Paint the Town Dead by Nancy Haddock Read Free Book Online Page A

at Ernie and Kim. They either didn’t notice or flat ignored her. Hard to do since I could almost see cartoon steam come out her ears.
    I idly wondered what Georgine would do if I spritzed her with Aster’s lavender water. For that matter, how would Kim react? I almost chuckled aloud imagining their outrage even as I noted latecomers quietly slip in the door. Two middle-aged women hovered behind the rows of chairs and watched the demonstration. A guy in his thirties wearing a royal blue scrubs shirt with jeans and a black and gold New Orleans Saints ball cap stood near the ladies, but didn’t appear to be with them. He wore dark sunglasses, and tugged the cap bill low as if shielding his eyes. Hmm. If the scrubs meant this guy worked in health care, I sure didn’t recognize him as a local nurse or lab tech. At least not from any of the medical offices I’d been in for Sherry’s checkups. Maybe he worked in Magnolia, not Lilyvale.
    The door opened again to admit two teens, a man, and a woman, but I sensed they weren’t all together. For one thing, the teens sat on the floor up by Doralee and Sherry without a backward glance. In contrast, the adults darn near hugged the wall by the door. The woman was a platinum blonde with perfectly coifed hair dressed in a pale green linen skirt suit, ecru pumps, and oversized retro round cat eye sunglasses. She linked arms with a man who looked a good bit younger, maybe in his thirties. He wore mirrored shades, navy slacks, and high-end burgundy slip-on shoes. Not penny loafers, thank you very much. No tassels either. Those were costly shoes.
    With their noses in the air, I wondered why they’d come into the store in the first place. Did they have a similar business and were checking out the competition? If so, I’d not heard the emporium had a rival. Or they could be art snobs slumming in our pedestrian shop. I’d met their type in Houston. Thankfully, most folk artists and crafters were down to earth almost as much as Doralee.
    I turned my attention back to her demonstration.
    â€œYou can see I’ve sketched feathers on the gourd and I’ve begun carving them,” she said as she raised it above herhead to show the audience. “Instead of using clamps or vises, I’m securing my gourd in this box. It has a partially open front and a nonslip pad inside to hold the gourd steady while I work. My friend Zach”—she gestured to where he sat in the front—“designed and constructed this for me, and he’s working on an adjustable box to accommodate the different sizes and shapes of gourds.”
    Zach merely smiled. I liked that he didn’t make a show of modesty. The idea really was ingenious. With or without an adjustable model.
    â€œI’m an advocate of using masks when cutting, carving, or burning gourds, but I don’t want to wear a mask for the program. And I certainly don’t want to expose anyone to dust. So I’ll be carving just enough for you to see the process.”
    She launched into the next part of her presentation to a rapt audience, mentioning the various tools to make cuts deep or shallow, wide or narrow, as she went along.
    â€œWhile I finish,” she said, “Sherry Mae will show you how to weave the grapevine we’ll use to top off the gourd.”
    Sherry wore her bangs over her bad eye again. I hoped she’d be able to see well enough to weave.
    â€œI presoaked these vines,” she said, “and began the initial weaving to get the size right, and to save time. You can use single strands of vine, or you can twist or braid them. As you see, I’ve braided some for more visual interest.”
    I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware of holding as Sherry wove the vine in a circle maybe two inches in diameter. Each layer of vine added to the height of the piece until it was as tall as wide, and all the while, she described her technique without a stumble or