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Authors: Larissa Reinhart

Tags: #Mystery, #humor, #cozy, #Humour, #Romance, #cozy mystery, #southern mystery, #humorous mystery, #mystery series

Still Life in Brunswick Stew (2 page)

BOOK: Still Life in Brunswick Stew
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“Eloise,” I asked. “You want to come and see what the fuss is about?”

“And miss the possibility of a single customer? I’m not hauling my butt out of this chair except to get more stew.” She stubbed out a cigarette. On the folding table sat her second or third bowl of the thick Brunswick Stew, brimming with shredded meat, tomatoes, butter beans, and corn. “One of my students gave me a bunch of free tickets to his family’s booth, and I plan to use them all. My Crohn’s isn’t bothering me, so I’m eating to make up for the times my stomach doesn’t let me.”

Although the stew had a lovely cinnamon color, eating it in record-breaking heat held no appeal to me. Particularly the amount Eloise had already consumed. The concoction of veggies and meat once got poor folks through hard times by tossing in whatever you could salvage. I’ve had it made from chicken, beef, pork, venison, and even rabbit. Some like to add squirrel with their pork. However in college, after enjoying a bowl with a large side of tequila shots at a Savannah bar, I vowed never to touch the stuff again. Does not taste as pleasant the second time around.

Watching Eloise eat made sweat break on my neck. “On a scorcher like today, I would think you’d rather have a Sno-Cone than a hot bowl of stew.”

“As a Sidewinder native, it is my duty to eat Brunswick Stew, particularly at our annual cook-off,” said Eloise. “I love Brunswick Stew. You should know better. How long have we been friends?”

“Let me see,” I pretended to think, not trying to hide my grin. “Seems I beat you in the Forks County Art Competition in third grade...”

“And I stole your drawing and you promptly announced it over the PA, getting me in all kinds of trouble. I still have the handprint on my behind.”

“Serves you right, you art thief.”

“I loved your drawing,” Eloise’s eyes grew misty. “I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen such a beautiful unicorn.”

“It was not a unicorn. I would never draw a unicorn.”

“I’m pretty sure there were rainbows, too.” Eloise laughed at my horrified look. “You were eight. Anyway, I recognized talent then and now. I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Are you kidding? You’re the one that got me into the Reconstituting Classicism gallery show. If I can pull off something great, that crowd will pay big bucks. I’m down to my last twenty dollars and change.” At that thought, I fished in the pockets of my cutoffs to look for Sno-Cone change, disappointed to find only thirty-five cents and a few gum wrappers.

“No one around here wants a portrait made, not even one of their pet,” I moaned. “I had the hunting dog market cornered there for a while. The art well in Forks County has mysteriously run dry ever since I was snubbed by the Bransons after painting the portrait of Dustin. Then Shawna Branson became president of the Forks County Arts Council and suddenly I have paintbrush leprosy.”

“How are those classical paintings coming?” Eloise dropped her eyes to her stew bowl. She knew me well enough to avoid conversation about Shawna Branson. “Aren’t you supposed to send digital photos of the portfolio soon?”

“Week from Monday,” I said. “Plenty of time. I’m doing famous Greek statues as paintings. Except to make it edgier I’m covering the model’s body in tiny Greek letters. Head to toe.”

Eloise swatted me with her spoon. “You haven’t done them yet? Don’t make me look bad, Cherry Tucker. The show is organized by my old drawing professor at UGA. He’s still ticked I went into pottery. I’m hoping to get back in his good graces and get my own show out of the deal.”

I held one hand over my heart, the other palm up in Pledge of Allegiance mode. “I swear I would never do anything to make you look bad, Eloise Parker. You have my word. I’m just having a little trouble convincing my model to pose nude as the
Dying Gaul
.”

“Who are you using as a model?”

“Luke Harper.”

It took a moment for Eloise to regain control over her laughter. I helped her right her chair when it threatened to tip.

“Luke is the perfect model for a Greek statue,” I explained. “Tall, lean, with great muscle definition. Especially those indentations between his waist and hips.” I paused a moment in delicious ecstasy, ruminating over Luke’s V-cut. “He even has the dark curly hair and the straight nose of a classic Greek. And I don’t think he’s got a drop of Greek blood in him. Pretty sure Harper’s not a Greek name.”

“Nor Roman. You just want to paint Luke naked,” Eloise cackled. “This doesn’t have anything to do with art.”

“Of course it does. I have an eye for beauty, that’s all.”

“You got a thing for beauty, all right. As long as it’s got a—”

“You can stop right there, Eloise Parker. No need to get trashy.”

“I’m not the one obsessed with painting Luke Harper nude.”

“He never lets me paint him, nude or otherwise. I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

“Probably because he’s worried the criminals in Forks County will laugh at him after seeing his bare ass in a painting,” Eloise lifted her brows. “Hard to arrest somebody when they’re laughing at you.”

“The criminals of Forks County will never see his bare whatever. The paintings would go straight to a gallery in Athens. No one in these parts would ever see it,” I said.

“But they’d hear about it. No way you can stop the biddies from clucking about something like that.”

“You’re an artist. You’re supposed to encourage me.” I pointed at her neat rows of Raku ware lining the table in our tent. The traditional Japanese pottery style used lead glazes and a quick firing and cooling process. Eloise favored black pots hand-molded into interesting shapes with a white glaze applied in sparing drips and splatters. Refined elegance. Neither of us was making money, though, unlike the Redneck Golf Club booth next door. Attaching a stick to a beer can is a lot easier than rendering shadow and depth on a bowl of peaches.

“I need this gig,” I said. “I’m not selling any paintings at this cook-off, not even my peach still lifes. And you know how tourists love Georgia peach souvenirs.”

“Do what you need to get the Greek paintings done.” Eloise fixed me with a lethal stare while lighting a cigarette. “You better not let me down or I’ll hear about it. I don’t need ulcers on top of Crohn’s Disease.”

I sobered, knowing the pain Crohn’s had caused Eloise to suffer over the years. At one point, she had been whittled to skin and bones by the intestinal disease. She was finally looking like her old self. “I’m sorry, hon’. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“I don’t need your gratitude,” she said. “I just want the works submitted. That’s all I ask. Now go check out what’s going on at the cook-off. You can’t sit still anyway and it’s making me nervy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I saluted her, walked out of our tent, and into the scorching rays of the mid-day sun.

The hollering drifting across the stubby field had abated. I slowed my amble. Eloise and I had been given a spot on the far side of the festival near the pony rides, a slight in my opinion. I had to thread through the craft tents before I reached the food area.

I owed Eloise more than gratitude for getting me into the Athens’ gallery show. Getting noticed in the Athens art community meant news of my work might travel to well-financed Bulldog alumni living in Atlanta or farther reaches. I assumed the educational praises lauded on the esteemed University of Georgia meant their graduates made inroads to places like New York. And everyone knew New Yorkers loved art. More importantly, if folks didn’t start shelling out some bucks for my paintings, I was going to have to get a real job. Even worse, a job that might involve slinging hash, as my art degree didn’t come with a minor in brain surgery.

I halted in the open area before the festival stage and glanced wistfully toward the booths of fried pies, funnel cake, and barbecue. If I didn’t sell a peach painting today, there would be no Sno-Cones in my future. Nor beer tonight at the Viper, the local Sidewinder bar that Eloise said has the best catfish in central Georgia. And I did love catfish. And beer.

Spying a fried Moon Pie booth, my gut cried in anguish at the misery my lack of money created. I had second thoughts about hanging near a contest that involved watching other people eat, even if it was Brunswick Stew. To prevent more gut-ache of want, I glanced away from the food stalls toward the information booth to my right.

The officials had abandoned the booth for the cook-off, but a gigantic source of distraction did stand in the empty tent. With hands on his hips, he surveyed the flyers scattered over a picnic table.

When you’re five foot and a half inch, any guy over six foot is big, but this particular man would put a steroid-infused Soviet weight lifter to shame. A frown twisted his mouth and his glacier blue eyes appeared troubled.

I hesitated at offering help. Max Avtaikin might be a supporter of the arts, but he had a dubious criminal background. And I kind of accused him of murder a few months back. Which is just plain embarrassing.

Before I could skedaddle, Max turned and caught me gawking.

I skimmed a hand over my limp, blonde ponytail, flapped the sweat off my neon pink halter, and entered the booth. “Hey, Mr. Max. You need help?”

He leaned in for one of those European double kisses. “Cherry Tucker. A pleasure, as always. Do you have the artist stand?”

It took me a second to understand his meaning. Max grew up in one of those Eastern bloc countries when they were still more bloc than country. Using his wily business acumen, he got rich and then got the hell out of Dodge. He settled in small town Georgia because of his odd love for the War Between the States. His accent moved with him.

“I’m selling little oils,” I said. “Still lifes mostly. And trying to advertise my portraiture business. I’ve got a booth with my friend, Eloise Parker. She does pottery. You should check it out.”

“I am wanting to see this art works, but I was asked to judge a food competition,” Max said.

“Really?”

“You sound surprised, Miss Tucker.”

“I just thought, with your, uh, recent trouble, folks would kind of...”

“I am involving in the community services.” He shifted his stance. “You disapprove?”

“Helping the community is a good start.”

“But?”

“You’re still playing cards in your basement?” I asked, referring to his illegal poker games busted a few months ago.

Men like Max would play it cool for a while, but find a stealthier way to restart their business. Some folks don’t care about local vice if it’s kept indoors. There’s a history of juke joints and moonshining in rural Georgia that’s transferred to other realms in the modern era. However, I grew up around a county sheriff and know for a fact that doings behind doors eventually seep outside and run havoc elsewhere.

“I’m not understanding your meaning,” he said.

“Oh, I think you do. But it’s none of my business.”

“That didn’t stop your interest a few months ago.”

I fiddled with my sunglasses, wondering what good manners dictated in this situation. Grandma Jo never covered apologies for accusing criminals of the wrong crime. “Well, I hope you’re not messing around with poker anymore.”

“I like games,” Max paused. “And you do, too.”

We shared a long look.

I had an inkling Max had some tricks up his sleeve that might warrant closer scrutiny. And oddly enough, he seemed to enjoy baiting me. Maybe he missed the excitement of outsmarting the secret police in his old country. I couldn’t help a small shiver of pleasure at the thought of Max finding me a worthy opponent. Although he probably just found my antics amusing.

I gave Max a half-hearted shrug to show this rabbit wasn’t about to sniff around his traps. If he wanted to corrupt Halo with his shady dealings, well, he just better be careful. I was dating a deputy.

“I have noticed you no longer have use of my nickname,” Max said, steering the conversation down a different current.

“You want me to call you Bear?” Max’s shadier cohorts called him The Bear.

“You used to call me Bear.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe there is significance to your more formal manner?”

A shriek cut off our conversation. “Dangit, I’m missing the fight.” Thankful for the excuse, I fled the stuffy tent.

Max caught up with me in two strides. “What is this fight? A boxing match?”

“Maybe boxing if we’re lucky. Probably just some smart mouthing and shoving.”

“Is this usual at the American festival?”

“America, I’m not sure. But Sidewinder, you bet. Partly it’s the weather. My Grandpa says Southerners used to handle the heat until everyone got air conditioning. You find a shady spot for fishing or sit on your porch and wait for the sun to go down. Now we’re running around in the sun like stray dogs working up a lather.”

Judging by that shriek, it sounded like a stray dog howling up a storm. And that stray dog sounded a lot like Shawna Branson.

 

TWO

We rounded the corner of the fried Moon Pie booth, and the aroma of simmering meat and vegetables overpowered the sweeter festival smells of cotton candy and kettle corn. Unlike our jimmy-rigged tents in the craft section, this area held matching white tents for the cooking stations. Some booths had professional signs and all were decorated with kitsch, mostly in a redneck theme. Fake hillbilly teeth, corncob pipes, and battered straw hats prevailed. Portable grills and camp stoves held massive pots in a variety of conditions from sparkling new aluminum to rusting cast iron. All twenty gallons or larger to meet the one pot cooking rule.

BOOK: Still Life in Brunswick Stew
13.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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