Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery)

by Reinhart, Larissa

  “Who said anything about raising children? Lord, Leah. Your mind likes to take some exotic leaps.”

  “I’m going to hunt down Shawna today and try to talk some sense into her. Are you off to your fancy art job? Don’t forget Sticks plays tonight at Red’s.”

  “I’ll be there. Unless I have to work at the SipNZip. Thank you, Leah. You’re the best.” I hung up before she questioned me about the SipNZip.

  I felt a little better about Shawna’s craziness. However, I was still playing defense. Unless I could stop Shawna’s forward motion, I had better hope for an interception.

  I needed to find those damned mysterious pictures. Before the Concerned Citizens meeting. I didn’t have much time before the tar and feathering commenced.

  Twenty-One

  Inside Rupert’s house, I left my sunglasses on to allow my eyes to adjust to his blinding decor. And the retro, red faux-Ray Bans accentuated my red hombre dyed tank top and gold denim jeans. Couldn’t hurt to let the patron think I admired his favorite colors. The outfit also worked well as interior camouflage.

  Miss David greeted me in head to toe black. Very classy, although I suspected she used monotones to rebel against Rupert’s ostentatious style. I followed her to his office where she left me. Rupert sat at his desk, talking on the phone. At my hesitation, he waved me in and then spun his chair so he faced a window.

  A decorated Christmas tree now stood on the far side of the office. Compared to the tacky office decor, the tree was beautiful. Southern ideal, professionally decorated beautiful. In other words, it stood out like a Christmas tree in September.

  I dropped my satchel on the floor before the tree and crossed the room to gather my other belongings from the town car. Mindful of Rupert’s telephone chat, I closed his door softly and tiptoed into the hall leading toward the foyer. Near the front door, Nick and Miss David stood chatting. He had my easel, tackle box, and portfolio under one arm. The other hand reached for Miss David’s ass. I backed up, bumped into a Chippendale table, spun, and caught the porcelain vase before it spilled flowers and water onto the table. My lightening reflexes saved the arrangement but had broken the butler-chauffeur dalliance.

  Assuming Miss David was a butler, of course. Which didn’t matter, because they looked miffed either way.

  “May I help you?” asked Miss David, striding to the table. She adjusted the vase three centimeters from where I had just righted it.

  “I was coming to get the rest of my things.”

  Carrying my gear, Nick schlepped past me and into the office.

  “Thanks Nick,” I said to his back.

  “Anything else?” asked Miss David.

  “You know, I don’t care if you have a thing with Nick. I’m here to do a job, same as you.”

  “Then go do your job.”

  “Mr. Rupert’s on the phone. I’ve got a minute. So, where are you from? I can tell it’s not Atlanta.”

  Her pale lips clenched. “Do you want to see my passport?”

  “No,” I wrinkled my nose, wondering yet again what had happened to the art of pleasantries. “I’m just making conversation. Are you Canadian? You have a teeny accent.”

  “No,” she said with a sneer that would insult most Canadians. “I’m not the one with the accent. Mr. Agadzinoff is expecting you. He’s a busy man.”

  Miss David didn’t realize snubbing me tended to have the opposite effect intended. Now I was dying to pull her into a conversation even if I humiliated myself. And use the opportunity to learn more about Crazy Rupert. “What does an immigration lawyer do?”

  “Helps immigrants file their citizenship papers.”

  “Must be lucrative,” I leaned against the table and the vase threatened to spill again. Hopping off, I righted the vase and saw Miss David’s consternated look. “Does he pay you pretty well?”

  “That’s an impertinent question.”

  “I don’t mean to be impertinent,” I said, honestly. “I’m just curious.”

  “You know the fable about the curious cat?” She folded her arms over her black suit jacket.

  “The one where the cat dies?”

  “Mr. Agadzinoff is paying you well for your artistic services. Extremely well so he can truthfully tell his Buckhead friends his art is expensive. That is all you need to know.”

  “In order to paint a realistic portrait, I need a sense of the person I’m representing. Their personality is reflected in the painting. My curiosity helps me to do my job well.”

  “Then I’d advise you to ask Mr. Agadzinoff what he pays his employees and not me.”

  She stalked down the hall. I waited until she was out of sight to shudder off the chill left behind. As I turned back, Nick opened the office door and sauntered toward me.

  “Hey Nick,” I said, seeking further opportunities for humiliation and information. “Do you think I’m impertinent?”

  Nick shook his head and tried to move past me.

  I hopped in front of him. “Miss David thinks I’m impertinent. I think I’m giving her the wrong impression. What can I do to smooth things over with her?”

  He shrugged.

  “Do you have a stutter or something? If you do, I don’t mind. I have a cousin who stutters. You can sing your answer if you like. Or write it down.”

  “I don’t have stutter,” he said. “You are fine. Miss David doesn’t like anybody.”

  “I think she likes you. And you don’t talk to me either.”

  “She don’t like me. I don’t talk for my English is not so good.”

  Aha, I thought. Maybe Miss David’s English was also poor. Although she did know the word impertinent. “Are you one of Mr. Agadzinoff’s immigrants?”

  “Yes.” Nick’s gaze moved to his shoes. “My name is Nikolai, but Nik sounds American.”

  “Nikolai is nice, too.” I smiled. “Welcome to America, Nik. Hope you like it here.”

  He blushed, shrugged, and toed the Chippendale table. “I better wash cars. Mr. Agadzinoff likes to ride in clean car. He wants me to wash your truck, too.”

  “No need for that, Nik. If you wash the Datsun, her paint might peel off. She’s one rinse from completely rusting out.”

  Nik gave me a half-smile and stepped to get around me. I stopped him with a hand to his arm. “Listen Nik, if I talk too fast, let me know. I’d hate for you to think I was being rude.”

  “You are not talking fast. You just talk much.” Nik’s grin broke wide.

  “So I’ve heard,” I dropped my hand from his arm and grinned back. “I’ll see you later.”

  Nik gave me a nod and continued toward the foyer.

  I returned to Rupert’s office. He had finished his phone call and paced before the Christmas tree.

  “Where have you been, darling?” he asked. “I have some free time now. Let’s begin.”

  “I’m going to start with some quick sketches,” I said, hurrying to the Christmas tree. “I’ll work at my easel. Feel free to talk and try different positions. Would you like to be seated or standing?”

  Rupert turned to examine the Christmas tree. “Sitting will be more comfortable, but I will have better lines if I stand. Don’t you agree? And sitting might appear aggrandizing. Like I’m a king on a throne.”

  I looked up at him from my squat before my tackle box. Rupert put a lot more thought into posing than anyone I ever met. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me. We can try both and you can look at my sketches before you decide.”

  He strode to his desk and picked up his phone. “Miss David? Can you get the full length mirror from my dressing room and bring it in here?”

  This was probably why Miss David hated me. My appearance caused her more work. A butler’s job is never done.

  Grabbing a good piece of charcoal and my sketch pad, I placed both on my easel and set to work sketching Rupert as he fretted about his pose. I concentrated on getting his relative proportions before worrying about detail and composition. The head is amazingly symmetrical. P
upils are your center. You can actually draw a line from pupil to pupil and use that line to make a perfect square to help find the lines for the mouth and nose.

  I find that aspect of the human face amazing. And I don’t even like geometry.

  Once you understand the shape of a face, drawing becomes much simpler. However, everyone but super models have quirks to their symmetry. Those small faults had to be noted, too, without drawing too much attention to them. People with a crooked nose don’t want to see a crooked nose in their portrait. But the painting still has to honestly reflect their face. Tricky.

  As I told Miss David, in order for a portrait to look realistic, it needs the personality of the sitter. Portraits are all about nuance, not geometry. A tilt to the head, an uplift at the corner of the mouth, or a slant in an eye’s gaze makes all the difference. Otherwise you end up with a robot face.

  Or a paint by number project by Shawna Branson.

  Miss David returned with the mirror. We set it up next to my easel so Rupert could pose himself as Father Businessman Christmas or whatever look he was going for. He tried standing, leaning, and sitting, then settled on standing.

  “So how long has Miss David worked for you?” I waited to ask that question until she had left the room. The less Miss David talked, the more I wanted to know.

  “A few years,” he picked a piece of lint off his suit jacket. “Do you think I should wear a black or blue suit?”

  “Blue. It’ll pull out some of the colors from the tree decorations and work better with the undertones in your skin.”

  I flipped a page in my sketchbook and worked on a close up of his small, bushy mustache. It would not do to have him looking like Hitler.

  “So what did Maksim say when you told him I hired you?” asked Rupert. He smiled at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie.

  “Mr. Max?” I looked up from my mustache. “I forgot to tell him, actually.”

  “You must tell him, my dear,” Rupert shook a finger at me. His eyes twinkled. “And be sure to report the look on his face. It will make me laugh, I know.”

  I began working on a set of Rupert’s eyes, trying to capture the “I bested Max Avtaikin” twinkle. That look was pure gold. And Rupert liked gold. “Yes, sir. How long have you known Mr. Max?”

  “A long time.” Rupert’s gaze drifted to his gold and brass coffered ceiling. “I helped him immigrate. Did you know his mother was an artist?”

  “He told me that once,” I said, eager to learn more about the Bear. “Didn’t she go to art school before she got married?”

  “She was very talented. It’s a shame she didn’t amount to much.”

  “Max turned out pretty well. His mother must be proud of him.”

  “She died long ago.” Rupert paused, then shrugged. “Didn’t see Maksim amount to anything more than a gangster.”

  I bit my lip. “I am sorry to hear that. Must have been hard on him.”

  “Maksim is a hard man.” Rupert glanced back to the mirror and slicked down a stray hair. “Before she died, I believe he was involved in some kind of crime organization. Luckily, he eluded the law, otherwise he would still be back home. No immigration for convicts. Legally, anyway.”

  “Really?” I set my charcoal down. “Tell me more.”

  “I would think Maks would have told you these stories,” said Rupert.

  “Max is really good at avoiding reports on anything he doesn’t want me to know.”

  Particularly anything personal or illegal, I thought. Next to the mustache and eye sketch, I drew a bear. A bear with expensive cologne, giant pecs, and a small scar above his eyebrow. A bear who knew maneuvers.

  It had been a long while since I had experienced maneuvers, I thought. My old maneuvers were embarrassed to be seen with me or busy telling me I’m overdramatic. My other old maneuvers had tried to trick me into thinking they were someone they were not.

  Of course, Rupert’s stories weren’t doing much to win me over to the side of new maneuvers. And I had to remind myself I had never trusted Max, with or without interesting maneuvers.

  I realized I had missed part of our conversation during my bear sketch. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Maksim Avtaikin is a difficult man to read. What do you think?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and flipped the page on my sketch book to hide my little bear. “Real difficult.”

  “He only has one of your paintings. But you have spent some time with him. He hasn’t commissioned you for a portrait yet?”

  “Max’s mentioned it, but we never talked about it officially. However, he’s helping me out with a show in Halo.”

  “A show? He’s commissioning a show?” Rupert’s mustache made a peevish dance above his lip.

  “Not commissioning. I’m sure he’ll take a hefty cut of anything that sells. But more than likely nothing will. There’s a,” I could not call Shawna an artist, “gallery owner who thinks the Greek Todds are immoral. Or at least she’d like the town to think they are.”

  “Immoral?” Rupert started a laughing attack that allowed me to capture his likeness in charcoal. Bent over. Wheezing. Tears.

  I flipped to a clean sheet. I was saving that to show him later.

  “How could you consider those paintings immoral?” Rupert wiped an eye. “Is that what your mother hinted at earlier? Will it increase their value if the public thinks they are immoral?”

  “Pearl is not my mother,” I shuddered. “It won’t increase the value in the public she was speaking of. They don’t spend much on art.”

  “But the paintings are representative of classical antiquity works.”

  “Doesn’t matter to Forks County.”

  “You need to have these paintings in your show. So this town can see their beauty.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea anymore. Forks County is seeing that beauty all over town. Shawna Branson has posters of the paintings hung all over the place. Embellished with a Sharpie.”

  Rupert tapped his lips. “I want to be involved in this show.”

  “We could use any sketches I do of you,” I said. “I could use colored pencil. Forks County would like the Christmas tree.”

  “Brilliant,” Rupert clapped his hands together. “I must come to this show. Have you changed your mind about staying at my house? You can work on more sketches for this show while you stay here.”

  “No,” I said. “In fact, I’m trying to get a graveyard shift at our local SipNZip.”

  “Darling,” Rupert laughed. “You are a wonder. The graveyard shift at the SipNZip.” His body shook as he tried to contain his mirth.

  Not that I didn’t love a good compliment, but I couldn’t figure out why I was wonderful for wanting the late night shift at the SipNZip. Unless it was one of those jabs at country folks soaked in irony so we wouldn’t know city people were making fun of us. I gave him a good redneck glare just in case.

  “Have you told Maks you plan to work at the SipNZip?” asked Rupert.

  “No, and I’d appreciate you not mentioning it to him.”

  “Well, well. This is interesting. I think you’ve sketched enough for today. I have work to do. You may go home. We’ll keep the SipNZip our little secret,” Rupert giggled. “But don’t forget to tell Maks about our portrait commission.”

  Rupert was making fun of me. Therefore, I might not tell Max diddly. And I didn’t like the idea of Rupert crashing in on our show. Or Rupert and his entourage coming to Halo again. That was all I needed. More fodder for gossip. A chauffeured car was one thing. Rich people looking down their noses was another.

  I needed to find those pictures fast. Not just to save my reputation. Now I needed a preemptive strike against a Max and Rupert showdown in Halo.

  Twenty-Two

  I left my easel and other supplies, but packed the sketchbook in my satchel. Rupert would go through the sketches, of that I was fairly sure, and I didn’t want him seeing my bear next to his mustache. Although he’d most likely
find it a riot.

  In the hallway, I sought out Miss David. She carried a tray with a glass teapot and dainty mugs of etched glass set inside gold filigree stands. I jogged to catch up and then walked back toward the office with her.

  “We’re done for the day,” I told her, careful to annunciate my words.

  “Goodbye,” she said and juggled the tray to free a hand to enter the office.

  I grabbed the doorknob for her, but didn’t open the door. “Let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you know Maksim Avtaikin?”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a,” I hesitated. What was Max to me? Business associate? Friendly adversary? Friendly adversary with benefits? I stopped on that thought, annoyed with myself. My rebound symptoms were out of control. “He’s a friend. Rupert seems to have a competitive relationship with him. I get the feeling this portrait is all about showing Max up.”

  “What is it to you?” She laid her tray of tea things on the Chippendale table. “Are you in a position to care about the reasons why someone wants to buy your paintings?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “However, I feel like I’m in an odd spot. A bit stuck between the two men.”

  “I’d unstick and get your job done. You have a contract for a portrait and you’re getting paid extremely well. Let the men work their issues out without your interference.”

  “Good point.” I cocked my head, fascinated by Miss David. “How do you know Mr. Max?”

  Her delicate nose flared. “I work for Mr. Agadzinoff. Maksim Avtaikin was a client. I’m familiar with all the clients.”

  “Why is Rupert so interested in besting Max? Rupert’s rich and successful. I wouldn’t think Max would be a threat to his manhood.”

  “Men,” Miss David snorted. “Everything is the pissing contest with them.”

  “True. Sometimes I wonder if Luke and Todd are really interested in me or only trying to settle some old high school score. I’m like a ten point buck. They both want the kill, but in the end I’m the one mounted on the wall with the glassy eyes. While they’re cleaning their guns, getting ready for the next deer season.”