I crossed the street and walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the cloudless morning sunshine, which would be scorching by afternoon. Passing a jewelry store, I paused to admire some unique pieces in the window, then stopped in front of Shawna’s shop.
Her gallery had once been a stationary store specializing in monograms and garden party invitations, perfect for Shawna’s brand of cute, curly-cue graphics. It had served a purpose in the Forks County community, as well-bred Southern women monogrammed the crap out of any piece of loose material that could be carried or worn on her person, home, and child. Sometimes their husbands, too (clothing, not bodies). I thought Shawna had been doing well in the monogram trade and her invitations made from heavy cardstock, ribbons, and printed calligraphy were popular, too.
Notice I am giving Shawna Branson her due. And it’s not even a blue moon.
The monograms and pretty stationary had left the storefront window. Hanging in their place was a giant baby head centered on a canvas. That the giant baby head had once been a photo was made obvious by the grainy pixels making up the baby’s face. Up close, the effect looked like Pointillism, as each pixel had been covered with a dot of paint. A sloppy daub of paint done with a cheap brush in a hurry.
I backed to the edge of the sidewalk to get a better angle on the floating baby head. The baby had a ruddy complexion from the use of straight-out-of-the-tube napthol red dots on his cheeks. The eyes were orbs of ultramarine blue. Someone had played with an introductory acrylic set. And not very well. The baby head looked like a Cabbage Patch with rosacea.
I shook my head and headed to the front door. As well as the merchandise, the sign had been changed to “The Real Artists of Forks County Gallery,” which served as a laughable kick in the pants to me. I gritted my teeth and pushed through the door.
Another baby and a few high school senior heads hung on the brick, whitewashed walls, looking like a Chuck Close experiment gone awry. I scanned for more “Real Artist” art and spied two oils, painted by Gertie Speirs.
Gertie only painted chickens, but she had a fabulous coop with an assortment of fancy breeds. She was also eighty-five years old and a sweetheart. I was glad to see Shawna had considered Gertie in her attempts to bring gallery life to Forks County. Even if it was only two small paintings, a Rhode Island Red and a Golden Campine.
A young girl in all black with a ballerina bun sat behind a glass desk. She stood up and handed me a postcard. Her glance took in my boots, cutoffs, and an American flag t-shirt I had beaded in tangerine, black, and kelly green. From her expression, I assumed her creative eye didn’t appreciate my complementary colored patriotism.
I glanced at the card and read aloud, “The Real Artists of Forks County presents Pictograph Portraits by Shawna Branson: a study. For sale or order your own.” The red-cheeked baby head had been printed next to the announcement. I flipped the card over and a black and white photo of Shawna’s face artfully held between her well-manicured hands stared at me. It was the first time I saw an artist’s headshot taking up more space than their works.
The girl gave me a small smile and tucked some stray hairs behind her ears. “Would you like a tour?”
“Tour?” I said. “I think I’ve seen enough baby heads. I need to talk to Shawna.”
“Just a moment,” she pressed a button on her phone and adjusted her Bluetooth earpiece. “Miss Branson? Someone to see you.”
I glanced out the window to check if I had somehow wandered out of Forks County.
“Your name?” asked Miss Ballerina Bun.
I had hoped for the element of surprise when playing on Shawna’s home turf. “I’m with the Bulldog Studio Gallery in Athens,” I hedged.
Miss Ballerina Bun relayed the message and point two seconds later, Shawna scrambled out a back door. Her wedges halted in mid-stride, skidding on the polished wood floor and almost knocking her on her butt.
“You,” said Shawna and then turned her accusatory eyes on Ballerina. “Shelby, she’s not from an Athens gallery.”
Shelby’s lips made guppy motions. Her bun bobbed and she sank in her chair like she wanted to slide under her table. Which was glass and not helpful for hiding.
“I am associated with Bulldog Gallery, as they recently hung my classical triptych on their fine walls,” I crossed the room to meet Shawna. “But I think you know that as you took some photos with your phone and showed them to Red’s customers recently.”
Shawna’s blue-green eyes narrowed into a caustic slant and her long nails tapped the sides of her thighs, currently swaddled in a giraffe print. She wore a wrap-around dress that strangled her torso better than cellophane.
“I was wondering, since you were so impressed with my paintings, are you my newest patron?” I smiled with my teeth and held my arms out in an anticipatory hug.
“I would never in a million years pay a wooden nickel for that trash. A foreigner bought it, which shows you how the good people of Georgia feel about that nastiness you painted,” she said. “Don’t go thinking your buyer was Max Avtaikin either. I looked and didn’t see it in his house. Proving he’s a well-bred man.”
“Well-bred,” I snorted. A year in Halo and Max Avtaikin had garnered a good name for himself while sneaking around the law. I hadn’t been able to do that in my lifetime. His accent worked like a slight of hand. Or maybe it was his money that made people look the other way. “What are you doing hanging around Mr. Max’s house anyway?”
“If you must know,” she sighed with faux impatience. Her eyes betrayed her eagerness to brag. “We’re planning my own show.”
“Why do you need a show? You’ve got all these baby heads hanging in here for folks to see.” A sting of hurt pricked my pride. Even if I found Max’s illegal activities distasteful, he did buy my Dustin and hinted he wanted to commission more works. Unlike the rest of the population, I wasn’t fooled by his accent or money, but I did respect his knowledge of art. And we had somehow forged a friendship based on our mutual love of baiting one another in cat and mouse style antics.
“Pictographs are my portrait business,” Shawna glared at my eye roll. “The show would expose a side of my creativity.”
“Expose?” I winked.
Her nostrils flared. “I’m not the one painting obscene trash.”
“How are classical subjects trash? I based the paintings on some of the most famous statues in antiquity.”
“With a local as the model for all the world to see. I feel sorry for poor Todd McIntosh, who everyone knows is dumb and easily coerced by you. You corrupted that poor man.”
“Todd’s not dumb. And you think I corrupted him?” I laughed. “Have you even met the McIntosh’s? They load their dice and mark their cards. They obtain vehicles by racing for pink slips.”
Shawna’s plucked and waxed eyebrow rose and she planted a hand on one curvy giraffe-spotted hip. “He was dumb enough to marry you.”
I sucked in my breath and stopped myself from taking her bait. “So are you gonna stop discrediting me and flashing those photos of my classical paintings around?”
“Not until you bring back the pictures you stole from me.”
That wiped the snark off my face. “What pictures?”
“I’ve asked you before. Don’t play stupid now,” she hissed. “Pictures for pictures is a fair exchange. Clock’s ticking. I haven’t even shown your rendition of Todd’s bare behind at church yet. That’s next. I’m forming a committee.”
“Exchange?”
“You heard me. One of you Tuckers has them. And there better not be copies floating around or I will ruin you for good. Not just in Halo. I’m talking all of Georgia.”
“I didn’t steal anything. I would never.”
“Get out,” she pointed a cheetah print nail in the direction of her glass front door. “Or I’ll also put copies of those paintings in the feed store where your sorry Grandpa hangs out.”
I left.
If the church ladies got wind I had done nude paintings,
I could expect a mammoth sized shit storm to blow through my door. Grandpa would have my head for embarrassing the family. He’d kick me out of Great Gam’s cottage and not only would I be homeless, I’d also lose my studio space.
My steps from The Real Artists Studio moved from amble to hurry as my panic increased. What kind of pictures would make Shawna go ballistic like this? Did she have her own nudie pics floating around Halo? How did one find something when one didn’t even know what one was looking for?
Shawna did leave me with one unrelated but important kernel of information, I thought as I hopped into my truck and backed from the parking space. My buyer was foreign. Which further convinced me it must be Max Avtaikin no matter what Shawna believed. Max already owned one of my paintings, the portrait that marked my art career’s surprisingly sharp left turn from child and hunting dog portraits toward the avant-garde. It would make sense he would be the foreigner who had bought my triptych. And if Max owned my classical paintings, he could prove to Forks County I wasn’t a degenerate.
However, there was a slight problem with visiting Max Avtaikin, a.k.a. the Bear. The Bear hadn’t looked too kindly on my helping him out of the illegal bingo business and into an audit. I didn’t suppose he’d want to do me any favors, but I figure, it never hurts to ask.
I could always eat a little crow to get a Shawna sized monkey off my back.
Five
The foyer of Max’s palatial antebellum nightmare was a study in cool marble, lofty ceilings, and a colossal sized man looking irritated as hell to see me. As I was used to irritating men to hell, it didn’t bother me too much. If Max wasn’t so big and brutish, much like his nickname The Bear, it probably wouldn’t bother me at all.
“Why do you never call before coming to my house?” he said.
“We’re a drop-in kind of folks down here,” I replied. “Besides if I had called, would you have answered?”
His glacial blue eyes narrowed for a long moment, and he flung out his hands. “You are the most exasperating woman I ever had the misfortune to meet. You invade my house like the tiny insects of my kitchen. I am busy.”
He turned and stalked across the foyer toward his library, where he stashed his War Between the States collection and office equipment. Max moved from his ex-Commie country to the south because of his love of American history and the cheap property taxes. And if collecting the old junk wasn’t enough, he also enjoyed giving boring history lessons. I hurried to catch him before he holed himself in his Old South bunker and I lost my chance to make reparations in our mostly civil feud.
I slid through the heavy wooden door as Max turned to close it. His eyes slanted at my entrance, but he continued toward his desk without word of kicking me out. The paneled wood walls of his library were crammed with glass-cased relics of the Old South. The floor held furniture of the manly variety. I took an appreciative whiff of the room’s leather and teak aroma and then filled my lungs with a great gulp of the stuff for courage. Ignoring the history, I headed toward the office equipment end of the room.
“You have sugar ants? I can help you. All you need is boric acid and mint jelly.”
“Sugar ants,” he said. “A good name for such a vexing girl.”
I stopped before his desk. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”
He collapsed into a leather office chair and grasped the armrests, most likely imagining they were a part of my body he’d like to shake. “You always have a ‘few questions.’ In my country, people mind their own businesses. Why are the Americans so meddlesome? Always with your talk, talk, talk.” He waved a hand at an armchair placed before the desk.
I eased myself into the deep armchair and slid backward. My feet dangled from the edge, and I swung my boots while I thought how to best pacify The Bear. “Wow, this is one comfortable chair. You do know how to pick your furniture. Anyway, did you happen to buy my classical triptych?”
“Another collector bought it before I could,” he rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I saw the paintings. Your talent continues.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He leaned forward in his chair and placed a heavy arm on the desk. “Are you finished? I have much work to do.”
“Something’s wrong with you. I can tell. I know I’ve gotten you into some hot water with the law, but it’s worked out in your favor so far. The town is smitten with your accent and love of poker-themed parties. Water under the bridge, Bear. I’m here for you. Tell me your troubles.”
He regarded me with his usual shrewd intensity, but I felt his heart wasn’t in it. A melancholic smile passed across his face but instead of pouring out his soul, he picked up his Blackberry to demonstrate his intent of brushing me off. “My troubles are not your concern, Artist. How can I assist you further?”
“Listen, I have a chance for you to assist me, and it would make me feel better if I could do you a good turn.”
Max’s finger hovered over his Blackberry, but his eyes remained glued to the little screen. “This is new. You have not struck me as one to ask for help.”
“Well, in this particular dilemma, I find you might be the only person who can aid me.”
“Fascinating.” Max set his Blackberry on his desk and eased back in his chair.
Despite my qualms at Max’s sudden change in demeanor, I decided to proceed. “I believe you are acquainted with Miss Shawna Branson.”
He gave a curt nod.
“Perhaps you did not know Miss Branson hates my guts and would like to stick it to me in a very public way. Like ride-me-out-of-town public way.”
Max grunted and motioned for me to continue.
I was getting a Godfather vibe I didn’t appreciate, but it was too late to back out. “The paintings which you say you did not purchase are of a sensitive nature to the people of Forks County.”
“I would think they would be sensitive to a Mr. Todd McIntosh in particular,” said Max. “Perhaps they are a bit provocative, but nothing to cause the censor. You are a classical realist, are you not? A how do you say, throwback, to the Academy Style?”
“Throwback?” I slid forward in my chair. “If I’m a throwback, I would think Halo, Georgia, would be all over my paintings. I may be classical in style, but I can still do edgy.”
“This edgy will not sell you paintings in the Forks County.”
“Dangit if you aren’t right,” I sighed and rested my head against the supple leather of the chair back. “When I heard a foreigner bought the paintings, I assumed it was you. I heard you were going to do a show for Shawna Branson, and I kind of thought you might do a show for me as well. Let folks know I’m legitimate and not a pervert.” I colored at “pervert” and hoped that word wasn’t in his limited English lexicon.
“A foreign buyer?” His eyes flit to mine and he frowned.
“That’s what Shawna said. I’ve asked the gallery to track the buyer down for me, although they might not actually do it. They don’t like the artists associating with the buyers unless the gallery gets a cut.”
“A public show,” he mused, pulling on his full bottom lip. I had a feeling he was weighing the financial benefits. “You have other pieces?”
“Hell, I’d make some up tonight if needed. Pieces aren’t a problem. I even have acrylic mockups of that triptych in my closet. Getting Shawna to loosen her restraints on the Real Artists of Forks County Gallery would be the tricky part.”
“Venue is nothing,” he continued to pull on his lip.
I watched, fascinated by the flexibility.
“There is something you are not telling me. Why does this Shawna Branson have you in such a, how do you say, tizzy that you would come to me for help?”
“You are the only art appreciator in Halo I would trust with this delicate matter,” I paused, knowing flattery wouldn’t satisfy The Bear. But I hated to admit I had fallen for Shawna’s convoluted scheme. “And she thinks I have something of hers. Which I don’t. I don’t even know what pictures she’s talking
about.”
“Shawna Branson is discrediting you as blackmail. She wants payment in the form of these pictures you say you don’t have and know nothing about.”
“I guess that sums it up,” I chewed my lip for a moment. “I have no chance of finding these pictures if she won’t even tell me what they are.”
“You are in a bind,” he smiled.
That smile gave me the heebies. I don’t think I’d ever seen his mouth crack wide enough for teeth.
“You must find these pictures. In the meantime, I will assist you in raising your artistic stature within the community. Which I find both ironic and amusing, considering you’ve been trying to expose my vices and discredit me.”
“I will back down, but you brought that on yourself.” I held up my hands. “Now. I’ve told you my problem, but you still haven’t shared yours. Spill.”
“Why are you always wondering about the issues which are not of your concern?” He sighed again. “It is no wonder the policeman no longer dates you.”
“Hey,” I hopped out of my chair. “You don’t have to get ugly.”
“Your prying nature has caused the man quite a few scares. I merely point out that most men could not handle your type of,” he paused, searching his limited English vocabulary, “your type of intensity.”
I wasn’t sure if intensity was flattering, but I wasn’t one to turn down charity compliments. “That may be true of most men, but Deputy Luke Harper has a strong gut. I think it bothers him more that I cramp his style. On the job.” And maybe off the job, too. He never did introduce me to his parents as his official girlfriend.
“Now you look the one in need of comfort. Perhaps there is something else I can do for you?” Max rose and circled his desk to stand before me. “How is Todd McIntosh? I miss his friendship.”
“I’m trying my best to help Todd,” I said, my eyes straying from Max’s granite features to my hands. “He’s out of work. I told him not to visit you because of his gambling problem. You remind him of poker. I’m sorry. I didn’t know y’all would miss your friendship so much.”
Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) Page 4