The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) (12 page)

Eighteen

I
waited to approach Rick until Jeff had finished the safety rules for target practice. As the group headed toward the shooting boxes, I intercepted Rick with a “Morning.”

He ducked his head to fix his attention on his boots, but shared my greeting and an apology. “I get a little worked up when I’m drinking.”

“Why don’t you want me talking about Abel?”

“Can’t see how it helps.”

“But it sounded like Abel was worried about something the night he died. Do you know what it was?”

“No. Abel worried himself about lots of things that weren’t his problem.”

“Do you think Abel would have blackmailed anyone? Like listened in on a private conversation and used it against them to make some money? I heard he tended to pry in others’ affairs.”

“I don’t know.” Rick’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Just keep me out of this. You’re drawing a lot of attention. The wrong kind of attention.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” His gaze wandered from his boots to a table leg.

“Are you threatening me?” I lowered my voice. “Did you leave me a note?”

Rick jerked his head up. “Another note?”

“Did you get a note too
?
”

“There was that cake. And the sign on the peacock house.”

“Are you worried about protestors?”

His gaze fell upon my chin. “Have you seen any protestors?” When I shook my head, his eyes flicked to mine. “Those signs aren’t from any protestors and you know it.”

A large hand clamped on my shoulder. I flinched, then glanced behind me and relaxed.

“Artist,” said Max. “Mr. Miller, we are waiting. Mr. Bass would like to change the position with you.”

I peered around Max. Behind the row of firing stands,
Bob
stood with hands on his hips, tapping his boot. At my glance, he threw his hands in the air. “We ain’t got all day. You can chitchat later, Blondie.”

“We’re going to chitchat all right,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at Bob.

Rick used my break in concentration to escape. He scuttled toward the firing point line, meekly agreeing to the stall
Bob
had chosen for him.

I looked up at Max. “Did you hear about the sign on the peacock pen
?”

Max ignored my question, his eyes on Viktor, who had bent over the grill, artfully maneuvering food that was neither burgers nor hotdogs
.

“Are you sure you don’t know Viktor? He’s been staring daggers at you all morning.”

“No.”

“You aren’t sure or you don’t know him?”

“I do not know of this peacock sign.”

“Another warning.” I shivered. “
Rick
doesn’t think they’re made by an activist either.”

“He is correct.
I
’m sure it is nothing more than bad sportsmanship on
Bob
Bass’s part
.
When do you become so nervous, Artist? Usually, you have the bravado.” Max shook his head. “Do
your problems at home divert your thoughts?”

“If only I could divert your thoughts,” I muttered, thinking of his obsession with beating
Bob
Bass
.

“You do so on more occasions than I would like.” A thick eyebrow rose, elevating a small scar. He raised a hand as I opened my mouth. “I do not want your theories now. I must prove my skill on this gun range.”

“Then I want a word with your competitor to sort out my theories.
Bob
Bass may be pretending to act as a demonstrator, but he is guilty of visiting the Double Wide the night Abel died. I’d like to talk about that before we’re stuck in the preserve with him.”

The Bear growled a foreign phrase that needed no translation to understand.

“I won’t disrupt the target practice.” I gave him my “don’t worry, I’ve got this” smile and marched over to the firing line, where contestants still played musical range positions. Behind the row of firing stands, Todd lounged against a support beam of the control tower, tapping his drumsticks against his thighs. He wore safety glasses, although I suspected his headphones piped in music rather than silence.

“Where are Mike and Jeff?” I asked, then waited for Todd to pull off the headphones before asking him the question again.

Todd hiked his thumb at the parking lot. “Mike ran back to get Rick a new rifle. Rick brought an old shotgun. Jeff followed Mike
.”

“Good. I’ve got a minute.” I trotted over to
Bob
Bass, who had switched positions with Rick to take the first stand. He stood with his rifle mounted against his shoulder, fixing his sight on the targets. “Hey, Mr. Bass. Can I talk to you about a man you might have met the other night?”

“I don’t sign autographs. It’s my policy.” He made a popping sound and jerked the gun, pretending to fire.

“No, someone you met at the trailer bar, the Double Wide. Abel Spencer. He’s the man who died recently.”

Peach turned to face us in the next stall. Instead of a rifle on her shoulder, Peach had a camera before her face. “Say hi to the camera.”

“Hey, camera.” I turned back to Bob. “Would you mind putting the gun down for a minute?”

He sighed with the impatience of a child deprived of a toy, but laid the rifle on the ledge before him. “Didn’t meet him. We were only there for a minute or two. I offered to sing ‘Santa Got Drunk on Moonshine.’ Can you believe they’d never heard of it?”

“Actually, no. That’s pretty popular in Halo.”

“I know.” He beamed beneath his cowboy hat. “Beat
‘Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer’ last year on the holiday charts. Anyway, I didn’t meet anyone named Abel Spencer.”

“Did you, Peach?” I turned to find the camera aimed at me again.

“Nope. Sure didn’t. I try not to talk to
Bob
’s fans.”

I wasn’t sure if Abel was actually a fan, but I guess at this point it didn’t matter. “What about your publicist, Risa? Or your manager?”

“They didn’t go inside.”
Bob
shrugged. “City folk.”

I ignored the pot and kettle comment. “I don’t suppose you saw anybody talking to an older man? Kind of wiry and stooped. Had on a blue Braves cap.”

At their indifferent headshakes, I pointed at her camera. “Did you take any footage at the Double Wide? Maybe you caught Abel on screen.”

Bob
rolled his eyes. “Did you, Peach? It’s not like I was doing anything interesting.”

“I think I got a minute or two of you trying the moonshine.” She touched buttons on the back of the camera, then held the camera out for us to see.

There was no mistaking the kitchen counter and the surly Gutersons who had handed
Bob
a plastic cup of white lightning.

We couldn’t hear his comment, but the women had exchanged a look just before
Bob
swallowed, then spit the liquid on the counter.

“Hey now, Peach. You need to edit that out,”
Bob
whined.

“Sorry, babe.” Her thumb moved over the delete button.

“Wait,” I said, spying Abel Spencer in the background. He stood by the front window, peering into the darkened glass.

His gaze shifted from the window to
Bob
’s sputtering and the scene disappeared.

“Dammit,” I said. “That could be evidence for the police. You shouldn’t have erased it.”

“There’s nothing there but me trying stuff that didn’t pass the FDA standard.
Don
’t worry about it, honey.”
Bob
smirked
.
“Like I always
say, hakuna matata.”

“Bob,” said Peach. “I think animals say that. V
egetarian
animals
.”

“That can’t be right.”

I had a feeling
Bob
and Peach were one taco short of a combo plate. Each.

My hair whooshed around my face. A scream sent me spinning.

A small orange saucer flew toward the parking lot. Jeff and Mike halted their hike from the lot and followed the skeet’s trajectory before twisting back toward us.

The air whistled. I dropped to the soggy mat.

This time, a heavy thud smacked the control tower and bits of clay rained onto the cement beneath.

“Todd,” I screamed. “Get down.”

“Drop,” yelled Jeff, running forward with his rifle. “Everyone, get on the ground.”

I flattened myself. Above me, another orange disc whizzed through the air and flew toward the pavilion, crashing into a pillar.

If I hadn’t ducked, that pillar would have been my head.

Nineteen

“Hol
y
shit,” wheezed Bob. He had rolled into a ball on the stall’s mat. “We’re not supposed to be shooting clay. What the hell is going on?”

I jerked up my chin and watched another teal fly from the low trap house. It zinged like a fastball pitch, flying through Bob’s stall and smashing into the control tower behind us. I glanced at Peach in the next stand. The camera lay next to her, still pointed at us, while Peach had covered her head with her hands.

“Peach, it’ll be okay,” I said. “The traps can only hold so many teals.”

“I’m getting soaked,” she complained.

Getting wet seemed the least of our worries. But she hadn’t been the one almost decapitated by a chunk of china.

A crack broke the air and more clay rained, this time before it reached the firing stands. I turned my head and saw Jeff Digby kneeling behind the stalls. With his rifle wedged into his shoulder and his cheek against the stock, he readied to blow another target out of the sky.

“Jeff, what’s going on?” I hollered.

Another disc whizzed from a tower. Jeff’s rifle tracked the orange disc and blew it to bits over the range.

“No idea. We didn’t even turn on the skeet software.” The rifle barrel trained on the next tower. “Mike, get to the breaker panel and shut this down.”

“Already on it.”

I craned my head and saw Mike running in a crouch toward the tower. I glanced over my other shoulder and saw the contestants flattened on their stall mats. Max’s cane had fallen next to his body and he was holding his knee.

Jeff’s rifle cracked.

I flinched.

The pungent smell of sulfur and hot metal mixed with the grill smoke pluming from the pavilion.

“Bear,” I hollered. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your knee?”

He raised onto a thick arm to send me a chilling look. “Do not worry about the knee, Artist. Keep your head down. Did you not notice every disc is aimed at you?”

“I’m out of here,” said Bob, army crawling out of the stall. He waited until Jeff had shot another clay pigeon to dust and hunker-ran for the pavilion.

Peach poked her head up. “Where did
Bob
go?”

“Pavilion,” I said, but didn’t add my thoughts about a man who would abandon his gal to save his own ass. “Peach, I’ll watch for the next one, so you can get away too. They seem to be timed out.” I flinched as Jeff’s rifle cracked again. “Go.”

Peach scurried off her pad and ducked under the control tower to slide in next to Todd.

“Get down,” yelled Jeff. The rifle swung toward the far right tower and blasted another disc.

A shadow fell over the range. I looked up. The field lights brightening the day’s gloom had gone out.

“I cut off the breakers,” Mike called from somewhere behind the control tower. “The traps are down.”

The hunters slowly pulled themselves to sitting and Jeff lowered his rifle. I raced toward Max to check his knee. He sat on the mat with his legs extended.

“Are you in pain?” I asked. “Lord, you could have blown that knee out again.”

“It is nothing.” Sliding his knees up, he gritted his teeth, grabbed the lattice separating the firing stands, and pulled himself to standing. I ducked under one big arm to support him and he hissed as his weight adjusted to the bad knee.

“That’s it,” I said. “To hell with this stupid hunt. You’re going to a doctor and then home.”

“Stop treating me like the child. Give me moment and I will be fine. I have never let pain defeat me and I will not let it now.”

“Someone tried to kill us,” I exclaimed. Maybe a bit too loudly, judging by the twisting heads and shocked faces.

“Hush,” muttered Max. “You’ll make this worse. If anyone should go home, it is you. Your head was the only one endangered.”

“It could have been
Bob
Bass,” I whispered. “I was standing in his stall.”

From the pavilion, Bob’s cursing carried across the range, making my ears burn.

“If that is true,” Max said, “then these ambiguous messages are meant as a threat to him. Do not say anything yet.
Bob
Bass will cause much havoc on this lodge and cost them possibly millions, when it may not be their fault. He is known to easily cast the lawsuit. First, we need to know what caused the traps to start. In the case of the criminal act, we will make your suspicions known.”

“Any whiff of a criminal act and I’m going to the police. I don’t keep secrets,” I muttered.

Max slid a hard glance at me and raised an eyebrow. I bit my lip, realizing that statement made me a liar. But this was neither the time nor place to admit a secret love life, so I shot him a look of my own, before turning away to hide my embarrassment.

“The craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Todd, hurrying to meet us. “Are y’all okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “But Max has messed his knee up again.”

“Damn,” said Todd. “I’m supposed to be watching that knee.”

“What is this meaning?” Max growled.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Let me get you some ice.” I hightailed it toward the pavilion.

Inside the pavilion, Bob’s publicist tried to match Bob’s shouts with soothing words. Peach and her camera stood behind them, offering an occasional word of support. Viktor watched the proceedings from his grill station.

I stopped in front of his counter, my breath jagged with agitation. “Do you have any ice?”

His thick brows lowered. “You still have your head, I see.”

“What?”

“The
Bob
Bass complains his head was nearly taken off. I am watching. The small disks came closest to you, not Mr. Bass.” Viktor bent to reach beneath the counter and yanked open a door.

“Barely,” I said. “Thanks for your concern. Or were you hoping to serve my head for dinner tonight?”

“I wonder if there is enough protein inside that thick skull for a meal?” Viktor filled a baggy with ice. “I am warning you. You work for the Bear, and you’ll be lucky to keep that head attached. Look what already happens.”

I gaped.

Viktor slapped the bag of ice on the counter. “Your mouth will draw the flies. You tell the Bear, I am watching him carefully. If I were you, I’d leave him now. Go home, Miss Tucker.”

Snatching
the bag, I whirled away from Viktor. The Sparks and LaToya had already moved back into the pavilion to huddle around the fire pit.

With his cane, Max hobbled toward the fire, shooing off Todd’s attempts to help. He eased onto the edge of the fire pit, his bad leg extended before him and arms crossed.

Long lines on the sides of his face framed his high cheekbones. The slight lift on the edge of his eyelids lengthened with his grimace.

“This should help,” I said, laying the ice bag on his knee. I kept Viktor’s warnings to myself. The Bear’s pride was on the line, and I feared what would happen to his knee if he decided to acknowledge Viktor’s threats. I’d have to watch Max’s back for him. Like hell I was going home if this Viktor decided to make trouble for the Bear.

But first,
I needed to know how skeet traps turn deadly. “I’m going into the control tower to ask Mike for a first aid kit.”

“Stop worrying so much. You are like the old woman.” Max dropped the ice bag onto the edge of the fire pit. “My knee cannot feel this ice through the wool tweed, in any case.”

“You could shove the ice down your pants.”

I backed away at the low growl uttered from his throat.

Todd flinched. “Maybe I’ll look for the first aid kit too.”

I glanced up at the tower. Through the windows, I could see Mike Neeley and Jeff Digby gesturing like they were in the midst of a heated argument. “I’ll be right back.” With my eyes on the window, I patted Max’s shoulder. “We’ll fix you up.”

Before Max could protest, I dashed out of the pavilion.

Todd caught me in two of his long-legged strides. “You want to find out what happened, don’t you?”

“You’re curious too. I have to know what happened. Skeet doesn’t fly out of those traps like a cannon. They’re supposed to arc up in the air like a bird.”

“Unless we’re talking
Angry Birds
.”

I pointed at the tower. “Looks like the manager and the field guide are in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out. We may learn something useful from that.”

“Fighting about the skeet screw-up?”

“Mike’s good people and I can tell he’s worried about the lodge. Especially if someone like
Bob
Bass threatens to litigate.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Bear says Bob’s well-known for being sue-happy.”

“But he’s shrugging off all these anti-hunt demonstrations.”

“What demonstrations? Some hog-related messages. We don’t even know if they were made by an activist like
Bob
Bass claims. It could be Lesley Vaughn, off his nut. He’s not anti-hunt. He’s just pro-pig. I just don’t know if he’s whack-a-doodle enough to have killed Abel. Did you see anybody else here?”

Todd shook his head. “I was watching the contestants. But none of them went into the control booth.”

We had reached the red stilt structure and stood at the bottom of the stairs. Through the open trapdoor above us, I could hear the argument I saw from the windows. Mostly Jeff Digby yelling about safety and liabilities.

I flicked a look at the firing stands. “Where are the guns?”

“Digby collected all the rifles and locked them in a box in his Gator.”

“Jeff’s probably worried about more accidents. Wasn’t it amazing how he shot those targets to save us from getting hit?”

Todd’s gaze hardened. “Are you going soft on Digby?”

“Seriously?” I gave him a slight push on the arm. “Let’s go up before they kiss and make up. I want to hear what they’re saying in the heat of it.”

We climbed the stairs and stepped inside the wooden box before either man noticed us.

Muted light flooded in from the narrow sides and floor-to-ceiling front window. The men stood before a long table holding computer equipment and thick binders.

Mike held a hand up to cut off Jeff’s rant and turned toward us. “What can I do for you, Miss Tucker?”

“
Ma
’am.” Beneath Jeff Digby’s trimmed beard, crimson flared, licking his cheekbones.

“We came to grab the first aid kit,” I said, stepping into the center of the room.

“Who’s injured?” asked Mike. “I thought no one got hit.”

“Don’t worry. My friend has a bum knee and he must have wrenched it during your mishap. We mainly need ibuprofen and something for his pride.”

“Let me get it for you.”

I turned to Jeff Digby. “Do you think someone deliberately set the targets to fly at us?”

“Can’t see how. They’d have to mess with the skeet software.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can program each tower for the number of clays launched and their speed, angle, and size,” said Mike, handing me a bottle of Advil. “The software sends a signal to each tower and triggers the launcher for the kind of throw you want.”

“But how can it go off if no one is pushing the buttons?” I said, revealing my complete ignorance about all things electronic.

“I guess it was a glitch,” said Jeff. “And if so, I’m going to kick some programmer’s butt from here to tomorrow. I didn’t know the damn thing was on. Must have started up when we hit the power to turn on the field lights.”

“How hard is it to break into this building? Could someone have known how to time the program thingy for when y’all started target practice?”

“You think someone did this on purpose?” Mike pulled in a tight breath. “How?”

Jeff shook his head. “The building was locked tight. Mike and I are the only ones with a key because the equipment is so expensive. Plus the whole area’s surrounded by the fence and locked gate. That fence is a ten-foot-high chain link.”

“You should check the fence line anyway,” said Mike. “I’ll call the software company. Maybe they can tell us what went wrong.”

“I’ll check the fence, but I can’t see how or why,” said Jeff.

The why was the issue that scared me.

“What else can go wrong this weekend?” Mike leaned against the table. “I don’t want to cancel this contest, but this is some bad juju.”

Jeff shook his head. “Now or never. I can’t keep that hog loose any longer. As far as I’m concerned, the big hunt’s this weekend or we can’t do it at all.”

“Surely the contestants can’t want to continue after this happened,” I said.

Bob Bass’s reedy whine drifted through the open trapdoor, complaining that they wouldn’t have time for more target practice. I heard the low murmur of Max’s retort. Bob’s whine turned to a taunt about catching the hog and Max’s gimp.

“Good Lord,” I muttered. “
Th
e
y still want to hunt.”

“If we don’t let them hunt, they aren’t going to take it well,” said Mike. “You know what can happen, Jeff.”