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 (9 page)
“Creepy Pete,” I muttered. “Todd’s roommate. Don’t let him see me. He’s overly friendly and not in a good way.”
“Introduce me.” Luke kept his eyes riveted on Pete, who spoke to a local near the register. Pete’s baggy jeans brushed the floor, hiding dirty work boots. A thick metal chain linked a belt loop to an oversized wallet stuffed in his back pocket. His dirty t-shirt with cut off sleeves completed the ensemble. Better to show off a multitude of tattoos covering shoulders to wrists.
More tattoos covered other parts of his body that I had been unfortunate to see on a trip to Todd’s apartment. Creepy Pete was unfamiliar with modesty.
“Did you not hear me say I don’t want him to see me? That’s the opposite of ‘introduce me.’” I arched an eyebrow that Luke neglected to notice. “Why do you want to meet Creepy Pete anyway? You didn’t like your stepbrother. You aren’t going to like Pete. I can guarantee you that.”
“I’m not looking to be friends with him. I’m looking for information.”
With my lips set into a thin line, I turned my head from the approaching Pete, refusing Luke’s insistence on an introduction. Unfortunately, Pete had already zeroed in on me and stopped at our table anyway.
“If it ain’t a Cherry. Sweet and juicy, just like I like ’em.” Pete chuckled at his long-running joke and tipped his mesh trucker’s cap, flapping a curtain of greasy brown hair in my direction. Dull olive eyes ran over my t-shirt and back to my face.
“More like tart and tangy,” Luke murmured, flashing his dimples.
“Jerk,” I mouthed and turned to the bastion of white trash culture. “Pete.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Where you been hiding?” Pete looked at my face with interest and gave his eyes free reign to wander over my chest again.
“In a cave,” I replied in my flattest tone.
Pete laughed. “You were always a funny one. Too bad Todd left you at the altar. I take that back. Leaves you on the market. Pickings are slim in Halo.”
“What?” I straightened in my seat and swung around to face him. “Listen skeez, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I was not left at any altar.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, girl. Can’t blame Todd for not wanting to settle so young. Didn’t leave you with one in the oven, did he? I wouldn’t want damaged goods.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose in a rush of anger and my lips pulled back into a snarl. Before I could shoot a caustic remark, Luke pulled me back into my seat.
“Easy now,” he said.
Pete blinked at Luke in slow-witted realization that I wasn’t alone. “Who’re you?”
“Friend of Cherry’s. You’re Pete? Still working for Mr. Max?” Luke’s voice dropped lower. With his eyes fastened on Creepy Pete, he released my arm and rested his hand near mine.
Pete’s eyes cast over Luke with suspicious contempt. “Why you want to know?”
“Heard you were a pretty decent poker player.”
“More than pretty decent, according to Mr. Max. I’ll probably go pro one of these days.”
I snorted. Luke’s hand clasped over mine. I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. I stared in stony silence at the fingers curling around my small hand and felt under the table for his leg. Feeling my toe against his calf, Luke’s eyes locked on mine with a small smile.
I swung my leg back and smacked him in the shin.
“Pro, huh?” Luke’s voice wobbled with surprised pain. He tightened his grasp on my hand and pulled on my arm. Half my body shot across the table, dragging the hem of my t-shirt across a plate of syrup. “I guess Mr. Max would know with the money he puts up for games.”
Pete nodded noncommittally and watched me press my boots against the back of the booth to regain my balance.
“Todd said he couldn’t understand Mr. Max,” Luke continued. “You and Dustin must not have problems with that. What kind of accent is it?”
“You got plans for that hand? Because I plan on leaving with it,” I hissed, ignoring Pete as he slid in next to me.
“I can understand him. Better than Dustin did, too,” said Pete. “Mr. Max’s from one of them Russian type countries. Ain’t a Commie though. I made sure of that before I started working for him. He liked to play some dumbass game called Baccarat. Said it was a little like poker. I said, ‘if it’s a little like poker, play poker, man.’”
“You can pronounce his last name?” Luke suggested. “Todd said it was impossible.”
“Ain’t impossible if you’re not an idiot.”
“Todd’s not an idiot,” I spat out.
Luke squeezed my hand, making me gasp. He shot me a warning glance, but I burned Pete with my glower anyway.
“Listen, Todd’s my boy, but he ain’t likely to become a brain surgeon, now is he?” Pete continued, oblivious to our tussle. “Some people call Mr. Max the Bear or just Bear. People in the know.”
Luke nodded, relaxed my hand enough to allow blood to flow and I wiggled my fingers to aid circulation.
Pete glanced at our hands and my body dangling over the table. “Does Todd know you’re seeing this guy?” His eyes took another trip over my rear swaying over bent legs. They zeroed in on the skin between my raised t-shirt and jeans. “You could really use a tramp stamp. It would enhance your backside in such a way so your ass wouldn’t appear so scrawny.”
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “That’s it!”
I thrust my arms forward and smashed into Luke’s chin. His head jerked back and our hands parted. I fell forward on the table, knocking over our coffee cups, and landing my chest in the plate of syrup. Pushing up, I grabbed some napkins from their metal box holster and shoved Pete in the thigh with my boot.
“Get out,” I commanded.
He scooted off the seat, rubbing his thigh. “You don’t have to be so bitchy.”
“Perverts bring out my best side.” I turned to Luke. “And you can pay the bill for once. You owe me eight years with interest.”
“Come on, sugar. That was fun until you punched me.”
I dabbed napkins over my sticky shirt until I noticed Pete’s interest and flung the wadded paper on the table.
Luke’s eyelids dropped halfway across his smoky eyes. He flashed me a look hot enough to curdle the spilled half-n-half pooling on the table. “You keep showing me a good time, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Never mind, I don’t want you paying for me.” I dug in my pocket, pulled out a five, and threw it on the table. “I don’t know what I’m doing here anyway. I have work to do.” I spun around, bumped into Creepy Pete, and forced myself to walk out the door with my last shred of dignity.
I yanked the door open of my rusty truck and threw myself onto the bench. The wrapped canvas waited beside me. Priorities, Cherry! I needed to find the Bransons. And change out of my maple infused t-shirt.
Taking a deep breath, I narrowed my eyes at the black truck parked next to me. Luke had been in town before the murder, and I hadn’t known about it. Virginia had also been nearby, as well as this Mr. Max. How had methamphetamine labs and underground gambling rings gone without my notice in our tiny town? And why couldn’t I figure out Luke?
I grabbed a tissue and took another swipe at my dirty shirt. More importantly, why couldn’t I get through a Luke encounter without wanting to take a baseball bat to his pretty new truck?
Refreshed and redressed in a fuchsia and lime green camo-print tank top, I pushed a row of multi-hued rubber bangles up my forearm and grasped the corners of Dustin’s canvas. I finally found Wanda camped out at JB’s dealership office, taking a much needed hiatus from family and cops. I started to slide the canvas off the Datsun’s bench when I felt someone behind me. I peered over my shoulder expecting Luke’s smirk and almost smacked my elbow on the metal door in surprise. Ronny Price hung behind me, running his hands over his glossy hair.
“Need some help, hon?”
I pivoted forty-five degrees, my left hand still grasping the painting. Ronny wore a persimmon shirt and a rust colored tie. I had to admire Ronny for his choice in colors that would normally be too flamboyant for Halo. He liked a little flash, and as a car salesman, his panache was practically expected.
“Like the tie, Mr. Price.”
He beamed in appreciation.
“I appreciate your offer,” I said, “but the paint is still tacky. I don’t want it to stick to the wrapping.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said as he reached across me to grab the edge. “Looks too big for a little girl like you.”
The consummate salesman, one who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t usually trust my work in other people’s hands, but I also didn’t want to wrestle him for it in the dealership parking lot. With my luck, I’d end up with paint globs in my hair, the canvas ripped down the middle, and both Bransons as witnesses. “All right then, if you’re careful how you hold it. Can you brace it between your hands without touching the front?”
“Of course.” He gave me a salesman smile, better than the one I pulled out for customers. We slid the wrapped canvas out of the truck.
“Whoops,” I muttered.
Wanda’s crumpled bag, smashed under the large painting, threatened to dump off the floor and onto the asphalt. I caught it with my knee, pushed it back on the floor, and slammed the door shut. Ronny strode across the blacktop toward the dealership entrance. Grasping the folder with the contract, I scurried after him and opened the door so he could pass through sideways.
We cut through the showroom where new cars rested in sexy poses. My longing bounced off the tinted windows of a gleaming Mustang. I ran my hand over the robust frame. Stealing a deep whiff of new car smell, I ogled the beauty. A battle between lust and envy broke within me, but the price on the manufacturer’s sticker cut the seduction faster than a cold shower. I gave the trunk a booty smack of admiration and jogged toward the back door.
We traipsed down a friendly apricot colored hallway sided with doors on the near end. We passed several tiny sales offices, then a long window with a view into the garage. I squinted into it, trying to catch sight of Cody, but lost him in the sea of coveralls bent over and under vehicles. Ronny stopped at the end of the hall, waiting for me to catch up. I hurried to open the door, and we stepped into a waiting room.
“Hey Barb,” called Ronny.
JB’s trusted office manager looked up from her desk and patted her hot-rolled curls at Ronny’s entrance.
“Are JB and Wanda inside?” Ronny nodded toward the door she guarded. “Cherry Tucker’s here to see them.”
Barb smiled. “Hey there, Cherry. Let me just see.”
She shoved her rolling chair back from a desktop littered with stacked papers and cat statues. Along with the dealership, JB owned four quick lube shops, a catfish restaurant, and an unknown quantity of silent partnerships in Central-West Georgia. As his personal assistant, Barb Mason piloted the businesses with efficient aplomb from her perch at the dealership. She and twenty porcelain cats.
“Hey, Miss Barb. Nice to see you again.”
Barb heaved her round figure from the chair. My smile disappeared as Ronny thunked the painting on the floor. I darted forward to rescue the canvas from leaning against an armchair.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Price.”
“No problemo. Enough with the Mr. Price,” he said. “I think you’re old enough to call me Ronny.”
He winked and smoothed his hands over his hair before settling into an armchair. The door to JB’s office swung open. Barb leaned her wide posterior against it, waving me in.
I bent forward to palm the large frame’s sides. She pointed toward the painting. “Do you need help with that?”
“No, ma’am.” After Ronny’s manhandling, I didn’t want anyone touching this painting.
Upon entering JB’s office, I murmured admiration for the numerous white tail trophies adorning the walls. Halo grapevine reported the Branson home held even more exotic prizes from hunting trips to Montana and South Africa. I had never seen them, but my relationship with Luke wasn’t exactly the take-home-to-Momma kind. Luke did not share his private home life, and at the time, I didn’t care.
After two minutes of carefully unwrapping Dustin’s portrait, a stunned silence filled the room. Wanda clutched her sides with tears running rivulets down her face.
“It’s amazing,” she said. “It’s like a work of art.”
JB tossed the contract folder on his desk, tipped back in his office chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Look here, Cherry. I admire your gumption, but we can’t have you painting our son.”
“I don’t understand, sir. You said if I finished it for the funeral, you’d consider buying it.”
“That was before you tried to rob Dustin.”
I clenched the painting before me. “I didn’t try to rob Dustin, sir. I did trespass. I admit to that. But only to get a jump start on painting. Cooper’s not pressing charges, though.”
“Cooper’s not pressing charges, yet,” said JB.
Wanda wandered to the window and feigned interest in the parking lot. “There’s talk in town you pulled that crazy stunt to drum up your art business. Playing on folks’ sympathy. Get yourself in the newspaper.”
“What? Who’s saying that? It’s a lie. I have the bump on my head to prove it.”