Portrait of a Dead Guy (23 page)

“What’s with the extra tail?”

“Huh?”

“Why’re you hanging on to my jeans? You’re going to rip them.”

“Oh. I’m worried.”

“Don’t worry. We’re just asking some questions. I’ve talked to him before. We seem to get along pretty well.”

“It’s just…” Todd covered my hand with his.

“Just what, hon?”

“If he gets out the cards I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself. Nobody’ll play with me anymore because I always win.” He amended, “Not that that’s the reason I don’t play.”

“We’re just talking. There’s no real game.”

“I know, but he’s talking poker. At least I think he is. What if he says ‘How about a hand of short stud while you’re here,’ and I can’t resist? I thought if I kept my hands on you, it’ll keep me for reaching for the cards.”

“I didn’t realize how hard this was for you.” Tenderness for Todd’s struggle against his gambling addiction flooded through me. I stroked his shoulder with a sigh.

“Because if I start playing,” Todd continued, “you’ll probably haul off and hit me or something. Or throw something at me. Like you did in Vegas. Think about it. He’s got real expensive stuff here, Cherry. You can’t afford to break anything. You can’t pay for it.”

I jerked my hand off his shoulder and clenched it to my side. “If that’s the case, you just keep your hands to yourself. And I will try to keep my hands off the china.” I stomped through the doorway and glared back at Todd. “And I think it’s best if you just don’t say anything else today.”

“Baby, I was just thinking of you.”

“I should have asked Ronny Price to drive me. He might be old, but at least he’s a gentleman.”

“He could afford the broken dishes, but he’s a terrible poker player.”

I marched past a wide staircase curling up and around the foyer to catch up with Max. He had disappeared through a doorway to the right of the staircase.

“Come on,” I said, scurrying across the marble foyer and glanced back. Todd still stood in the center of the large vestibule, staring at the ceiling in openmouthed wonder. My eyes followed to the upper balcony where a massive chandelier caught the light pouring through the upper porch windows. Rainbows danced across the walls and over the ceiling.

“Isn’t that something?” Todd whispered. “I’d love to have a house like this.”

“Quit gawking.”

Cowed by the lavish surroundings, we slunk through the heavy wooden door. A carved marble fireplace faced by leather chairs caused a gasp of envy to escape my lips. A colossal cherry desk with taloned feet sat across the room before the double porch windows shuttered with plantation blinds, keeping the library dim and protecting the furnishings. The room reeked of manly scents like leather, fresh kindling, and wood oil.

The room would have oozed testosterone in a sexy, sumptuous, makes-you-want-a-sugar-daddy way except for all the glass cases filled with junk covering all other available wall and floor space. Old junk. Overpriced, boring War Between the States junk. And Max dying to tell us about each and every piece. I hated history almost as much as I hated math. I readied myself for the opportunity to change the subject.

“Are those swords?” Todd leapt from the doorway to a large wall case decorated with a ripped and burned Union Jack and packed with gleaming swords. “Cool.”

Max paced to the case to start the lecture while Todd looked on with eager admiration. “Of course. Most is the field officer swords, you know. But this you see, a little longer? Is the cavalry saber. These are all Confederate, of course. They’re a bit smaller than the Union Army. Let me show you something better.”

They strolled from case to case, while I half-listened with my hands stuck under my arms and toes tapping soundlessly on the oriental carpet. I eyed the leather chairs and thought about a nap.

“This is like a museum except in a house. I never thought anyone would want a bunch of old stuff if you’re rich enough for new.” Todd trotted to a suited dummy in full Confederate regalia standing in a corner behind the desk. “Wow, would you look at this.”

“This, my friend, is the uniform of Colonel John S. Mosby, the Gray Ghost. I have gone to much expense to acquire this piece.”

“Do you do those battle plays with this?”

“Reenactment?” Max stopped behind Todd. “No, I would not risk hurting this piece. It does not interest me to play the soldier because I know what it means to be a soldier. I collect because I have the fascination of people who want to separate from their government and determine their own fate.”

“It didn’t work out too well for the South,” I said. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re still standing in the United States of America, and we’re pretty proud of that down here.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And we don’t agree with all the reasons our ancestors wanted to separate.”

“Of course.”

“Just making sure you understand that. I know you’re foreign. You might have some funny ideas about Dixie. We don’t sit around picking banjos and cotton anymore. We’re like everyone else.”

“Except we’re better at football,” added Todd.

“Yes, yes. You are so serious, Miss Tucker. Do you have some sensitivity about this? Does your family come from the sharecropper? There is no shame in poor beginnings. I, too, come from the proletariat. But look at me.” He waved his arm around his lavish surroundings. “I have risen without the help of man or government. I pull myself up with the bootstrap.”

I leveled him with a slow blink. I felt insulted on several levels, but couldn’t put my finger on what they were. Todd looked from Max to me. “You look like you want to throw something. Is it time to go?”

“We still haven’t spoken your business. Miss Tucker and I like to butt the heads, eh?” He laughed and slapped Todd on the back. “Actually artist, I would love a portrait of myself in this suit. I will think about whom best to paint me, but it is very convenient to have a portraitist in Halo. Maybe we make deal. I pay big money. However, other business first.”

I conjured the paycheck that would accompany that commission. I wondered if it would buy a Camaro. Inferno Orange. With the black racing stripes, of course.

“Now would you look at all these belt buckles? Cherry, come see this. None of these are as nice as the ones you got.”

Max’s eyelids slid from widened interest to narrowed contemplation. “Do you collect the buckles?”

“No,” I answered honestly.

I shuffled over to the buckle case and peered around Todd. None looked similar to the buckles Dustin had squirreled away. Most of the plates appeared to be brass with war eagle insignias or letters. Dustin’s belt buckles seemed contemporary. So had the other pieces of jewelry. It didn’t take a history scholar to know that a Rolex watch and diamond rings wouldn’t appear in this room. I approached a thin, flat case on a pedestal stand in the middle of the room. Spotlights directed from the ceiling and the floor shone over the glass and mahogany case. Old coins abounded.

I examined the small pieces looking for those that resembled the ones from the Pink Pig bank that now sat in plain view on my dresser. I recognized a few Indian Head pennies amongst many old, unrecognizable coins, but none like Dustin’s.

A smaller Lucite case gleamed with high tech internal lighting. Two round indentations in the red felt bottom showed the case held two missing coins. With the elaborate display in the center of the room, these missing coins seemed to be the showpiece of the entire collection. I glanced up. Max watched me from the opposite side of the case.

“You are interested in the coins? I like the Lady Liberty coins. That gold one is the dollar. Lady is head only. But seated, she is silver half dollar. These are from more than one hundred years ago.”

“That’s pretty old,” I said.

Todd had returned to the sword case. I scooted toward him, bumping his hip with my elbow. This was our opportunity to question Max about Dustin’s valuables. If I could get Max off the history tract.

“Actually, very old for your country, but not so old for mine.” Max chuckled. “They are worth not so much, though. Just a few hundred dollars. That is nothing compared to my coins from the middle box. You probably noticed them missing.”

“I saw the empty case.”

“Those coins are also the Lady Liberty type coins I love so much. The face value is only one cent and fifty cent, though.”

“Isn’t that interesting, Todd?” I patted my carrier bag.

Todd shrugged. With a twitch of his broad shoulders, he turned back to the swords.

“My missing coins are C.S.A. coins. Confederate States of America money,” Max said, intent on the lecture. “Both from original samples, 1861, ordered by Jefferson Davis himself. Very few were ever made. The one-cent is made from nickel, such a cheap metal. But the value is actually more than thirty-five thousand dollars. Can you believe? The half-dollar, she is made from an ordinary half-dollar and then restriking the coin with the C.S.A. motif. So simple, but it is priceless.” He grinned with the cunning ferocity of a man accustomed to impossible achievements. “But you steal from me, you pay a price.”

Tingling with excitement, goosebumps broke over my skin. I had a lead. More than a lead. Max must have discovered Dustin stole his coins. Max killed Dustin, then ransacked his apartment, then the Branson’s house, looking for the missing coins. “We can talk to you about your next poker session another time. I forgot I’ve got to do something.”

“But what about…” said Todd.

“Don’t worry about that, Todd,” I caught his eye and tried to convey the urgency with an intense look. “We’ll come back another time.”

“I will find those coins,” continued Max. “Everyone knows they are mine. No one steals from the Bear without regard to his life.” Max stretched his stooped shoulders and slammed his hand on the glass case, shaking the stand. His accent deepened in anger. “But I am the Bear. I am the great hunter. I use my dogs to track the thief and the coins. I make pay for betrayal.”

“Did you say dogs?” said Todd. “What kind of dogs you got?”

“Have you reported the burglary?” I asked, elbowing Todd. Max’s outburst accelerated my central nervous system into hyper-overdrive.

“I prefer to handle it my way.”

“Good luck with that.” I pushed Todd toward the door. “Thanks for the tour.”

“You will not leave yet. I have so much I want to show you, artist.”

“I think we got what we needed,” I whispered to Todd and yanked him from the sword case. “I didn’t even have to break out the sketchpad. Let’s go talk to Uncle Will.”

“Where are you going Cherry and Todd?” Max blocked the door with his considerable size.

“Now’s not such a good time, Bear,” I said. “We really need to go. I told my Uncle Will I’d meet him. He’s kind of expecting me. I told him I’d drop in after I swung by your house.”

“So disappointing. Why don’t you call him and tell him you will be late.”

“Um,” I said, while my mind screamed, “Get out of here!”

“Where do y’all play poker?” asked Todd. “In there with the war stuff or in another room?”

“I have not said I host the poker. You are jumping the conclusions, my friend.” His teeth glinted in the bright sunlight. “I’ll show you my basement where I entertain only select peoples. It’s impressive to have basement in this part of the country, no? Are you suitably impressed?” A chuckle rumbled deep within his chest while his eyes narrowed, checking our reaction.

“Very impressed,” I said. “But we must’ve been misinformed about the poker. We’ll just scoot.”

“Go to my basement.” The deep growl made me jump. He shepherded us toward a door underneath the spiral staircase.

“I’d love to see y’all’s basement. I like basements,” said Todd.

I schlepped behind Todd, my heart beating the rhythm of hummingbird’s wings. The Bear’s bulk stalked my heels. His looming shadow cooled the heat pouring from the upper balcony’s windows. I stared at his murky outline blotting out my own shadow and shivered.

I had a bad feeling about this. I didn’t have much experience with basements. As far as I knew, below Max’s luscious mansion was a hole like in “Silence of the Lambs.”

And he seemed very determined for us to descend underground. “You know you’re right.” I planted myself before the open basement door and whipped my cell phone from my back pocket. “I should call Sheriff Thompson — you know, my uncle — and let him know I’ll be late.”

“The reception here is not so good,” said Max. “You can use my house phone in the basement.”

“He’s right.” Todd glanced up from his own phone. “I’m not picking up any bars. You can’t afford roaming.”

“Quit telling me what I can’t afford, Todd,” I hissed and gasped as the Bear grabbed the phone from my hand.

“This phone is like Stone Age. It is garbage. I can get you good deal on better one.” Before I could protest, he yanked Todd’s from his hand and examined it. “This, too, is garbage. Come with me now.” Max shoved the two phones into his pants pocket and bumped Todd toward the door.

“Come on, big guy. Go down the stairs.”