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He studied the picture again, moving in closer to see. He gently touched her phone, zooming in on the small purse. “Because it’s true. We’re all dark inside but lovely.” He caught her eye again. “You’re lovely.” He tossed her a staccato smile and breathed a laugh through is nose. “Very pretty.”
She could say the same of him. He clearly carried an obsession with appearance. And she wondered... “Have you ever been told you’re pretty?”
His right eye twitched. “Is that all you want from me? To identify my work?”
“The hand stitching is amazing,” John added. “My aunt Alma does some cross-stitching, and this puts hers to shame.” His Kentucky drawl was a little thicker, slower, twangier as he held up a wallet with stitched edging. “I’ll take this one. How much?”
“Thirty-five. Thanks.” He carried the wallet to the counter and rung it up. John had diffused his irritation, but Violet had meant to evoke it—if it was simmering. Cecil Johnson did not take kindly to being told he was pretty. “I do all the stitching. It relaxes me.” He glanced up at Violet. “See anything you like?”
Innuendo or a simple question? “I like that cross at the top right. With the scalloped edges.”
“You a believer, Agent?” he murmured.
She went with it. “Of course. Aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. My mama made sure I was purified and sanctified. Molded in His image like clay. Maybe I should have been a potter.” His smile was wide and his teeth straight and white. “Would you like that cross?”
“I would.”
“How well did you know Atta, Tillie, Darla and Nadine?” John asked.
He faltered and the cross fell, but he caught it before it hit the floor. “Not in the biblical sense if that’s what you mean. We were friends. Went to school and grew up together.”
Taking the cross to the counter, he carefully wrapped it in tan tissue paper and handed it to her. “No charge for the pretty lady.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t accept gifts.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out her small wallet, retrieved a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to him. “But thanks for the offer.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said with a wistful chuckle. He tucked away the bill in his pocket instead of the cash drawer. “Anything else?”
“Do you know what happened to Bobby Lloyd or Earl Levine?” John asked.
“I know they disappeared. Or left. Either way. Poof!” His fist sprang open as if he were tossing confetti. “Don’t reckon we’ll ever see ’em again.” His eyes hinted at a delicious secret. One that was buried probably six feet in the ground times two.
“Do you know where we can find Whiskey?”
“Black Feather has a nice variety of Kentucky bourbon.” Cecil ran a hand through his thick hair, and it fell right back into place.
Nice attempt at playing dumb. “The man, Whiskey.”
“’Fraid I can’t answer that, Agents. My apologies.” Cecil Johnson was far from sorry.
“When was the last time you saw any of the victims?”
Cecil shook his head and shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I don’t remember about Tillie or Darla. I saw Atta last week. She came by the shop on Wednesday to pick up a pair of boots. And I saw Nadine maybe two weeks ago at the Meat and Three Veg. She was with Amy.”
Maybe they needed to interview Amy Miller again.
“Thank you for your time. And the cross.”
“You’re welcome. Be seein’ ya.”
Violet and John left the shop. The heavy gray sky released a light drizzle. Not enough for an umbrella, but enough to be annoying. “Well he was...odd.”
“I feel like he should be in a painting in Paris or Greece or Italy or something.” John pocketed the wallet. “I actually do like this wallet, and if he turns out to be the killer—between us—I’m keeping it anyway.”
Violet laughed. “That’s a little creepy. Kinda surprised it came out of you.”
“Right?” He laughed with her. “You really want that cross?”
