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

by Larissa Reinhart

  “No,” I cried. “Get away from my truck.”

  Two loud thunks sounded from the bed followed by a trapping of tiny feet. I spun in my seat. Snickerdoodle had hefted her heavy belly over the tailgate with ease. The tiny white goat dancing in the bed was joined a moment later by her brother. Snickerdoodle charged toward my rear window.

  I had about three seconds before they’d be on the roof. Theoretically, I could drive to the house with the goats in the bed, keeping them off balance until I stopped. But I couldn’t move. Tater slammed into my grill like an offensive lineman pushing a sled on roster-cut day. The kids hopped on the roof, carving designs in the rust with their sharp baby hooves. Snickerdoodle’s launch from the bed rocked the truck. Little goats slid down the windshield and she dented my hood with her heavy landing.

  If I weren’t such a good granddaughter, I’d give up on the farm altogether. But I needed casseroles and information as much as I needed to see how the old man and his lady were doing. I looped plastic grocery bags over my shoulders, hopped out, and ran to the house.

  Behind me, the herd abandoned the truck for the chase.

  I made it into the kitchen with the groceries, but without the back hemline of my winter hoodie. That resided in Snickerdoodle’s mouth.

  At the kitchen door’s bang, Pearl swept in from the living room. She wore a flannel shirt that hid her goat tattoo, the tail flapping against her jeans. Running a hand over her hair’s short iron-gray spikes, she heaved a long breath. “Oh, it’s just you.”

  “Nice to see you too, Pearl.” I dropped the groceries on the counter. “I could use some help. I need to bring food to a family who’s lost two. You make the best corn casserole.”

  “Of course.” She strode toward my grocery bags to assess my shopping. “Good, you brought chicken. That’ll make it a main dish. Cornbread mix? Always make cornbread from scratch. I swear, Cherry, you ought to know the fixings by now. You eat enough of it.”

  I knew when to keep my mouth shut and let her continue her food ramble, substituting my poor ingredients for her better. While she chopped chicken, sautéed, and mixed, I snagged a glass of tea from the pitcher in the fridge. The tea had the perfect blend of sweet to bitter. Didn’t make your teeth itch and didn’t taste like a bush. Refreshing enough to make me breathe an “ah” after a gulp.

  “Did you buy this tea or make it?” I asked.

  She gave me a look to say I was about the stupidest person on the planet. “Why would I buy tea?”

  “Some people do. Belvia Brakeman made a fortune on it.”

  She snorted. “Good for Belvia Brakeman.”

  “Do you know the Brakemans?”

  “Don’t know Belvia, but I knew Della. Went to high school together. Is that who this casserole is for?” She eyed me. “Those folks don’t need casseroles, Cherry. They got their own chef to cook for them.”

  “Maybe they don’t need the casserole, but they need the love behind it.”

  “The love I’m imparting into this cornbread or the love you’ve imparted into asking me to make it for you?” She raised a brow.

  “The Brakemans lost Belvia yesterday too. A mother and daughter within almost a week. That’s pretty hard, ain’t it?”

  “I suppose.” Her eyes drifted to the cornbread mixture. “Della’s accident was shocking. She must have been running with music blaring in those ear thingies.”

  “Did you know her husband? Ron Newson?”

  Pearl wrinkled her nose. “Not really. He’s not from around here. Think she picked him up while in college up north. I saw him at town doings from time to time though. Don’t think he liked living in Halo, even if it was in a big house with enough land that he didn’t have to see the neighbors. From what he said, sounded like he spent more time in Atlanta than Halo. Man didn’t work. What kind of man doesn’t work?”

  I shrugged. The men I knew who didn’t work were looking for work. “Did you meet their son? Parker.”

  “Nah. I’ve heard about him though.” She tapped a spoon against the bowl and shook her head. “He went to that private school over on the other side of the county until he was kicked out. Then he got sent off to different day schools around Atlanta.”

  “He’s grown up now. Sort of.”

  She stirred chicken into the batter. “Della waited until she was in her forties to have a child but then never talked about her son. I always thought that was strange. Only ever talked about the tea company.”

  “I heard Della was really into her career.” When Pearl nodded, I continued the spate of chitchat. “You think Della had any enemies? Like through the business?”

  “Enemies? Who has enemies?” Pearl dumped half a bowl of batter into a disposable aluminum pan. She spread the mixture as she talked. “If anybody has enemies in that family, it’d be her husband. Men who don’t work get into trouble. Especially if they’re going to Atlanta all the time.”

  “That’s an interesting point. You think he could’ve got into trouble enough to have his wife killed?”

  “What do I know about that sort of trouble?” Her words sounded too sharp for the wobble in her voice. “I got trouble of my own to bother with anyone else’s. Here.” She shoved the trays in my direction.

  “Thanks.” I watched her pack away the ingredients, then toss the measuring cups and spoons into the dirty bowl. “Who were you expecting today?”

  “What do you mean?” The dirty bowl clattered into the sink. The frying pan followed, banging against the metal bowl.

  “You said, ‘Oh, it’s just you,’ when I came in. Which generally means you thought I’d be someone else.”

  She flung the whisk in after the pan and picked up the long knife. I flinched, but her shoulders slumped and the metal knife found a gentler path to the sink. “My Ed. I mean your Grandpa Ed.”

  “He does live here.”

  She bowed her head over the sink.

  “Doesn’t he?” I eyed her. “What’s going on?”

  “He went to visit your brother in Line Creek today.”

  “The county jail, you mean.”

  She tightened her lips. “Yes. They’re talking to a new lawyer.”

  “New lawyer?” Did Belvia come through for me before she died? Hope soared and I chuckled to cover my excitement. “That attorney assigned to Cody is about as new as you can get. I think Tater’s older than that guy. I didn’t think we could afford a real lawyer. Did someone volunteer to help us?”

  “Lawyers only volunteer if there’s something in it for them, child.” Pearl smacked the faucet handle, drowned a dishrag, then cut it off. “No, y’all can’t afford a real lawyer. Even if Cody wins his case, it’ll still cost an extra arm and leg. But Ed’s hiring someone new anyway.”

  Hope crashed, scorching a landing strip from my chest to belly. I wrapped my arms around my midriff and fought to concentrate on Pearl’s struggle. “How can Grandpa afford it?”

  “You said it yourself. That court-appointed idiot has done nothing for Cody. Wanted him to plea down. I told Ed something’s got to be done and now he’s doing it.”

  I thought about Belvia’s analysis. “The evidence against Cody doesn’t hold water. Something else is going on.”

  “Tell that to Cody’s lawyer. He wants to enter a guilty plea and hope for the best. Y’all have been sticking your head in the sand while your brother faces kidnapping charges. He’ll get life. What sort of attorney admits defeat without trying?”

  “One that doesn’t want to face Bransons in court.”

  “Exactly. That kid lawyer’s smart enough to know to hang a shingle in Forks County, he’s got to work with Bransons.”

  My eyes smarted and I gnawed on my thumbnail to distract my tear ducts.

  “Ed visited the bank after the lawyer.” Pearl swiped the counter with the dis
hrag, keeping her eyes away from mine. “He’ll have to start selling off the farm. Probably start with the back acreage. But there’s no road out there except through the front lane. I tried to tell him no one’s gonna buy this land without access. The house and barns’ll all be part and parcel.”

  “He can’t do that. Ballards have always owned this land.”

  “What else can he do? The bank’s not going to let him mortgage the farm. It’s a losing proposition for them. You think any of your kin would buy it?”

  “No one’s got that kind of money. Damn banks. And damn lawyers.” I blinked back another tear and allowed anger to ferment in its place. Anger grew better ideas than sorrow. “What about my house? That makes more sense. It’s in town. It won’t get much since the house is old and I haven’t had the money to renovate, but the land will be worth something.”

  “Your Grandpa won’t kick you out. He can’t chuck out one kid to save the other.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Cody’s my brother. I’d rather go homeless than y’all lose the farm.”

  Pearl’s head drooped. Leaving the rag on the counter, she faced me. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I knew you would offer. I told Ed, but he wouldn’t let me mention it. He’s out at the co-op now, trying to scare up interest in the acreage. But what about your roommate?”

  “I’m not too happy with Todd at the moment. Do you know who he’s seeing?”

  The scent of scandal lured her away from her distress. “Todd’s seeing somebody? I always thought he was sweet on you. Seemed like he was waiting on you to get over that Branson boy business.”

  I forced my eyes not to roll. “Luke Harper’s not really a Branson. And certainly not a boy.”

  She snorted. “When you get to be my age, he is. And your Grandpa Ed says if his momma is married to a Branson, Luke Harper’s a Branson.”

  “Luke doesn’t like the Bransons any more than we do.”

  “No boy will turn his back on his momma. And if he would, would you want someone like that?”

  I chewed my lip. She had a point. If I stayed with Luke, I’d either end up with Branson babies or a man who’d break the fifth commandment for me. And then resent it, because the boy did love his momma. Wanda Branson had her faults, namely falling in love with someone like JB, but her intentions paved a path as good and sweet as any road to hell. Luke would never abandon his mother.

  If I stayed with Luke, I’d be a Branson. A traitor to my family. And hating his.

  Dammit, love was hard. Made hunting a murderer feel easy.

  Eighteen

  The Datsun and I traveled east of town. Wealthy Halo families, like the Branson clan, generally preferred the new gated community on the north side with the golf course and private club. But the Tea Grove had been carved from old farmland. Timber separated the property from its neighbors. In Halo, new money liked old land. My friend, Max Avtaikin, also lived on this side of town. Another Halo inhabitant who preferred the respectability of a faux-antebellum estate without involving himself in the mire of town politics.

  Like Max, the Brakemans had a grand wrought-iron gated drive, but this drive split midway to circle before both homes. Matching brick three-storied houses with wrought-iron railing porches and balconies overlooked the front gardens. Almost more fortress than house with the wings and side additions. I parked at the split, unsure who lived where. Even the flower boxes looked alike.

  What happened if you had a few too many? Did they ever get the houses confused? Wander into the wrong bedroom?

  I wondered how Coralee felt about this blatant evidence of the strong mother-daughter bond between Belvia and Della. Was it a slap in the face after all those years away? Or did this weird intimacy drive her off?

  With Della gone, maybe Coralee had thought she could slip into that spot. Switch the alpaca sweaters for pantsuits. Make a grab for the tea throne.

  I hopped from the truck, grabbed the casseroles, and took the path to the right. Mounting the porch steps, I looked for clues to the residents and came up empty. Pressing the bell, I prepared myself for anyone, but not the person who answered.

  The kid with the gun tat.

  My face heated. With everything that had happened with Miss Belvia, I hadn’t followed up with Hazel. But if Grabby Hands was a Brakeman, what was he doing hassling Hazel?

  He narrowed his eyes, scanning me head to toe, then sneered at the plastic-wrapped parcels in my arms. “We’re not buying and you’re trespassing. Sign on the gate says no sales calls.”

  “I’m not selling anything. I’m bringing y’all a casserole. Are you Parker Brakeman-Newson?”

  He jerked his head. A head connected to a neck covered in more tattoos than just the stylized revolver. Among others, I noted a decorative seven, three Rs, and a pyramid of three dots. The Sweet Tea Prince thought he was a gangbanger.

  “Why’re you bringing me a casserole?” he said.

  It was like he didn’t live in the same country as me, let alone the same town. I shoved a pan into his arms. “To express my condolences about your momma and grandma. That’s what we do. Bring food.”

  “You want a receipt or something?”

  “A receipt?” I shook my head in wonderment. “I told you, it’s a gift.”

  “Happy funeral?” He rolled his eyes, backing into the room with the casserole. “Listen, man, thanks or whatever.”

  The door swung. I shoved my foot over the threshold to prevent it from shutting. “It’s a common practice around here, bringing food to those in need.”

  “Have you looked around? Do you know who we are? We don’t need your food. I can see your truck, you could use handouts from us.”

  I sucked in my breath. “I’ll let that slide as you just lost your momma. You must be having a hard time.”

  “Yeah, right.” He scanned me again. “I know you from somewhere.”

  “We had a slight exchange at Halo House. You were stealing from an old woman’s purse. Ring a bell?”

  “I wasn’t stealing. She had something that was mine and I was getting it for her. Being helpful.” He flashed his teeth, more snarl than smile.

  “Why would Hazel have something of yours? Just what were you doing?”

  “You don’t need to know my business.” He kicked the door and it banged against my boot. “Get the hell off my property or I’m getting my piece.”

  “Piece?” I said. “Are you referring to a firearm? We’re having a conversation about you and my friend, Hazel. Why are you bringing up weapons?”

  “What’s going on out there?” called a male voice.

  “Nothing,” hollered Parker, then muttered, “You and me are done.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I pushed the door wide to walk into the foyer. “I’m bringing y’all a casserole, Mr. Newson.”

  Ron Newson strolled through an open doorway. His business suit had been traded for a polo. “Parker, what’s the issue?”

  “No issue, sir.” Parker glared at me, then turned toward his father. “Someone from town brought us food.”

  “Food?” Ron looked at me. “We didn’t order food.”

  “It’s a local custom. We bring food to those in distress.” Where was I, on Mars? “It’s a gesture of good will. And I don’t need a receipt.”

  “Then why all the shouting?”

  “Your boy has...” I cut a look toward Parker. He’d be even less likely to explain his confrontation with Hazel before his father. “Parker and I had a misunderstanding.”

  “About the food,” said Parker.

  Ron waved at the pan. “Take it away. We don’t want it.”

  Parker shoved the pan at me. I grabbed it, balancing a pan on each arm. They were starting to ache under the strain. Cornbread casserole was not a light dish in more ways than one.

 
Ron turned to leave.

  Young Grabby Hands had caught me off guard. I’d forgotten my prepared questions and found myself floundering. “Mr. Newson. Remember me? I found Mrs. Brakeman. Later, I found you in her bathroom. You took something from her medicine cabinet.”

  He whirled around. “What?”

  “You’re the one who found Grandmother?” said Parker.

  “I knew you looked familiar.” Ron Newson strode across the marble foyer and stopped before me. “You called the police.”

  “She did what?” Parker inhaled spit and coughed.

  I hid my smile. I’d sort out Parker soon enough. He couldn’t bother my friends, particularly if they were elderly, and get away with it. Even if Hazel didn’t want my help.

  “Yep, I called the sheriff. He’s a good family friend. I figured better safe than sorry when it comes to the death of someone like Mrs. Brakeman.” I studied Ron. “So why look in the medicine cabinet? What was in the bottle you were holding?”

  “It was nothing important.” He spoke slowly, then flashed a look at Parker. “I don’t know why I picked up that bottle of pills. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Had y’all been to Miss Belvia’s earlier?”

  “Of course. We checked in with Belvia when we arrived for the visitation.”

  “Anybody use the bathroom?” I tossed a hypothetical, wondering if he’d catch it. “If someone accidentally left their medication in Belvia’s bathroom, she might have taken it by mistake. Causing her heart attack. Maybe you picked up that bottle because it looked out of place?”

  Folding his arms, Parker cut his gaze between me and his father.

  “What is this?” Ron took another step toward me, forcing me to back onto the threshold. “Are you dropping off food or did you come to question us? You lied about the necessity of bringing in the police. You’re lying again. Who are you?”

  “I work at Halo House. I’m an artist and a friend to those who live there.”