It's a Wonderful Knife by Christine Wenger Page A

quite a knife in her back,” he said, bending over the body. “Anyone take pictures yet?”
    â€œMy equipment is in my car. I wanted to preserve the crime scene, so I didn’t leave to get it,” Ty said.
    â€œNow would be a good time,” Hal said.
    Ty hurried out the back door.
    â€œHal, that’s my knife,” I said. “I was slicing that ham over there.” I pointed to the table. “I left the knife onthe table when I went to the ladies’ room. When I came back, I saw . . . I saw . . . Liz like that.” Tears flooded my yes. “It’s all my fault.”
    â€œIt’s not your fault. Unless you stabbed her. Did you?”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous.”
    â€œThen it’s not your fault, Trixie. Don’t ever think it was.”
    â€œDo you mind if I leave?” I asked. “I’m just going to hobble into the church and get out of here.”
    â€œSure. Go ahead. But don’t go far. Ty will probably want to take your statement later.”
    It was going to be a long night because Ty typed about three words a minute. Maybe he’d let me just type it up to save us both time.
    Until then, I had a pageant to run and tons of food ready to put out—just as soon as the crime scene was cleared.
    It wasn’t as if I was being callous, but I had to feed these people somewhere . . . somehow. Didn’t I? It seemed horrible moving everything to the back of the church—maybe the children’s room—but it seemed even more awful moving Liz out and then eating where she was killed.
    Maybe ACB had an idea as to what could be done. Or maybe Pastor Fritz and Darlene might have one.
    But this volunteer might talk about pageant auditions just to distract everyone. I didn’t have a clue what to say or what to do first, though.
    All I could picture was Liz lying on theblack-and-white linoleum floor, covered in her own blood, with my carving knife sticking out of her back.
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    Pastor Fritz was leading everyone in a prayer for Liz.
    Afterward, there were numerous questions, but the pastor said that Deputy Ty Brisco would address everyone later.
    It seemed like I was having an out-of-body experience. I was sitting in a pew and listening and watching everyone, but I couldn’t believe that we were talking about the pageant with Liz lying dead in the room across the hall.
    But like ACB said, there were a lot of kids there who were excited to audition for the either fictitious or real talent scout. We might as well talk about it—rather than talk about Liz in front of the kids.
    As I looked around at all the hopefuls who wanted to be in the pageant, I wanted to split. Then I remembered what ACB had said earlier: Anyone who tried out could be in it.
    It wasn’t as if this was Broadway, no matter what the backstage mothers and fathers thought. If little Junior or Juniorette couldn’t sing or dance or act, he or she had to be the butt end of a camel!
    Or didn’t we care about talent?
    I whispered to Antoinette Chloe, “Is this a variety show? Is it a play?”
    â€œIt’s both, from what I can tell.”
    â€œDid Liz have any notes?” I asked hopefully.
    â€œShe has—had—a laptop. It’s somewhere around here.” ACB looked around in the pews and found it.
    Thank goodness.
I’d have to look at her plans thoroughly later, when I got home.
    I stood when I heard Pastor Fritz introduce me. “I’m the new pageant director because . . . uh . . . Liz is no longer able to do it. For you who don’t know me, my name is Trixie Matkowski, and I’m also catering the auditions and the practices, and then the Christmas Eve community dinner. However, as you can see, I have a broken leg, and other people have stepped in to help me. So I thought I should help out with the pageant.” I gave ACB a pointed