“No! Stay out of the truck.”
Tater answered by pushing his bent front legs against my belly to catapult his back end through the door.
“Umph!” I grunted, grabbing my stomach. Back hooves whizzed past my face. I slid out the door, landing on my knees in the gravel drive.
Tater pranced across the bench, his head and shoulders stooping to fit in the truck.
“Tater! Get out of there.” I waved a hand through the open door as Tater danced to the other end of the bench. Muddy hoof prints spotted the seat. I glanced down and saw muddy prints marking my tank top. “Dang it.”
I yanked open the passenger door, hauled Tater out, and grabbed Wanda’s shopping bag.
Inside the house, I snagged a kitchen towel. “Casey,” I called from the empty kitchen, mopping my bright camo tank with the wet towel. Two smeared prints remained just under my breasts.
“That’s just great,” I said.
Trying to ignore the clammy feeling of the wet tank top, I focused on the shopping bag contents I dumped on the kitchen table. Dustin’s collection — actually Miss Wanda’s choices for Dustin’s collection — didn’t resemble the Dustin I knew. The private impression of Dustin could be different than the public, but I feared Wanda chose items that seemed valuable or nostalgic without knowing what they meant to him.
“What’s all this?” Casey wandered in from the living room and snagged a diet soda from the fridge. “Dustin’s knickknacks?
“Looks like Dustin had some awards for wrestling.”
“I don’t remember him wrestling.” Casey took a deep drink from the can and sank in a chair. “And I knew the wrestlers pretty well in high school. Maybe he stole it from Luke. How’s Luke at wrestling, Cherry? He still pretty good?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Cody said you looked pretty hot and heavy in the Waffle House parking lot.”
“If you call a kiss on the forehead hot and heavy,” I grumbled, spreading out the loot on the table. “There’s also some Transformers with L.H. painted on the bottom, obviously Luke’s. Now this class ring has the correct graduating year. I can use that.” I moved the ring to a separate pile.
“A Pink Pig piggy bank,” said Casey. She grabbed the bank and shook it. “Something’s in here. You remember riding the Pink Pig at Rich’s Department Store in Atlanta?”
“I barely remember. We must have been pretty young.” I fingered a heavy silver belt buckle studded with turquoise. Another large silver buckle incised with filigree had a bas-relief lion’s head and what looked like ruby eyes. A shabby stuffed dog lay next to the shoebox. “I don’t know how Wanda wants me to fit all this in a shadowbox. That dog is too big and there’s a ton of little things. I’m going to have to build a lot of tiny shelves or look for a readymade. Maybe a printer’s drawer.”
I began to replace the smaller items in the shoe box. “I hate to bring it up with her, but I’m wondering if any of this stuff is really his.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the belt buckles. I don’t know much about them, but they look expensive. Do you think Dustin would have bought them?”
“Not sure. Lots of guys wear blingy buckles now.” She pointed to the turquoise and silver buckle. “This one looks a little cowboyish for a guy like Dustin, but the other one is cool.” She picked up the large buckle with the sculpted lion’s head.
“Wow, it’s heavy.” She stuffed her t-shirt into the front of her jeans and held the buckle to her button fly. “How’s it look?”
“Expensive.” I plucked it from her hand and tossed it in the shoebox.
“Ooh, a Pound Puppy. I had one of these.” Casey snatched the brown and tan dog and squeezed it against her chest.
“Give me that.”
“Wait a minute,” Casey said. “This dog has something in it. I can feel it through the stuffing.”
She placed it on the table, and we kneaded the Pound Puppy with our fingertips.
“I feel it, too. Flip it over.”
The loose stitching on the belly made it easy to manipulate a hole big enough to feel inside. I curved a finger into the stuffing and pulled out a thin wooden pipe with a metal bowl and Zigzag papers.
“Guess we found his stash.”
“Anything else in there?” Casey picked up the pipe and smelled the bowl while I ran my fingers inside the puppy.
“No.” I sat with my chin in hand and watched Casey. “You think I ought to show this stuff to Uncle Will?”
“Maybe. But I thought Grandpa said the police went through his things already.”
“This was stuff Wanda collected after their search. I think it was in his bedroom at the Branson house, not his apartment. You think they could have missed this?”
“Dunno.” Casey shoved the paraphernalia back into the toy dog. “It’s not like a pipe and papers is that big of a deal anymore. If there was weed in there, the police would have confiscated it.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll set the dog aside, just in case. The other stuff, I’m not so sure about. If the police searched Dustin’s belongings and Wanda chose these things, I’d think it’d be safe to put them in the shadowbox. Wouldn’t you think?”
“What are you getting at?”
“If I hand over Dustin’s possessions to Uncle Will, he would know I have another job for the Bransons. And I need the job. And Will won’t want me to do it.”
“Are you not a grown woman?”
“You don’t understand. He’ll probably seize the stuff as sheriff. He’s pretty ticked I snuck in Cooper’s to work on the portrait. I can’t let him know about this. I’m going to assume the police saw these goods and passed on it.”
“I need to get ready for work.” Casey hopped up from her seat. “You play with the toys, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
I nodded and grabbed the piggy bank. Sliding my fingers under the rubber stopper on the bottom, I popped out the plug. Jewelry and coins spilled on the table.
“Good Lord,” I called to the back of the house. “I think Dustin was a pirate.”
I gave the pig a final shake and skimmed my fingers inside the ceramic, feeling for any stuck objects. The pig hid no photos. I grabbed the dog and searched him once again.
“Dang. I was really hoping for something. Even one of those little digital memory cards.” I tossed the dog in the shopping bag.
“Wha’d you say?” Casey sauntered through the living room doorway in a tight black t-shirt with County Line Tap printed across her chest. She carried a pair of black sneakers in one hand.
“I’m looking for blackmail items and I don’t see any here.” I gawked at my sister. “What are you wearing?”
“What do you think?” She spun in a slow circle so I could get the full effect of the litter of brown curls erupting from the top of her head. A spiked, metal cuff gathered the fountain of glossy ringlets on her crown. Spiked leather collars circled her neck and wrists and a studded belt cinched her skimpy Daisy Duke’s.
“I think fishing saved Grandpa from a heart attack. What is this, Pebbles meets punk?” I gathered up the rest of the shopping bag memorabilia. “We’re going to be late. Let’s hope the effect keeps you from getting fired. At least you’ll count on good tips.”
“That’s the idea,” Casey sang, banging the screen door open with her hip as she slipped on her shoes.
“Avoid bending over if you can help it.” I caught the screen door and froze at my sister’s piercing shriek.
“Tater’s in your truck bed,” Casey screamed. “Help me haul him out. I’m late.”
“I hate that goat.” I pounded down the porch stairs to my truck, leaving the bag behind. “I swear I’m using him for gyros one of these days.”
NINE
Red tapped on his wat
ch, shaking his head at Casey as we traipsed into the County Line Tap.
“Not my fault.” Casey scooted toward the kitchen before Red could argue.
His frown deepened within his rusty beard. The sharp eyes watched Casey’s hip action as she bumped through the swinging door. I slid onto a barstool before him. He turned his freckled face toward me with a moan.
“Your sister drives me crazy,” he said. “Good thing the customers like her.”
“I feel your pain.” I studied the bright green eyes, concerned that he’d fire my sister. “But she’s harmless. Like you said, the customers like her.”
Red and I shared a sigh born of ten years acquaintance. I started sneaking into County Line Tap when it was just an old dive bar positioned two feet off the old town line. But young Red kicked my skinny under-aged butt right out of the bar. I had an obsession with karaoke then and didn’t feel the law applied when you weren’t going to drink (at least not openly). He admired my persistence. I admired his patience. I had a grand twenty-first birthday with Red tending bar.
Red ran a hand through his thick ginger hair and scratched his beard. “Anyway,” the hand smacked the wooden bar. “What’ll you have?”
“Since I’m here, the usual.”
I turned on my stool to survey the dim room. Flat screen TVs and local sports memorabilia, including a narrow shelf of trophies for the County Line’s baseball team, covered the long beige walls. In my opinion, Red’s cried out for interior resuscitation. Hopper’s Nighthawks diner portrayed better decor. When he bought the tavern and revamped it into a sports bar, Red cashed out his interest in interior design other than adding a new trophy to his shelf each fall.
At the far end of the room, Red had erected a short black platform. On this simple stage rested amplifiers, microphone stands, and a drum kit with STICKS painted in florescent orange across the face of the sparkling bass drum. I had almost forgotten I promised Todd I would watch Sticks’ debut performance the following night. He hinted at a song or two written for me. After participating in the “what rhymes with” conversation with Todd in the past, I didn’t have high expectations for his new repertoire of songs.
Red’s attention fixated on Casey, as did the two-top she currently graced. She turned from taking the table’s order and waggled back to the kitchen with the men’s eyes glued to her shorts. I could feel Grandma Jo rolling in her grave.
“What in the hell is she wearing?” Red grabbed a glass and thrust it under a tap, tilting the mug as the golden liquid began to froth. He slid the beer across the bar toward me.
“Oh, you know Casey.” My finger traced a snowflake design in the cold mug’s frost. “Anyway, what’s going on with you? Looks like you’re going to have Sticks in here regularly?”
Red sighed and cupped a hand under his chin to lean on the bar. He watched me take a tentative sip of beer and then a larger gulp. “We’ll see. They sound pretty good, but I told Todd it depended on the customers.”
“He’d better hope for women customers then.”
“I saw his new tattoo,” Red snorted. “Nice cherries.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“I didn’t think you could do it.”
“Do what?”
“Settle down.”
“With Todd?” Beer threatened to foam out my nose.
“You don’t fool me.” Red dropped his arm and touched my hand. “Todd’s a nice guy and thinks the world of you. He’s a lot smarter than he lets on. You could do a lot worse.”
“It is nice to be appreciated.”
“He adores you. I don’t believe what everyone is saying. I think you pushed him away.”
“What’s everybody saying about me?”
Red patted my hand. “I understand your family problems. But you’re not the only one who has a no-show for a mother. Look at this Dustin that got himself killed. I’ve seen his momma in here, and she’s total trash. You Tucker kids do pretty well. Don’t let your mother issues ruin your chance at happiness.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I snatched my hand away. “What’s everybody saying about me?”
“All I’m saying is you should have given Todd a chance. I heard how he jilted you and that whole business of you tearing up Las Vegas in your wedding dress to find him, begging him to come back. But I know you. You must have pushed him away. I saw this show about self-sabotage…”
“WHAT?”
“Self-sabotage.” Red grabbed his bar rag and mopped up my spilled beer. “It’s when a person does something subconsciously to ruin their chance at—”
“I know what self-sabotage is,” I said through gritted teeth. “Did you say you heard I tore up Las Vegas in a wedding dress to beg Todd to marry me?”
Red shrugged. “That’s what’s going round.”
I pushed off the stool-rest with both feet and jumped to the ground. “I’m going to kill Todd.”
“Don’t blame Todd. Don’t be a victim to yourself.”
“Stick to watching the Braves. I don’t think those celebrity rehab shows are doing you any favors.” I aimed for the door and spun back, grabbing the bar to keep myself upright. “Wait a minute. Did you say Dustin’s mother was in here? Virginia?”
“Yeah,” said Red, shaking off my abrupt change with a slow eye blink. “She used to meet Dustin here occasionally. I thought they might be dealing in the parking lot, though, so I had to run them off.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“That’s good. I don’t want County Line to get a dangerous reputation. I count on families coming in for the hot wings as much as I do the drinkers.”
“Do you think Dustin got killed because of dealing drugs? Grandpa thinks so.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Thanks for the beer.” I polished off the mug and slid it to Red. “I’ve got to go home and paint.” I turned toward the exit. Casey grabbed my arm.
“I’ve got those wings for you.” She guided me to a table. “Just wait here. If you stay long enough, you can give me a ride home.”
“Come on, Case. That means I’ll be here all night.”
She placed another mug before me. “This’ll keep you quiet for a little bit.”
“I can’t sit here and drink beer until closing. I’ve got to get home and finish a painting.”
“Whatever. I can hear your stomach pitching a fit. Just wait for the wings.”
I did want the wings. Leaning back in my chair, I kicked my feet up on the rungs of the chair opposite. My table in front of the swinging kitchen door offered a complete view of the narrow room. I watched the families eating dinner for a moment. Kids climbed over their chairs and chattered while their mothers picked at abandoned french fries. The fathers’ eyes zeroed in on the Braves game. Near the little stage, a party of seven women worked on margaritas and wine, ignoring their nachos and wings. They wore the pastel scrubs of nurses or assistants at local doctor offices.
I enjoyed watching their camaraderie for a moment and wondered what it would be like to go out for Thursday night drinks after work. I nursed the beer while a lonely feeling knocked at my door.
I recognized that feeling and told myself to cut it out. That was the feeling that almost got me married to Todd.
At the bar, Red resumed his friendly bartender persona, snapping his towel while he told a joke to a burly man in camouflage pants and a Bass Pro t-shirt. My eyes trailed past him to two guys at the far end of the bar huddled around a video game. Creepy Pete’s trucker cap had been removed, but the bushy goatee and long hair were easy to spot.
I recognized the other guy as Jackson, Todd and Pete’s other roommate. Jackson worked a regular nine-to-five for a local exterminator company. He had a nice personality and wasn’t bad looking—clean cut, medium build, wire glasses—b
ut he faded into the background around the lusty likeability of Todd and disturbing nature of Pete. Maybe Jackson hung around them to soak in the weird limelight that accompanied guys like Todd and Pete.
Maybe Jackson couldn’t find other roommates.
Now why would Mr. Max hire guys like Dustin and Pete? It wasn’t like they were reliable or smart. Or even personable, for that matter.
But guys like Pete and Dustin sought respect and money the easiest way possible. Mr. Max probably found them easy recruits for his questionable business activities. My concern centered on Todd and the other good people in Halo that could get pulled into Mr. Max’s orbit. Men like him would chew up and spit out a sweet bonehead like Todd. Our little town had already been tainted by Dustin’s murder. I swigged my beer, feeling a surge of outrage at this foreign interloper.
I shoved away from the table and wandered to the bar. Red washed glasses with his eyes on the Braves game.
“Hey,” I said and leaned on the bar between Mr. Bass Pro Shop and Todd’s roommates.
Mr. Bass Pro Shop glanced at me, extending a smile over his ruddy cheeks. His flat, brown eyes took a short trip over my fuchsia tank top and jeans and back to my face. “What’re you drinking, hon?”
I raised an eyebrow and considered the round belly perched against the counter for lack of room and the scuffed work boots that dripped dried mud under his stool. He’d probably keep someone happy in deer sausage, but I wasn’t interested. I shifted a quarter-turn to face the other side of the bar.
Red hopped forward in a protective quickstep. “What do you need, Cherry?”
“Cherry? I like that name. You enjoy muddin’?”
1 Portrait of a Dead Guy Page 11