The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) (10 page)

Fifteen

Se
eking
expert consultation on threats, I found Todd and the Bear in his new den. The picturesque cabins circling the far side of the fishing pond were built from roughhewn pine, painted Scarlet Lake with white trim, and had a covered fishing porch built over the big pond. Max’s had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a living area with a small bar. His also had a squirrel painted on the door, with more stuffed squirrels cavorting in his rafters. I eyed the squirrels and then Max, who glared at the frolicking creatures.

“This insults me,” he said, waving a hand at the squirrels.

“I don’t reckon you feel bad for their death,” I said, “but I thought taxidermy was universal. Don’t they hang trophies in your country?”

“Of course.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“
The laugh at my expense. I know this joke.”

I reexamined the squirrels, who although happy, did not seem mocking.

Todd caught my eye and shrugged. He didn’t get the joke either.

Max scowled and folded his brawny arms over his black flannel-covered chest. “The American television show with moose and squirrel that attempts to teach children Cold War ideology.”

Todd’s brain chugged. “
Rocky and Bullwinkle
.”

“You think someone is making fun of your accent? How did you put that together?”

“A man such as me should have the cabin with the large game animal. Not the tiny creature for the young boy to trap.” Max pointed his gaze out the window at the next cabin. “I was known as the Bear. I should have that cabin.”

“Who has the bear cabin?”

“Bob Bass,” said Todd.

“Oh my stars, is
Bob
Bass making fun of you for having the squirrel cabin?”

Max shifted to glare at a dancing squirrel on the rafter beam.

“We’ve got more important issues than you getting teased by
Bob
Bass.” I explained what we had learned at the Double Wide, my meeting with Lesley, and the discovery of my painting-turned-secret-memo.

“I told you to leave this alone,” growled Max.

“Now you believe me?”

“But this ‘accidents happen’ message. I do not find so threatening.”

“You don’t?” asked Todd.

“If I send the threatening note, it is explicit,” explained Max. “I describe in detail the consequences of the action. For example—”

“I prefer not to have examples,” I said. “You see the note as someone telling me that Abel had an accident.”

“Yes. But this means it was no accident.”

“Come again?” said Todd.

“Why else would they leave the note?” Max steepled his hands under his chin. “You must take into account the timing.”

“I agree,” I said. “A man dies on the eve of the lodge’s biggest event.”

“Perhaps there are peoples who would wish this to not be an event.”

“Peoples like Lesley Vaughn?” I shook my head. “I mean, people?”

“Perhaps. But in the sport hunting, you must be responsible, paying attention to sex and age of the animal for the conservation. Some say
Bob
Bass does not follow these rules.”

“That’d bring him some enemies. Anti-hunters and hunters alike.”

A scowl curled the Bear’s lips. “And I think
Bob
Bass cheats to win. He’s won too many times in my presence. But he is like fox.”

“You’re talking about gambling,” I said. “How can he cheat in a hunt?”

“I tell you, this
Bob
Bass is sly. Maybe he sends this cake to himself. To spook other contestants and make himself look more important.”

“I thought we were talking about Abel Spencer’s death. And it was just a cake. These are separate incidents.” I stopped and circled back to an earlier thought. “Or are they? Lesley Vaughn wants to protect his mythical Georgiana Boar. He’s crazier than a sprayed roach.”

“You said Lesley didn’t know about the cake,” said Todd.

“Lesley could have been lying. Abel provided the hunting dog. Maybe he tried to scare Abel too, and that’s what caused Abel’s fall.” I lowered the finger that had shot in the air. “But if he did and Abel died, Abel’s death should have frightened Lesley into hightailing it out of town before he’s caught.”

Max raised a heavy brow. “If the perpetrator thought this Abel’s death served some purpose and they are not afraid of being caught by police, they would continue their plan.”

“That means they have no problem with murder,” I exclaimed. “I figured Abel’s death as manslaughter.”

“Cherry.” Todd’s fingers drilled the wooden chair arms in a rapid-fire rhythm. “They’re not afraid of getting caught by the police, but they were worried enough to warn you.”

“Then we’re back to my note being menacing.” I scowled.

“Maybe Mike should call off the hunt,” said Todd. “You could be in danger.”

“I don’t want to get Mike in trouble if it’s nothing,” I said. “He hasn’t worked at Big Rack long, and I get the feeling the lodge may be in trouble. Let me do a little more digging first. It takes more than a vague note to scare me.”

No protest issued from Max. The Bear wanted the hunt to continue. It hurt a teeny bit that he never tried to climb on a white horse for me, but I was glad Max trusted my intuition. I had meant what I said. I needed more information before I’d pull up stakes. We were back to square one.

The discussion had felt like a dog chasing his tail.

And I feared it was my hindquarters that would get bit.

I
needed to clear my head to think, but my sketchpad was at the lodge. As it was not raining, I chose to walk back. Max, Todd, and I had agreed to meet at the skeet range for the scheduled target practice, an opportunity which would bring all the contestants together again. Without mentioning it, we acknowledged if someone wanted to stop the hunt, the shoot was also an opportunity for another incident. We had debated whether to warn Mike and decided to wait. Mike had enough on his plate.

At this point, we, like the police, were without any real evidence to prove foul play was at hand.

A golf cart whizzed past me, and I jumped to avoid a splash from the water-filled ruts. Jenny and Clinton zipped by in matching gear and Big Rack ball caps. Jenny waved.

A high-decibel shriek had me clutching my chest. Switching my hands from heart to ears, I hurried around the peacock pen and spied the Twenty Point.

I hadn’t explored another obvious motive. Max didn’t know Viktor, but Viktor thought he knew Max enough to wave a knife at my reindeer buttons. Viktor might have planned the squirrel cabin as a Boris and Natasha message for Max. Maybe Viktor killed Abel because he had learned Viktor was a communist spy from the Bear’s homeland. However,
Max
’s homeland politics were more criminal than philosophical.

But what did we know about Viktor, other than he snuck over the border from Canada? Why would a chef leave a five-star inn for Swinton, Georgia?

A sudden gust swept icy droplets off the peacock’s roof.

Canada for Georgia? Probably for the weather.

I still had yet to spy the lauded cook, Jessica. I also failed to have breakfast. I figured two birds with one stone might land me a leftover biscuit and some information about Viktor. Because I’d met most of the other staff, I had this crazy feeling she hid from me. And why would someone who’s heralded for their chicken fried steak hide from me, of all people? Maybe Viktor kept her hostage. Chained to the fryer, so he was free to serve VIPs his gooey superfoods.

I circled round to the back of the Twenty Point and knocked on the kitchen screen door, hoping my friendly assertiveness might grant me a stray piece of ham. The enticing aroma of grill grease spilled out as a woman cracked the door, then pushed it open. Her Big Rack hat covered her blonde curly hair except for the ponytail poking through the back. Beneath the brim of her hat, dark circles lined her eyes. I supposed most cooks serving three meals a day often wore weary.

“What can I do for you?” Her words were curt and her eyes wary.

“Are you Jessica?” I asked.

She searched the gloom behind me, then studied my face. “Who are you?”

“Cherry Tucker. I just wanted to meet the cook famous for her chicken fried steak.” I extended a hand to shake.

“Are you one of the hunters in the contest?”

“Not a hunter, but I am in the entourage. I’m a painter and am supposed to do the winner’s portrait with the prize pig.”

She hesitated, glanced at my extended hand, then began to pull the door shut. “I can’t talk. I’m busy.”

“Wait.” I’d had enough of Big Rack oddities and shoved my foot into the crack of the door. “You are Jessica?”

She peered beyond me. I glanced over my shoulder to see what could possibly have her so spooked. I may be a lot of things, but spooky was not one of them.

“Are you afraid of someone?” I covered her hand gripping the door frame. “What’s going on at Big Rack?”

“Nothing’s going on.” She jerked her hand out from under mine.

“Then what’s scaring you? Does this have to do with Abel Spencer?”

“Abel Spencer?” she said. “What about Abel?”

“You must have heard he died on Big Rack property two nights ago. Strange doings are going on here. What do you know about Abel?”

“Nothin’. Abel had one too many and should’ve asked for a lift instead of cutting through the property.” Her eyes narrowed beneath her cap. “Now, leave me be. I’ve got no more to say to you.”

Jessica slammed the door, leaving my foot sore, my stomach empty, and my skin crawling with the willies.

Sixteen

Something scared Jessica, and my suspicion meter had shot to the top of the charts, just like Bob Bass’s Christmas hit, “I’d Rather Be Downtrodden Down Home Than Uptight And Uptown.” I didn’t know if Jessica’s heebies were connected to the jeebies jumping around Big Rack, but I’d bet my best boots she was hiding from someone on the premises.

With an eye toward mysterious skulkers, I circled to the front of the Twenty Point, deliberating on my next move. Would Rookie Holt be interested in the caginess of a cook? Likely not. I’d best find other staff who might enlighten me on the reason for Jessica’s paranoia before calling.

As I stood in front of the restaurant, scanning the grounds, the angry screech of the peacocks caught my attention. I hurried to see why the peacocks had halted golf cart traffic, half expecting to find Lesley playing Spiderman against their pen. A small crowd had gathered in front of the coop.

I sped my hurry to a trot.

I had questions for Lesley that had nothing to do with magical pig quests and everything to do with meeting Abel Spencer at the Double Wide Wednesday night.

“What’s going on?” I shouted.

A light rain began to sprinkle. I flipped my hood up, lost my peripheral vision, and shuddered. Yanking my hood off, I let the rain style my frizzy hair and cursed my silly nerves for furthering my bad hair day.

The Sparks sat in their golf cart, parked in the middle of the path. They turned at my shout, almost drowned by the ear-splitting peacock screams.

“Another demonstrator,” said Jenny. A breeze whipped her hair and her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I wonder if it’ll make the news?”

“Is the demonstrator named Lesley?” I tried to see beyond their cart, but the angle only revealed Peach and
Bob
, not the front of the peacock cage. “Did he get in there with the peacocks?”

“Nobody’s inside, they just left another message on the front of the cage,” said Clinton. “Jenny, we don’t want the media here. Better to ignore this.”

“It might be good publicity for the hunt.” Her voice rose.

“Not all publicity is good publicity.”

Disappointed, I left them to their argument and ambled past their golf cart. I wanted Lesley, not another scary pig cake. Reaching the corner of the coop, I halted. A banner flapped against the wire mesh while
Bob
bent over an object resting against the coop. Each time he tried to get his hands around the pumpkin-sized orb, the peacocks screeched and pecked at the mesh.

Bob
’s hands flew from the flesh-colored object and jogged backward. “Damn birds.”

“What is that?” I said to Peach as she filmed
Bob
’s struggle.

“Hog head.”

Bob
took a run at the cage. A peacock brandished its fan with a screech, Bob backed off, and the bird strutted away.

“Still cold,” said Bob. “Probably butchered around here. Damn activists.”

The breeze stilled and the sign left off flapping to recline against the wire mesh. I sucked in my breath. In dripping red letters, someone had written, “Squeal like a Pig.” Below the sign, the empty eyes of the hog stared at us, an almost ghoulish smile frozen beneath its snout.

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 romance.

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.