The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) (11 page)

“You think this Lesley sent that cake and left the sign on the peacock cage?” asked Luke.

“Possibly,” I said. “The hunters think it’s from some kind of activist. Lesley wants to save the hog. He wouldn’t admit to it, but wacky pranks seem his style. Probably cooks them up in his mother’s basement.”

“Then what’s the big deal? It’s not bothering the hunters
.
”

“I don’t know.” I paused. “It’s just that the intention isn’t clear. Although
Bob
Bass is sure some kind of protestor is trying to make a statement, no group has laid claim to the disruptions. That doesn’t make sense to me.”

“If you had some of those gals who show up nekkid to demonstrate, I’ll be sure to come on down.”

I laughed. “You think I’d tell you if there were? I’ll call for you when a portly pig lover decides to strip.”

“This hunt is going to get a lot of exposure, what with
Bob
Bass’s show. It would make sense for activists to draw negative attention toward the event.” Luke’s tone deepened into his cop voice. “However, I don’t like the timing. A man falls to his death on property the night before the event begins? That concerns me.”

“I know,” I exclaimed.
“But
spooky pig heads are not murder, so it’s hard to take this seriously. Unless Lesley or whoever’s making the statement scared the life out of Abel Spencer.”

“If this Lesley did have a run-in with Abel, then why’s the perp still hanging around?”

“Exactly what I thought.” My heart overflowed with pride and joy. Luke and I were on the same page for once
.
We couldn’t dismiss the pig protestor with a suspicious death still hanging around. If we were in the same room, I’d likely attack his lips with gusto.

I offered Luke that description as a reward for his service.

“Lord have mercy, girl. I’m on duty. Where was this last night?” Luke cleared his throat. “What’s the lodge say about all this?”

“Nothing. I get the feeling Big Rack is facing budget issues, due to an unreasonable amount of discretionary spending by the owners. If the lodge has to pull the plug on the hunt and pay back the ridiculous contest fees, that and the PR blight from
Bob
Bass’s big mouth might put them out of business.”

“Bob Bass’s big mouth?”

“That guy is as fake as his teeth. I almost wonder if he’s behind the pranks just to give himself an out for not winning. I heard he doesn’t even make the kills on his own TV show.”

“Who told you that?”

“Max Avtaikin.
Bob
spends time in the Bear’s gambling cave. That’s where this portrait bet came about.”

“I don’t trust that guy.”

“Bob Bass?”

“Him too.”

I let that go. Max felt similar about Luke. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Believing me.”

“Sugar, I don’t think you’re delusional. I think you wrap yourself in other people’s business just a mite too easily. Especially when you’ve got other issues more pressing.”

I opened my mouth to respond, then decided I needed help more than I needed to be right.

My deceased Grandma Jo would be so proud.

“Can we talk about something else for a minute?” The exhale from Luke’s breath whistled in the phone. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I whispered.

“I miss your smile and your pretty eyes and your legs when you wear that skirt. The way your hair smells like flowers and sunshine. The funny things you say.” His voice dropped to a caress. “And the way my hands feel on your skin. I miss that a lot.”

“Keep talking.”

“I miss the way your little chin sticks out when you’re feeling tough. And how you like helping folks.” His purr deepened to a growl. “Even when they don’t
ask for it. Like a dead man. Or a rookie cop.”

Now would
not
be a good time to mention notes stating “Accidents happen.” Or how one of the contestants had threatened me in a bathroom. Or that “Squeal Like a Pig” might’ve been aimed at me.

It was a good thing we weren’t having a relationship because that would mean I had issues with honesty.

“And how your need to help often gets you in a heap of trouble,” continued Luke, with his uncanny ability to suss out when my personal shit-fan blew
.
“Trouble that gives me heartburn. I started popping Tums after our conversation last night.”

“Tums are not sexy, Luke.”

“So stop giving me heartburn.” In the background the radio squawked and Luke paused to listen. “Cherry, we can’t keep doing this. I could get suspended for having a secret relationship with the defendant’s sister. It won’t look good in court. Listen, I don’t give a damn about our families or this archaic feud.”

I chewed a thumbnail. “That’s a big word, archaic.”

“The whole thing is ridiculous. Finding Billy Branson won’t make a bit of a difference. So the Bransons and Ballards have hated each other since Reconstruction. It’s the twenty-first century. You and I need to make a stand.”

“It’s easier for you to turn your back on your stepfamily than it is for me to ignore my blood. I couldn’t do that to Cody, not while he’s sitting in jail.”

“Sugar, I’m tired of relegating our relationship to phone calls. Lord knows I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”

I caught a lock of hair and twisted it around my finger. “Why’s that?”

“I guess it’s just that other girls are so...” He hesitated.

I held my breath, waiting to hear his verdict. Other girls are so boring? Uncreative? Silly? Intellectually inferior? High maintenance?

“Normal.”

“I’m not normal?”

“Yep.”

I held out the phone, throttled it, and put it back to my ear. “That’s real sweet of you. I’ve got to go.”

“Again?” He drew in his breath. “Now where are you going?”

“Target practice.”

I felt the need to blast a few holes in a hay bale I’d imagine as Shawna Branson. Or Luke’s hind end.

Though I’d hate to do anything to damage that delectable bit of art. It’d make the Greek gods weep.

Seventeen

T
he overcast skies hid the time of day, but I knew skeet practice was imminent. A hunt party gathering may attract our instigator, and I wanted to be on the lookout for party poopers, particularly ones who believed in supernatural swine.

The clay shoot arena was on the far east side of the lodge grounds, beyond a strip of forest that safely separated the guest area from any stray skeet. Which meant I had to walk through the lodge gates and follow the road in the opposite direction of the Gutersons’ Trailer Town, a half-mile hike.

I confiscated a stray golf cart and drove.

The skeet range was a wonder. The baseball diamond-shaped clearing had four wooden towers at each base and a shorter box for teals at the pitcher’s mound.

Behind home plate, the shooters lined up in a semicircle waiting for the clay birds to fly from various towers. The control tower stood behind home plate and a long covered pavilion anchored the parking lot.

All buildings had been painted a cheery Cadmium Red. Cute as the dickens.

I found the contestants and Chef Viktor huddled against threatening precipitation in the pavilion. Viktor stood behind a ceramic-topped bar, his arms folded over his chef’s jacket, studying the crowd. Smoke rose from the grill behind him and wrapped trays of food waited on the cooking space next to the grill. According to the updated schedule, an early lunch was available during the practice shoot, after which everyone would reconvene to drive to the preserve for the hunt.

Bob’s entourage had circled their chuck wagons around Bob while he winged jokes, braying at his own punchlines. His eyes worked as vigorously as his mouth, darting glances about the pavilion. Was he hoping for a bigger audience or acting skittish
?

Next to him, Peach’s gaze remained fixed in space. At each burst of laughter, she’d flinch, then titter before resuming her dust mote observation.

Bob’s manager and Risa the publicist laughed on cue while focusing on a war of thumbs, pounding on their phones.

Rick alone stood studying the targets set up on the skeet shoot grounds. A burning cigarette hung from his mouth and he appeared paler than usual. Did he suffer a hangover from the Gutersons’ venomous home brew, or did something more noxious dwell beneath the morning’s detachment?

Spotting Max and Todd, I headed toward their group. With the Sparks and LaToya, they stood around a stone pit where a cheery fire blazed. Max chatted with the Sparks, so I sidled between LaToya and Todd.

“What’s going on?” I squinted at the targets set up on the far side of the range, then positioned myself to watch Rick and Viktor. “Guess y’all aren’t shooting skeet.”

“No ma’am,” said LaToya. “Skeet is for birds. We’re doing long range rifle practice. Just waiting for instructions.”

“Although there’s already been an argument about who’s shooting first,” said Todd.

“Let me guess who wants to be first at bat,” I said.

“Jackass,” muttered LaToya. “We should draw numbers or something. Everyone wants to go first.”

“It does seem unfair.” I eased against Todd.

He threw an arm around my shoulder and grinned down at me. “Hey.”

“
Hey
, yourself.” I stood on my toes to get closer to his ear. He inclined to meet me halfway. “I met the cook in hiding, Jessica.”

“Yeah?” His words were muffled in my hair. “Did you talk her into a sausage biscuit?”

“I wish. She refused to talk, let alone feed me. I think she’s afraid of something or someone. She kept looking over my shoulder until she shut the door on my face.”

“What a dis.”

“Peculiar is a better word for it,” I whispered. “Everything’s looking peculiar these days. Did you hear about the new message on the peacock shed?”

Todd nodded.

Raucous laughter, more nervous than amused, burst from the
Bob
Bass circle.

I drew away from Todd. “LaToya, how are you feeling about the hunt? Did that ugly cake or the sign on the peacock cage
unsettle you?”

She shook her head. “Just someone acting stupid. That happens. Like I said before, sometimes we get protesters. At a marksmanship contest, they’re usually crackpots who don’t know anything about guns.
Bob
Bass has a lot more enemies, though. He’s a better one to ask.”

“Enemies?”

I switched my gaze from LaToya to
Bob
and was caught by the rocker’s restless eyes.
Bob
tipped his hat and winked.

“If that man lays a hand on my butt, I’m going to borrow a rifle. Peach may put up with it, but I sure as hell ain’t.”

“Who?” Todd checked my rear, still safely hidden in my jeans.

“Bob Bass,” I hissed.

“Usually when I hunt with men, they are gentlemen and good sportsmen.” LaToya kept her eyes on the fire. “My dad wanted to come with me, but I told him no. I’m eighteen. I wanted to do this hunt on my own, without any coaching. I felt safe with a group of adults. Now I wished I had taken him up on his offer.”

“You could call your daddy. It’s not too late,” I said.

She shook her head. “It’ll be all right once we get into the woods. Everyone will stop focusing on themselves and get their head in the game. It’s like we feel trapped here at the lodge, waiting to leave.”

I studied LaToya’s profile. “Is anyone bothering you, hon?”

“I’m fine.” She dropped her gaze to her boots. “I just want to get this show on the road. They don’t believe I’m good enough to be here because of my age. I’ve got something to prove.”

I spied Mike hurrying from the parking lot. “I guess you’ll get your chance here in a minute.”

Mike walked into the pavilion and swept off his cap. Jeff Digby stood behind him, legs spread, feet planted, a rifle held against his shoulder.

“Good morning,” said Mike. “Hope y’all are ready for another meal prepared by our top-rated chef. I’m sure Viktor’s got something special planned for an early lunch.”

“Viktor makes a superb grilled root salad with scorzonera, rampion, and skirret,” squealed Jenny Sparks. “We are so lucky. Not everyone uses vegetables once lost to history.”

“Historic vegetables?” I moaned beneath my breath.

Todd patted my shoulder.

Mike smiled at Jenny. “Grab a bite after target practice. I think the heavier rain is going to hold until this afternoon. We can leave at high noon, but be prepared for a wet ride.”

A frisson of excitement zipped through the small crowd.

“It’ll take a bit to get out to the area where Jeff tracked the hog’s recent activity, especially in the weather we’re expecting. The feeders are set up with green night lights and that big boy’s been attacking each in turn. We’ve been watching him on video. We’ll set up in the bunkhouse and break into our positions. Sun goes down at 5:29. You’ll climb into our stands before then. Because of the weather, he might be out early.”

The idea of sitting in a cold and soggy deer stand into the wee hours of the morning made my eye twitch, but the hunters looked akin to a pack of Jack Russells eyeing a treed raccoon.

“Hey, you hear any more about our protestor?” asked
Bob
.

Mike shook his head. “I hope it’s not upsetting you.”

“Naw, don’t bother me.
You
’
d
just think they’d have the balls to come out and say what’s on their mind,”
Bob
spat. “Damn
activists
.
Probably waiting on a camera crew. They don’t know we’re only using the GoPro. I didn’t want a crew scaring a hog of this size.”

“I don’t want anybody out there who doesn’t feel safe,” said Jeff Digby. “Nervous people make mistakes. They’d be a danger to others and to themselves. Anyone who wants out will get a full refund.”

Mike blanched, but his smile remained fixed.

“Of course I’m in,” said Bob. “I’ve always planned on bagging that pig. Peach is in too.”

Peach squeaked and jerked upright.

“
Besides,
”
Bob
pulled his hand from Peach’s backside, “we’re filming and you know what they say about shows. They’ve gotta go on.”

“I too will continue,” said Max. “We have some reassurances, yes? The party is separated, but each has the guide.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jeff. “Each outfitter has basic medical training and is tacked out with equipment, including their own rifle.”

“Very good,” said Max. “But I am thinking of the witness to be certain the cheating does not take place.”

“What are you implying?”
Bob
stepped out of his group.

“Maybe there is reason no protestor has claimed the joke.” Max’s eyebrow lifted. “Maybe it is not the protestor who protests too much.”

The publicist Risa and Bob’s manager glanced up from their phones.

Mike held his hands up. “Let’s just simmer down. I’m sure no one’s planning on cheating. Now does anyone want out because of the weather or otherwise?”

“We still want to go,” said Clinton Sparks.

“LaToya and Rick, are you okay?” asked Jeff.

Rick had turned to face the group. After LaToya’s nod, he added his own. The temper I had witnessed the previous night had been replaced with a lackadaisical deference. Maybe the alcohol did turn his personality.

“I’m going to talk to Rick again during target practice,” I whispered to Todd. “He was acting really weird this morning. I still think he knows something about Abel.”

“Just remember what I said about catching him without a gun.”