A Composition in Murder (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 6)

by Larissa Reinhart

  I dropped my voice to a fierce whisper. “You may think cuddling up to convince Shawna to drop the charges is a good idea, but I’m telling you, Todd, you’re trying to cuddle a honey badger. Those critters look cute, but they are mean as hell and just as deadly.”

  “Honey badger?”

  “Confusing, I know, since she generally wears leopard print.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Tell her something came up. I need to speak to Cooper about Belvia and Della Brakeman’s funeral. He might know some details about the family’s plans. And other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?” Todd’s SOS pattern sounded more like artillery fire.

  “Stuff like who might have murdered them. Now you can see what I’m working on.”

  “Murdered?” screeched the voice behind me.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose at Shawna’s cackle.

  Dagnabbit. My oversized mouth and my oversized ego had kicked my undersized butt.

  “Belvia and Della Brakeman weren’t murdered. Della was killed by a drunk driver and Belvia had a heart attack.” Shawna strode into the living room and slid an arm around Todd’s waist. “That’s called bad timing, not murder.”

  I flinched, then curled my lip. “Mind your own beeswax, Shawna. This is between me and Todd. Until the autopsy proved her death was natural, I’m not convinced.”

  Todd glanced between us, then stared at the ceiling. Likely hoping the hand of God would rip off the roof and snatch him on the spot rather than get between two back-arching, claw-baring, hissing women.

  Men.

  “You’re the one not minding your own business, Cherry,” said Shawna. “My family associates with the Brakemans, of course, so I know all about Belvia’s unfortunate passing. Why are you stirring up trouble where there isn’t any? Does Sheriff Thompson know you’re trying to play detective again? All you’ll do is help him out of his job. November’s coming awful quick this year and there’ll be questions about his niece involving herself in another crime.”

  “I’m not ‘involved in a crime,’ Shawna. I’m assisting the sheriff’s office with crime detection.” I raised my chin a notch. “And I also know the Brakemans. Knew Belvia, that is. She asked for my help specifically because of my superior sleuthing skills. Or skills in suspicious thinking. I suspected her will might be fraudulent, which it wasn’t, but it impressed her nonetheless.”

  Shawna brayed laughter and squeezed Todd into her side. “I guess you’re right about Cherry being crazy. I didn’t know you meant literally though.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  My well-honed stink eye cut Todd off. If that idiot wanted to pretend to date Shawna for my benefit, he could at least refrain from talking ugly about me. No need to take the pretense that far. I turned my stink eye toward Shawna. “Who did Belvia Brakeman ask for help? Not a Branson, but me, Cherry Tucker.”

  “You think whatever you want, honey.” Shawna snorted then sauntered from the living room, pulling Todd with her. “Come on, Todd. I want to catch a late lunch at Little Verona’s and we need to pick you out something other than cargo shorts. Speaking of help, I’d love to take you shopping for new clothes. Cargo shorts are so done. We’ll go after our early dinner.”

  “Your cargo shorts are fine, Todd. Pockets are handy,” I hollered, for a reason unbeknownst to me. Seething, I spun on my boot heels and slammed out of the house.

  By the time I had parked in Cooper’s lot, anger had drug its sharp teeth from my neck, replaced by the sting of remorse.

  Not only had I spilled Belvia’s secret to a bigger gossip than Ada, I had also given the Branson family more ammunition to shoot my Uncle Will right out of his sheriff’s seat. Something else I might have saved by protecting Belvia from murder.

  I thunked my head on the steering wheel, wishing I could bang out the stupidity. I didn’t know which made me more idiotic, my pride or my jealousy. Both left me with no choice but to prove Belvia Brakeman had been murdered.

  Either that or eat a hell of a lot of crow between now and November.

  Cooper Funeral Home, a renovated Victorian on Halo’s northeast side, had fascinated me from a young age. Not because I was interested in death and gore, but because the quiet reverence often abounded with the lively irreverence of friendship squabbles, family jealousies, and curiosity seekers. Southerners, such as those found in Halo, could do overwrought emotion like no other. If you wanted a good show, you either found it in a revival tent or Cooper’s.

  I’d say a bar, but the town is dry. You have to cross the tracks to Red’s to get the alcohol-infused version of overwrought emotion. Halo does that well too.

  Because of Della Brakeman’s importance, I had figured a grander funeral parlor in Line Creek or Atlanta would be used. Meemaw’s Tea factory employed folks from all over Forks County, but the business suits were as likely from Atlanta as they were from Line Creek. As a child raised in Halo, Belvia must have felt loyal to Coop. The Coopers had buried all sorts of Brakemans over the years. Cooper Funeral Home had kept a revolving brood running the family business since time immemorial.

  Like the Brakemans, but longer and without any murders.

  I found Cooper in his office. Unfortunately, a big bear of a man filled one of Coop’s guest chairs. He raised a paw in greeting, then leaned back with a growl and assessed me under lowered brows. When not in his office, on call, or shooting the breeze with my Grandpa Ed, Sheriff Will Thompson could often be found in that chair. He had gained the habit from his days as county coroner. And, like me, Uncle Will was also drawn to the morbid entertainment of Cooper’s.

  “Hey there, Cherry,” said Coop. “What can I do you for?”

  “I’m curious too,” said Uncle Will. “Your family is healthy and accounted for. What brings you to Cooper’s? I hope not scrounging for information on the Brakemans.”

  Dangit. Uncle Will knew me too well.

  “I got to know Belvia at Halo House. As you know, Uncle Will, I’m the one who found her.” I offered Coop my best customer service smile, knowing it would be wasted on Uncle Will. “I’m wondering about the arrangements. How the family’s faring and so on. I’m helping out a friend of the family, actually. Someone Miss Belvia asked me to check on.”

  “You were hoping Coop would know gossip,” said Uncle Will.

  Cooper’s wild eyebrows knotted. “I’m sure Cherry’s looking to be helpful.”

  “Cherry’s always looking to be helpful, Coop. It’s the best and worst of her personality.” Uncle Will leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me about this sudden friendship with Belvia Brakeman, who I know you had not met previous to this week. Deputy Harper said you convinced him to mark her death as suspicious even though it looks natural. That takes some good convincing.”

  “Deputy Harper found evidence that supported my theory, didn’t he?”

  “Your theory was based on an empty unmarked file folder.”

  “That held a new will.”

  “In your estimation.”

  “Belvia’s lawyer didn’t have a copy?” asked Coop.

  Uncle Will shook his head. “Got kind of indignant about it, actually.”

  Lawyers. My hackles rose along with my blood pressure. “Coralee can attest to that new will just as well as Jose and me, who officially witnessed it. Not that Coralee knew what her mother had written in it. Miss Belvia told me she wanted to keep a lid on the contents. With Della’s sudden death, Miss Belvia updated it to put someone else in control of Meemaw’s Tea in the case of her untimely passing.”

  “Ninety is hardly untimely.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you looking at the lawyer? Sounds like Miss Belvia didn’t trust him.”

  “You and the CEO of Meemaw’s Tea got mighty tight in two days, did you?” Uncle Will ignored my aside and leaned back in his chair. “Deputy Harper
’s checking her computer files for a copy of the alleged missing will. Someone could’ve taken advantage of her heart attack’s timing and stolen it. Theft and burglary with possible intent to commit fraud, says Harper. Hard to prove though, if the witnesses didn’t see what they signed.”

  Damnation.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” said Uncle Will. “Why were you suddenly chummy with Belvia Brakeman?”

  “I didn’t know it, but when she asked me to witness her will, Miss Belvia was screening me for a job. She had done some research on me.”

  “What job?”

  “A consultant-type deal,” I said, test-driving my newly acquired corporate speak. Better for the sheriff to believe my services were business and not murder-inquiry related. “An external probe into staff relations. Uncovering corruption in the upper ranks.”

  “She wanted you to investigate her employees while we’re doing our own investigation into her daughter’s accident?” He pursed his lips. “Last time I checked, you were an artist, not an ‘external probe.’”

  “Miss Belvia wanted my help. A ninety-year-old blind woman. She liked my naturally suspicious mind. What could I do?”

  “Belvia Brakeman might’ve been ninety and blind, but she was ferocious as a hungry grizzly in the spring.” Uncle Will crossed his arms. “Don’t pretend differently.”

  “What did you find out?” asked Coop.

  “Not a damn thing. Didn’t even start.” My eyes felt hot and I blinked to clear the haze. “Was more caught up in what she could do for me than what I could do for her. Little did I know, not a day later, they’d take her away on a crash cart. I wished I could’ve told her something.”

  Or somehow prevented her murder, but Uncle Will wouldn’t take kindly to that remark either.

  “I doubt she went to her grave worrying about you slacking on the job,” said Uncle Will. “She had a good long life. Get back to your art teaching. Your external probing may get in the way of my official inquiry.”

  “I feel I should finish the job. It might be of help to others.”

  “You’re helping others at Halo House. Helps me out too, you know. Just telling Coop my election troubles are already heating up and it’s still eight months away.” He ambled toward the door with a goodbye to Coop and a backward glance at me. “I won’t remind you of your promise to keep a low profile, for me and for your brother.”

  “You just did.” I raised my brows.

  “Glad you caught that, then.”

  I waited until Uncle Will sauntered down the hall and turned to Coop. “So are you really doing both Brakeman funerals?”

  He nodded. “It’ll be a zoo. I’ll have to hire extra attendants and the sheriff’s office to conduct traffic.”

  “I guess they can’t wait long, what with Della’s situation.”

  He caught my drift. “Soon as the morgue releases Miss Belvia. Coroner’s got the poor woman now. Sheriff Will did ask for the full workup. Then I’ll get her.”

  “How was the family? In case I need to send over a casserole.”

  “I didn’t think casseroles were your forte, hon.”

  “I’ll get Casey or Pearl to make it.” I waved my hand, hurrying him around the mundanity of casserole fixing. “Coralee Brakeman’s trying to foist the new funeral arrangements on Miss Belvia’s retired assistant. The poor woman’s eighty-two, if she’s a day. I feel it’s my duty to get involved with this family. Miss Belvia asked me to look after Molly.”

  Cooper leaned back in his chair and massaged his chin. You’d never hear his opinion on those who crossed his threshold, but Cooper had his tells. Coralee had made an impression on Coop, likely not different than mine.

  After much chin massaging, he found his words. “But what can you do? Sounds like Sheriff Will wants you to leave the Brakemans be.”

  “This has nothing to do with his investigation. Let me run interference with the funeral plans so Coralee stops bothering Molly. Where’s Coralee staying? With her brother-in-law?”

  “I believe Mr. Newson and Miss Coralee don’t see eye to eye on many things. I doubt he’d invite her to stay in his house.” Coop’s long fingers skimmed the air before landing on his chin. “Although Coralee’s family’s staying in Belvia’s late home, the Tea Grove. Della’s house is on the same property.”

  “Just dandy. I can visit everyone in one shot.” I rose from my chair and headed to the door. “Thank you, Coop. You need anything, give me a holler.”

  “That’s just fine, Cherry. But watch yourself, hon.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  He sighed and stroked his chin. “I don’t know Coralee and her people well enough. She’s been gone too long.”

  “Yes, I know.” Coop’s inability to get to the point drove me nuts, but I didn’t want to rush him. If he was going to dish, it was worth waiting.

  “But Ron Newson and his son...” Coop sighed again and massaged his neck with his palm. “They’ve not had to live like other folks. Richer than Croesus, you know? Della and Belvia weren’t bad women. They were generous with their families. But they also punished as harshly as they rewarded. Very exacting in their expectations, yet without giving direction to meet those expectations. It gets confusing, living like that.”

  Talk about confusing. “What are you trying to say, Coop?”

  “You ever met an animal that’d been abused as much as it was rewarded?”

  “Like a pit bull rescued from one of them fight clubs?”

  Coop nodded. “That’s what I’m talking about with Belvia’s family. Be careful.”

  Seventeen

  Despite Coop’s warning, particularly after Ada and Fred’s own words of caution, I felt no real worry in calling on Belvia’s kin. My cover would be to help with the funeral, at least to get Coralee from bothering Molly. Why would you bite the hand offering to feed you? But to guarantee my hand didn’t get bit upon arrival at the Tea Grove, I’d come with actual food. Grandma Jo often lectured it was only proper to bring victuals to the mourners.

  I’d wave a casserole like a white flag before crazy Coralee and ruthless Ron.

  And because I wasn’t much of a casserole maker, I decided to check on Grandpa Ed and his lady friend, Pearl. Pearl was an extraordinary victual maker. The farm lay west of town, the opposite direction of Halo House and Meemaw’s Tea.

  The farm lane was a treacherous rutted affair. Hell on my old Datsun’s shocks as well as on my jaw, which remained clenched from the jarring and tension due to a pack of obnoxious goats allowed to roam wild in the farmyard.

  Grandpa Ed’s monstrous billy, Tater, loved to play chicken with my truck. But the game had new stakes. Tater now had his own herd to torment me. The spawn of Tater and Pearl’s prize Saanen, Snickerdoodle. Snickeraters and Taterdoodles. Itty bitties born of forbidden love. Forbidden by Pearl, who felt her sable too good for the mongrel billy.

  I gripped the Datsun’s wheel and slid forward on the bench seat, peering through the bug-spotted windshield. The goats had chewed most of the decorative foliage planted by my late Grandma Jo. Two massive trees blocked the view to the farmhouse, a rambling brick ranch with a semi-rotted screened porch. Generally, the kids preferred to ambush me from behind those trees. The bitties darted from hither and yon, shooting towards my truck with a terrifying speed and accuracy that would catch me unawares. So teeny I often felt them before I saw them. The Datsun’s body was covered with tiny hoof dings.

  Like a swarm, they attacked in tandem. Like a pestilence, they descended from all sides.

  This time, I caught a dark streak in my drivers’ side mirror. I tapped the brakes at the split in the lane and checked the other mirror. Ahead, I saw a larger body of white emerge from behind the great oak.

  “Shit.” I trounced the brakes, hit a bigger rut, and near about
bit my tongue in two.

  Checking the sides again, I scanned for tiny creatures. They remained invisible in the dry dead landscape. But I didn’t trust my eyes. I could feel them close, watching and waiting. I flicked my gaze forward, locking eyes with the majestic buck. He tossed his head and pawed the earth, eager to take the Datsun head on.

  Tater wasn’t stupid, just ornery.

  But somewhere out there, the kids also waited. And their momma, Snickerdoodle, who scared the bejeezus out of me. And a terrible mother. Who let their kids play in traffic?

  Letting out my breath, I eased the truck forward.

  The old goat limped from the tree to block the lane. He dipped his head to level my grill with his great horns.

  I glanced in the mirrors and swallowed hard.

  A few yards behind my tailgate, the sable trotted. Her belly still distended, udders hanging low, she looked uncomfortable yet determined. And full of post-pregnancy hormones, making her extra fierce. Like it was my fault her mate had taught their offspring to play with moving vehicles.

  I sped up, then glanced forward. Her goat paramour charged toward me.

  “Dammit.” I swerved. Bumped off the track and bit my tongue again. Accelerating through the dead grass, my eyes flicked from windshield to rearview.

  Behind me, Snickerdoodle picked up speed.

  Tater changed course to angle toward me.

  The back of my neck grew warm and tingly. Two sickening thumps jarred the truck, echoed in the rusty metal panels of my side doors.

  I braked, hit a mangled azalea, and jerked to a stop. Cracking the door, I peered out and saw one dancing kid, a fawn with white spots. He hopped in a circle, kicking his rear legs in glee. I slammed the door, slid across the seat to check the other side, and felt the crunch of horn on metal.

  I rolled down my passenger window. “Tater, you idjit goat, stop beating up my grill.”

  The second kid, white with one brown spot, leaped toward the Datsun.