Portrait of a Dead Guy (16 page)

“I think it has more to do with my loud mouth,” I grimaced. “Anyway, Uncle Will’s not too happy with any part of me right now. I can’t stay.”

Leah threaded my arm through hers and pulled me toward the chapel. “Sheriff Thompson loves you. Now Miss Wanda asked me to sing some hymns. Since you’re here, you can help me.”

I jerked to a stop. “Leah, look at me, I’m not dressed for a funeral.”

She glanced at my denim mini skirt trimmed in brass studs and tie-dyed Panama Beach t-shirt with a handmade puka shell collar. “And you’re insulting my wardrobe? The boots are a little much, but I think it’s okay. I just want you to turn pages for me while I play.”

“Please find somebody else.”

“Which is it? You want to avoid your Uncle Will or you want to hide from Luke Harper? Or you slinking out with your tail between your legs because the last time you appeared at Cooper’s you robbed the departed?”

Leah doesn’t miss much. “If you put it that way.”

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Leah strutted into the chapel and I stole in behind her. We slid onto padded folding chairs beside the piano in the back of the room. The rest of the crowd poured through the wooden double doors in their Sunday best. Their hushed chatter floated past us. The large Branson clan filled the front rows. Townsfolk, JB’s business acquaintances, and funeral groupies settled in back.

After most of the seats had filled, Cooper led Wanda and JB through a side door. With rigid formality, Luke strode after them in a blue dress suit. Shawna, in all her flame-haired-femme-fatale glory, stuck next to Luke with a matched stride. I compared her black sundress and pumps with my more casual attire.

Four-inch heels. As if she needed the added height. And wasn’t a plunging neckline a little trashy for a funeral?

On the other hand, Luke in a suit looked hotter than a Georgia tin roof in August. His steely eyes swept the room while he waited for his mother and Shawna to sit.

Leah nudged me, and I turned to her with relief. “Wow, Luke looks good enough to eat. Who is he staring at?”

I glanced back to Luke and followed his line of sight. Four rows behind the assorted Branson mob, the hulking Bear reclined with relaxed ambivalence. An arm over the back of the adjacent chair, his head bent toward the man next to him. With that distinctive height of gleaming hair, Mr. Max’s funeral seatmate had to be Ronny Price. Ronny scooted forward on the chair, as far from Mr. Max’s bulky body as he could without appearing rude. Whatever the Bear whispered, Ronny didn’t like it.

Slipping behind those two to get a whiff of their conversation seemed like a good starting point to my investigation. I rose from my chair, ready to find my new seat. A hand pressed on my shoulder, easing me back in the chair. I half-turned.

Will towered over me, a massive frown on his face. “Trouble finding the door?”

“I’m helping Leah.”

He waited for further explanation.

“You know, turning the pages for her while she sings hymns.”

Leah glanced up at Will and waved. “Hey there, Sheriff Thompson. Thanks for letting Cherry help.”

“Leah. How are you, girl? Very nice of you to sing for the funeral.”

“Thank you, sir. Miss Wanda was my Sunday School teacher once.”

“You still running the choir at New Order?”

“Yes, sir. The SonShine Choir. I’m also the organist at First Baptist. And Cherry got me into a band that plays at Red’s. We may even go out on the road.”

Will blinked at me. “Did she now?”

I bit my lip, feeling bad about introducing Leah to Sticks, but a gig’s a gig. Artists have to stick together. “Do you want my seat so you two can catch up?” I eyed the row behind Mr. Max and Ronny Price.

“Only if you plan on leaving,” said Will.

“Oh, no. I’m here to help.” I gave him my most obliging customer service smile.

“Seems like you’ve been a little too helpful lately.” Will shot me a warning glance and circled us to take a seat in the back row.

While we spoke to Will, Cooper had shuffled to the back of the room, eager to shut the chapel doors and begin the funeral service. A conversation buzzed on the other side of the door, pulling Cooper out of his well-practiced funeral track and into the foyer.

“What’s going on?” I leaned forward so Will could catch my whisper.

He shrugged and turned in his seat. Leah and I craned our necks. As the conversation escalated, other people turned around. Cooper retreated from the hallway. The heavy wooden door flew open to bump against the wall, and Virginia sashayed into the chapel with two men flanking her. She tossed her lank hair and stood with doughy arms planted on hips that would make an Angus steer look small.

“What are you waiting for?” Virginia screeched at Cooper. “Go get us some chairs. I’m shocked at your service. We’ve been waiting half a Sunday for you to come get us.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Cooper dropped his voice. “I didn’t know you were in that room.”

“Doesn’t matter where I was. Now get.”

Cooper teetered to a closet and retrieved three folding chairs. I glanced to where Luke half-stood with his mother’s and Shawna’s hands planted on either arm. JB folded his arms and glared at the coffin, not acknowledging Virginia’s presence.

“Casey’s going to be mad she missed this,” I said.

Leah nodded. She swiveled in her chair, watching the proceedings.

Cooper’s assistant, Abe, — so short and round we dubbed him Butterbean in grade school — saw Cooper’s struggle with the chairs and trotted down the aisle in rescue. He passed by with the chairs tucked inside his sweat-stained armpits.

“Hey, girls.”

“Someone forget to invite Virginia?” I asked.

“She told us yesterday she wouldn’t sit in a room full of Bransons unless somebody paid her. Was fixing to go straight to the cemetery. Guess she and JB had some words after the visitation.”

“Abe,” Leah asked. “Should I do something to help?”

“Maybe you could go ahead and play something,” he offered. “Best get these down front. See you girls.”

“I wonder who paid Virginia to show up? ”

“Seriously.” Leah rose from her seat and I followed her to the piano. With a graceful sweep of her skirt, Leah scooted out the bench and lowered her body. I stood on the far side of the piano to hide my clothing from the crowd.

“I don’t need help with this. I’m just going to play some classical music until they get started.” She pulled a book of music from her large purse and stood it against the music stand.

Leah’s fingers worked the keys while I leaned against the piano and watched Butterbean set up three chairs in the front row, separating Virginia’s group from JB with as much tact as possible. Virginia continued to pace before the doors, waiting for an official escort to the front. Her two companions slouched against the wall. The older man had thinning hair and a rumpled suit three sizes too big. He stared at his dusty brown shoes with a vagueness bordering on apathy. A kid with dirty blonde hair in his mid-to-late teens stood next to him. His jaw thrust forward as he scanned the crowd, defiant in his stare. Jeans, work boots, and a cheap button-down fit his definition of funeral wear.

I glanced down at my swirly violet and safety-orange t-shirt.

Cooper approached Virginia with slow concentration, thrown off his game by the bizarre events connected with the funeral.

“Well?” she said. She turned toward the men behind her. “Amos. Darren. Come on then.”

Amos Fewe jerked, as if surprised to find himself in a funeral chapel. He scuffled his worn shoes to the front of the room without taking interest in the gawking crowd. The younger man pushed himself off the wall and approached Virginia.

“Momma Virginia,” he said and took her arm. His eyes circled the heads of the assembly and narrowed in on Luke like a buzzard sighting a fresh kill. Luke blanched and fell back in his seat to stare at the ceiling. Shawna patted his shoulder in comfort, causing a disgusted snort to rip from my mouth.

“Did he just say ‘Momma?’” Leah asked. Her fingers continued to run over the piano keys. Music to soothe the savages as the war parties threatened to form.

“That’s what it sounded like. I’m having trouble keeping up with all these family additions.”

“No kidding. This is getting good. You better have the play by play ready for Casey.”

Leah reached the end of the song and let her hands fall to her lap. She turned toward Cooper, waiting for a cue to continue, while he stood before the assembly, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, lost in thought. Wanda Branson canted forward in her seat. Cooper stooped to hear her whisper. He nodded and motioned to Butterbean, who retreated out the side door and returned carrying two paintings. Cooper struggled with a third painting that outsized the first two by at least a square foot.

“Uh, oh.” I slid down the piano to hunker next to Leah on the bench.

“What’s going on?”

“An unveiling. I didn’t think Miss Wanda would make such a production. I thought she’d pick one and just set the painting off to the side or something.”

“You’ll be famous now.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose to quell an oncoming headache before sneaking a look. Cooper grimaced as he fiddled with one of the three easels placed on one side of the closed casket. Butterbean handed a painting to Cooper. Together they positioned the paintings while the crowd watched with growing anticipation.

JB had buried his head in his hands. Luke’s focus stuck to the ceiling. Wanda shook with tears while Shawna leaned across Luke to comfort her. Their poses created an interesting tableau, making me wish I had a sketchpad on hand.

Finished with their fussing, Butterbean and Cooper stepped to the side, revealing the paintings. With fleetness never before seen, Butterbean scuttled toward the side door, while Cooper hoofed toward the back. A gasp rose from the crowd and the entire congregation slid forward in their seats.

“Oh, Lord,” I mumbled and clenched my stomach.

“Oh, mercy.” Leah patted my arm without taking her eyes off the paintings.

On the coffin’s right sat a large painting of a tow-headed boy squeezing a flop-eared bunny. The child stared at the crowd with a terrifying grin and enormous eyes better suited on a Jack O’ Lantern. The pupils appeared engorged, most likely from the artist trying to render a whimsical look, but the effect seemed almost demonic.

“You think that bunny lived through the sitting?” I whispered to Leah.

“What’s wrong with that child?”

“I bet Dustin scowled in the original picture, and the artist tried to cute him up, but couldn’t quite pull it off. He mixed the iris color too dark. It blends into the pupil. He also forgot to add light reflection. That’s what you call dead eyes.”

Leah shivered. “He looks like he’s about to take a bite out of that rabbit. Or pop its head off.”

“I’m thinking Miss Wanda’s got a bunch of those creepy clown paintings at home, too.”

“To go with all the dead animals hanging on their walls?”

“At least mounted antelopes have shiny eyes,” I said. “I’d rather see that than a clown painting any day.”

The enormous second painting rose between the childhood rendering and my coffin portrait. Shawna had enlarged Dustin’s high school senior picture using what I suspected was an overhead projector. Dustin posed in dark camos with a shotgun in one hand and a wild turkey hanging by its feet in the other. The background had been muted with a vapor depicted as puffy clouds lined in gold. Angel wings had been painted behind Dustin’s orange vest with a halo above his hunting cap.

Laughter ripped through me. “I take it back. I’d rather see a clown painting than Dustin hunting in heaven.”

Leah’s forehead wrinkled. “Is there hunting in heaven? Doesn’t sound biblical.”

“Shawna’s color mixing is murky, she outlined the image in heavy pencil that shows through the thin tempura, and the turkey feathers have the same fluorescent orange as the hunting vest.”

I nudged Leah. “Look at mine next to that. You tell me, which one is going to get the commission?”

The forever-sleeping Dustin lay in his coffin bed. The focal point drew the viewer’s gaze away from the closed face and toward the centered hands clasped over his jacket. He appeared peaceful, but next to the demonic child and heavenly hunting portrait, my painting looked downright eerie. A shudder ran through the congregation. No one could look away from the odd display.

“My baby,” Virginia bellowed.

“Here we go,” I whispered to Leah. “Show’s starting.”

A middle-aged man in a gray suit scooted off a chair and walked behind the podium. He glanced at the paintings, then turned back to the congregation, paled. With his eyes on Virginia, he picked up his worn Bible and pressed it against his chest.

“Good morning, folks. I’m Pastor Earlie from New Order Church and Fellowship. We are gathered here today to mourn the death of Dustin Bartles Branson.”

The preacher shot another look toward Dustin’s childhood portrait. His eyes remained riveted for a long beat, mesmerized by its disturbing imagery. They flickered over the new portraits and a trembling shook him. If he had his wits about him, he could have claimed the spirit moving him. “I’d like to start the service with a passage from Second Corinthians, ah...”

Flustered, Pastor Earlie peeled his eyes from the paintings to stare at the ceiling. The congregation sucked in their breath. It was an exceptional day when a reverend could not recite verbatim an appropriate passage from scripture.

“Dustin Bartles? I thought Virginia was a Springhouser?” I said.