criminal defense lawyer. My mother and I own a practice in Washington, DC.” He glanced at the slender woman to his left.

“I’m Jennifer O’Rourke. I’m a jewelry artist.” She pulled back her long brown locks to reveal a set of silver-encased amber earrings. “I own a shop over in Stanton, about twenty minutes from here.” Her smile warmed her amber-brown eyes.

Leaning against the ledge of the window with his arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles, a dark-haired man with a deep tan spoke. “I’m Kevin Burkart. I was born over in Stanton and I have a financial services business down in St. Petersburg, Florida. I love to hunt, fish, hike, and play electric guitar.” He waved a hand to the sandy-haired, blue-eyed, stocky man next to him.

“I’m Kurt Smith. I own a large and, if I may say so, very profitable cosmetic-surgery and spa facility in Lexington.” He looked over to his left. “You’re next, Stephanie.”

Stephanie narrowed her green eyes beneath a short fringe of auburn hair. “My name is Stephanie Brinkley. I’m a licensed pharmacist and I work over at Lexington’s Saint Joseph Hospital.”

“Thank y’all for that. My turn. I’m Miranda Trent, born here in Wolfe County. I was working as an artist in New York City when I inherited my bachelor uncle’s farmhouse in Pine Ridge, Kentucky. Not only is this my dream job to teach art, but I’m in the process of turning the barn into a distillery and brewing up the secret recipes I found of my uncle’s famous moonshine.”

“Awesome,” said Kevin. “I love ’shine. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks. If all y’all would please follow me out to the van, we’ll drive over to the trailhead, get our packs, and head out.”

After she parked and got their permit at the Gladie Learning Center, the group picked up their backpacks and headed out onto the Bison Way Trailhead, which connected to the loop that led to Battleship Rock.

Miranda led the way and had asked Kevin, as the most experienced hiker, to bring up the rear. This not being a particularly well-traveled trail, the footing was tricky with the wet leaves from last night’s rain. A comfortable bantering floated in the air among the group.

In about an hour, they were grouped in front of a vertical sandstone wall that had hand-carved footholds up to the summit. The cliff face was about twenty feet high and pitched up at about a forty-five-degree angle.

“Kevin, would you mind going up first? I’ll hang back here and—”

“Good morning, can I help?” A tall figure in a tan uniform appeared at the edge of the group. He flashed a broad smile at Miranda, then stepped up beside her.

“You sure can.” Miranda turned to him, mirroring his smile. “Folks, this is Forest Ranger Austin Morgan. He’s the local officer in charge of this part of the Daniel Boone National Forest. He’s also one of the founders of our local rescue organization. Expertise I’m certain we won’t need given your adventuring track record.”

Austin turned to her. “Do you want me down here or would you like for me to demonstrate the climb? I could also add a little history.”

Relief swept through Miranda’s tense shoulders. The wet rocks added a hazardous component that she wasn’t certain she could in good conscience thrust upon her clients. Ranger Morgan’s presence turned that uncomfortable situation into an educational opportunity.

Austin stood in front of the group and waited until he had their undivided attention. “These indentations have been a popular challenge here in the Red River Gorge since they were discovered. We’re lucky it is still here. This area came very close to being flooded by a proposed dam. The locals made sure that the proposal was shot down. It is now a world-famous rock-climbing area and also known for excellent backpacking.

“History has it that these steps are the handiwork of a native tribe. They not only carved them into the soft sandstone but took advantage of a natural shelter in the cliff above us. There’s plenty of evidence of their culture and lifestyle during their tenure here, including well-preserved clothing and household items. Sadly, the exact nature of the steps—who exactly built them and what they were for—remains a mystery. The shelter has dozens of pictogram images that tell of hunting feats.”

“Has anyone documented the images?” asked Jennifer. “You know, an anthropologist or maybe an expert from the University of Kentucky?”

Austin wrinkled his brow. “Good questions. According to the Forest Service, there are over forty petroglyphs located in the Daniel Boone National Forest. There are many common themes or motifs, including turkey tracks, deer tracks, lines, and geometric designs. We’ve had visiting archaeologists and anthropologists try to answer this question, but their theories are all over the place. One study I find interesting suggests that the animal tracks were guideposts to important minerals or possibly silver deposits. Some say that they point to the Jonathan Swift mines. No one has yet found a silver mine based on the petroglyphs. No one who has let that be known, anyway. I think it’s something that needs to be researched.”

“Great,” said Jennifer. “That’s something I might be interested in, as well as sketching them to use as inspiration for my jewelry designs. I’m always looking for a unique vision in order to launch a new line.”

Austin pointed up to the limestone steps. “Although the climb looks terrifying from this angle, it’s relatively easy and your packs are light. The payoff is a spectacular cliff view as well as some archaeological artifacts in an excellent state of preservation. Let me start with a little basic demonstration.”

Alfred interrupted, “We’re all experienced climbers. Some better than others, but we are all at the intermediate to expert level.”

“Well then,” continued Austin, “who wants to go first?”

“Me, of course,” said Kevin. “I always go first in our little adventures.”

Miranda bit at the corner of her lip. It looks like there are two leaders. One for travel arrangements and one as alpha male. I’ve seen this puppet leadership style before. It complicates everything.

“Great,” said Miranda. “I can watch then. I’m certainly not an expert.”

Kevin put both hands into the carved-out openings and placed one foot into the lowest step. He hauled himself up about three feet. The next handhold was easy to reach so he made that one in his next move. The angle steepened and he stepped into the next foothold so quickly that he slipped and skidded down the surface about a foot.

Jennifer gasped and yelled, “Be careful. You’re showing off and not paying attention.”

Kevin recovered. “Don’t get touchy. I’m just fooling around. I know what I’m doing.” Then he raced up the staircase like a mountain goat.

Jennifer puffed a sigh of relief and patted her chest to indicate that her heart was still pounding. “You need to stop scaring. . .