I shuddered. Instead of a horse head in bed, the hunters had been left a severed pig.
“Get rid of it,” called Clinton Sparks.
“I’m trying,” said Bob. “Damn birds peck me if I get close.”
“They can’t peck you through the screen,” said Peach.
Another golf cart whirred to a stop before the peacock coop. I glanced behind me and caught Rick’s blanch as he read the sign.
“Who put that there?” He pointed a shaky finger to the sign.
“We don’t know.” I strode toward him, gathering courage. “I need to talk to you about last night.”
Before I could reach him, he accelerated toward the Sparks, careening around their cart and through a flower bed.
“Hey,” I shouted, but a peacock cut off my holler.
Bob made another run and swipe at the head.
I abandoned Rick for the sake of the peacocks. “Mr. Bass, leave that hog’s head alone. It’s evidence.”
“Don’t be an idjit. It’s just some flaky treehugger ticked off because there’s no TV crew. Best thing to do is ignore it.”
“But we don’t know if it’s a treehugger. I mean, activist.” I wasn’t sure if Lesley could be called an activist. Maybe just screwball. “I just walked by here not fifteen minutes ago and the sign wasn’t here. That means whoever left it is still on the grounds.”
That thought left me cold. I could have passed the culprit and not even noticed. Was that who scared Jessica? I spun toward the tree line, searching for movement.
“It’s a hunt hater message if I’ve ever seen one.” Bob pounded a fist against the mesh, causing the birds to scatter. “Serves you right for pecking at me, peckerheads.”
My hands landed on my hips. “If the activist trespassed leaving this sign, you need to let the police document it as evidence. That’s how to legally deal with their shenanigans.”
“Believe me, it’s not worth it. It’ll attract attention, which is exactly what the treehuggers want.” Bob tapped his head. “Publicity. Don’t give it to them.”
“Mike needs to see this either way. Someone staying at the lodge could have done this. That person could be planning more stunts to disrupt the hunt. The police should deal with them.”
Clinton Sparks hopped from his golf cart and strode toward us. “Bob’s right. We don’t need the publicity.”
“Or we could document it like she said, to use later. After the hunt,” said Jenny. “To show how this event attracted protestors.”
“Peach’s getting footage,” said Bob. “Great idea to use the demonstration after the hunt. Use their publicity to make us look good. I like it.”
These people boggled my mind.
“There aren’t protestors. This has to be the act of a single person,” I said. “That’s how they got the sign up undetected. You’re not dealing with a demonstration.”
“One or many, it’s the same thing.” Bob smacked the mesh and made a grab for the hog head. “Ow. Stupid birds.”
“Get ’em, Bob,” said Peach.
Clinton snagged the sign and wrenched. The paper tore, leaving the ragged word “Squeal” to flap against the mesh.
“Don’t you see?” I cried. “In this case, a group of protestors is a whole lot more benign than one nutjob sneaking around, leaving threatening messages.”
“You don’t know activists,” said Bob, diving once more for the hog head. “They can get out of hand.”
“Maybe this wasn’t even meant as an anti-hunt sign.” I stared at the dripping “Squeal.” Had the culprit seen my interest in the peacocks and left the message for me? Warning me publicly not to squeal about Abel? Was this my horse head?
“Of course it is. What else could it be? An ode to Deliverance?” Clinton fisted the paper and ripped it from the cage. Shrieks rose behind the wire.
“This’ll make a nice snack for something higher on the food chain.” Bob staggered toward the woods, carrying the large head.
I gave up the battle, too worried about what to do without knowing for sure what I should worry about.
I headed to the lodge rooms to change out of my wet hoodie, hoping to still get some information about the mysterious Jessica. Maybe she knew something about the supposed protestors with their quasi-threatening notes and love of severed pig heads. Which, I felt, would offend Lesley, the mythical pig lover, but what did I know about defending legendary hogs?
Because I’m a naturally curious person, I couldn’t help but glance into room 206 while the housekeeper cleaned the bathroom. Either No-Mustache was a last-minute packer or he was staying another night.
Two laptops blinked from the desk and a weekend’s worth of flannels had been strewn about the room along with an odd assortment of camera equipment.
As the industrious housekeeper continued to swish blue stuff in the toilet, I checked the room list on her cart. No-Mustache carried the name J. Deed. Bob Bass’s entourage had been on the first floor, but was checking out today. L. Vaughn also had a first-floor room, number 103.
Could one of these guests have swiped a card from housekeeping to get into my room? I dug around in her cart, looking for an extra key or some clue as to how someone could have left me that note.
The door to the bathroom closed and I jumped from the cart.
“Can I help you?” asked the housekeeper.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Do you know the cook, Jessica? I saw her earlier and she seemed upset. Is she doing okay?”
“I’m not sure. But you know, she hasn’t been the same since...well, you know.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “How long’s that been?”
The housekeeper tapped her chin. “A year, maybe? Can’t believe it’s been that long.”
“Right, a year since...” I paused, hoping she’d fill in the hole I had just dug for myself.
“Poor Jessica,” sighed the housekeeper. “Maybe it’s the anniversary of Ruby’s death. I can’t quite remember when it happened.”
“Such a shame.”
“You never want to outlive your kids.” The housekeeper shook her head. “Jessica’s been a walking ghost ever since. I’m glad family moved here to be near her.”
I tried to shake off the punch to my gut. “Poor Jessica.”
Unable to bring myself to ask any more questions, I thanked the housekeeper and slipped into my room. I felt horrible about hassling Jessica, when grief had most likely forced her into the life of a kitchen recluse. My nosing around didn’t seem to be getting me anything but trouble.
But then what else was new?
After packing for the bunkhouse, I changed into a cyan blue sweatshirt bedazzled into a work of art featuring a retriever carrying a dead pheasant in his mouth. I liked to match my clothing to my environment and my mood. Like the retriever, I hoped to carry the truth home from this hunt.
Although not so much in my mouth as with my mouth. By reporting helpful information to Rookie Holt so she could settle Abel Spencer’s suspicious death with justice.
Maybe I should have rethought the sweatshirt.
I glanced at my phone, still plugged into its charger. Useless out in the woods. The thing was so old I could barely get a signal next to a tower. I had a mission in the next hour—to learn more about Abel’s death, or at least the writer of my note—but this moment might give me one last chance to call Luke. And no one would overhear me next door.
Guilt restrained my fingers from dialing his number. Each call reminded me from what family tree Luke Harper’s acorn currently dangled. But I really wanted to hear his voice. Especially after last night’s abrupt ending.
Generational family feuds have no business in small towns. Statistically, someone will eventually fall in love with the wrong family member. Better to keep vendettas in the cities where a bigger population offers more choices for rom
ance.
Too bad I hated cities.
I dialed quickly, before the most reasonable part of my brain—and as I acknowledge, the tiniest—told me to stop.
If the call wasn’t meant to be, Luke would be busy patrolling or in court or doing paperwork.
Although, if he was doing paperwork, he’d probably pick up. He hated paperwork.
“Hey, darlin’.” The smooth baritone caused my toes to curl inside my boots and a jolt of electricity zipped through my veins. “Caught me at a good time.”
“Typing a report?”
I heard his smile. “Sitting behind Shorty’s Barbecue looking up incident numbers.”
“See the benefits of working in the country? You think Atlanta crime slows enough to let officers take breaks from writing reports to talk to their girl?”
“Is that what you are? My girl? Funny, since I’m not allowed to date you.”
“Actually,” I stammered, “the reason I called is a criminal matter. I think.”
A sigh gusted from the other side. “More crime reports? What happened now? Somebody tip a cow? Or you overheard a plan to tip a cow?”
“The cows I have seen are entirely upright. It’s really the mythical pig lovers that have me worried.”
“You lost me.”
“There’s a guest who aims to save Hogzilla from his horrible fate. He thinks giant pigs descended from Greek gods or something.” I explained Lesley Vaughn and the latest hog head. I’d save personal threatening notes for the dessert course. After I sweetened him up.
“You think this Lesley sent that cake and left the sign on the peacock cage?” asked Luke.
“Possibly,” I said. “The hunters think it’s from some kind of activist. Lesley wants to save the hog. He wouldn’t admit to it, but wacky pranks seem his style. Probably cooks them up in his mother’s basement.”
“Then what’s the big deal? It’s not bothering the hunters.”
“I don’t know.” I paused. “It’s just that the intention isn’t clear. Although Bob Bass is sure some kind of protestor is trying to make a statement, no group has laid claim to the disruptions. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
“If you had some of those gals who show up nekkid to demonstrate, I’ll be sure to come on down.”
I laughed. “You think I’d tell you if there were? I’ll call for you when a portly pig lover decides to strip.”
“This hunt is going to get a lot of exposure, what with Bob Bass’s show. It would make sense for activists to draw negative attention toward the event.” Luke’s tone deepened into his cop voice. “However, I don’t like the timing. A man falls to his death on property the night before the event begins? That concerns me.”
“I know,” I exclaimed. “But spooky pig heads are not murder, so it’s hard to take this seriously. Unless Lesley or whoever’s making the statement scared the life out of Abel Spencer.”
“If this Lesley did have a run-in with Abel, then why’s the perp still hanging around?”
“Exactly what I thought.” My heart overflowed with pride and joy. Luke and I were on the same page for once. We couldn’t dismiss the pig protestor with a suspicious death still hanging around. If we were in the same room, I’d likely attack his lips with gusto.
I offered Luke that description as a reward for his service.
“Lord have mercy, girl. I’m on duty. Where was this last night?” Luke cleared his throat. “What’s the lodge say about all this?”
“Nothing. I get the feeling Big Rack is facing budget issues, due to an unreasonable amount of discretionary spending by the owners. If the lodge has to pull the plug on the hunt and pay back the ridiculous contest fees, that and the PR blight from Bob Bass’s big mouth might put them out of business.”
“Bob Bass’s big mouth?”
“That guy is as fake as his teeth. I almost wonder if he’s behind the pranks just to give himself an out for not winning. I heard he doesn’t even make the kills on his own TV show.”
“Who told you that?”
“Max Avtaikin. Bob spends time in the Bear’s gambling cave. That’s where this portrait bet came about.”
“I don’t trust that guy.”
“Bob Bass?”
“Him too.”
I let that go. Max felt similar about Luke. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Believing me.”
“Sugar, I don’t think you’re delusional. I think you wrap yourself in other people’s business just a mite too easily. Especially when you’ve got other issues more pressing.”
I opened my mouth to respond, then decided I needed help more than I needed to be right.
My deceased Grandma Jo would be so proud.
“Can we talk about something else for a minute?” The exhale from Luke’s breath whistled in the phone. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” I whispered.
“I miss your smile and your pretty eyes and your legs when you wear that skirt. The way your hair smells like flowers and sunshine. The funny things you say.” His voice dropped to a caress. “And the way my hands feel on your skin. I miss that a lot.”
“Keep talking.”
“I miss the way your little chin sticks out when you’re feeling tough. And how you like helping folks.” His purr deepened to a growl. “Even when they don’t ask for it. Like a dead man. Or a rookie cop.”
Now would not be a good time to mention notes stating “Accidents happen.” Or how one of the contestants had threatened me in a bathroom. Or that “Squeal Like a Pig” might’ve been aimed at me.
It was a good thing we weren’t having a relationship because that would mean I had issues with honesty.
“And how your need to help often gets you in a heap of trouble,” continued Luke, with his uncanny ability to suss out when my personal shit-fan blew. “Trouble that gives me heartburn. I started popping Tums after our conversation last night.”
“Tums are not sexy, Luke.”
“So stop giving me heartburn.” In the background the radio squawked and Luke paused to listen. “Cherry, we can’t keep doing this. I could get suspended for having a secret relationship with the defendant’s sister. It won’t look good in court. Listen, I don’t give a damn about our families or this archaic feud.”
I chewed a thumbnail. “That’s a big word, archaic.”
“The whole thing is ridiculous. Finding Billy Branson won’t make a bit of a difference. So the Bransons and Ballards have hated each other since Reconstruction. It’s the twenty-first century. You and I need to make a stand.”
“It’s easier for you to turn your back on your stepfamily than it is for me to ignore my blood. I couldn’t do that to Cody, not while he’s sitting in jail.”
“Sugar, I’m tired of relegating our relationship to phone calls. Lord knows I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”
I caught a lock of hair and twisted it around my finger. “Why’s that?”
“I guess it’s just that other girls are so...” He hesitated.
I held my breath, waiting to hear his verdict. Other girls are so boring? Uncreative? Silly? Intellectually inferior? High maintenance?
“Normal.”
“I’m not normal?”
“Yep.”
I held out the phone, throttled it, and put it back to my ear. “That’s real sweet of you. I’ve got to go.”
“Again?” He drew in his breath. “Now where are you going?”
“Target practice.”
I felt the need to blast a few holes in a hay bale I’d imagine as Shawna Branson. Or Luke’s hind end.
Though I’d hate to do anything to damage that delectable bit of art. It’d make the Greek gods weep.
Seventeen
The overcast skies hid the time of day, but I knew skeet
practice was imminent. A hunt party gathering may attract our instigator, and I wanted to be on the lookout for party poopers, particularly ones who believed in supernatural swine.
The clay shoot arena was on the far east side of the lodge grounds, beyond a strip of forest that safely separated the guest area from any stray skeet. Which meant I had to walk through the lodge gates and follow the road in the opposite direction of the Gutersons’ Trailer Town, a half-mile hike.
I confiscated a stray golf cart and drove.
The skeet range was a wonder. The baseball diamond-shaped clearing had four wooden towers at each base and a shorter box for teals at the pitcher’s mound.
Behind home plate, the shooters lined up in a semicircle waiting for the clay birds to fly from various towers. The control tower stood behind home plate and a long covered pavilion anchored the parking lot.
All buildings had been painted a cheery Cadmium Red. Cute as the dickens.
I found the contestants and Chef Viktor huddled against threatening precipitation in the pavilion. Viktor stood behind a ceramic-topped bar, his arms folded over his chef’s jacket, studying the crowd. Smoke rose from the grill behind him and wrapped trays of food waited on the cooking space next to the grill. According to the updated schedule, an early lunch was available during the practice shoot, after which everyone would reconvene to drive to the preserve for the hunt.
Bob’s entourage had circled their chuck wagons around Bob while he winged jokes, braying at his own punchlines. His eyes worked as vigorously as his mouth, darting glances about the pavilion. Was he hoping for a bigger audience or acting skittish?
Next to him, Peach’s gaze remained fixed in space. At each burst of laughter, she’d flinch, then titter before resuming her dust mote observation.
Bob’s manager and Risa the publicist laughed on cue while focusing on a war of thumbs, pounding on their phones.
Rick alone stood studying the targets set up on the skeet shoot grounds. A burning cigarette hung from his mouth and he appeared paler than usual. Did he suffer a hangover from the Gutersons’ venomous home brew, or did something more noxious dwell beneath the morning’s detachment?
The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 11
