1 Portrait of a Dead Guy

by Larissa Reinhart

  “Very quiet in terms of the law?”

  “The law?” Max narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what you imply.”

  “I imply that I’ve heard a thing or two about you.”

  “I hope what you learned was pleasurable.” He grunted and lifted a thick eyebrow, returning my scrutiny. “I imply that it should be.”

  “Touché,” I said, thrilled with the chance to use movie French.

  “Maybe you’d like to see my collection. It’s quite extensive.”

  I thought about Dustin’s effects and Mr. Max’s request to see Dustin’s room. “Do you collect belt buckles?”

  “I collect all manner of items related to your war between the American states. Did you know it’s considered the first modern war?”

  “I don’t know much about that. But I do know Manet’s exhibition about the same time is considered the first modern painting.”

  “Le Déjeuner Sur L’Herbe.” A smile creased the long lines in his broad face. “You know art history well.”

  “From school. But here’s how I remembered the painting: ‘a naked chick picnicking with two guys in suits.’” I laughed and broke out in goosebumps. I was trash talking Manet with a murder suspect running an illegal gambling establishment in his basement.

  “Now what could you two be talking about?” Luke strolled from the side door. “Cherry, shouldn’t you be running along now? Painting’s done and delivered. I’ll make sure you are paid.”

  “I’m having a private conversation.”

  Luke moved around me to stand next to Max. “Mr. Avtaikin, we’re going to finish the service at the cemetery. If you’d like to join us, you can ride with me.”

  “Don’t you need to ride in the limo with your parents?” I glanced toward the Branson clan convening by the doorway. “Besides, Shawna’ll be disappointed.”

  “So she said.”

  “Caught up on all the Eagles news, then?”

  “No, I’d rather drive myself.” Luke glanced at Max, hoping he’d take his offer for a ride and scoop me on information about the Bear.

  “It is very hospitable of you to offer me a ride, but no thank you. Artist, I did not receive your name.” He held out his hand. “Maksim Avtaikin. Some call me Max.”

  Luke threw me an irritated look. I tossed one back.

  “My name is Cherrilyn Tucker.” Max’s hand swallowed mine. “I hope to know more about you,” I paused to emphasize the next word, “Bear.”

  “Cherry,” Luke rolled his eyes.

  Max ignored Luke, focusing his piercing blue eyes on me. “You know my name means bear. It is my, what you call, nickname. I look like a bear, no?” He pawed the air and tossed his large head back with a laugh. “So I can call you by your nickname, too? Cherry?”

  I bit my lip. “I guess so.”

  “Okay. Time to go,” Luke nudged me with his foot.

  “Au revoir, mon Cherry?” Max teased and lifted my hand to his mouth.

  “Come on, man,” Luke sighed with disgust. “Really?”

  Max dropped my hand with a laugh. “Just a joke, friend. Her name makes a good use of words.”

  “Bear,” I said. “I was wondering about your relationship with Dustin. Just how well did you know him?”

  “Enough, Cherry,” Luke grabbed my arm. “Goodbye, Mr. Avtaikin. Very nice to meet you.” Luke yanked me toward the door.

  “He didn’t get to answer the question.” I called over my shoulder, “We’ll continue this another time.”

  “You may count on it,” said Max. “I’ll ask around after you. I want to know more about you, artist.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Why are you provoking Mr. Avtaikin?” Luke muttered as we frog-marched to the parking lot. “You’re dumber than Todd McIntosh. You two deserve each other.”

  “What are you talking about?” I shook my arm from Luke’s hold. “I was just trying to get information.”

  “You weren’t getting squat.” Luke gripped my shoulders. “Stop this. I know you suspect Mr. Avtaikin and Pete, but this is not how you go about getting intelligence. He was just flirting with you anyway.”

  “It wasn’t flirting. You should have heard our banter. It was like something from a 007 movie. I got to say touché.”

  “Oh my God.” Luke dropped my arms to smack his forehead. “You are certifiable. Please, just go home. I’ve got to go to the cemetery and hold my mother together. This day just continues to be one long nightmare.”

  “Where’s Virginia?”

  “Hopefully she hightailed it back to Sweetgum with Darren. More than likely she’s waiting at the cemetery. Why?”

  “She left Amos behind. Not that he noticed. He’s higher than a kite,” I squinted in thought. “Butterbean said Virginia wouldn’t come to the funeral unless she was paid. Do you think someone paid her, knowing she’d disrupt everything?”

  “I don’t know about that. But leave it alone. I’ll worry about Virginia. Stay away from her and Mr. Avtaikin. And Creepy Pete. No more questioning. You don’t know how to do it anyway.”

  I watched him retreat into the circle of Bransons standing in the foyer. Luke couldn’t order me to not ask questions. I had a name to clear. No one would commission portraits from an artist who had dead bodies constantly dumped on her. All of Halo probably thought I was into performance art.

  “Why don’t you ride with me, Mr. Avtaikin?” I mimicked in a nasty drawl. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know because I’m Luke Harper and I’m just so good at everything I do.”

  Luke said he’d make sure I’d get paid, but I didn’t count on it. The only person who appreciated my painting today was Max Avtaikin. That thought depressed me. Reaching the sidewalk, I realized I had passed the Datsun.

  I jumped on the sidewalk as a mass exodus of cars poured from the parking lot intent on following the hearse through stoplights. I watched the cars depart as I fumed. Who did Luke think he was, calling me ineffective? I found out Dustin worked as a heavy for the Bear. Everyone else thought it was a drug deal, but poker connected Dustin to Mr. Max.

  I sucked in my breath. Grandpa said they believed the murder resulted from drug deals in the tire shop. Could Max be the distributor, Virginia the maker, and Dustin, the middleman? I needed to talk Cody out of working for Curtis Mather.

  But Creepy Pete didn’t connect Mr. Max to drugs. Then who killed Dustin? Creepy Pete? He seemed jealous of the relationship between Max and Dustin. I could picture Dustin mouthing off and Pete clocking him. Or maybe Luke was right about his stepdad. Would JB be so embarrassed by Dustin that he’d kill his own son?

  Or did sweet Miss Wanda turn on her stepson, causing Luke to protect her by fixing the murder on JB? Luke certainly didn’t like me asking questions. He made that plenty clear. However, Miss Wanda taught Sunday School. She knew the Ten Commandments pretty well. I remembered Thou Shall Not Kill in there somewhere.

  I wanted Shawna involved just so I could shove it back in JB’s face. Although maybe that was wishful, not logical, thinking.

  And what was the killer searching for? The same thing Dustin was hunting? Or something like Shawna’s photos? Maybe Dustin caught her trading spit with someone important. A blackmail deal would be motive for murder.

  I watched the last car bump over the sidewalk and onto the road. The blacktop looked lonely in the late morning sun. No cars, no funeral, just a peaceful lot on an ordinary day. I flicked a glance right and left, closed my eyes, opened them, and looked again.

  “Aw, hell. Somebody took my truck.”

  TWELVE

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Casey,” I said. “I give you rides all the time.”

  “Grandma Jo’s show is on,” Casey said, peering out her driver’s side window. She swept a hand over
her head, and her fake Ray Bans fell off her crown to land on her nose. Squinting at a white minivan in the Sonic drive-in lot, she shook her ponytail. “That’s Brandi. That girl needs some help. Like she needs cheese tots on those hips.”

  Casey rolled her window down and called to a girl reaching for a drink off the loaded tray in her window. “They got salads there now, Brandi. The grilled chicken one is pretty good.”

  I ignored her dubious nutritional Samaritanism and led her back to her own failings. “Grandma Jo is dead. She’s been missing her shows near about ten years now.”

  “I watch them for her.”

  “Don’t blame your TV addiction on a spiritual communion with your dead grandma.” My stomach uttered a protest as Casey turned onto Highway 19.

  “Why does your body make that God-awful sound whenever we hit the blacktop?” Slanting a look toward me, she gunned the motor of her Pontiac Firebird. My head slammed against the fabric seat. I wrestled the seatbelt off my neck and pushed it over my shoulder.

  “My stomach knows where I’m going. What did Cody do to your engine?” I eyed her black t-shirt and skinny jeans for signs of midday cooking. “Speaking of tater tots, if you’re making me come to the farm, are you going to feed me?”

  “Mac-n-cheese?”

  “Homemade or box?”

  The sunglasses barely hid her kohl-lined eye roll. “Like Grandpa would allow box. Homemade. Leftover from dinner. With ham and pimento.”

  “Now that sounds nice. I didn’t get to eat all my wings last night.”

  Casey flashed me a wicked grin. “Eat anything else?”

  “Don’t be trashy. I’m a perfect example of clean living.”

  “It’s not trashy to make out with Luke Harper in front of God and the world in the County Line doorway?”

  “Shut up.”

  I folded my arms over my chest and stared out the front window. A thick stretch of Loblolly pines flashed by. Their wispy trunks stretching toward the sky calmed me. Sun-dappled fields half grazed by horses filled the open spaces between the spindly pine forests. I had a sudden urge toward the contemplative life of a landscape painter. I could see myself sitting quietly in a pasture with my easel, more Courbet’s Realism than Monet’s Impressionism

  “What I want to know is what happened after Todd showed up at your place,” Casey continued.

  “How did you know Todd showed up?”

  “He wandered into Red’s after work as usual. He saw your truck in the parking lot and ran in like a dog after a bone. Felt so sorry for him, we thought we’d help him out. Todd perked right up. Finished his beer faster than usual to see if you made it home all right. He reckoned you must have walked.”

  “You didn’t tell him that I got a ride with Luke?” Or what Luke and I had been doing in Red’s vestibule?

  “Hell, no. What would be the fun in that? We laid bets to see which one might show back at the County Line. Red bet on Todd. Jackson on Luke. I said it’d be you. Said you’d probably kick both of ’em out for making you frazzled, and you’d hike back to Red’s pitching a fit and wanting more food. But nobody showed up.” She pursed her lips. “Two men in one night? I want details!”

  I grasped the armrest as the Firebird skidded in a tight turn onto the gravel lane leading to the farm. We bumped along the long drive, churning dust. The dopey-eyed horses lining the fenced lane watched our progress. Alerted to our arrival, Tater bounced up from a nap under the oak and waited. Of course, he never played chicken with Casey.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. I had a painting to finish, which I did with Todd’s help as a model. Luke brought me home and ate some wings. That kiss was a singular moment of passion that quickly fizzled when we remembered that he’s a dog and I’m no …”

  “Angel?”

  “That’d be you. No, I’m no teenager looking for his kind of thrill.”

  I didn’t need the town hearing I got rejected by Luke when they already thought Todd dumped me on our wedding day.

  “That’s true. You’re certainly not a teenager.” Casey grinned and jammed the gearshift into park. “Is that why you’re still letting Todd McIntosh hang around? Maybe you should think about settling down before the gray hairs accumulate.”

  I shot her a look before popping the car door. Tater caught me half bent and managed to shove his nose into my shirtsleeve. I pushed him off. “Give me a break. You’re older than me. I don’t see you settling down.”

  “Ah.” She slammed the door shut. “Got to have someone to settle down with, right?”

  I followed her into the kitchen, where the radio blasted the farm report. Grandpa sat ramrod straight with his bony arms crossed and a can of tobacco on the table next to him. He squinted at me as I walked in.

  “What’re you doing here? Is it dinner time already?”

  I leaned over the counter to turn down the radio. “Grandpa, you need to get your hearing checked.”

  “What for? And hear about you pillaging cemeteries?”

  “I didn’t pillage a cemetery. I got caught in a funeral home. Don’t worry. I’m going to figure out who really tried to rob Dustin and clear our name.”

  “You should have thought about that before you broke into Cooper’s.” Grandpa picked up his can of tobacco and tapped it on the table. “Casey, are you going to make me dinner?”

  “For goodness sake.” Casey flipped around from her trek to the living room and stalked to the refrigerator. “Why can’t you two get your own food?”

  “Tell me, little Miss Britches, whose house are you living in?”

  “I’ll get the food,” I grumbled. “Doesn’t anybody care my truck is gone?”

  “That piece of crap finally die?” The screen door slammed into the wall. Cody tramped in and kicked Wanda’s shopping bag on the floor. “What happened? I just dropped it off this morning.”

  “It’s not dead, it’s missing. So you didn’t take it either? Maybe I better call the police.”

  “The police?” Cody grunted. “They’re not going to find your truck. Who’d want to spend time looking for that piece of junk? Just call your insurance and maybe you’ll get some money for a new one.”

  My eyes glimmered at that thought and then considered the Datsun’s worth. “I couldn’t even put together a down payment with what they’d give me. No, I’ll call Uncle Will and ask him to keep an eye out for it.”

  “Why would somebody steal that truck?” Casey slung several plates on the counter. “It’s old and falling apart. Besides, everybody in town knows it’s yours. You’ve been driving it since high school.”

  “Exactly.” I plopped on a chair next to Grandpa.

  He spun the tobacco can on the table and glanced at me. “Somebody stole your truck? Where’d you have it parked? That’s what happens when you hang out at bars. You kids play too wild.”

  “It was parked at Cooper’s. Can’t get more safe than that, I would think.”

  “Cooper’s?” Cody slid into the seat across from me. “You were at Cooper’s today? For the Branson funeral? I heard it got pretty interesting.”

  Casey pivoted from the counter. “Interesting how?”

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms, readying myself for telling the story of the year. “Oh, let’s see. Y’all know JB’s first wife, Virginia Springhouser? Doesn’t live in Halo, but hangs out in Sweetgum some. I guess she planned on avoiding the funeral service because of some altercation at the visitation. But she showed up anyway with Amos Fewe and a kid claiming to be Dustin’s brother.”

  “Amos Fewe?” Grandpa leaned back in his chair and scratched his cheek. “Don’t know him.”

  “Lives in Sweetgum, keeps bees, and sells wacky tobacky on the side,” Cody explained.

  “I thought it was meth,” I said.

  “Naw
, I think someone else was mixing meth there. Burned their trailer down.”

  “Anyway.” I stared at Cody for a beat, wondering where he got his information. “Amos was three sheets to the wind. Virginia stomped in like a bull ready for a red flag, hollering at Cooper because he didn’t usher her in when he didn’t know she was there. Then, she gets in an argument with JB. And her son, or whoever he is, gets in a fight with Charlie Turnbuckle. All this before Pastor Earlie can spout any scripture.”

  “No way,” Casey stared at me. “Two fights at a funeral? I thought the Bransons were rich.”

  “Rich doesn’t buy you class,” said Grandpa.

  “Poor doesn’t buy class either,” I pointed out.

  “From what I heard, you were part of that altercation,” Cody raised his eyebrows at Grandpa.

  “Cherrilyn. First I heard you were breaking and entering and robbing the dead, now this? Did I raise you to fight at funerals?”

  “No, sir.” I glowered at Cody. “I was not involved in a fight. I accidentally got in the way of this Darren and Charlie Turnbuckle when they were wrestling.”

  “I heard one of them knocked you out. You fell right into the coffin. Shawna Branson tried to save you but was too late.”

  “That’s not what happened. Shawna Branson did nothing to help me.”

  “Cherrilyn B. Tucker. Your grandmother is rolling in her grave.” Grandpa swiped the can off the table and shoved it in his pocket. Laying an arm on the laminate tabletop, he leaned into our conversation and riveted his focus on me.

  “Tell them what started the fight,” Cody snickered.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Where’re you going with this, Cody?”

  “Turns out the fight started because the Bransons set up some paintings of Dustin. One picture of a dead guy was so God-awful creepy, people started pitching fits. Virginia went insane with shock. Old women were fainting. Kids screaming. Young guys started fighting. And Cherry’s right there in the middle of it, trying so hard to defend her painting, she gets knocked in a coffin.”