Portrait of a Dead Guy (12 page)

“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 rolltop, 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.

“No! Stay out of the truck.”

Tater answered by pushing his bent front legs against my belly to catapult his back end through the door.

“Umph!” I grunted, grabbing my stomach. Back hooves whizzed past my face. I slid out the door, landing on my knees in the gravel drive.

Tater pranced across the bench, his head and shoulders stooping to fit in the truck.

“Tater! Get out of there.” I waved a hand through the open door as Tater danced to the other end of the bench. Muddy hoof prints spotted the seat. I glanced down and saw muddy prints marking my tank top. “Dang it.”

I yanked open the passenger door, hauled Tater out, and grabbed Wanda’s shopping bag.

Inside the house, I snagged a kitchen towel. “Casey,” I called from the empty kitchen, mopping my bright camo tank with the wet towel. Two smeared prints remained just under my breasts.

“That’s just great,” I said.

Trying to ignore the clammy feeling of the wet tank top, I focused on the shopping bag contents I dumped on the kitchen table. Dustin’s collection — actually Miss Wanda’s choices for Dustin’s collection — didn’t resemble the Dustin I knew. The private impression of Dustin could be different than the public, but I feared Wanda chose items that seemed valuable or nostalgic without knowing what they meant to him.

“What’s all this?” Casey wandered in from the living room and snagged a diet soda from the fridge. “Dustin’s knickknacks?

“Looks like Dustin had some awards for wrestling.”

“I don’t remember him wrestling.” Casey took a deep drink from the can and sank in a chair. “And I knew the wrestlers pretty well in high school. Maybe he stole it from Luke. How’s Luke at wrestling, Cherry? He still pretty good?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Cody said you looked pretty hot and heavy in the Waffle House parking lot.”

“If you call a kiss on the forehead hot and heavy,” I grumbled, spreading out the loot on the table. “There’s also some Transformers with L.H. painted on the bottom, obviously Luke’s. Now this class ring has the correct graduating year. I can use that.” I moved the ring to a separate pile.

“A Pink Pig piggy bank,” said Casey. She grabbed the bank and shook it. “Something’s in here. You remember riding the Pink Pig at Rich’s Department Store in Atlanta?”

“I barely remember. We must have been pretty young.” I fingered a heavy silver belt buckle studded with turquoise. Another large silver buckle incised with filigree had a bas-relief lion’s head and what looked like ruby eyes. A shabby stuffed dog lay next to the shoebox. “I don’t know how Wanda wants me to fit all this in a shadowbox. That dog is too big and there’s a ton of little things. I’m going to have to build a lot of tiny shelves or look for a readymade. Maybe a printer’s drawer.”

I began to replace the smaller items in the shoe box. “I hate to bring it up with her, but I’m wondering if any of this stuff is really his.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the belt buckles. I don’t know much about them, but they look expensive. Do you think Dustin would have bought them?”

“Not sure. Lots of guys wear blingy buckles now.” She pointed to the turquoise and silver buckle. “This one looks a little cowboyish for a guy like Dustin, but the other one is cool.” She picked up the large buckle with the sculpted lion’s head.

“Wow, it’s heavy.” She stuffed her t-shirt into the front of her jeans and held the buckle to her button fly. “How’s it look?”

“Expensive.” I plucked it from her hand and tossed it in the shoebox.

“Ooh, a Pound Puppy. I had one of these.” Casey snatched the brown and tan dog and squeezed it against her chest.

“Give me that.”

“Wait a minute,” Casey said. “This dog has something in it. I can feel it through the stuffing.”

She placed it on the table, and we kneaded the Pound Puppy with our fingertips.

“I feel it, too. Flip it over.”

The loose stitching on the belly made it easy to manipulate a hole big enough to feel inside. I curved a finger into the stuffing and pulled out a thin wooden pipe with a metal bowl and Zigzag papers.

“Guess we found his stash.”

“Anything else in there?” Casey picked up the pipe and smelled the bowl while I ran my fingers inside the puppy.

“No.” I sat with my chin in hand and watched Casey. “You think I ought to show this stuff to Uncle Will?”

“Maybe. But I thought Grandpa said the police went through his things already.”

“This was stuff Wanda collected after their search. I think it was in his bedroom at the Branson house, not his apartment. You think they could have missed this?”

“Dunno.” Casey shoved the paraphernalia back into the toy dog. “It’s not like a pipe and papers is that big of a deal anymore. If there was weed in there, the police would have confiscated it.”

“You’re probably right. I’ll set the dog aside, just in case. The other stuff, I’m not so sure about. If the police searched Dustin’s belongings and Wanda chose these things, I’d think it’d be safe to put them in the shadowbox. Wouldn’t you think?”

“What are you getting at?”

“If I hand over Dustin’s possessions to Uncle Will, he would know I have another job for the Bransons. And I need the job. And Will won’t want me to do it.”

“Are you not a grown woman?”

“You don’t understand. He’ll probably seize the stuff as sheriff. He’s pretty ticked I snuck in Cooper’s to work on the portrait. I can’t let him know about this. I’m going to assume the police saw these goods and passed on it.”

“I need to get ready for work.” Casey hopped up from her seat. “You play with the toys, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

I nodded and grabbed the piggy bank. Sliding my fingers under the rubber stopper on the bottom, I popped out the plug. Jewelry and coins spilled on the table.

“Good Lord,” I called to the back of the house. “I think Dustin was a pirate.”

I gave the pig a final shake and skimmed my fingers inside the ceramic, feeling for any stuck objects. The pig hid no photos. I grabbed the dog and searched him once again.

“Dang. I was really hoping for something. Even one of those little digital memory cards.” I tossed the dog in the shopping bag.

“Wha’d you say?” Casey sauntered through the living room doorway in a tight black t-shirt with County Line Tap printed across her chest. She carried a pair of black sneakers in one hand.

“I’m looking for blackmail items and I don’t see any here.” I gawked at my sister. “What are you wearing?”

“What do you think?” She spun in a slow circle so I could get the full effect of the litter of brown curls erupting from the top of her head. A spiked, metal cuff gathered the fountain of glossy ringlets on her crown. Spiked leather collars circled her neck and wrists and a studded belt cinched her skimpy Daisy Duke’s.