The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) (3 page)

When I had met Abel, he wasn’t drunk.

Three

T
he Swinton police station needed better coffee. Rookie Holt also needed a refresher on “establishing rapport with witnesses.” A certain gray-eyed Forks County deputy (more of a light Payne’s gray bordering on Blue Deep, although I still had not captured that color to my liking) had explained the importance of that interview strategy to me on more than one occasion. Like the time I suspected little Clayton Jeffries of pilfering from his sister’s Girl Scout cookie cash box while she was busy talking up the Thin Mints to Mrs. Meyers. According to my personal deputy, my interview techniques with Clayton’s best friend (and eyewitness), Jeremiah, could have used some work.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not a professional. I can’t say the same for Swinton’s Rookie Holt. But she was young and eager to get her commander to sign off on our interview.

“Look, I appreciate your concern,” she said in a voice that didn’t mark any appreciation for my concern. “But expressing your condolences to Abel Spencer’s people is not necessary.”

“There’s got to be someone. My visit with Mr. Abel might be a very comforting story for them to hear. Knowing in his final hours, he was caring for his dog and friendly to strangers.”

She shook her head.

I pressed my point, hoping for at least one name who would be sorry that Abel Spencer had died.

There had to be someone who knew him differently. “I’m sure they’d like to know he hadn’t been on some kind of tear before he fell. The Abel Spencer I met is not the Abel Spencer y’all described.”

“Because Abel Spencer—” Rookie Holt zipped her lips in a firm line, probably remembering recent training in spilling too much info to overeager witnesses. “Look, I’m glad he was friendly to you. And he was good with his dogs. That’s all you need to know. You’re finished here. Unless we need you later.”

“Look, I can’t bring anyone a casserole, but I can shake a hand and say I’m sorry. It’s not like I often meet people just before their accidental death. That’s a remarkable event. My Uncle Will could vouch for me. He probably knows your sheriff pretty well since, as Forks County Sheriff, Uncle Will knows everybody. Particularly other country law enforcement
.”

“Are you threatening me?” Rookie Holt’s spine cracked as her shoulders tensed.

“No, ma’am.” My super-ego began butt-kicking my id. I had gone too far again.

“Let me tell you, Miss Tucker. Flashing your uncle’s name around may get you out of tickets and such in your own town, but it won’t work here.”

“I was just trying to be helpful. And it doesn’t get me out of tickets. Believe me on that one.”

“Witnesses don’t offer casseroles and comforting stories to victim’s families they don’t know. You’
re
old enough to know that.”
She consulted my witness statement form. “Twenty-six years old, in fact. What’s wrong with you?”

Well, I thought, my daddy died when I was a toddler. My momma took off soon after, and my moral compass, Grandma Jo, stopped moving about the time she passed. Which was when I was fifteen. As my brother and sister do act their emotional age, I thought I was doing pretty good.

Instead I said, “I was raised to bring casseroles and comfort the grieving. Although Red says my need to help victims of unfortunate circumstances is most likely a form of projection.”

“Red’s your therapist?” She clicked her pen and flipped her notebook open.

“Bartender. He just watches a lot of daytime TV.”

“Thank you for your testimony.” The air nearly frosted with her words. “That’s all we need from you.”

However, filling out a witness testimony sheet was not all I needed. Some could question my compulsion to learn more about the victim, but meeting someone just before they plummet to their death? That’s an event you can’t file under “weird shit that just happened” and go on about your day. I had to spend a weekend hanging with rich and famous people. Hopefully making a good impression so they’d want to hire me for future portraits. I needed my head in that game. But my head was in the “I just met a man before he died” game.

Not a fun game.

Particularly when I couldn’t resolve the man I met with the man the police muttered about under their breath.

After a hot shower and change of clothes, I still hadn’t thrown off the chill of finding Mr. Abel’s body.

Unnerved, I grabbed my phone and let my finger hover over my favorite speed dial number.

Before I could give in to the impulse, the phone shook in my hand and sang “I Walk The Line.” The personal ringtone for Max Avtaikin, a.k.a. the Bear. Not that he’s hairy. Just big and scary. And able to score from shady dealings quicker than a grizzly snatches salmon.

But I’ve pretty much forgiven him for that trait.

“Hey,
Max, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m heading downstairs,” I answered, in my chirpy customer service voice. Always make the art patron happy. Even when you’ve found a dead man earlier that day.

“You must hurry.” His growl almost disguised his Slavic accent. “I need your help with this rock star idiot.”

“Come again? I thought
Bob
Bass was your friend. Why else would you bet to have a winning portrait made? Who does that?”

“He is the business associate.” The Bear’s growl took a turn toward abashed. “Our bet was the mistake created by too much vodka. In truth, he tries my patience. The man lives on flattery. That is not something I do well. He also likes to give too much—what you call?—trashing talk.”

“Talking trash.
Bob
Bass is an international star and adored by every gun lover in the country for his stance on the right to bear arms.” My voice shook. Meeting
Bob
Bass was going to be the high point in my wretched day. “Trash talk’s natural with competitors.”

“I also believe in this American right, but do you see me on the television proclaiming I am the hunting expert? In my country, we hunt to feed our family. I know hunting.
Bob
Bass grew up in Beverly Hills. What does he know?”

“Beverly Hills? I thought he grew up in the hills of Kentucky. Or was it a West Virginia coal mine?” I squeezed my eyes shut to help pry facts from my memory. “I know, a Louisiana bayou.”

“Songs,” Max spat. “His grandfather was lipstick tycoon and his mother was the
actress.”

“You are really bursting my bubble. I love
Bob
Bass.”

“You love the idea of the
Bob
Bass. The real
Bob
Bass is Fortnum Robert Bassler the third. He hired the PR firm after his first album didn’t sell. They discovered the rural population enjoys his music. So they reinvented
Bob
Bass as the big hunter.”

“How do you know this?”

“I made it my business to know.”

“What business?”

“My own.”

I recognized the defensive tone disguised as swagger. “Bob Bass plays poker in your secret casino, doesn’t he? You had him investigated. You better keep in mind, your friendly wager for the winning portrait might lose you a rich customer.”

“I am spending much money on you this weekend, Artist. That does not include your advice.”

“Very true,” I said quickly. “And even though you have destroyed the enjoyment I once had in
Bob
Bass’s music, I will do my best to flatter the rural interloper and get you through the weekend.”

“Perhaps he will have you appear on the television show with the reality of himself.”

“You mean his reality show,” I corrected. Max’s English sometimes disappeared between the Carpathians and the Appalachians.

“It is too bad Bass’s filming of this weekend will portray his defeat.”

I could imagine Max’s icy blue eyes gleaming with excitement. A mocking smile would flash across his normally stoic features.

The man took to competition the way a cougar takes to a limping deer. I had a feeling this supposed “trash talk” was of the personal variety.

“My people, we have the history of great hunters...”

I switched off Max’s rattle about the prowess of Slavic sportsmen and waited for a pause to change the subject. “I have a funny feeling about Mr. Abel.”

“Who is Mr. Abel? Is he also in the hunt? My last count was six contestants.”

I took a deep breath to block the
imag
e of a body from my head. “Mr. Abel is the man I found in the creek.”

“Ah.” Max paused. “I am sorry. Of course, you must be distressed over this tragedy. What is the funny feeling?”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. “But I don’t think Mr. Abel took a drunken spill into that ravine. For one thing, he would have gotten pretty damn hammered in a short amount of time, because when I met him earlier that night, he wasn’t drunk.”

“It depends on the drink and the person’s condition.”

I wasn’t easily dissuaded. “And another thing. His hat fell off on top of the ridge, but the body was in the creek, facing up. He fell backward. How does the hat fall forward if the body falls backward?”

“What are you saying?”

“According to Rookie Holt, Abel wasn’t liked by anyone.”

“You suspect the foul play? You do have the habit of jumping the conclusions, Artist. A social misfit does not make the strong motive for murder.”

“But I saw Mr. Abel’s face, Bear.” I fought back tears. “He looked scared. That also does not jive with the man I met earlier.”

Max pulled in a breath. “Of course, if he fell...”

“And
Hogzilla didn’t scare him.
The Big Rack’s outfitter said the giant hog was on a different part of the property. The rootings weren’t fresh enough.”

“So the beast was spotted on property? Excellent.” Max caught himself with a cough. “I see. The police are investigating? You told them your concerns?”

“Well, yes, I guess
.
”

“Then you have done your duty. Do not worry yourself needlessly. It is sad thing, of course, but there is nothing more you can do. I will see you soon.”

“But I need to do something. The police act like they’re writing this off.” I spoke to a dial tone.

I hung up and palmed my phone, ready to snap it shut, when I noticed my thumb, once again, hovered over Luke’s speed dial number. I caught myself. This was a working vacation. Tragedy or no tragedy, the art show must go on. Instead, I left my phone to charge, polished my best boots, and practiced my happy customer service smile before heading out.

In the lodge elevator, mellow jazz played a version of “
Blue Christmas.”

Where was “A Holly Jolly Christmas” when you needed it?

Four

I hurried through the guest lodge foyer. The hunt activities officially started in the Twenty Point bar with a meet and greet, followed later by a fixed menu dinner. The rain hadn’t returned and I could smell pork chops frying, giving me hope for a better evening. My nose led me across the stepping stone path toward the Twenty Point restaurant and its famed country cooking. Having brunched off property before my landscape painting debacle, I’d been looking forward to this meal for weeks.

And despite the tragic afternoon, I still did. My stomach was odd like that.

On the way, I passed quaint timbered buildings settled amid beautifully landscaped grounds. Behind the guest lodge, a set of luxurious cabins circled a large fishing pond.

The entourage stayed in the guest lodge. Todd, however, had somehow inveigled an invitation to stay in the Bear’s cabin. A two bedroom and two bath with a full living area, small kitchen, full bar, and fishing porch.

And, I’m just guessing here, five thousand thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Todd, the inveigler, flagged me from his spot under the eaves of the restaurant. “Everyone’s here. Are you okay?”

“I won’t pretend finding a body hasn’t thrown me for a loop. I’ve got a lot of weird ideas buzzing around my head where there should be thoughts about networking with future portrait clients. How about you?”

“I’m fine. My thoughts aren’t so weird, except for worrying about you. But that’s kind of weird for me.”

I hugged him. Sometimes Todd was a few peas short of a casserole. But he meant well.

“Did I miss anything yet?”

“Not really.
Bob
Bass didn’t play a single song. But he sure likes to talk.”

“The Bear thinks
Bob
Bass is a phony. He’s from Beverly Hills, not West Virginia.”

“I don’t believe it. I was hoping we could jam together. I brought my sticks.”

I glanced at the drumsticks poking from the pocket of his cargo shorts, just above the cherry tattoo. “Guess I should get in there and meet the contestants.”

Todd held open the door to the Twenty Point. I dashed inside the foyer and bumped into something large, furry, and wearing Santa’s hat.

“Jiminy Christmas.” I hopped away from the bear, embarrassed by my startle. The bear wore an expression that didn’t match his Santa hat. More snarly than jolly.

“You okay?” said Todd. “Not like you to be nervy.”

“I was just surprised by the Christmas getup, that’s all.” My new role as witness seemed to have made me jumpy.
“I’m sure the hunter nor the bear expected this fine specimen to be used as a holiday decoration.”

“You think that’s bad? Check this out.” Todd hooked a thumb at the dining room.

Under the tin-roofed rafters, more stuffed animals played. Squirrels chased raccoons up the wooden beams bracketing the open roof supports. Racks from departed bucks hung on the walls. Above the entrance to the kitchen, a stage had been erected where deer knelt beside dancing foxes, rabbits played with pheasants, and quail popped from bushes with the aid of wires. A sweet tribute to lives lost to arrow or bullet.

And all were wearing Santa hats or tinsel crowns.

“I wonder if this was the Woodcocks’ idea?” I shook my head. “Another example of how artists suffer for their work. The buyer’s interpretation is often different from their own.”

Todd shrugged. “I think it’s kind of cute.”

I turned toward the narrow bar on the side of the restaurant. There another crowd of creatures mingled. Some glassy-eyed. All nametag-stickered and clutching cocktail glasses. On my way to my room, I had gotten the contestant rundown after bumping into Bob’s manager. I watched them for a few minutes, awed by the individual incongruities that formed a group with one goal in mind: to be the one who nailed a ginormous wild hog.

A rangy man fighting his age dominated the small group with a vociferous “aw shucks” attitude and blaring self-amused laughter. His black cowboy hat sported peacock feathers and his fingers sparkled with rings.
Bob
Bass. I would have recognized him even without the electric guitar swung across his back, bandolier-style. Electric, I noted, without an amp hookup.

Max stood next to him, pretending to listen while discreetly checking out the raven-haired beauty on Bob’s right. In name alone, Peach Payne had given
Bob
a tabloid boost with flavor of the month jokes. Her gravity-defying cleavage and scarlet lipstick had caught more attention than just Max’s. I feared our bartender might suffer a neck sprain from his ogle. However, Peach’s focus remained on the phone she palmed while sipping a martini.

Another middle-aged man suited in a suede jacket and bolo tie alternately smiled and stole cagey glances at the other contestants. The scent of Atlanta money oozing from his
pores
told me this was Clinton Sparks
.

His wife, Jenny, a blonde weighted in makeup and diamonds, spoke to an African-American girl of about eighteen. Junior Olympic Rifleman LaToya Peterson had a reputation as a crack shot and a destiny to become the next cover girl for
Garden & Gun
magazine.

At the edge of the group, appearing displaced and slightly dazed by the moneyed crowd, stood a thirtyish bubba wearing gaiters over his Wranglers. Not a bad looking guy, but his discomfort masked it well. The local raffle winner, Rick Miller, I guessed.

Already at the bar, Todd caught my attention, pointing toward the pint glass he had just ordered. I strode to his side, accepted the drink with thanks, and took a sip for luck before plowing through the crowd to meet Mr. Bass. Todd followed with his own beer and Max’s cane.

All the fancy dress made me glad I had worn my bedazzled denim and a newly accessorized sweater for dinner. I had unraveled the sweater’s edges and beaded the threads with tiny silver reindeer buttons. Silver pigs would have been more appropriate, but reindeer seemed more in keeping with the season. I assumed the odd looks the ladies threw me were due to jealousy. Not everyone can successfully bling out Walmart.

Todd leaned into my ear. “I still can’t believe we’re in the same room with
Bob
Bass.”

“Let’s hope Max misinterpreted
Bob
Bass’s bio,” I whispered back.

“Artist,” said Max, lightening from his glower. “This is the singer with whom I have the portrait bet.”

“Hey there, sweet thing.” Bob’s blinding smile looked as perfect as my deceased Great-Gam’s set of purchased quality teeth. “Friends with the cripple here, huh? I see you brought his cane. Ha, just kidding there, Avtaikin.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bass. I’m a big fan.”

“Course you are, honey. Call me Bob. I bet you’re looking forward to setting your paintbrush to my handsome features next to a big ol’ ugly hawg.”

His harsh laugh caused a slight shudder in Miss Cleavage. “I don’t see why you’d want to look at some nasty pig hanging on your walls.”

“Peach, there’s a pride you get from bagging such a fine animal, especially if this boar is as big as they say. Just wait until you center Mr. Hog in your crosshairs. Not that you’ll get him, honey, but I’m sure you’ll understand the feeling once we start the hunt.”

Peach’s nose wrinkled, but she raised her chin. “Whatever you say, Bob.”

“You know it, babe.”
Bob
smacked her bottom, causing her martini glass to slosh over the side.

I swigged my beer, disappointed by the ease with which celebrities fell off pedestals.

“We’ll take the party to my cottage later, what do you say? Y’all are invited.”
Bob
grinned. Light glanced off his teeth and refracted off my beer, spotting my vision. “What happens at Big Rack stays at Big Rack. Am I right?”

Peach spoke with her eyes on her martini-sticky phone. “Right, Bob.”

“My wife and I are regulars at Big Rack,” said Clinton Sparks. “We love it here.”

“When we’re not on hunting safari in Montana or Africa,” added Jenny.

“Have you hunted here before?” I asked LaToya, hoping to find a normal hunter in the crowd.

LaToya shook her head. “No, ma’am. I’m from south Georgia. But we have a lot of problems with wild hogs there too. I’ve had plenty of experience and I’m feeling pretty confident about winning. I plan on bringing back a trophy.”

The man in gaiters bobbed his head. At our recognition, Rick cast us with a smile that quickly disappeared.

“I guess you probably hunt around here, Rick, right?” I asked.

Light brown eyes blinked at me. “How’d you know?”

“I heard a local guy won a raffle and you’re the last man standing, so to speak.”

“I’ve never hunted in Big Rack’s preserve. Not legally, anyway.” He squeezed out a short laugh. “I mostly shoot squirrel and rabbit. Sometimes deer. The lodge is lending me a better rifle. I’m pretty lucky, I guess. I don’t care about the trophy so much, but I could sure use that twenty thousand in prize money.”

A wave of uncomfortable smiles flickered through the hunt party. Smiles used in polite situations to acknowledge gauche remarks. As a frequent recipient of that particular smile, I found it easy to recognize.

“Bob Bass.” Max used a forced chuckle to move the conversation away from their discomfort. “Now that you have met the artist, I’m sorry Miss Tucker will not get the chance to paint you in the winner’s portrait. Perhaps I should allow her to paint you as a gift. A gesture of goodwill.”

“Goodwill my ass,” said Bob. “I already said I’m gonna win, so no worries on the outcome of the contest. You’re gimping around like an old man, Avtaikin. No way you can outshoot me. Yes, ma’am, you’re going to see my face next to that pig’s.”

I found myself considering the perspective I could take. In my mind, I had already entitled the painting
Two Pigs
.

“We will see about that, Bob.” Max raised his tumbler. “To the best man or woman winning.”

The others raised their assorted glasses and murmured agreement.

Now I understood why Max refused the cane he so obviously needed. And why he wanted help with
Bob
Bass. Charming jackasses was an art unto itself. Although this artist lacked proficiency in that particular medium.

Behind Bob, his lackeys buzzed in a whispered conference.

“Excuse me. I’m Bob’s publicist, Risa Rispoli,” said a pretty young redhead. “We’re outfitting
Bob
and Peach with GoPro cameras for the contest since the lodge wouldn’t allow a camera team on the hunt. While I have you here, we need signatures giving permission to be filmed for Bob’s reality program,
Rockin’ The Hunt
.”

I pulled a Berol number two from my embellished jeans pocket. “I’ll sign.”

“Are you one of the contestants?”

“No,” I said. “But you could film me painting Mr. Bass’s portrait. How about that?”

“We just want
Bob
hunting. Thanks anyway.”

Max shook his head. “You do not have my permission. No television.”

“We can keep your name anonymous,” said Risa. “We could write, ‘hunt contestant’ under your face when you’re shown.”

“No.”

“We could fuzz out your features.”

“Or could you insert my face over his?” said Todd.

“No, we can’t do that.” She fixed her gaze on Max, pleading. “It will be almost impossible not to show you on camera unless we do minute editing.”

“So you will do the minute editing.” Max broke eye contact, ending the conversation.

“I don’t know either.” Jenny Sparks giggled nervously. “Wouldn’t want to be caught without my makeup on.”

“
I
’d need to call my sponsors first,” said LaToya.

“Don’t use my name either,” said Rick. “I don’t like appearing in pictures.”

Risa exchanged a look with Bob. “Usually people are happy to be on the show.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey.”
Bob
reached around Peach to give Risa a squeeze, causing more martini spillage. “Peach and I will be the stars of the show. And that giant hawg. I think we’re dividing into groups anyway, so as long as my guide doesn’t care about being on TV, I don’t see a problem. More face time for me.”

Risa’s neck reddened and she busied herself pulling contracts from her briefcase. “Everyone needs to sign. Just check yes or no to the TV appearance, and write an addendum if you want your name used or not.”

As the contestants examined the fine print of their contracts, I leaned into Todd for a whisper. “I don’t understand why everyone is so spooked by appearing on Bob’s reality show.”

Todd nodded. “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“Me too. That’s rich folks for you,” I said. “Always worried about appearances.”

“Rick’s not rich.”

“True. It’s almost like they don’t want to get caught doing something on camera they shouldn’t.” I slanted a look at the party examining the paperwork. “Except for the ones wanting to be on camera doing stuff they shouldn’t.”