JB tossed the contract folder on his desk, tipped back in his office chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Look here, Cherry. I admire your gumption, but we can’t have you painting our son.”
“I don’t understand, sir. You said if I finished it for the funeral, you’d consider buying it.”
“That was before you tried to rob Dustin.”
I clenched the painting before me. “I didn’t try to rob Dustin, sir. I did trespass. I admit to that. But only to get a jump start on painting. Cooper’s not pressing charges, though.”
“Cooper’s not pressing charges, yet,” said JB.
Wanda wandered to the window and feigned interest in the parking lot. “There’s talk in town you pulled that crazy stunt to drum up your art business. Playing on folks’ sympathy. Get yourself in the newspaper.”
“What? Who’s saying that? It’s a lie. I have the bump on my head to prove it.”
“If your story about getting attacked by a burglar is true, why was nothing stolen?”
“But,” I stumbled through my words, “how could I hit myself in the head?”
“Shawna said your studio is going under,” Wanda spoke to the window, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “JB, maybe you’re being too hard on Cherry. Poverty can make you desperate.”
“Shawna said my studio is failing?” I gasped and felt my blood pressure skyrocket. I set the painting aside before I inadvertently snapped it in half. Shawna worked fast. I sailed under her radar too long, and the vixen was making up for lost time.
“I’ve known you practically your whole life, Cherry.” Wanda turned her back on the window. “‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to hurt us.”
“You really believe I would tear up a funeral home and desecrate a body for advertisement?” I sucked in my breath. “How could you think such a thing? I went without sleep to work on this painting.”
“Unless someone else steps forward, I don’t know what to think,” said JB. “To be honest, I’m pretty tired of thinking about the whole rigamarole.”
He rubbed his temples with his fists and dropped forward in the chair. I felt a pang of pity for his haggard features and Wanda’s puffy eyes. Even if Dustin had fallen to the sins of drugs, their son was dead. Some prank-playing lunatic wasn’t allowing them a proper bereavement.
“I will prove to you that I’m not trying to scam you, sir. And I’m going to finish this painting. Signed, sealed and delivered by the funeral. You think it’s impressive now? Wait until you see it finished.”
“Honey,” Wanda said. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, it’s necessary all right.” I jerked my shoulders back and pulled up my chin. “Someone’s out to ruin my reputation and I’m not about to let them. I don’t know if the same person broke into your house and into Dustin’s apartment, but I assure you, it was not me.”
“I’ve got a meeting.” JB rose behind his desk. “This painting was your idea, Wanda. You know my feelings.” He stalked out of the office.
With a sickened heart, I carefully rewrapped Dustin.
“It would be a beautiful painting,” Wanda said with a teary sigh.
“It will be a beautiful painting. I guarantee it.” I swiped the unsigned contract off the desk and stuck the folder in my armpit. “I’m counting on you buying this painting, Miss Wanda. For our agreed price. I won’t let you down.” With my fingers splayed away from the front, I grasped the sides of the painting.
“We’ll see, hon. I want to help you. But if it’s true what people are saying about you, JB won’t let me pay for that painting.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll figure out what’s going on. I can’t have folks thinking I’m a grave robber.”
Wanda opened the door to the waiting room, and I sidled through.
Barb looked up from her computer. Her hand toyed with a cat balanced on top the monitor. “Bye now, Cherry. Please tell your granddaddy I said hello.” Barb twirled a finger around a fat brown curl with a disturbing amount of coyness.
I stopped for a double take. “Ma’am?”
“Ed. Please tell him I said hello.”
“Will do.”
“He doesn’t play cards, does he?”
“Ma’am?”
“Cards. My last, uh, male friend, played cards every weekend.” She pushed a cat to the far end of the monitor. “I heard your Grandpa doesn’t play.”
“No, Grandpa was never one for playing cards. He spends most his time with goats and fishing, though.”
“I see.” Barb moved the cat back to its original position and sighed. “Tell Ed I said ‘hey’ anyhow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I beat a hasty retreat out the office, almost trampling Wanda in the process.
In the hallway, a tall stocky man in ironed chinos and a silk golf shirt huddled with JB and Ronny Price. The three men watched me clomp through the doorway holding the painting. I avoided eye contact with JB as I began the trek back to the showroom.
“Wait a minute, Cherry.” I heard Wanda’s singsong and stopped to pivot back, clasping the frame’s awkward size against my chest. “About the items I gave you.” For a moment, my face projected the blank interlude of my thoughts. “Dustin’s special things. For the memory box. I guess you could still do that. It won’t have your name on it or anything, will it?”
“No ma’am, I don’t sign shadowboxes,” I sighed. “I’ve got Dustin’s things in my truck. I was fixing to go through them today. I won’t let you down.” I fired off a rapid smile and turned back toward the men blocking the hallway.
Their attention drifted from Wanda to me. The third man raised a magnificent brown eyebrow and studied me with interest. With his massive frame and square jaw, he looked like an offensive lineman dressed for a meeting with the NFL Commissioner. Before I maneuvered through the small crowd, he brushed past me to walk down the hall.
“Come with me, Mr. Price,” he growled in a thick accent.
“Mr. Avtaikin?” Ronny called, pushing past me to hurry after the large man.
I took two steps backward, trying to recover from Mr. Avtaikin’s jostle. The folder under my arm commenced a slow slide. A stout squeeze pressed the folder into my side, but caused my palms to slip from the painting. I jerked a knee underneath to steady the canvas. A quick glance behind me revealed JB and Wanda hadn’t noticed. They had already returned to his office. I hopped toward the wall to recover my hold on the awkward frame while squishing the folder against my side.
I sidled down the hallway with my back against the wall and the painting pushed against my chest like a crab carrying a giant clam. My shoulder blades struck air. I had reached the recessed window for the garage. Through the window, I glimpsed Cody leaning against a wall, drinking a soda. He faced the garage doors with blank absorption, oblivious to my hard stare. Most likely dreaming of Dustin’s Malibu.
I continued my scoot along the wall until a doorknob poked my spine. I bumped my hip against the lever and the door swung open quicker than I expected. I spun to the side and caught the doorframe against my shoulder. The folder dropped from my armpit and the contract splayed across the floor. My knee jerked up and saved the painting from falling, but the other foot landed on a piece of paper that scrunched and ripped beneath my boot.
As I hopped and cursed, I realized I interrupted the end of a heated conversation in the small office. Ronny and Mr. Avtaikin gawked without taking the time to wipe the snarls off their faces.
“Sorry,” I stuttered. “I lost my grip on the painting.”
They stood motionless for a beat before relaxing. Their furious stares had been meant for each other and not for me.
“Perhaps a cart next time is better,” the large man said in his heavy accent. He grabbed my elbow, jerked me to standing, and bent to pick up my ripped contract. S
lapping the papers into the fallen folder, he jammed the lot into the back waistband of my jeans. “Plenty of room in there, I think,” he said, giving the folder a pat.
Did he just shove that contract in my panties like it was a twenty at a nudie bar?
“We’ll talk later, Price.” Mr. Avtaikin lumbered to the showroom door. His large frame and bulky upper body pushed his shoulders forward, making him stoop. He swung open the showroom door without a backward glance.
Ronny ran his hands over his pompadour like he was putting out a fire. “Tough negotiator.” Ronny bleated a short laugh before collapsing in the chair behind the desk.
“What kind of vehicle is he buying?”
“Vehicle?” Ronny studied me as if he’d forgotten I stood in the doorway with a folder stuffed in my back end and a large painting centered on my front.
“I can’t imagine it’s a Fiesta.”
Ronny gave me another deer-in-the-headlights look.
“He’s the guy with all the fancy vehicles, right? Cody told me.”
“Cody,” Ronny pulled the syllables into a long, thoughtful phrase. He popped up from his chair. “I don’t know a Cody, but he’s right. Mr. Avtaikin is a collector of cars.”
“Collector of other things, too,” I fished. “Civil War stuff?”
“Have you seen his collection?”
“No, sir. Cody said you talked about his Civil War collection and there was a cannon in his front yard.”
“Sure is. I don’t think it works though. Does it make you nervous thinking someone in Halo has a cannon in their yard?”
“Why would that make me nervous?”
“Some women don’t like guns. And it’s a pretty large piece of artillery.”
My eyes twitched, longing to roll in their sockets. Was this a come-on line? What a dork.
“Speaking of that, little lady, you look like you need help.” He jumped up to take the painting from me. “I’ll get you to your truck.”
Remembering his previous mauling of the portrait, I kept my grip on the painting. “I’m fine. I can handle myself.”
“Really?” Ronny’s fingers stroked his gleaming hair. “I don’t mind. I could follow you. Just in case.”
“No, thank you.” I stepped out of the office and shuffled down the hallway. I didn’t need the folder shoved in my pants to keep my back ramrod straight, but it certainly helped. At the door of the showroom, I leaned against the wall with my knee propped up to hold the painting in place. I managed enough clearance to wedge a shoulder between the door and frame. Ronny watched with a wrinkled brow.
“See? I can manage just fine.”
I grunted and pushed the rest of my body through the door, careful to not let the painting scrape the doorjamb. Trying for casual grace, I minced through the showroom with aching arms and a folder shoved down my pants. Customers gaped. I kept my chin high, my demeanor calm, and managed to avoid walking into any display models. A customer opened the giant glass front door, and I stiff-legged it through the parking lot.
When I reached the Datsun, Ronny stood with his hand on the door handle. He spun around at my approach and smiled.
I regretted my earlier ogling of the shiny Mustang. Slick as a whistle Ronny was going to salesman me until I whipped out a down payment. I don’t think he quite understood how little art paid. Especially since I was currently working for free.
“I know you didn’t want help, but I thought the least I could do was open your door for you. But it’s locked.”
I offered him a slow, serious blink and shifted the painting to rest on top of my boots. My hand snuck in the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out my keys. “Can never be too careful.”
“Right. I guess you really didn’t need my help.” His friendly grin sank and hands fell to his side.
A red hot blush crept up my neck. Good Lord, was he hitting on me?
“That was nice of you anyway,” I maneuvered to turn the key in the lock. Grabbing the folder from my pants, I tossed it on the seat of the truck.
“Do you want me to move that bag so you can get the painting in?”
Wanda’s crushed shopping bag lay on the truck floor like a used McDonald’s sack. He looked at me hopefully. I shook my head. The light dimmed in his eyes again.
“Thanks anyway.” I lifted the canvas and steadied it against the bench. Slamming the door closed, I turned to face Ronny and resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. “See you around.”
That would be the last time I compliment a guy on his clothes without thinking of the consequences. He probably thought I was checking him out.
“See you soon.” He waved and trudged back to the dealership.
I clambered in the truck. This day had not started well. Shawna was spreading new rumors about me. Maybe her Paintograph business wasn’t doing as well as she claimed. Come to think of it, that ring looked too tacky to be real. Shawna always did have champagne taste on a beer budget. Maybe she played up her success to hide a giant hole in her checkbook. I wouldn’t put it past her to make me look bad, although hitting me in the head pushed the envelope. However, she was a big girl, strong from her trips to the gym.
I rubbed the back of my head. I had no doubt Shawna would set me up, but would she steal from her uncle? Who else would want to make me look bad besides Shawna? JB feared for his reputation. Luke’s behavior bordered on bizarre. Wanda buried her emotions in shopping bags. Virginia wore the trappings of a con-artist meth-head. Ronny Price gave me the creeps.
Or maybe I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Just like I had been when I stumbled on Mr. Avtaikin and Ronny. The accent was a dead giveaway. Mr. Avtaikin had to be the infamous Mr. Max. I understood why they called him the Bear, too. He had the manners of a hairy beast. What had he and Ronny discussed that caused them such a furor? And what was JB’s relationship to the Bear?
I turned the key in the ignition. First things first, I needed to finish this painting. And the memory box.
“Cherry,” hollered a voice from the parking lot, breaking my reverie.
I stared into the rearview and saw my baby brother trotting through the crowded lot, waving his hands. “Wait.”
He popped the passenger door and glanced at the painting. “Hey.”
“Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I’m taking a break. You want to run me over to Mather’s Tire Shop?”
“Why aren’t you running yourself over to Mather’s? For that matter, don’t you have tires at the dealership?”
“I don’t need tires,” Cody lifted the painting and slid under it, kicking Wanda’s bag into a corner. “I want to see that Malibu. I thought you could drive me. I can walk over to Shortie’s BBQ after. Some of the boys are meeting there for lunch. I’ll catch a ride back.”
“Be careful with the painting. It’s still a little wet.” I puffed myself into big sister mode. “You’re almost out of gas, aren’t you? I bet you want to use mine and save the teensy bit you have. And what kind of mechanic gets a break from now til lunch? I didn’t see you busting your butt in the shop.”
“Stop your henpecking.” Cody slid a worn Dewalt cap over his eyes and settled the painting on his lap, further hiding his face from view. “This the dead guy painting? Is that why you walked through the showroom like you worked the wrong side of a pole? Terry Reynolds saw you and ran in to tell everyone.”
“That’s all I need. I’m sure Terry Reynolds does a lovely imitation of me walking with a folder shoved down my pants.”
I glared into the sunlight. If this town remained fixated on me, I’d have to draw a few of the Branson issues into my spotlight. Starting with the joker breaking into Dustin-related residences, who might possibly be a murderer.
EIGHT
Curtis Mather’s Tire Shop oc
cupied a corner of Highway 19 and Oak Leaf Road, a good location gone to waste. Mather’s is one of those shops few people seem to use, but still stays in business. The only colors decorating the lot of the gray cinderblock building were from various vehicles parked helter-skelter. Stacks of tires helped to hide the trash and pools of miscellaneous liquid that never seemed to evaporate on the dirty concrete.
Cody hopped from the truck, completely in his element. His nose quivered like Peter Rabbit’s in Macgregor’s garden, and he almost ran through the open doors of the garage. My nose seized at the noxious mixture of diesel and rubber. I readjusted the painting on the truck seat, throwing a look of regret at the now ragged lump that was Wanda’s shopping bag. However, I was as curious as Cody to enter the shop. I didn’t care about the Malibu. I wanted to see the spot where Dustin had been offed. Judging by the crowded lot, other locals had a similar interest. It looked like Curtis Mather might capitalize from Dustin’s notoriety.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the shop after the blinding sunshine and I shaded my eyes in the entrance of a raised garage door. Curtis Mather stood a few paces away in gray coveralls, wiping his hands with a dingy cloth.
He ran the grubby cloth over his shiny head, leaving a streak of grease behind, and stuck a hand in my direction. I grasped the slippery fingers with hesitation, but gave him a hearty shake anyway. Curtis Mather may be the local Pigpen, but he seemed friendly enough.
“Ma’am.” He beamed a toothy smile.
“I’m Cherry Tucker. I thought my brother, Cody, came in here?” A quick glance showed vehicles filled the three bays. However, Cody and the Malibu remained to be seen.
“Ah,” he replied, stuffing the rag into his back pocket. “He went ’round to the back. Interested in the ’Bu. It’s back there.”
“I’m surprised it’s still here. Didn’t JB take it home with him?”
“Naw. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with it. Told me to keep it for my distress under the circumstances.” He snorted. “Didn’t even come down to check on it or to see where his boy was killed. Pretty cold, but then the boy gave him enough trouble, I suppose.”
1 Portrait of a Dead Guy Page 9
