1 Portrait of a Dead Guy

by Larissa Reinhart

  Cody glanced at me and I shrugged.

  Todd folded his arms on the table and leaned toward Luke. “If you were looking, I could probably get you in.”

  “Todd,” I said. “You told me you don’t do that. It’s illegal.”

  He swept a hand toward me with a roll of eyes toward the guys. “I didn’t say I did it. I just know about it.”

  “So you know some of the guys that do?” Luke continued with a look of exasperation toward me.

  “Sure. They all want me to play poker with them. Old guys even.”

  “Nobody believes how good he is until they play him,” Cody said.

  “Did you know my stepbrother?” Luke asked. “Dustin Branson?”

  “Sure. He was friends with my roommate, Pete.” Todd’s fingers crept on top of the table and strummed the surface. He turned to me. “Not Jackson. You liked him. Pete’s the one you don’t like.”

  “Yeah, Creepy Pete,” I stuck out my tongue and made a gagging noise.

  “Pete’s not in the band.” Todd explained to Luke. “But he plays poker, too. He got Dustin his gig with Mr. Max’s outfit.”

  “What do you mean by gig? Who’s Mr. Max?”

  “I can’t pronounce his last name, so we call him Mr. Max. He heard about my poker wins and wanted to meet me. I couldn’t understand him so I asked Pete to talk to him.” Todd stopped to take a bite of waffle.

  “And?” I prompted.

  Todd lifted his brows.

  “Don’t keep us hanging. What happened after you introduced Pete to Mr. Max?”

  “Oh. Pete started hanging out with him. Mr. Max’s got a big house with a lot of acreage east of here, but mostly lives in Atlanta. Or Florida. Or somewhere else. Anyway, Pete started doing odd jobs for him, like bartend, while Mr. Max and his buddies play poker.”

  Todd’s words ran together and his fingers tapped a quick cadence on the wooden table. “Pete said Mr. Max runs the games real fancy because it’s a massive pot. Like ten thousand just to get in. They do it over a long weekend with everybody staying there. Some of the folks are important. Like politicians and athletes. I bet some musicians, too. Pete waits on them while they play poker. Just like Vegas.” He broke his story with a sigh and leaned toward me. “Wouldn’t that be fun, baby?

  “That’s going on in Halo? I can’t believe it. Who is this Mr. Max? Uncle Will needs to know about this. He should be hunting this guy down instead of wasting his time questioning me.”

  Luke rapped his finger near Todd’s plate. “Go on with your story.”

  “Pete introduced Dustin to Mr. Max. Dustin doesn’t play poker, but he started doing other work for Mr. Max. More important than bartending.”

  “Like how important?”

  “Dustin was his right-hand man. Heard him talking about it to Pete once. But I don’t know what that means. Your brother was kind of secretive.”

  “Stepbrother.” The word popped from Luke’s mouth, but his thoughts roamed elsewhere.

  “You can be sure Dustin was proud of working for Mr. Max,” Todd continued. “He and Pete did fight about it some. Pete thought Dustin was getting too big for his britches.”

  “I bet,” muttered Luke. “Do you know anything more about this Mr. Max?”

  “I do, if I know the house you’re talking about.” Cody slipped forward in his seat, eager to be part of the conversation. “I don’t know the name, but some foreign guy called the dealership, needed a mechanic for on-site oil changes and maintenance. Must be nice. Dude has a ten-car garage. Hummer, Maserati, Corvette, Escalade.” Cody’s eyes gleamed. “A ’57 Chevy. I think he moved here about a year ago.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about him?” I said.

  “Probably too busy with your trip to Vegas,” Cody smirked. “Anyway, Ronny Price went out there, too. Like he’s going to sell that guy a Ford F-150.” Cody rolled his eyes. “I guess Mr. Max is a big time collector. Ronny said he’s really into Civil War stuff. He even has a cannon on his front lawn.”

  “What does he do to have that kind of money?” I asked. “Can you get that rich from playing poker?”

  “Ronny didn’t say.” Cody tipped his hat back and scratched his head. “Just kind of bragged about his collections, like Ronny’s special for seeing them. Mr. Max needs a better security system. Ronny’s such a tool.” Cody glanced at Luke. “Sorry. I guess you know Ronny pretty well because of your dad owning the dealership. He’s not real popular in the auto-bay.”

  “Stepdad.” Luke shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “I need to get home. Can you drive me back to Halo now?” I nudged Todd. “I have a ruined canvas to replace. I don’t even have a deposit to pay myself back for the supplies.”

  The men pushed out of their seats and wandered to the door. The night was clear and cool, reminding me of the late hour. I hadn’t touched the memory box collection and I was back to square one with the painting. It was going to be a long night.

  “Dude, is that your truck?” Cody pointed to the Ford Raptor gleaming under the parking lot light.

  Luke tossed him the keys. “Go ahead and give it a spin. But if you’re not back in five, I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “Come on, Todd. Let’s see what she can do.” Cody trotted to the truck. Todd followed, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about me. Not like I’m in a hurry or it’s the middle of the night,” I said, leaning against Todd’s little, red hatchback. There was no deterring my brother from checking out any kind of vehicle. I’d have better luck teaching a cat to swim.

  Luke stopped before me, pushed a dusky brown curl off his forehead, and stretched into a yawn.

  My eyes skimmed over the muscles in the upraised arms, down the firm chest, and found a spot of exposed flesh between his jeans and raised t-shirt. Darting a glance back to his face, I realized he caught me looking.

  He lowered his arms and smoothed his t-shirt over his jeans.

  “So what did the sheriff say about the break-in?” Luke asked. “Does he have any suspects?”

  “Uh.” The parking lot light buzzed and dimmed overhead, darkening Luke’s eyes, reminding me of flint. Shadows filled his dimples and carved his cheekbones. He’d make a good pen and ink study tonight. A nude life study would be nice.

  I shook myself awake. “What?”

  He maneuvered into my personal space again, placing a hand on the car roof. “What did the sheriff say?”

  Oh man, I thought. Luke Harper needs to stop draping his body around me. Resisting temptation was not this girl’s forte.

  “Uncle Will wasn’t happy with me. Doesn’t want me to keep painting, either.” I blew out a sigh, thinking about the commission. “But I’m going to do it anyway. I’ll use the photo I took. I need the money and the recommendation if your mom and JB like it.”

  “JB’s not going to be too happy with you, that’s for sure.” Luke’s free hand slipped behind my head to search for the bump. “How’s your head?” His fingers caressed my skull.

  I closed my eyes and thought about pushing him away. At my moan, the nimble fingers crept to massage the muscles at the back of my neck.

  “Um, it’s okay.” I took a deep breath, and the fingers kneaded my shoulders. My knees buckled, and I slid a few inches down the door. Luke’s knee against my thigh stopped my decline. “Oh, that feels so good.” I hoped I wasn’t drooling.

  “So when the sheriff questioned you about what happened, did he offer some opinions on the perp?” Both hands massaged my shoulders now. I gripped the handle with one hand. The other hand seemed to have slipped to Luke’s waist without permission.

  Oh Lordy. No love handles on this guy. He was all smooth muscle. I struggled to think of an answer to his question.

  “He thinks I forgot to lock the back door behind me. Could b
e anyone.” My hand slid to his back and pressed him closer. The other clutched the door handle like a life preserver.

  “You’d tell me if you learn anything else, right?”

  “I guess so,” I sighed.

  Luke’s hands skated from my shoulders to my face.

  “You always liked being in the middle of things,” he said. A finger stroked my cheek.

  “What kind of middle you talking about?” I breathed, lifting my face. A truck roared into the parking lot, brakes squealing as Cody spun a donut in the empty lot.

  I sensed Luke inching closer. Taking a deep breath, I waited a second and cracked my lids. A kiss glided to my forehead. His hand covered mine to pop the handle. My feet stumbled as he yanked open the door.

  “Better hop in. Getting chilly out here.”

  I landed butt-first in the back seat, and the door thumped back in place. I scrambled around to peer out the back window at Luke’s long-legged stride retreating from the Civic.

  “What in the hell was that?” I shrieked. “I can’t believe I fell for it!”

  Flipping around, I slumped in my seat. Todd jerked open the driver door and slid inside with a quick glance into the backseat. “You doing okay, hon?”

  “Just peachy,” I said, crossing my arms and tossing up my chin. “Take me home. I’ve got a kick-ass portrait to paint. I’ll show ’em.”

  SIX

  Morning came too early for me, but others in Halo bustled with spring enthusiasm as my Datsun shambled along Loblolly Avenue. Many of the older cottages and bungalows on Magnolia Avenue — the other main street from Halo’s whistlestop heyday — had converted to offices for lawyers or doctors. If I hadn’t moved into my Great-Gam’s abandoned cottage on Loblolly, Magnolia Avenue would have been the better choice for a business. Although quiet, Loblolly managed to grow a few Mom-and-Pops. I wondered at the financial success of the trophy store on the main corner, but they probably thought the same of me.

  Rounding the square, I headed north to the outskirts of town where new subdivisions of larger homes flanked Halo.

  A thirty-by-forty canvas, stretched, gessoed, and painted in the wee hours of the morning rode shotgun. A form of Dustin lying peacefully in his coffin had been roughly established over the underpainting. If the rudimentary portrayal met the Bransons’ approval, I’d be able to whisk it back home to finish. A corner of Wanda’s red shopping bag peeked from under the frame where I shoved it in my bleary-eyed haste this morning. I hadn’t peeked in the bag yet, but Dustin’s memory box was next on my list. After I got the contract signed.

  Dustin’s portrait and I breezed through Fetlock Meadow’s pillared entrance. I began the difficult navigation through the winding subdivision streets that included a golf course. By the time I turned onto Trotter’s Ridge Drive, the unusual amount of traffic had prepared me for the sight of Will’s cruiser and a line of other cars parked on the street. The absence of a black pickup kept my heart steady as I parked and walked past several imposing stacked stone Southern Living style mini-mansions.

  Before I even reached the Branson’s half-circle drive, Will ambled out the front door in his tan uniform, one hand resting comfortably on his holster, and filled the front stoop with his large presence. Seemed as if Sheriff Thompson would greet me today and not Uncle Will.

  “What are you doing here?” His deep voice carried across the lawn.

  I froze in the drive, studying Will’s deepening frown.

  “I thought you were finished with this business after our talk last night.”

  “I’m just here to get paid, sir,” I said, hoping a half-fib would slide me back into his good graces.

  “Nobody’s home. Besides, I’d think a trip to the ER is enough of a lesson. You need to stay clear of the Bransons until we catch this guy. Whole town talking about you robbing dead bodies. Don’t look too good, hon.”

  I scrunched my mouth to the side, chewing over Will’s request. I didn’t want to explain that I wanted to show the Bransons the preliminary painting in hopes they would sign a contract. Any more talking and Will would most likely slap me with a restraining order.

  “What’s going on here?” I said. “Too many cop cars for a duty call to the bereaved parents.”

  “Someone broke into the Branson house early this morning. JB is livid.” He ran a hand over his buzz top. “The perp ransacked his office and the first floor without the alarm engaging. Even with guests staying. This guy is bold and dangerous.”

  “Kind of interesting they’d search a house filled with guests. You think it was an inside job?”

  “Can’t say yet.” He leaned against the doorframe, weary. “I have a lot on my plate right now. Is Casey working today? If I get a minute, I might stop by the farm and grab a bite. Don’t want all of Halo interrupting my lunch. You think y’all have some dinner to share?”

  “Casey made chicken yesterday.”

  Before I could finish my thought, tires screeching on the blacktop turned my attention to the street. A faded aqua-blue Chevy Geo skidded around the corner of Trotter’s Ridge Drive. Through the cracked windshield, I glimpsed a mop of frizzy, brown hair. A half second later, I realized the car angled for the Bransons’ drive right where I stood gawking. She took a tight turn into the driveway, barely missing the front bumper of Will’s Crown Vic. Brakes squealed in protest as her foot pounded them to a stop. I scrambled for cover and landed in a band of monkey grass. A black pickup roared up the drive and jerked to a halt behind the Geo.

  “Aw, hell.” I muttered.

  Will strode to my side, offering me a hand up, before turning toward the crazed driver.

  “My baby,” the woman shrieked, heaving herself from the Geo. “What have they done to my Dustin?” She slammed the door, rattling the loose license plate in back. A denim jumper draped her portly shape and exposed flesh hung like raw biscuit dough off her beefy biceps.

  Luke’s low voice interrupted her heavy wail. “They aren’t here, Virginia. Take the show somewhere else.” He strode forward, concentrating on the grief-stricken woman.

  The caterwauling ended with a practiced stop and Will and I exchanged a glance.

  Virginia planted pudgy hands on her ample hips. “How dare you talk to me in that tone. My son is dead. I have every right to be here.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t be at the funeral. I’m here to tell you no one’s home. And to keep your scheming self away from my mother. Try the grieving routine somewhere else. You’re not fooling anybody, though.”

  She pointed to the cars lined along the street. “If nobody’s home, what are all these doing here? You were always a little liar. Always trying to get Dustin in trouble. You ruined his chances to go to school, you jealous hateful backstabber. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you murdered my baby.”

  Luke’s steely eyes sliced through her, but he remained mute. Will coughed politely, leaving my side to walk around the ex-Mrs. Branson.

  “Ma’am? I’m Sheriff Thompson. Luke Harper here is correct. The family is not home. But since you made such an entrance, I’d like to talk to you.”

  Virginia started to pivot, then saw me in the monkey grass. I glared and brushed pine straw from my acid-washed jeans. Luckily, my striped sequined t-shirt could survive a roll in the straw without showing dirt. Virginia swiveled back to Will. One hand flew to the lumpy denim chest and the other smoothed the brown frizz falling past her shoulders.

  “That girl came out of nowhere, Officer. She was lucky I saw her at all.” At my snarl, the squeaky voice rose to a plaintive squeal. “I am dis-traught with grief. My son has been mur-dered. I just arrived in town and could only think to come here first.”

  Will gave her a patient pause and glanced at the battered Geo filled with heaped clothing, empty fast food bags, and Diet Coke bottles. “That’s Sheriff, ma’am. Th
e first place you thought to come was your ex-husband’s?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not the funeral home?”

  Her lips pursed.

  “Or your son’s place? You have any other relatives around Halo? Those aren’t Forks County plates on the Chevy, but it looks like you’ve been in your car a while. How long you been in town?”

  “Hmph.” Virginia arched an eyebrow at Will. “That’s my business. What are you doing at my husband’s house? Where is JB?”

  “Sorry ma’am, but I don’t believe your business goes that far. You might as well follow me out of here. I do need to know where you’ve been the last few days. We can talk at Cooper’s Funeral Home if that suits you. Otherwise, there’s the Sheriff’s Office.”

  He motioned Virginia toward her car and grabbed his radio. Will crooked a finger at me and Luke. “You two get out of here. My deputies are inside and don’t need you hanging around. And I got my eye on you, Mr. Harper.” He pointed a finger at Luke while raising the radio to his mouth and strolled to his car.

  I glanced at Luke. The sheriff’s comment didn’t seem to phase him. His grim eyes remained riveted on the Geo. “You up for another round at the Waffle House?”

  “Not the Waffle House.” The guy left me in a puddle in that parking lot not even ten hours ago. Not to mention he used to stiff me for the check at a similar establishment once upon a time. A breeze rustled the dark curls brushing the back of his neck. My eyes trailed across his shoulders and snug jeans.

  Dang it.

  “Maybe I am a little hungry,” I said. “Meet me at The Country Kitchen on Magnolia. You can tell me where to find your mom. I’ve got some explaining to do about last night.”

  Foolish to spend time with Luke again, but I was curious about some Branson skeletons that kept popping out of their closets.

  And I really was hungry.

  Wired from three cups of coffee and a half-carafe of maple syrup, I pushed my plate to the side and drummed paint-speckled nails on the laminate tabletop. Luke eyed my fingers, took a bite of biscuit, and chewed. I had shown him the painting and received a grunt in response. The extent of his conversation skills hadn’t increased since we slid into the orange vinyl booth and ordered breakfast. Like our middle-aged waitress whose perky ponytail did not match her blasé manner, Luke kept his focus on the clientele and not on me.