Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery)

by Reinhart, Larissa

  Delia’s hand landed behind Nik’s neck. He straightened and gulped his tea, allowing Delia another reason to scoot toward him to refill his glass.

  “Pictograph parties?” I said.

  Delia giggled. “Isn’t Shawna clever? I do jewelry parties to make a little mad money. We convinced that client list to also host parties to show Shawna’s art.”

  “Very clever.” Shawna had a foothold in every soccer mom’s house in the county.

  “Didn’t you also have a little art business, Cherry?” Delia’s fingers dallied with Nik’s collar.

  Nik scooted forward, finding sudden interest in the coffee table.

  “If I don’t have these pictures, can you think of someone else who might have them?” I said, ignoring the cut about my failing art studio. “Would Shawna have lent them to a friend and forgotten?”

  “Shawna has an excellent memory. I doubt that.”

  “Could she have misplaced them and thought someone took them?”

  “If Shawna says you have her pictures, then you have them.”

  Delia made Nik look like a brilliant conversationalist.

  “I don’t have them,” I said. “That’s why I’ve come to you for help. I don’t even know the subject of these pictures. Or if they are even drawings or photos.”

  “Shawna doesn’t draw. Of course, they’re photos.”

  At least someone admitted Shawna couldn’t draw.

  A phone rang in another room. Delia glanced behind her. “Excuse me.”

  I waited until she left the room to stand. “This was a waste of time.”

  “The tea is good,” said Nik. He tipped back his glass and swallowed the remaining liquid.

  “How many glasses have you had? I’m driving to the next stop.” I circled the room, agitated. “How can these people ruin my reputation? It’s akin to the patients running the psych unit.”

  Nik rose and crossed the room to join me before the fireplace. He pointed to the photographs on the mantel. “Which one is Shawna?”

  “She’s in nearly all of them. Giant red head with boobs. Take your pick of age.” I wrinkled my nose at the frames. Her prom photo featured one of my high school boyfriends. Next to it was a framed, faded snapshot of a red haired toddler with a younger version of Delia and a dark haired man. They stood next to a set of clubs, the Line Creek golf course recognizable in the background. “That must be Billy Branson. Shawna’s daddy.”

  “The golfer,” said Nik.

  “Yep. That’s one thing Shawna and I have in common. Neither of us had a daddy growing up. Which should make us get along better. ‘Course, mine passed and hers left.” I cast an eye toward the entry Delia had disappeared through. “At least Delia stuck around to raise Shawna. Not that she did a very good job.”

  “Let’s go,” said Nik. “This woman make me nerves.”

  “She makes me nerves, too. You’re right. Miss Delia’s not going to help me stop Shawna.”

  We didn’t wait for Delia to return, which would have gotten me a talking-to from my Grandma Jo. Politeness requires you to say your goodbyes and thank yous before leaving. However, I didn’t respect Delia and was starting to feel my effort to be polite in this county didn’t make much of a difference anyway. The people of Forks County, at least the ones who could be paying customers, had formed an opinion of me twenty years ago.

  I wasn’t sure if there was much I could do to change their minds now.

  Twenty-Four

  “What am I going to do, Nik?” I said while adjusting the driver’s seat to accommodate my lack of height. “Shawna’s mother has a voice in the Tupperware community. I had hoped to live in this county for the rest of my life. Now in every shop I enter, people point at me like I walked off a Most Wanted poster. I can’t count on Mr. Max’s show to prove I’m not disreputable. Controversy kills deals in this area.”

  Nik slouched in the passenger seat, put out that I made him turn over the keys. “You are born, you live, you die. You drink vodka and forget.”

  “That is a horrible attitude,” I said. “My family history makes living in Halo an uphill battle. I had finally made some progress. I went to college and returned to start my own business. Last year at this time, I was hand lettering wedding announcements and painting studio portraits. I wasn’t getting rich, but at least I was getting by.”

  “So now you paint my boss and get rich. Who cares what these people think?”

  “I care. They’re my people. I could do without the Bransons, but most in this county are decent folks. Problem is, the Bransons set the standard for acceptable behavior. At least one of them is on every blooming committee and town council. Plus they own a lot of property and businesses. People respect the name and like their money.”

  “So find the Branson who will help you.”

  I pumped the brakes and cranked the wheel, spinning a U-turn in the subdivision street. “Nik. You are a genius.”

  “You are still crazy lady.”

  Twenty minutes later, Nik and I popped out of the town car in another subdivision, this time outside Halo. Stone and stucco house. Bigger, manicured yard. More money. The big house of Branson, belonging to JB and Wanda. Also the current residence of Deputy Luke Harper as he stockpiled his meager salary before getting his own place. He also liked to please his mother, Wanda, and after seven years in the service, she wanted some family time with her only son.

  “Nik,” I said, pressing the doorbell. “This visit will be even trickier.”

  “Will this woman have hands on me, too?”

  “No, of course not. Miss Wanda was my Sunday School teacher. She’s a sweet lady and Luke’s momma.”

  “Who is Luke?”

  “My ex. Except he never told his mother and stepfather we were dating, so Miss Wanda doesn’t know he’s my ex-boyfriend. She just knows me from town.”

  “This is tricky part?”

  “Tricky part is I once did a painting of her deceased stepson. It’s complicated and her husband, JB, doesn’t like me. Not sure if it’s because I remind him of his son who passed or because he didn’t have a high opinion of my family before I did the portrait.”

  “Your town politics are very confusing. Worse than Communists.”

  Behind the wavy, leaded glass of the front door, a blurry form approached. A moment later, the door opened and Miss Wanda stood before us in a capri pant set featuring beach umbrellas and pink flamingos. Her short, wavy hair had been covered in a ball cap that didn’t jive with the rest of her outfit. Upon opening the door, her blue eyes grew wide. She snagged my arm and dragged me inside. Nik followed, shutting the door behind us.

  “Thank the merciful Lord,” she said. “Look.” She pulled off her ball cap and turned around. Her blond hair had been highlighted with multicolored streaks of paint.

  “What happened?” I said, fingering her hair. The paint had dried in a lovely pattern. “I like these colors. What are you working on?”

  “Oh honey, this is why I always hire out.” Tears welled in Wanda’s eyes. “Shawna asked me to help her with a project, but I’m no good at crafts. I had hung some posters up to dry. I got paint all over my clothes, but didn’t realize it was also in my hair until I went to run a brush through it before going out.”

  “You can get this out easily, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve had paint in my hair many times. If it’s water-based, it’ll wash out. For oil based paint you can use olive oil. Rub it in, leave it on for a while, then comb it out. But how exactly did you get paint on the back of your head?”

  “I backed into the poster when the danged dog jumped up to lick me. I have no idea what kind of paint it is.”

  I giggled. “Let me see the paint you used. By the way, this is my friend Nik. He’s driving me around while he works on my truck.”

  “Nice to meet you, Nick,” said Wanda, blushing. “I am so sorry you had to see me like this.”

  Nik bobbed his head at Wanda and followed us through the foyer to the back of the house and into the
kitchen. We stepped through a sliding glass door onto a screened porch where Wanda had taped a line of poster board against the wall of the house. Two posters were a smeary mess. The rest advertised the Concerned Citizens Committee for Decency in Art. At least, that’s what I picked out from the drippy lettering.

  I cut my eyes to Wanda. “Decency in Art?”

  She was too concerned about her poor painting job to pick up on the intended victim of the campaign. “Some Arts Council meeting, I suppose,” she said. “I cannot paint or draw worth a lick. Look at these. I’m going to have to tell Shawna that she needs to find someone else. Oh, dear.”

  “Usually folks use markers for posters. Or poster paint,” I walked to her patio table and examined the cans of paint she had used. “This is wall paint, ma’am. At least it’s latex. You can wash it out.”

  “I didn’t have anything else and no time to run to the Crafty Corner,” Wanda patted her cheeks and shook her head. “Mercy, what a mess.”

  She clutched my arm. “Cherry, can you please help me? I’ll pay you.”

  “Miss Wanda, I’m not sure.” I didn’t know what to say. Should I clue her in to what this meeting was about?

  “Please, Cherry. You do such a good job. I feel so bad about what happened with Dustin.” Her voice broke and fresh tears welled in her eyes. Her stepson had been laid to rest only six months earlier.

  “Miss Tucker has commission now with Rupert Agadzinoff, famous lawyer in Atlanta,” said Nik. He stood with his back to us, looking out upon the backyard vista that included a pool and garden.

  “Please, honey,” said Wanda. “I know it won’t take you but a minute. And you have all the supplies at home.”

  “Cherry should help this fascist, Shawna?” said Nik, shaking his head. “No.”

  “Stop it, Nik.” I made a mental note to not let Nik drink sweet tea vodka anymore.

  “I don’t know Shawna’s politics,” said Wanda. “But I don’t believe the arts committee has any political affiliation. It would mean so much to me personally.”

  “How many posters?” I said, sighing. I could not turn down a woman as sweet as Miss Wanda. Or humiliate myself by explaining the true subject of the posters. Even if it meant digging my own grave.

  Wanda pulled me into a soft hug. “Thank you so much, honey. I’ll pick them up.”

  “I’ll drop them off,” I said. I didn’t want Miss Wanda showing up at my house and greeted by Todd in a towel.

  “You are too sweet,” she said and released me from her hold. “Don’t you go to too much trouble. Shawna said I just need the time, date, and title. She gave me a folder of photos to glue to the bottom of the poster.”

  “Did you look at the pictures?” I couldn’t believe what I had just agreed to do. Maybe I could swap photos.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I had a hard enough time with the lettering. I thought it would be pretty to use different colors, but then it got all runny and I forgot to use a ruler. Well, you can see for yourself.” She waved at the messes on the wall.

  I glanced at the table and scooped up the file folder before Wanda could peruse it. “I’ll just take this with me.”

  “Thank you, honey,” said Wanda. “I have choir practice and a garden club committee yet today. Looks like I’ll need to run to the salon, too.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t let them use turpentine or mineral spirits. If you color, those chemicals will ruin your hair.”

  Wanda patted her blond, streaky locks. “Of course I color, honey. But thank you for not mentioning it in public.”

  She drew my arm through her elbow to walk me back through the kitchen. “Where are my manners? I didn’t even ask why y’all dropped by.”

  Nik trailed behind us. “The fascist Shawna believes Cherry stole photos.”

  I glanced behind me to shoot Nik a “shut-it” look. “Excuse Nik. His English is not so good. What he means is Shawna has mistakenly gotten the impression I have some of her pictures and she’s a tad miffed. I had hoped you might dissuade her from thinking this.”

  “You mean you have some of Shawna’s Pictographs?”

  “I don’t know what pictures are missing,” I said. “It would be helpful if you could ask her. A Pictograph is awfully hard to misplace. I know I don’t have one of those. I got the impression that the missing pictures are photos.”

  Lord help me, I’d put my eyes out before possessing a Pictograph.

  We sauntered arm in arm down the hall and into the foyer. Hanging on the wall was a grouping of family portraits. A few matted and framed photographs from Wanda and JB’s wedding. An oil of Dustin as a youngster grasping a bunny. And a photo of a young Luke, clutching a football. His smile didn’t feature dimples, which saddened me. He had mentioned to me his unhappiness with his mother’s remarriage to JB and gaining Dustin as a stepbrother. It seemed evident even at this young age.

  Wanda glanced at the photos. “I could never get Luke to sit still for a painting. I felt lucky enough to get a few shots of him.”

  I knew how she felt. Luke refused to model for me even when we were going out. “He was such a handsome child. Those gray eyes and that thick, wavy hair. I would kill for those eyelashes.”

  “He always was an old soul and so serious. My baby is too handsome for his own good,” she said, shaking her head. “The way women throw themselves at him.”

  What women? I bit my tongue before I could ask. “Good luck with your hair, ma’am.”

  Nik gave her a brief bow and strode out the doorway, muttering something about the bourgeoisie. I followed and opened the passenger door for him. “What happened to stand still and look pretty? You can’t call Shawna a fascist. You don’t even know her.”

  “You call Shawna names,” he said. “Why can’t I call her names?”

  “Because I have earned that right, growing up around her. You have a lot to learn about America, son.”

  Twenty-Five

  After dropping off a pizza at the Coderres, I felt Nik had earned a reprieve from errand running. Jerell had held the air rifle on Nik while I carried in the pizza and checked on Miss Gladys. She had been agitated and the house looked messier than usual. My worry had augmented when a woman in the next trailer leaned out her front door to screech at us. Miss Gladys had patted my hand and told me, “not to trouble myself.”

  Miss Gladys’s hand pat did not reassure me. In fact, it doubled my worries. But at least being held at BB gunpoint by an eight-year-old had stopped Nik’s ramblings about political despots. After a stop at home to change my clothes, I rewarded him with a trip to Red’s. Sticks played at Red’s County Line Tap on Friday nights. The bar would be packed, and Red’s was a safe haven from the Branson ugliness. I needed to bask in the warmth of friendship.

  We arrived early. Most of the stools lining the old, wooden bar were empty. The local youth and barflies would show later when the dinner crowd dispersed. However, at the far end of the long, narrow bar, a rabble of women crowded around the small stage, shrieking and laughing.

  I hadn’t realized the Sticks fan base had grown. But between Leah’s golden chops and an improvement in the coherency of Todd’s lyrics, perhaps word had gotten out. And Todd’s hiney did look good in his black leather-like pants. I put that thought away and searched for my buddies.

  Leah sat at the bar, sipping a Dr. Pepper and chatting with Red. She had unbraided her extensions to cascade down her back in dark waves. Seeing Nik and I, she waved us over. I cast a critical eye over her choice for performance attire. Tonight she wore belted, high-waisted mom-jeans and a lacy, formless blouse, but her red stilettos sauced up the frumpy style. She and her mother would still buy Leah’s clothes from the Miss Modest Line at the local department store if the line produced sizes above age twelve.

  Of course with my shrimpy size, I could possibly squeeze into a Miss Modest. But I wasn’t into smocking and Peter Pan collars. I had my own line of Cherry Tucker clothing, mostly pieces from Walmart retrofitted with bling, dye, and a pair
of scissors. Tonight’s ensemble included a gossamer-thin blouse worn over a tube top decorated with multicolored, micro-beads spelling out my name. Nik’s expression proved him impressed. Or disturbed. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell those expressions apart.

  Hauling Nik with me, I plunked my poster materials on the bar, snagged a stool next to Leah, and introduced Nik to the surrounding folks.

  “You’re a chauffeur?” said Red. He leaned a freckled arm on the wooden bar top and studied Nik. Red turned his cobalt green eyes on me. “Why do you have a driver? Did your truck die?”

  I cast a scathing glance to Nik. “I hope not. My new boss is a little overprotective of my choice in transit.”

  “Can’t blame him there,” said Red. “The Datsun could leave you stranded in the city.”

  “I’m stranded in the country. The Datsun’s lying in pieces in my patron’s garage.”

  “Heavens,” said Leah. “I guess you’ll be staying home tomorrow.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I’ve got things to do. I need to visit the Coderres. I also might have to work at the SipNZip.”

  Red shoved Nik a beer and placed a frosty mug before me. “You got a job at the SipNZip?” He didn’t bother to take the incredulousness out of his voice. “I thought Todd was looking for a job.”

  “Where is Todd, by the way?” I said. “Did he squeeze into his pleather yet? I seriously fear those pants will inhibit his ability to produce offspring. However, that might also be a blessing.”

  “He’s signing autographs,” said Leah, “over by the stage.”

  “Autographs?” I leaned back in my seat so I could see the stage. The crowd had swelled and a few women on the outer ring jumped up and down to catch Todd’s attention. I could barely see the top of his sun-streaked blond locks over the gaggle of women.

  “I don’t know where this surge in his popularity came from,” said Red. “To be honest, I’m a little annoyed. These fans aren’t buying anything. I’m going to have to start charging a cover.”