Read Still Life in Brunswick Stew Online
Authors: Larissa Reinhart
Tags: #Mystery, #humor, #cozy, #Humour, #Romance, #cozy mystery, #southern mystery, #humorous mystery, #mystery series
Still Life in Brunswick Stew (27 page)
“Well, thank you for stopping by.” Marion rose and ushered me from the house. “Please come again. Folks drop off food, but nobody stays to chat. It’s like death is catching or something.”
“I’ll stop in again, ma’am. I enjoyed it.”
We strolled out to her porch, and she watched me hunker-dash through the rain to the Datsun. I gave her a final wave, pulled out, and skidded to a stop. Hunter jumped from the front of my truck. Rain coursed over the rangy boy. A baseball cap pulled low darkened his eyes and his mouth had pulled into a tighter grimace than his usual scowl.
I rolled down my window. “Hunter, what the hell are you doing? I almost hit you.”
“I need a ride, Scarecrow. My momma took off to have it out with her sister. You got to take me to the High Cotton Farm before she kills somebody.”
From the corner of my eye, I watched Hunter dripping water over my cloth seats. His usual “screw-you” expression had been replaced with an anxiousness that made me fretful.
“What’s going on, Hunter?”
“Can’t this P.O.S. go any faster?”
“No. That’s the problem with P.O.S. trucks. That and not starting when you want them to. So, while you’re enjoying the ride, tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Mom called Aunt Belinda to find out when I can crash. Belinda told her I couldn’t come. Miss Marion confiscated the Jeep Lewis had given Mom, so she took my truck to have it out with Aunt Belinda.”
How had I entangled myself into this Sidewinder snarl? “Is she armed?”
“Who?”
“Your mother. Actually either sister. How dangerous is the situation? Are we talking run of the mill cat fight or am I going to need backup?”
“Don’t you call the cops on my mom, Scarecrow.”
I set my mouth into a hard line and focused on the drive. I still carried my Remington in the truck. After my tussle with Griffin, I didn’t plan to go anywhere without it. At least until I could afford a smaller firearm, which would be never if I couldn’t get my Greek paintings done. And what was I doing driving around Sidewinder with a teenager when I could be at home commencing to paint a masterpiece? I shot a sideways glance at my passenger, assessing him with a painterly eye and trying not to feel like a creeper.
“Hunter, have you thought about modeling? For a painting?”
The look he gave me combined with a judicious choice of expletives made me feel even creepier. We tooled along the blacktop. With Hunter pointing the way down county roads I didn’t recognize, we arrived at the entrance of High Cotton Farm. I took the corn filled lane as fast as the Datsun could manage and careened around the gigantic lot. I pulled up alongside the brick house and parked.
“You think they’re inside?” I said.
“I doubt Bruce let Momma into the house.” Hunter peered out the window. Fat drops of rain slammed into the windshield. “Maybe they’re around back. At the end of the day, Aunt Belinda and Uncle Bruce like to sit on their back porch, drink wine, and look out at the garden. Even though it ain’t finished. They started building a pool but stopped. Since it’s raining, maybe they started drinking early.”
“So they’ve been drinking. And may be armed.” I reached behind the seat to pull my shotgun box off the floor. “What about your momma? Has she been drinking or taking any happy pills today?”
“Both.” Hunter hopped out of the truck and ran through the rain toward the side of the house.
“Shit.” I snatched the Remington from the box, left my purse, and took after Hunter.
With my Remington Wingmaster in hand, I rounded the side of the house and skidded to a stop before a tall, wrought iron fence. Beyond the fence lay a massive hole and gigantic piles of weed embedded clay, like a Bobcat had taken liberties with the Gables yard. Near the giant hole, two women did their own version of bobcats—of the non-heavy equipment, feline type—hissing and growling with acrylic claws extended.
Hunter reached over the gate to unlock the fence. I stood watching the scene with the missile-like drops of the Georgia thundershower dousing my ruined dress and flip-flops. I had a feeling if I slipped through the fence, I’d end up in that backyard canyon.
“Hunter,” I yelled through the fence. “Be careful of the pool.”
He ignored me, edged past the hole, and slid forward in the wet clay. Bruce Gable stood on the patio under a pergola, watching the women. I wondered why he didn’t try to stop the fight until I caught his voice under the rumble of thunder, encouraging his wife to take down “that slut who stole our money.”
That “slut” being his wife’s sister. Family dynamics are always so interesting.
“Momma,” said Hunter, “stop it. We don’t need them. Let’s get out of here.”
Janine slammed an open palm into her sister’s chest. Belinda slipped and landed butt-first in the mud. She scrambled to standing, her silk capris covered in rust-colored clay.
“This is dry clean only,” screamed Belinda.
“Serves you right,” said Janine, “for turning your back on family.”
“How can you call me family after ruining my life?”
Belinda shoved Janine with both hands. Janine tottered back a step, but regained her footing.
“We had to declare bankruptcy because of you,” yelled Belinda. “Backstabbing, money-grubbing whore!”
“Stop it, Aunt Belinda,” said Hunter. He grabbed his mother’s arm, and she shook him off.
“I did not steal your fool ideas,” said Janine. “Anyone could have come up with a cotton education center. It’s not my fault you started building before your grant fell through. And don’t tell me your bankruptcy was just for the history center. I know corn futures have taken a dive recently.”
“Bull hockey,” yelled Bruce. “We would have that grant if you hadn’t swiped the idea and the money out from under us.”
“I can’t help it if some hick farmer doesn’t know the first thing about business,” said Janine. “I’m just smarter than y’all. You gotta make hay while the sun shines.”
“You were making a lot more than hay,” said Bruce. “Everyone knows you poisoned Lewis for his money.”
Hunter gasped and turned toward Bruce. “That’s a lie. I know she didn’t do it. They caught Griffin Ward.”
A large roll of thunder caused Belinda to skitter backwards. She spun and ran toward the patio, slipping and scrambling in her rhinestone sandals.
I darted a look at the dark clouds and thought about the brilliance of standing near metal fences in a thunderstorm. “Hunter. Let’s get out of the rain before we get electrocuted. I’ll take you home.”
Janine glanced over her shoulder at me. “What’s your girlfriend doing here?”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I said. “That’s disgusting. I’m twenty-six-years-old, for heaven’s sake. I gave him a ride.”
“Well, ride yourself on out of here. This is a family matter. And mind your own business.”
“My mom didn’t poison Lewis,” yelled Hunter. “Lewis poisoned the stew.”
“You’re deluding yourself, boy,” called Bruce. “Calm yourself before someone gets hurt.”
“You aren’t my family, Janine,” cried Belinda. “I wish you had eaten that poison. It should have been you. You deserved it. Lewis was just an idiot who couldn’t keep it in his pants. And you weren’t the first he cheated with.”
Lightening ripped through the sky followed by another thunder burst. I bit my lip and stepped back from the fence.
“Hunter, get out of there,” I yelled. Rain pelted my face, causing me to squint.
A flash of lightening cracked the sky, illuminating the figures in the yard. Hunter pushed his mother to the side and dashed toward the porch. Belinda scrambled toward the back door and ran into the house. Bruce darted toward the corner of the patio and returned with a baseball bat.
“Call your son off,” I yelled. “He’s going to get hurt.”
Janine glanced at me, snarling. “Get out of here.”
No one seemed to care Hunter charged at a grown man wielding a baseball bat. Bruce looked like he would do his best imitation of Chipper Jones with Hunter as the ball.
Bruce raised his bat. “Don’t you do it, Hunter.”
Hunter jumped onto the patio, his fists readied and head lowered. As Bruce swung, Hunter made a grab for the bat and missed. The bat slammed into Hunter.
I suddenly realized I still held my gun. I racked the pump and discharged a volley into the sky. Everyone froze but Hunter. He had taken a crack to his shoulder and continued his slump to his knees.
“Stop it,” I yelled. “Hunter, get your butt out of there and come with me.”
I stood on tiptoes and reached over the gate to pull up the lock. Marching through the wet grass and mud with as much dignity as I could, I passed the still snarling and now soaked Janine. I eyed Bruce Gable’s bat, but continued on to the porch.
“Hunter’s coming with me,” I said, grabbing the boy’s collar. “Next time just go in your house, Mr. Gable. There’s no need to use a bat on this kid. He’s just defending his mother.”
“Then that low-class bitch should stop using her kid as a shield.” Bruce looked at Janine and spit. “If I didn’t have this bat, no telling what Hunter would do.”
Hunter struggled to his feet, ready to lunge at Bruce.
I lowered the gun. “Hunter, it’s not worth it. Let’s go.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” said Bruce. “That kid will break your heart. And his mother’s likely to murder you.”
My grip on the gun and the clamorous thunder kept Hunter heeled. He gave his mother a long look as we passed.
She stood with her arms crossed, staring at Bruce, seemingly oblivious to Hunter and I and even the rain.
Her blonde hair had unraveled from a twist and lay plastered against her head. The drenched and muddy clothes stuck to her body. Lightning tore through the clouds, and I realized I held a great conductor in my hand. Hunter and I ran for the truck and left the crazies to their own devices.
In the safety of the Datsun, I replaced my gun and then turned the key with a prayer. I felt pity for Hunter, who sat sullen and silent next to me. Not only did he have a messed up family situation, insanity seemed to run in his genes given what I had just witnessed between his mother and her sister.
“Where should I take you?” I asked. “You got some friends?”
Hunter stared out the side window, holding his shoulder and watching the rain bead and slick down the glass. Water dripped off his hat and down his shirt.
“You can’t stay with me,” I continued. “It wouldn’t be appropriate. I’ll take you home anyway so you can get your stuff.”
“I ain’t got no home,” he mumbled.
I turned onto the county road, aiming for Cotton Pickin’ Plantation. Maybe Miss Marion would take him in. She didn’t seem to mind the boy even though she hated his mother. Hopefully she’d have some idea of what to do with him.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll figure it out.”
I cocked my head at the sound of a siren. Hunter jerked his head forward and then swiveled to check the rear windshield.
“Shit,” he said. “Cops.”
The wail magnified, and I squinted through the rain. “It’s coming toward us.”
Blue and red lights flashed in the distance as the road curved and banked.
“Let me out,” said Hunter.
“Don’t be stupid.”
He grasped the handle of the door. “If you’re not going to stop, slow down.”
“What are you worried about. They’re not after...”
Hunter popped open the door before I could finish. I hammered the brakes, fishtailed, and recovered. He held tight to the handle. Rain slashed the open door and his arm. As the truck steadied, Hunter pushed off the seat and jumped out the door. The truck skidded to a stop. He rolled onto the soft shoulder, hopped up, and limped into the corn field edging the road.
“Hunter,” I yelled and slid across the bench. “Come back.”
The siren scream halted. I glanced out my windshield. A brown and tan Crown Vic pumped its brakes and pulled to the left, stopping on the side of the road. As I pulled the passenger door shut, Luke donned his campaign hat and stepped out of the patrol car. Rain bounced off the brown felt brim covered in a plastic bonnet. He placed his hands on his hips and studied my truck for a moment before approaching.
I rolled down my driver’s side window. “Hey there. What’s up?”
“Didn’t take long to find you,” he said. “Lucky I was already in Sidewinder. Thank you for having the courtesy of stopping and not making me give chase. Not that it would have taken long in your P.O.S. truck.”
I blinked.
“You want me to follow you to the Sheriff’s Office?” he said. “If not, you’re going to have to leave your truck and come in my vehicle.”
“What for?”
“Did you happen to discharge a firearm on private property?”
“You mean at the Gables? You have got to be kidding me.”
Luke drew his mouth into a tight scowl. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Am I glad to see you,” I said to Uncle Will. “I’ve been sitting in this interrogation room or whatever it’s called for over an hour. And I’m still damp. My sundress and flip-flops are ruined. I’ll catch my death.”