“Hey, Max, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m heading downstairs,” I answered, in my chirpy customer service voice. Always make the art patron happy. Even when you’ve found a dead man earlier that day.
“You must hurry.” His growl almost disguised his Slavic accent. “I need your help with this rock star idiot.”
“Come again? I thought Bob Bass was your friend. Why else would you bet to have a winning portrait made? Who does that?”
“He is the business associate.” The Bear’s growl took a turn toward abashed. “Our bet was the mistake created by too much vodka. In truth, he tries my patience. The man lives on flattery. That is not something I do well. He also likes to give too much—what you call?—trashing talk.”
“Talking trash. Bob Bass is an international star and adored by every gun lover in the country for his stance on the right to bear arms.” My voice shook. Meeting Bob Bass was going to be the high point in my wretched day. “Trash talk’s natural with competitors.”
“I also believe in this American right, but do you see me on the television proclaiming I am the hunting expert? In my country, we hunt to feed our family. I know hunting. Bob Bass grew up in Beverly Hills. What does he know?”
“Beverly Hills? I thought he grew up in the hills of Kentucky. Or was it a West Virginia coal mine?” I squeezed my eyes shut to help pry facts from my memory. “I know, a Louisiana bayou.”
“Songs,” Max spat. “His grandfather was lipstick tycoon and his mother was the actress.”
“You are really bursting my bubble. I love Bob Bass.”
“You love the idea of the Bob Bass. The real Bob Bass is Fortnum Robert Bassler the third. He hired the PR firm after his first album didn’t sell. They discovered the rural population enjoys his music. So they reinvented Bob Bass as the big hunter.”
“How do you know this?”
“I made it my business to know.”
“What business?”
“My own.”
I recognized the defensive tone disguised as swagger. “Bob Bass plays poker in your secret casino, doesn’t he? You had him investigated. You better keep in mind, your friendly wager for the winning portrait might lose you a rich customer.”
“I am spending much money on you this weekend, Artist. That does not include your advice.”
“Very true,” I said quickly. “And even though you have destroyed the enjoyment I once had in Bob Bass’s music, I will do my best to flatter the rural interloper and get you through the weekend.”
“Perhaps he will have you appear on the television show with the reality of himself.”
“You mean his reality show,” I corrected. Max’s English sometimes disappeared between the Carpathians and the Appalachians.
“It is too bad Bass’s filming of this weekend will portray his defeat.”
I could imagine Max’s icy blue eyes gleaming with excitement. A mocking smile would flash across his normally stoic features.
The man took to competition the way a cougar takes to a limping deer. I had a feeling this supposed “trash talk” was of the personal variety.
“My people, we have the history of great hunters...”
I switched off Max’s rattle about the prowess of Slavic sportsmen and waited for a pause to change the subject. “I have a funny feeling about Mr. Abel.”
“Who is Mr. Abel? Is he also in the hunt? My last count was six contestants.”
I took a deep breath to block the image of a body from my head. “Mr. Abel is the man I found in the creek.”
“Ah.” Max paused. “I am sorry. Of course, you must be distressed over this tragedy. What is the funny feeling?”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. “But I don’t think Mr. Abel took a drunken spill into that ravine. For one thing, he would have gotten pretty damn hammered in a short amount of time, because when I met him earlier that night, he wasn’t drunk.”
“It depends on the drink and the person’s condition.”
I wasn’t easily dissuaded. “And another thing. His hat fell off on top of the ridge, but the body was in the creek, facing up. He fell backward. How does the hat fall forward if the body falls backward?”
“What are you saying?”
“According to Rookie Holt, Abel wasn’t liked by anyone.”
“You suspect the foul play? You do have the habit of jumping the conclusions, Artist. A social misfit does not make the strong motive for murder.”
“But I saw Mr. Abel’s face, Bear.” I fought back tears. “He looked scared. That also does not jive with the man I met earlier.”
Max pulled in a breath. “Of course, if he fell...”
“And Hogzilla didn’t scare him. The Big Rack’s outfitter said the giant hog was on a different part of the property. The rootings weren’t fresh enough.”
“So the beast was spotted on property? Excellent.” Max caught himself with a cough. “I see. The police are investigating? You told them your concerns?”
“Well, yes, I guess.”
“Then you have done your duty. Do not worry yourself needlessly. It is sad thing, of course, but there is nothing more you can do. I will see you soon.”
“But I need to do something. The police act like they’re writing this off.” I spoke to a dial tone.
I hung up and palmed my phone, ready to snap it shut, when I noticed my thumb, once again, hovered over Luke’s speed dial number. I caught myself. This was a working vacation. Tragedy or no tragedy, the art show must go on. Instead, I left my phone to charge, polished my best boots, and practiced my happy customer service smile before heading out.
In the lodge elevator, mellow jazz played a version of “Blue Christmas.”
Where was “A Holly Jolly Christmas” when you needed it?
Four
I hurried through the guest lodge foyer. The hunt activities officially started in the Twenty Point bar with a meet and greet, followed later by a fixed menu dinner. The rain hadn’t returned and I could smell pork chops frying, giving me hope for a better evening. My nose led me across the stepping stone path toward the Twenty Point restaurant and its famed country cooking. Having brunched off property before my landscape painting debacle, I’d been looking forward to this meal for weeks.
And despite the tragic afternoon, I still did. My stomach was odd like that.
On the way, I passed quaint timbered buildings settled amid beautifully landscaped grounds. Behind the guest lodge, a set of luxurious cabins circled a large fishing pond.
The entourage stayed in the guest lodge. Todd, however, had somehow inveigled an invitation to stay in the Bear’s cabin. A two bedroom and two bath with a full living area, small kitchen, full bar, and fishing porch.
And, I’m just guessing here, five thousand thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Todd, the inveigler, flagged me from his spot under the eaves of the restaurant. “Everyone’s here. Are you okay?”
“I won’t pretend finding a body hasn’t thrown me for a loop. I’ve got a lot of weird ideas buzzing around my head where there should be thoughts about networking with future portrait clients. How about you?”
“I’m fine. My thoughts aren’t so weird, except for worrying about you. But that’s kind of weird for me.”
I hugged him. Sometimes Todd was a few peas short of a casserole. But he meant well.
“Did I miss anything yet?”
“Not really. Bob Bass didn’t play a single song. But he sure likes to talk.”
“The Bear thinks Bob Bass is a phony. He’s from Beverly Hills, not West Virginia.”
“I don’t believe it. I was hoping we could jam together. I brought my sticks.”
I glanced at the drumsticks poking from the pocket of his cargo shorts, just above the cherry tattoo. “Guess I should get in there and meet the contestants.”
Todd held open the door to the Twenty Point. I dashed inside the foyer and bumped into something large, furry, and wearing Santa’s hat.
“Jiminy Christmas.” I hopped away from the bear, embarrassed by my startle. The bear wore an expression that didn’t match his Santa hat. More snarly than jolly.
“You okay?” said Todd. “Not like you to be nervy.”
“I was just surprised by the Christmas getup, that’s all.” My new role as witness seemed to have made me jumpy. “I’m sure the hunter nor the bear expected this fine specimen to be used as a holiday decoration.”
“You think that’s bad? Check this out.” Todd hooked a thumb at the dining room.
Under the tin-roofed rafters, more stuffed animals played. Squirrels chased raccoons up the wooden beams bracketing the open roof supports. Racks from departed bucks hung on the walls. Above the entrance to the kitchen, a stage had been erected where deer knelt beside dancing foxes, rabbits played with pheasants, and quail popped from bushes with the aid of wires. A sweet tribute to lives lost to arrow or bullet.
And all were wearing Santa hats or tinsel crowns.
“I wonder if this was the Woodcocks’ idea?” I shook my head. “Another example of how artists suffer for their work. The buyer’s interpretation is often different from their own.”
Todd shrugged. “I think it’s kind of cute.”
I turned toward the narrow bar on the side of the restaurant. There another crowd of creatures mingled. Some glassy-eyed. All nametag-stickered and clutching cocktail glasses. On my way to my room, I had gotten the contestant rundown after bumping into Bob’s manager. I watched them for a few minutes, awed by the individual incongruities that formed a group with one goal in mind: to be the one who nailed a ginormous wild hog.
A rangy man fighting his age dominated the small group with a vociferous “aw shucks” attitude and blaring self-amused laughter. His black cowboy hat sported peacock feathers and his fingers sparkled with rings. Bob Bass. I would have recognized him even without the electric guitar swung across his back, bandolier-style. Electric, I noted, without an amp hookup.
Max stood next to him, pretending to listen while discreetly checking out the raven-haired beauty on Bob’s right. In name alone, Peach Payne had given Bob a tabloid boost with flavor of the month jokes. Her gravity-defying cleavage and scarlet lipstick had caught more attention than just Max’s. I feared our bartender might suffer a neck sprain from his ogle. However, Peach’s focus remained on the phone she palmed while sipping a martini.
Another middle-aged man suited in a suede jacket and bolo tie alternately smiled and stole cagey glances at the other contestants. The scent of Atlanta money oozing from his pores told me this was Clinton Sparks.
His wife, Jenny, a blonde weighted in makeup and diamonds, spoke to an African-American girl of about eighteen. Junior Olympic Rifleman LaToya Peterson had a reputation as a crack shot and a destiny to become the next cover girl for Garden & Gun magazine.
At the edge of the group, appearing displaced and slightly dazed by the moneyed crowd, stood a thirtyish bubba wearing gaiters over his Wranglers. Not a bad looking guy, but his discomfort masked it well. The local raffle winner, Rick Miller, I guessed.
Already at the bar, Todd caught my attention, pointing toward the pint glass he had just ordered. I strode to his side, accepted the drink with thanks, and took a sip for luck before plowing through the crowd to meet Mr. Bass. Todd followed with his own beer and Max’s cane.
All the fancy dress made me glad I had worn my bedazzled denim and a newly accessorized sweater for dinner. I had unraveled the sweater’s edges and beaded the threads with tiny silver reindeer buttons. Silver pigs would have been more appropriate, but reindeer seemed more in keeping with the season. I assumed the odd looks the ladies threw me were due to jealousy. Not everyone can successfully bling out Walmart.
Todd leaned into my ear. “I still can’t believe we’re in the same room with Bob Bass.”
“Let’s hope Max misinterpreted Bob Bass’s bio,” I whispered back.
“Artist,” said Max, lightening from his glower. “This is the singer with whom I have the portrait bet.”
“Hey there, sweet thing.” Bob’s blinding smile looked as perfect as my deceased Great-Gam’s set of purchased quality teeth. “Friends with the cripple here, huh? I see you brought his cane. Ha, just kidding there, Avtaikin.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bass. I’m a big fan.”
“Course you are, honey. Call me Bob. I bet you’re looking forward to setting your paintbrush to my handsome features next to a big ol’ ugly hawg.”
His harsh laugh caused a slight shudder in Miss Cleavage. “I don’t see why you’d want to look at some nasty pig hanging on your walls.”
“Peach, there’s a pride you get from bagging such a fine animal, especially if this boar is as big as they say. Just wait until you center Mr. Hog in your crosshairs. Not that you’ll get him, honey, but I’m sure you’ll understand the feeling once we start the hunt.”
Peach’s nose wrinkled, but she raised her chin. “Whatever you say, Bob.”
“You know it, babe.” Bob smacked her bottom, causing her martini glass to slosh over the side.
I swigged my beer, disappointed by the ease with which celebrities fell off pedestals.
“We’ll take the party to my cottage later, what do you say? Y’all are invited.” Bob grinned. Light glanced off his teeth and refracted off my beer, spotting my vision. “What happens at Big Rack stays at Big Rack. Am I right?”
Peach spoke with her eyes on her martini-sticky phone. “Right, Bob.”
“My wife and I are regulars at Big Rack,” said Clinton Sparks. “We love it here.”
“When we’re not on hunting safari in Montana or Africa,” added Jenny.
“Have you hunted here before?” I asked LaToya, hoping to find a normal hunter in the crowd.
LaToya shook her head. “No, ma’am. I’m from south Georgia. But we have a lot of problems with wild hogs there too. I’ve had plenty of experience and I’m feeling pretty confident about winning. I plan on bringing back a trophy.”
The man in gaiters bobbed his head. At our recognition, Rick cast us with a smile that quickly disappeared.
“I guess you probably hunt around here, Rick, right?” I asked.
Light brown eyes blinked at me. “How’d you know?”
“I heard a local guy won a raffle and you’re the last man standing, so to speak.”
“I’ve never hunted in Big Rack’s preserve. Not legally, anyway.” He squeezed out a short laugh. “I mostly shoot squirrel and rabbit. Sometimes deer. The lodge is lending me a better rifle. I’m pretty lucky, I guess. I don’t care about the trophy so much, but I could sure use that twenty thousand in prize money.”
A wave of uncomfortable smiles flickered through the hunt party. Smiles used in polite situations to acknowledge gauche remarks. As a frequent recipient of that particular smile, I found it easy to recognize.
“Bob Bass.” Max used a forced chuckle to move the conversation away from their discomfort. “Now that you have met the artist, I’m sorry Miss Tucker will not get the chance to paint you in the winner’s portrait. Perhaps I should allow her to paint you as a gift. A gesture of goodwill.”
“Goodwill my ass,” said Bob. “I already said I’m gonna win, so no worries on the outcome of the contest. You’re gimping around like an old man, Avtaikin. No way you can outshoot me. Yes, ma’am, you’re going to see my face next to that pig’s.”
I found myself considering the perspective I could take. In my mind, I had already entitled the painting Two Pigs.
“We will see about that, Bob.” Max raised his tumbler. “To the best man or woman winning.”
The others raised their assorted glasses and murmured agreement.
Now I understood why Max
refused the cane he so obviously needed. And why he wanted help with Bob Bass. Charming jackasses was an art unto itself. Although this artist lacked proficiency in that particular medium.
Behind Bob, his lackeys buzzed in a whispered conference.
“Excuse me. I’m Bob’s publicist, Risa Rispoli,” said a pretty young redhead. “We’re outfitting Bob and Peach with GoPro cameras for the contest since the lodge wouldn’t allow a camera team on the hunt. While I have you here, we need signatures giving permission to be filmed for Bob’s reality program, Rockin’ The Hunt.”
I pulled a Berol number two from my embellished jeans pocket. “I’ll sign.”
“Are you one of the contestants?”
“No,” I said. “But you could film me painting Mr. Bass’s portrait. How about that?”
“We just want Bob hunting. Thanks anyway.”
Max shook his head. “You do not have my permission. No television.”
“We can keep your name anonymous,” said Risa. “We could write, ‘hunt contestant’ under your face when you’re shown.”
“No.”
“We could fuzz out your features.”
“Or could you insert my face over his?” said Todd.
“No, we can’t do that.” She fixed her gaze on Max, pleading. “It will be almost impossible not to show you on camera unless we do minute editing.”
“So you will do the minute editing.” Max broke eye contact, ending the conversation.
“I don’t know either.” Jenny Sparks giggled nervously. “Wouldn’t want to be caught without my makeup on.”
“I’d need to call my sponsors first,” said LaToya.
“Don’t use my name either,” said Rick. “I don’t like appearing in pictures.”
Risa exchanged a look with Bob. “Usually people are happy to be on the show.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Bob reached around Peach to give Risa a squeeze, causing more martini spillage. “Peach and I will be the stars of the show. And that giant hawg. I think we’re dividing into groups anyway, so as long as my guide doesn’t care about being on TV, I don’t see a problem. More face time for me.”
The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 3
