Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ten minutes later, Dottie climbed into the passenger seat of my little Ford Focus while I backed carefully out from behind the Laundry Club Laundromat.
The second I turned onto Main Street, she reached over and lowered the radio volume until the bluegrass music faded into soft static beneath the hum of the engine.
“You know this is a terrible idea,” I muttered while easing through downtown traffic.
“Most things worth doin’ are,” Dottie answered while crossing her arms over her chest.
Downtown Normal slowly disappeared behind us as we headed toward the Daniel Boone National Forest. The cheerful sounds of tourists laughing beneath the grassy median and vendors setting up at the Farmers Market faded the farther we drove into the mountains.
Fresh spring leaves covered the trees arching over the narrow roads while sunlight flickered unevenly across the windshield through the branches overhead.
The roads became tighter and curvier the deeper we drove into the forest. Mountain laurel crowded the shoulders while steep drop-offs hugged several dangerous turns. I slowed automatically around one of the sharper curves and tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
“We should probably have an actual plan before we get there,” I finally said.
“We do have one,” Dottie said, knowing her plan was always built on a wing and a prayer.
“No. We absolutely do not,” I told her.
Dottie glanced over at me with complete confidence. “Mae. We go in. We look around. We leave.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“That’s every investigation we’ve ever had,” she reminded me.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t wrong.
“Okay, do I need to remind you of the little incident in the RV at the dealership last fall?” I reminded her of a little undercover investigation in which Al found us hiding.
“One time,” she said, drumming her fingers on the driver’s-side door. “One time.”
Instead of going through the other times—like the investigation at the candy factory, just to name one example—I decided to let her live in her own illusions of how things had gone down the last few years.
No amount of me reminding and recalling all the times that had gone wrong would change her plan.
I still stood by the fact that she didn’t have a plan.
“Then don’t prove me right,” I told her just as the massive silos came into view first above the tree line, with The Milkery painted in giant white letters down both sides.
I turned in to the long blacktop driveway that stretched ahead between pristine white Kentucky fencing while cows grazed lazily in the pasture off to the left. Several newborn calves rested beneath the shade of a maple tree near the pond while birds fluttered between the fence posts.
Everything looked peaceful and almost normal until I slowed the car automatically as the farmhouse came into view, and no one was meandering around the grounds.
Yellow crime-scene tape still stretched across the front porch beneath the white columns. Curtains shifted softly through the windows from the air-conditioning running somewhere inside, but otherwise the entire property sat eerily quiet.
“That gives me the creeps,” I admitted softly.
Dottie stared toward the house. “Sure does.”
I parked near the side drive beside the kitchen entrance, where Mary Elizabeth usually told family and close friends to park instead of circling around front like formal guests.
“We can still leave,” I offered while shutting off the engine, but Dottie already had her door open.
I was going to give her an out in case we got caught. I could count on good ole Dottie to be my ride or die.
Warm spring air wrapped around us the second we stepped outside.
Somewhere near the chicken coop, a rooster crowed loudly while wind rustled softly through the oak trees lining the driveway.
The familiar farm noises should have felt comforting, but instead they made the entire property feel strangely hollow without Mary Elizabeth bustling around somewhere nearby.
We walked toward the side porch instead of the front entrance. The old wooden boards creaked softly beneath our shoes while the screen door shifted lightly in the breeze. I stopped near the bottom step and looked through the screen into the quiet kitchen beyond.
Copper pots still hung above the large gas stove while sunlight spilled across the butcher-block island in long golden strips.
Trays from yesterday’s fundraiser remained stacked beside the sink, waiting to be washed.
A coffee mug sat abandoned near the dish drainer, and a folded towel still hung over the oven handle, exactly where Mary Elizabeth probably left it before sheriff deputies arrived the night before.
Dottie pushed lightly against the screen door.
The latch clicked open immediately.
I stared at her. She smiled that smile that told me we were on. The excitement started to course through my veins.
“See, there’s that face,” Dottie snickered. “There’s no stopping Mae West when she’s got that itch.”
“And boy, I need to scratch it,” I said, wiggling my brows, and I pushed the door open and held the door for Dottie to go first as I looked back over my shoulder to make sure no one was out there watching.
The familiar Southern cooking smell drifted around us the second we stepped inside the kitchen. Old wood floors groaned beneath our feet while the grandfather clock in the dining room ticked steadily somewhere deeper inside the farmhouse.
I slipped my bag higher onto my shoulder while following Dottie farther into the kitchen. The farmhouse felt strangely empty without Mary Elizabeth fussing over biscuits or Dawn arguing over centerpieces somewhere nearby.
When we reached the staircase leading upstairs, I immediately felt my stomach tighten. Florence Sparks had died there.
Pearls had scattered across the hardwood floor beneath that staircase while one pale-pink heel rested sideways near the bottom step. Even though the sheriff’s department had cleaned up the scene, I could still picture Florence lying there exactly how we found her.
Dottie noticed me staring, and her expression softened slightly.
“Come on,” she said quietly. “Standing down here ain’t helping Tex.”
We climbed the staircase carefully, trying not to let the old wood creak too loudly beneath our feet.
The upstairs hallway sat completely silent except for the steady noise of air-conditioning drifting through the ceiling vents.
Framed photographs of the Daniel Boone National Forest lined the floral wallpaper while the faint scent of lavender sachets floated through the hallway.
It was fun to see how Mary Elizabeth changed her décor and photos as the seasons in the forest changed to match the season we were living in.
Everything upstairs looked perfectly peaceful.
Soft afternoon light filtered through lace curtains at the far end of the hallway while polished wood floors reflected the sunlight beneath our feet.
The quietness of it all felt unsettling because nothing about the hallway looked connected to death or police investigations or poison.
“That’s the problem with this place,” I whispered while looking down the long hallway lined with closed guest room doors. “Nothing looks out of place because it’s Mary Elizabeth’s Southern manners to make sure everything is just so.”
I stopped halfway down the hall and frowned. “Wait a minute. How do we even know which room belongs to who?”
Dottie blinked at me. “I assumed you knew.”
“I absolutely do not know,” I told her. “Well, that feels important because we don’t want to shuffle through people’s things.”
“Yes, we do,” Dottie protested. “We want to shuffle, poke, and prod.”
“Come on.” I waved for her to follow me to the small room at the end, where Mary Elizabeth had turned a large closet into a tiny little office.
Mary Elizabeth kept a narrow antique secretary desk that held guest folders, reservation cards, and extra room keys, and it was exactly where we were going to find out who was staying where.
“If Mary Elizabeth runs this place the way she runs everything else in life,” I whispered while opening the desk drawer carefully, “then there’s probably a system.”
Sure enough, a leather reservation book sat neatly inside beside handwritten meal preference cards and labeled envelopes. I flipped carefully through the pages until I found the current guest assignments written in Mary Elizabeth’s neat looping handwriting.
“Florence is in the Magnolia Room,” I whispered while tracing my finger farther down the page. “Tara’s in the Bluegrass Suite, and Alice is in the Dogwood Room.”
Dottie leaned over my shoulder. “Good. Now we can snoop.”
I shot her a look before quietly shutting the desk drawer.
Florence’s room sat at the far end of the hallway, with the bedroom door partially open from the sheriff department’s search. I stepped inside slowly while taking in the room around me.
Florence’s belongings remained exactly where she’d left them.
An expensive cream-colored suitcase sat open across the luggage rack while pastel skirt suits hung neatly inside the closet.
Makeup and jewelry covered the vanity in organized rows beside etiquette magazines and reading glasses resting near the lamp.
I slowly walked farther into the room while taking everything in.
Florence’s room looked painfully ordinary for a place where someone had died only hours earlier.
Her toiletries remained arranged carefully beside the sink, and the comforter still carried the slight fold where she had probably sat while getting dressed for the fundraiser.
Every small detail inside the room made it obvious Florence Sparks fully expected to wake up here this morning.
“She unpacked everything,” I murmured quietly.
“Sure did.” Dottie glanced toward the closet. “What’s in those boxes?”
“Probably manner manuals or something.” I laughed and told Dottie about the time Mary Elizabeth made me go to one of Florence’s girl camps.
Dottie just shook her head.