Wandering to a rolling metal cabinet, he opened a narrow drawer. His hands drifted over the tools and grabbed a tiny screwdriver.
“I told your Cody I’d sell it to him if he’s interested.” Curtis shot a cool-eyed look at me, assessing our capital worth under thinning eyebrows. Easing onto a stool, he began cleaning his nails with the flat end of the screwdriver. “It’s a ’77. Got a 2300 Holley carburetor. Engine’s not done, but Dustin put on a new gas tank. I could get a good price on the Autotrader, but I need the space. Business is picked up lately.”
“I saw that.” I wasn’t going to do Cody’s negotiating for a car he didn’t need, so I changed the subject. “I guess a lot of people are interested in Dustin Branson’s death.”
“Mmhm.” He pointed the screwdriver toward the far bay. “Happened over there on t’end. Police finally took off that damned yaller tape and let me get back to work over there. Just in time, too. Can’t believe how many people need rotations and oil changes this week.”
I wandered toward the pit where a blue GMC sat on the lifts, ready for work. “It doesn’t bother you to work where he was murdered?”
“Naw.” I turned to see Curtis Mather watching me. He ducked his head and began work on his other nails. “He’s just dead, is all. The good Lord deals with him now. Had to clean up some mess though. And now I’m missing a boy. ’Course that Dustin, he weren’t much on working anyway.”
I wished I could be as complacent about life’s trials as Curtis Mather. I circled the truck, but could see no evidence of a grisly murder here. It looked like any other dirty garage floor.
“Except my wrench.”
“Sir?”
“I wished I could get the wrench back.”
I waited for him to continue, but his dirty nails captured his attention. “What wrench?”
He looked up and fixed me with clear blue eyes. “My torque wrench that son’ve bitch killed the boy with. You think when they catch him, the police will get my wrench?”
“I thought they didn’t know what the killer used to hit Dustin?”
“Got to be my torque wrench,” Curtis Mather sputtered. “It’s missing, ain’t it? Don’t take two and two to know that son’ve bitch must of hit the boy with my torque wrench, then.”
I glanced around the garage with its sticky floors and grungy walls. Curtis Mather followed my glance, but pointed toward the open drawer of gleaming screwdrivers. “I’d know if my tools was missing. That’s what I told the sheriff,” he added with a defensive nod. “A monkey could figure that out. Dustin were working on restoring that Malibu. Only reason he’d show up for work most days. At the time, Dustin must’ve been changing the oil. Found the socket wrench and the plug underneath him. As I figure it, Dustin’s working that wrench, loosening the oil plug, when that son’ve bitch picked up my torque wrench and popped Dustin on his noggin. Let all that oil drain all over Dustin, too. What a mess.”
He shook his head. “Couldn’t even bring his own weapon.”
I couldn’t tell what angered Curtis Mather more, the gall of the killer to take an innocent life or stealing his wrench.
“At first, maybe they thought it was an accident. But you don’t get your head split in two from changing oil. I told the sheriff that, too.”
“I guess someone must have been pretty mad with Dustin.”
“Well,” Curtis scratched the grease spot on his head, smearing it further, “that boy had a mouth on him. Pretty sneaky, too. I probably should’ve fired him, but never got ’round to it. I figure he got himself messed in something pretty bad. I don’t know nothing about it, though. Not my business.”
“Yes, sir.” See no evil, speak no evil, get in no trouble with the sheriff.
“Say, that brother of yours. He play poker? We have a friendly Texas Hold’em sometimes meets.”
I shook my head. That’s all Cody needed, another way to lose money.
“How about you? We could use some fresh blood. Just some old geezers, but you’d give us something nice to look at while we pass the cards.”
I smiled my sweetest. “I lost one man to gambling and don’t plan on wasting any more Saturday nights with a bunch of men who think sitting on their butts for hours on end staring at the same fifty-two pictures is the best thing since sliced bread.”
Curtis’ shocked look brought me up short.
“Sorry. I’ve got personal issues with poker. But thanks for asking.”
I grabbed the doorknob of the heavy metal back door and heaved it open. My brother leaned over the open hood of a beefy buttercream car with a white Landau top. Cody glanced over at me and whistled.
“Pretty, ain’t she?” He released the hood from the prop rod, but held it overhead for a last look at the car’s internals. I had yet to see him gaze at a girl like that.
“How did Dustin end up with a classic like this?”
“I don’t know.” Cody caught the falling hood in his hands before gently dropping it in place. “Don’t care. I’ve got to have this car. Swivel bucket seats. Love to take a date in that.”
“Yeah, real romantic. One problem. You don’t have the money for it. Did you tell Mr. Mather that?”
He waved his hand at unimportant considerations like money. “We’ll work something out. He mentioned needing a mechanic. Maybe he’d let me take it out of my paychecks.”
“You’ve got a good job at the dealership. This place can’t keep you in cars. Soon as the gossip about Dustin’s murder wears off, people aren’t going to need new tires from Curtis Mather.” I pinched the bridge of my nose to keep from smacking him. “Don’t make any dumb decisions.”
He raised his brows and smirked. “Like going to Vegas and getting talked into a wedding?”
“I’m about done with that old joke. Hope you find out the block’s cracked.”
Afternoon sunshine poured through my living room picture window and spread over the easel where Dustin’s unfinished painting rested. A palette of mixed colors, jar of water, and assortment of brushes waited on an elderly walnut end table draped in a paint-speckled cloth. With a thin whine of electric guitar, a heavy bass and drums thrummed through my iPod. Cold beer lingered in the avocado-green fridge in the kitchen. I stood in bare feet surveying my domain with a smile.
“I think you need to touch up the paint on your sign outside,” said Shawna, strolling through my front door with nary a knock. “Looks a little faded.”
Pursing her glossed lips, her gaze swept the living room I had converted to a studio. The bright sunlight highlighted the cracks in the plaster walls and paint dribbles on the old varnish of the ninety-year old wooden floors. Framing samples stacked against one wall hid a scorched hole that once was an outlet. Luckily, my gallery of ten by ten canvases of friends and family covered the oozy spots on the wall backing the kitchen.
It could be worse. When I moved in, we found a family of chipmunks living in a cabinet next to the fridge. And Casey wonders why I don’t cook.
“Actually, why bother?” she said. “This house should be condemned. When you get a real job, you should get a new place.”
“What do you want, Shawna?”
She wandered over to the fainting couch that sat beneath my gallery wall. She toed the claw foot with a wedge slingback. “Do you really like the whole grubby bohemian chic thing or this a statement of your expense account?”
“That’s an antique. I’m going to recover it. It’s a classic.”
“Like your truck?” She stared at the portraits adorning the wall and tapped her chin with a french-tipped nail. “I don’t see Luke in this collection. I got the feeling y’all had known each other once upon a time.”
“We’re familiar,” I said, stalking to my easel. While she eyeballed the paintings, I tossed a wet cloth over the paints and a sheet over Dustin’s portrait. Cro
ssing my arms, I stood wide legged with a foot pointing toward the door and waited for Shawna to get to the point.
“He spends a lot of time driving around Halo,” she said and wandered to my battered roll-top desk. She flicked imaginary dust off the edge and leaned against it, crossing her long legs at the ankles. The dark cropped pants and billowy, sheer top suited her. I tightened my arms across the paint-splattered wife-beater I wore for painting.
“Does he? Maybe he’s trying to wear in the tires on that new truck.”
“I think he’s looking for somebody.”
“What do you want me to tell you, Shawna? I don’t keep tabs on Luke.”
“It’s almost time for the visitation. You’d think he’d want to hang out with the family. Dustin’s mother showed up today and made a whole big ruckus.”
“Can you tell me what’s on your mind? I’m kind of busy. I’m sure you didn’t come over to shoot the breeze.”
“You got any tea? I’m dry as a bone.”
My curiosity kept me from overthrowing Grandma Josie’s breeding. Cracking open the ancient fridge, I heard thumping sounds drift from the living room. I snuck back to the living room archway and glimpsed Shawna pawing through the drawers of my desk. I thought about interrupting her search, but the roll-top only housed art supplies. Jars and bottles of paint occupied the deep bottom drawers. The desk didn’t hold much interest unless she came to borrow a cup of gesso.
I scurried back to the fridge, fixed a glass of iced tea, and ambled into the living room. Shawna sat perched on the faded quilt covering the old divan.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the mason jar I held. I had regular glasses, but I figured I’d play into the redneck theme. “Mercy, you make some good tea.”
“Thank you,” I replied in my sweetest drawl. “The key is making sure the sugar dissolves when you brew it.” I had no idea if I spoke the truth, but it sounded good. Casey always made the tea at Grandpa’s house. This jug bore the Tru-Buy label.
I grabbed a stool near the easel and plunked it before the couch. “So what brings you by, Shawna?” I crossed a leg over my knee and studied the she-devil disguised as a debutante. “Did you want to sabotage my painting like you did the other night at Cooper’s? What’d you do while I was in the kitchen? Spray paint on my canvas?”
Sweet tea shot out her nose. “I did no such thing.”
“Must of crossed your mind or the tea would’ve stayed down.” I hopped off my stool and crossed the room to the canvas sitting on the easel. Pulling off the sheet, I studied the painting. “Guess I didn’t give you enough time. Of course, you didn’t knock me out today.”
“I wasn’t going to sabotage your painting. How could you accuse me of such a thing?”
“Then why were you looking through my desk?”
“I wasn’t looking...” She stopped. “I wanted to see if the joints were dove-tailed. It looks like an antique.”
“Bullhockey.” My eyes narrowed. “Fess up.”
“Where’s Dustin stuff? I want to see what you’re doing for the shadowbox.”
“Why?” I thought of the crumpled bag in my truck with guilt. I barely skimmed through the sack the day before. Other than a few glitzy pieces of jewelry, the collection comprised of old toys and high school treasures.
“I heard Aunt Wanda telling folks about it. Virginia Springhouser claims she should have Dustin’s effects, and she hit the roof when Aunt Wanda told her about the memory box. That was after that guy came to the house, asking if he could take a look at Dustin’s room.”
“Who was this other guy?” Somewhere within my central nervous system something pinged and my nerve endings stood on high alert.
“I don’t know. Big guy with an accent. Said he was Dustin’s boss.” She matched my surly look. “I didn’t realize she gave you the shadowbox job.”
“It’s none of your business. That’s between me and Miss Wanda.”
“Dustin took some stuff from me and I want it back.”
My eyebrows took a quick trip to the top of my forehead. “Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know if I have them.”
“Just some old photos,” she said, finding sudden interest in her nails. “Where’s Dustin’s things? I’ll take a quick look. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I don’t have Dustin’s collection here. You talk to Miss Wanda and ask her if the photos were included.”
“I can’t do that.” A fiery blush licked her cheeks and crept up her face, the unfortunate consequence of fair skin. The red did make her blue-green eyes pop.
“Then I guess you’re out of luck.”
“You’re the one out of luck,” she hissed. “No way will I let you have that commission. I need JB’s support to get Paintographs licensed and trademarked.”
“You can do that on your own. You’re just trying to ruin my studio business.”
“You and your high and mighty art crap. You didn’t deserve that Rotary scholarship. You didn’t even go to a real school.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you trying to one-up me since high school. I’m a Branson. You’re nothing. Your momma didn’t even want you. Give me Dustin’s stuff. I need those photos. Now.”
“You need to leave,” I said, crossing to the door. “Now.”
“I’ll be back.” She stalked to the doorway. “I peeked at your stupid masterpiece. It’s not so special. You didn’t even make Dustin look like an angel.”
“Angel view, dummy.”
“And you suck at making tea.” She wrinkled her nose. “It tasted funny.”
I slammed the door on her back and ran through the living room to the back kitchen door leading into my carport. Sneaking between sawhorse tables piled with junk, I waited until Shawna drove off in her yellow Mustang and eased open the truck door to grab the crumpled shopping bag. I rummaged through the items, looking for photos. I hoped to find Shawna in some compromising position, but that might be a weird thing to include in a memorial shadowbox. Though I couldn’t imagine what snapshot would necessitate her breaking into people’s homes.
The phone rang and I ignored it.
A shoebox looked promising, but it mostly held random jewelry, high school medals, and two Matchbox cars.
No photos.
I tossed the shoebox back in the bag and leaned against the truck. While I’d been ignoring the memory box, both Virginia and Mr. Max had expressed interest in Dustin’s possessions, and now Shawna. Could one of them have broken into the Branson house or Dustin’s apartment or the funeral home? Shawna almost admitted to sabotaging my painting so she could secure the commission. She still figured high on my suspect list, especially after that drama-queen outburst.
I zipped back into the living room and studied the portrait again. Nothing seemed amiss. I scanned the area around the easel. A corner of something white poked out from under the cloth-draped table.
I lifted the paint-splattered cloth. A tube of Alizarin Crimson lay crumpled on the floor. Sucking in my breath, I yanked the paper-towel off the palette. Gobs of red paint had been mashed into my prepared mixes with a good sable brush, now ruined. And a new round brush I used for detail work was missing.
“That bitch,” I said to Dustin the painting. “At least she didn’t touch you. I shouldn’t have turned my back on her. She worked fast.”
I snorted. But so did I. Her tea tasted funny because I spiked it with ipecac syrup.
Before I could cross the room to clean my palette, my phone rang again. Stomping to the roll-top, I checked the Caller ID. Casey. I watched the face of the phone for the voicemail sign to pop up. No voicemail. I glanced over my shoulder at the painting. The phone buzzed on the desktop a third time.
“I need a ride to work,” said Casey when I finally
answered.
“Last time I checked, that’s not my problem.”
“Come on, Cherry. Cody took my car, and he’s not back yet.”
“Cody is running your car on gas fumes? Where’s Grandpa?”
“Fishing. Been gone all day.”
“And Cody’s car?”
“Something about flushing the radiator and he forgot to buy coolant. The hood is up and a pan sitting underneath it. He left it to finish. That was three days ago.”
“He better not have left old coolant sitting out. If Tater drinks it, it could kill him.”
Casey yawned. “Naw. Grandpa already yelled at him to get rid of it. Tater’s just fine. Eating the blueberry bushes as we speak.”
“When do you have to be at Red’s?”
“Five o’clock.”
I heaved a deep sigh. That was a little over an hour. I could start work on painting, but I’d spend much of that time remixing the paint Shawna ruined. “I have an idea. I need to work on the memory box anyway. I’ll bring it over, and you can help me sort the stuff.”
“Deal,” she said “I’ll get you some wings or something at Red’s to pay you back.”
My stomach heard “wings” and spasmed with joy. I changed out of my painting clothes and scooted out the door with a final look back at the portrait.
“Looks like I’ll be painting you in the dark once again, Dustin.” I thought for a minute. “Maybe Casey and I better take a hard look through your stuff while we’re at it. I’d love to find some nekkid pictures of Shawna in flagrante delicto. That would make this day so much better.”
Impatience rode the gas pedal to the farm. My timeliness was rewarded with Tater galloping toward me. His stiff tail wagged at the yellow truck’s entrance. With brakes pumping, the Datsun shimmied into a crawl down the long gravel lane. The large goat criss-crossed the drive before me, bleating joyously. We continued our game of chicken, creeping toward the house. I jammed the gearshift into park and laid on the horn. Two white hooves slammed against my driver side window and a narrow white head followed. I waited for Tater to finish licking the window and eased open the door. Before I could get a foot on the ground, he pushed his giant head through the open door and stood on his hind legs, shoving his front end onto my lap.
1 Portrait of a Dead Guy Page 10
