Read Portrait of a Dead Guy Online
Authors: Larissa Reinhart
Tags: #Mystery, #humor, #cozy, #Humour, #amateur sleuth, #Contemporary, #Romance, #cozy mystery, #murder mystery, #humorous mystery, #female sleuth, #mystery series
Portrait of a Dead Guy (11 page)
Curtis Mather’s Tire Shop occupied a corner of Highway 19 and Oak Leaf Road, a good location gone to waste. Mather’s is one of those shops few people seem to use, but still stays in business. The only colors decorating the lot of the gray cinderblock building were from various vehicles parked helter-skelter. Stacks of tires helped to hide the trash and pools of miscellaneous liquid that never seemed to evaporate on the dirty concrete.
Cody hopped from the truck, completely in his element. His nose quivered like Peter Rabbit’s in Macgregor’s garden, and he almost ran through the open doors of the garage. My nose seized at the noxious mixture of diesel and rubber. I readjusted the painting on the truck seat, throwing a look of regret at the now ragged lump that was Wanda’s shopping bag. However, I was as curious as Cody to enter the shop. I didn’t care about the Malibu. I wanted to see the spot where Dustin had been offed. Judging by the crowded lot, other locals had a similar interest. It looked like Curtis Mather might capitalize from Dustin’s notoriety.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the shop after the blinding sunshine and I shaded my eyes in the entrance of a raised garage door. Curtis Mather stood a few paces away in gray coveralls, wiping his hands with a dingy cloth.
He ran the grubby cloth over his shiny head, leaving a streak of grease behind, and stuck a hand in my direction. I grasped the slippery fingers with hesitation, but gave him a hearty shake anyway. Curtis Mather may be the local Pigpen, but he seemed friendly enough.
“Ma’am.” He beamed a toothy smile.
“I’m Cherry Tucker. I thought my brother, Cody, came in here?” A quick glance showed vehicles filled the three bays. However, Cody and the Malibu remained to be seen.
“Ah,” he replied, stuffing the rag into his back pocket. “He went ’round to the back. Interested in the ’Bu. It’s back there.”
“I’m surprised it’s still here. Didn’t JB take it home with him?”
“Naw. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with it. Told me to keep it for my distress under the circumstances.” He snorted. “Didn’t even come down to check on it or to see where his boy was killed. Pretty cold, but then the boy gave him enough trouble, I suppose.”
Wandering to a rolling metal cabinet, he opened a narrow drawer. His hands drifted over the tools and grabbed a tiny screwdriver.
“I told your Cody I’d sell it to him if he’s interested.” Curtis shot a cool-eyed look at me, assessing our capital worth under thinning eyebrows. Easing onto a stool, he began cleaning his nails with the flat end of the screwdriver. “It’s a ’77. Got a 2300 Holley carburetor. Engine’s not done, but Dustin put on a new gas tank. I could get a good price on the Autotrader, but I need the space. Business is picked up lately.”
“I saw that.” I wasn’t going to do Cody’s negotiating for a car he didn’t need, so I changed the subject. “I guess a lot of people are interested in Dustin Branson’s death.”
“Mmhm.” He pointed the screwdriver toward the far bay. “Happened over there on t’end. Police finally took off that damned yaller tape and let me get back to work over there. Just in time, too. Can’t believe how many people need rotations and oil changes this week.”
I wandered toward the pit where a blue GMC sat on the lifts, ready for work. “It doesn’t bother you to work where he was murdered?”
“Naw.” I turned to see Curtis Mather watching me. He ducked his head and began work on his other nails. “He’s just dead, is all. The good Lord deals with him now. Had to clean up some mess though. And now I’m missing a boy. ’Course that Dustin, he weren’t much on working anyway.”
I wished I could be as complacent about life’s trials as Curtis Mather. I circled the truck, but could see no evidence of a grisly murder here. It looked like any other dirty garage floor.
“Except my wrench.”
“Sir?”
“I wished I could get the wrench back.”
I waited for him to continue, but his dirty nails captured his attention. “What wrench?”
He looked up and fixed me with clear blue eyes. “My torque wrench that son’ve bitch killed the boy with. You think when they catch him, the police will get my wrench?”
“I thought they didn’t know what the killer used to hit Dustin?”
“Got to be my torque wrench,” Curtis Mather sputtered. “It’s missing, ain’t it? Don’t take two and two to know that son’ve bitch must of hit the boy with my torque wrench, then.”
I glanced around the garage with its sticky floors and grungy walls. Curtis Mather followed my glance, but pointed toward the open drawer of gleaming screwdrivers. “I’d know if my tools was missing. That’s what I told the sheriff,” he added with a defensive nod. “A monkey could figure that out. Dustin were working on restoring that Malibu. Only reason he’d show up for work most days. At the time, Dustin must’ve been changing the oil. Found the socket wrench and the plug underneath him. As I figure it, Dustin’s working that wrench, loosening the oil plug, when that son’ve bitch picked up my torque wrench and popped Dustin on his noggin. Let all that oil drain all over Dustin, too. What a mess.”
He shook his head. “Couldn’t even bring his own weapon.”
I couldn’t tell what angered Curtis Mather more, the gall of the killer to take an innocent life or stealing his wrench.
“At first, maybe they thought it was an accident. But you don’t get your head split in two from changing oil. I told the sheriff that, too.”
“I guess someone must have been pretty mad with Dustin.”
“Well,” Curtis scratched the grease spot on his head, smearing it further, “that boy had a mouth on him. Pretty sneaky, too. I probably should’ve fired him, but never got ’round to it. I figure he got himself messed in something pretty bad. I don’t know nothing about it, though. Not my business.”
“Yes, sir.” See no evil, speak no evil, get in no trouble with the sheriff.
“Say, that brother of yours. He play poker? We have a friendly Texas Hold’em sometimes meets.”
I shook my head. That’s all Cody needed, another way to lose money.
“How about you? We could use some fresh blood. Just some old geezers, but you’d give us something nice to look at while we pass the cards.”
I smiled my sweetest. “I lost one man to gambling and don’t plan on wasting any more Saturday nights with a bunch of men who think sitting on their butts for hours on end staring at the same fifty-two pictures is the best thing since sliced bread.”
Curtis’ shocked look brought me up short.
“Sorry. I’ve got personal issues with poker. But thanks for asking.”
I grabbed the doorknob of the heavy metal back door and heaved it open. My brother leaned over the open hood of a beefy buttercream car with a white Landau top. Cody glanced over at me and whistled.
“Pretty, ain’t she?” He released the hood from the prop rod, but held it overhead for a last look at the car’s internals. I had yet to see him gaze at a girl like that.
“How did Dustin end up with a classic like this?”
“I don’t know.” Cody caught the falling hood in his hands before gently dropping it in place. “Don’t care. I’ve got to have this car. Swivel bucket seats. Love to take a date in that.”
“Yeah, real romantic. One problem. You don’t have the money for it. Did you tell Mr. Mather that?”
He waved his hand at unimportant considerations like money. “We’ll work something out. He mentioned needing a mechanic. Maybe he’d let me take it out of my paychecks.”
“You’ve got a good job at the dealership. This place can’t keep you in cars. Soon as the gossip about Dustin’s murder wears off, people aren’t going to need new tires from Curtis Mather.” I pinched the bridge of my nose to keep from smacking him. “Don’t make any dumb decisions.”
He raised his brows and smirked. “Like going to Vegas and getting talked into a wedding?”
“I’m about done with that old joke. Hope you find out the block’s cracked.”
Afternoon sunshine poured through my living room picture window and spread over the easel where Dustin’s unfinished painting rested. A palette of mixed colors, jar of water, and assortment of brushes waited on an elderly walnut end table draped in a paint-speckled cloth. With a thin whine of electric guitar, a heavy bass and drums thrummed through my iPod. Cold beer lingered in the avocado-green fridge in the kitchen. I stood in bare feet surveying my domain with a smile.
“I think you need to touch up the paint on your sign outside,” said Shawna, strolling through my front door with nary a knock. “Looks a little faded.”
Pursing her glossed lips, her gaze swept the living room I had converted to a studio. The bright sunlight highlighted the cracks in the plaster walls and paint dribbles on the old varnish of the ninety-year old wooden floors. Framing samples stacked against one wall hid a scorched hole that once was an outlet. Luckily, my gallery of ten by ten canvases of friends and family covered the oozy spots on the wall backing the kitchen.
It could be worse. When I moved in, we found a family of chipmunks living in a cabinet next to the fridge. And Casey wonders why I don’t cook.
“Actually, why bother?” she said. “This house should be condemned. When you get a real job, you should get a new place.”
“What do you want, Shawna?”
She wandered over to the fainting couch that sat beneath my gallery wall. She toed the claw foot with a wedge slingback. “Do you really like the whole grubby bohemian chic thing or this a statement of your expense account?”
“That’s an antique. I’m going to recover it. It’s a classic.”
“Like your truck?” She stared at the portraits adorning the wall and tapped her chin with a french-tipped nail. “I don’t see Luke in this collection. I got the feeling y’all had known each other once upon a time.”
“We’re familiar,” I said, stalking to my easel. While she eyeballed the paintings, I tossed a wet cloth over the paints and a sheet over Dustin’s portrait. Crossing my arms, I stood wide legged with a foot pointing toward the door and waited for Shawna to get to the point.
“He spends a lot of time driving around Halo,” she said and wandered to my battered rolltop desk. She flicked imaginary dust off the edge and leaned against it, crossing her long legs at the ankles. The dark cropped pants and billowy, sheer top suited her. I tightened my arms across the paint-splattered wife-beater I wore for painting.
“Does he? Maybe he’s trying to wear in the tires on that new truck.”
“I think he’s looking for somebody.”
“What do you want me to tell you, Shawna? I don’t keep tabs on Luke.”
“It’s almost time for the visitation. You’d think he’d want to hang out with the family. Dustin’s mother showed up today and made a whole big ruckus.”
“Can you tell me what’s on your mind? I’m kind of busy. I’m sure you didn’t come over to shoot the breeze.”
“You got any tea? I’m dry as a bone.”
My curiosity kept me from overthrowing Grandma Josie’s breeding. Cracking open the ancient fridge, I heard thumping sounds drift from the living room. I snuck back to the living room archway and glimpsed Shawna pawing through the drawers of my desk. I thought about interrupting her search, but the rolltop only housed art supplies. Jars and bottles of paint occupied the deep bottom drawers. The desk didn’t hold much interest unless she came to borrow a cup of gesso.
I scurried back to the fridge, fixed a glass of iced tea, and ambled into the living room. Shawna sat perched on the faded quilt covering the old divan.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the mason jar I held. I had regular glasses, but I figured I’d play into the redneck theme. “Mercy, you make some good tea.”
“Thank you,” I replied in my sweetest drawl. “The key is making sure the sugar dissolves when you brew it.” I had no idea if I spoke the truth, but it sounded good. Casey always made the tea at Grandpa’s house. This jug bore the Tru-Buy label.
I grabbed a stool near the easel and plunked it before the couch. “So what brings you by, Shawna?” I crossed a leg over my knee and studied the she-devil disguised as a debutante. “Did you want to sabotage my painting like you did the other night at Cooper’s? What’d you do while I was in the kitchen? Spray paint on my canvas?”
Sweet tea shot out her nose. “I did no such thing.”
“Must of crossed your mind or the tea would’ve stayed down.” I hopped off my stool and crossed the room to the canvas sitting on the easel. Pulling off the sheet, I studied the painting. “Guess I didn’t give you enough time. Of course, you didn’t knock me out today.”
“I wasn’t going to sabotage your painting. How could you accuse me of such a thing?”
“Then why were you looking through my desk?”
“I wasn’t looking...” She stopped. “I wanted to see if the joints were dove-tailed. It looks like an antique.”
“Bullhockey.” My eyes narrowed. “Fess up.”
“Where’s Dustin stuff? I want to see what you’re doing for the shadowbox.”
“Why?” I thought of the crumpled bag in my truck with guilt. I barely skimmed through the sack the day before. Other than a few glitzy pieces of jewelry, the collection comprised of old toys and high school treasures.
“I heard Aunt Wanda telling folks about it. Virginia Springhouser claims she should have Dustin’s effects, and she hit the roof when Aunt Wanda told her about the memory box. That was after that guy came to the house, asking if he could take a look at Dustin’s room.”