The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5)

by Larissa Reinhart

  “I just can’t shake this odd feeling I have.”

  Holt’s voice softened. “You saw something very disturbing today, it’s understandable.”

  “It’s not just that—” I stopped, knowing feelings didn’t count as facts, particularly with police. “Has the coroner seen Abel Spencer yet? I just thought if your coroner is like ours, it’s not like they have a lot of bodies to examine. Did they give a cause of death?”

  “Blunt force trauma. His head struck the rocks in the creek when he fell.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “If you know procedure so well, you’ll know it takes much longer for the BAC report to come back,” she snapped.

  “Sorry. Everyone thinks Abel took a drunken spill. I just wondered if they were right.”

  “Not everyone thinks that.”

  “What do you mean?” I tried to control the excitement in my voice. “Do you think differently? You know I didn’t smell alcohol on him.”

  She pulled in a breath. “I think we’ve talked enough. Tell Mike one of us will come out to check on that cake.”

  Her hang-up came before any goodbyes could be said, but I was too stunned to care.

  Sweet drippings of bacon, I had a suspicion that Rookie Holt had a suspicion that Abel’s death was suspicious.

  But were we alone in our suspicions?

  Back in my room, I nibbled on peanut butter crackers and Coke, my thoughts hopping between bloody cakes, dead bodies, and troubles at home.

  In the next room, a TV kicked on, blaring the local six o’clock news loud enough for me to hear the weather report. I grabbed my own remote, slid back on the bed, and caught the three-day forecast for clouds, rain, and storms.

  “Those poor dogs.” I wondered how quickly the police would find Abel’s pack dry and loving homes.

  The weather forecast reminded me of my soaked art supplies. The police had returned my easel, tackle, and watercolors. I had left the easel to dry in the bathtub but left the waterlogged pad and paintings on the desk. A smear of blue among the greens and browns caught my eye. Lifting the paper, I realized I had painted Abel’s hat without knowing what it was. Just a daub of royal blue.

  Lucky I chose that spot in the forest to paint, I thought, or no one would have found Abel’s body before the hunt.

  Not that anyone would expect a visitor from the contest to park herself in a glen to do a bit of landscape painting. The area I had chosen wasn’t in the reserve across the road, but in the forested area ringing the lodge and its farm fields proper. Unlike Goldilocks, I hadn’t wandered far. Followed a path of cleared trees until I reached a spot I liked, not knowing fifty yards farther, the clearing dropped into a shallow ravine.

  Maybe too lucky.

  I walked the curling paper to the bathroom trash and returned to grab my phone from the rustic nightstand. I flipped it open.

  Behind me, the newscaster announced breaking news on Big Rack Lodge. I spun around to watch. An aerial view showed footage of the lodge grounds, then panned out to show the surrounding woods and farmland. Tiny cows ambled in a field and the metal blades of a windmill caught the sun, obscuring the camera’s lens for a moment.

  Old footage, I mused, since I hadn’t seen the sun since arriving at Big Rack.

  The angle tilted, then steadied on the spot in the woods where I had found Abel’s body. The announcer described the tragedy that had temporarily suspended the big hunting contest. The view of the woods shrank a bit until it showed the triangulation between my landscape spot near the ravine, a small homestead of trailers, and the lodge cottages. Almost ninety-degree angles between the three places.

  “One of those trailers,” the reporter announced, “was the last known place the deceased, Abel Spencer, had been seen before his death.”

  I jumped as I saw myself leaving the Swinton police station, outed as the lodge guest who had found the body. More faces flitted across the screen. The Sparks, then LaToya with a brief description of her Junior Olympian status. Finally, several photos of Bob Bass were shown. Bob playing at a concert. Bob posing with his gun and guitar. Bob and a dead moose. Bob and Peach Payne. But no Max. And no Rick.

  How did the Bear manage to get his name out of the local news? I pondered that detail but became distracted by a blurry night-vision video of a humongous creature nosing through a field. The massive hulking form, stark black against the white field, paused from eating the corn it had tromped and mangled. Twisting to face the camera, his small, piggy eyes glowed with an almost human malevolence. With an eerie abruptness, the giant pig disappeared, galloping out of the camera’s range.

  I shuddered, glad I had skipped the pork rinds.

  The short news story had no mention of the police calling Abel Spencer’s death suspicious. Only a sad fate. I sank onto the bed, tapping my phone against my knee, perturbed with the news story. Not just perturbed. Distressed.

  The contest didn’t bother me. I had grown up with hunters. Rational, responsible men and women with a strong moral code. Not the type who were sent hostile baked goods.

  However, Abel Spencer’s death troubled me. I thought his death also troubled Rookie Holt. But according to the news, no one else seemed troubled. Was the investigation of his death suppressed from the news or was there no investigation?

  I didn’t think Rookie Holt would speak to me again unless I had something worth talking about. However, there was another deputy who might have some ideas.

  “Hell.” I glared at my phone. “I’m looking for more excuses to call. And I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

  Our last hookup, just before my brother’s arrest, had started as a professional consultation too. But we both knew Luke’s investigative advice had been an excuse to see each other.

  Commercial break over, the news turned to security footage of a fight between two wiry meemaws over the season’s favored Christmas toy at the local Walmart. I cut off the TV, opened my sketchpad, and drew a cell phone.

  Broken hearts flew from the receiver.

  Dropping my pencil, I flipped open my phone. And pushed the number five. By accident. Sort of.

  Nine

  “I wondered how long you could hold out,” drawled the baritone that answered. “Where are you?”

  “Big Rack Lodge,” I said, picturing the man on the other end of the line. Dusky brown curls, gray eyes, and dimples. I sketched his lean, tall physique in the pose of the Ancient Greek Lysippos’s bronze Athlete statue. One hand of the runner reached toward his curls where I sketched in a phone instead of a laurel wreath. The other dangled naturally in mid-stride, just as Luke was most likely pacing to a place of privacy.

  “So,” I continued, “I found a dead body today.”

  “You sure know how to throw cold water on a guy,” said Luke. “It’s been a long time since I’ve even caught a glimpse of you, let alone heard from you.”

  “Two weeks,” I said. “I had pizza for Thanksgiving.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thanksgiving was a bit tense here too.”

  “I’m sure it was hard for your family to nibble turkey while discussing how best to keep my brother incarcerated.”

  The silence on the other side reminded me how chilly the night had grown.

  “Sorry. Still a touchy subject in my family.” I rolled the pencil between my fingers. “Anyway, I was painting in the woods and found an older man who had fallen into a stream and hit his head. A local ne’er-do-well.”

  “How far was the fall?” asked Luke.

  “About six feet, I’d say. Face up.” I shivered.

  “Fell backward? I’m sorry you had to see that, sugar. I guess you’ve been busy with the local police?”

  “They deemed it an accident. Although my rookie deputy may think otherwise.”

  “Your rookie?” I could almost hear Luke’s eyes narrow. “What’s
his name?”

  “Deborah. I might have found my match in the not-good-at-keeping-your-mouth-shut department.”

  The tension in his voice eased. “What’d you do? Go out for a beer after your witness statement and got her to spill her suspicious death hunches?”

  “Not even. I don’t think she likes me. And she doesn’t want to tell me her hunches. My hunch is they don’t match her superior’s. Around here, Abel Spencer is known as a sneaky gossip and drunk with no friends. I met an Abel Spencer the night before he died who was nosy, but not drunk. And he raised the sweetest dogs, Luke.”

  “You met the victim the night he died? Are you the last known witness?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “The TV news said he was at a nearby trailer. And I can’t get a whole lot of information from Rookie Holt except when she slips.”

  “No wonder she doesn’t trust you.”

  “Hey now. It’s not like I’m a suspect. But I wonder if she does have a suspect? She sure doesn’t like the local contestant in this hunt.”

  “You’re probably reading more into it than necessary. You do have an imagination.”

  We mulled that fact for a long moment.

  Luke’s voice dropped. “How’s things with your family?”

  I thought about what Casey would say if she knew I was talking to the arrester of our brother.

  “No change on that front,” I said. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  He sighed, then brightened. “You got space in that hotel room for one more? I could swap shifts and steal down to Big Rack on Saturday. No one would know...”

  I drew a gigantic exclamation point. “That’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? Todd is here, and of course, Max Avtaikin.”

  “What’s Todd McIntosh doing at this hunt?”

  “Todd’s assisting Max,” I said, drawing a tree on my pad. A heart appeared on the tree. I stopped before adding initials inside the heart. At this juncture, nothing seemed safe. “I’m worried Max is going to reinjure his bum knee cavorting around the woods. Of course, he doesn’t listen to me.”

  Luke snorted. “Avtaikin’s a grown man and an excellent hunter. But won’t they be busy with the hunt? I could stay hidden in your room. We could order room service. I’d only let you out to paint.”

  To center my libido, I drew a tiny image of my brother behind bars. “You don’t want room service here. Food’s terrible. Besides, Bob Bass is insisting I accompany the hunters, hoping I can capture the image of fresh blood dripping from his trophy before it stinks to high heaven. Which means I’ll be camping with the crew in the bunkhouse overnight.”

  “Better hope the bunkhouse is bigger than a deer stand.”

  “Judging by the fineries at the lodge, I’m sure we’ll have hot water at least. But I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Jacuzzi.”

  “Nice.” Luke paused. “I miss you, sugar. Can’t stop thinking of you.”

  My heart throbbed. I snatched at saner thoughts. “Somebody sent a cake that looked like a decomposing pig to the party tonight. The hunters think it’s from an anti-hunting fanatic.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Actually it was pretty disgusting.”

  “As our talks are few and far between, I hoped to keep death and disgusting cakes to a minimum.” Luke’s tone lightened. “How about I tell you about my day?”

  “No death or cake?”

  In the next room, someone had lowered the volume of their television. A phone trilled. At the booming “What’s up?” I found myself third party to that conversation.

  Then realized eavesdropping could go both ways.

  I prayed his TV had drowned out my earlier conversation, squeezed my eyes shut, and focused on Luke.

  “Five traffic stops and one with a pot bust,” continued Luke. “Between them, I was thinking about you. How I’d like to take you out and then take you home. Want more?”

  My eyes popped open.

  “I don’t care what you have to do...” My lodge neighbor must have been pacing, because the voice faded, then grew louder as he approached my wall.

  “Okay,” I whispered, securing the phone more tightly to my ear. “Where did you want to take me and what did we eat?”

  I glanced at my sketchpad. I had drawn a deer wearing a hunting jacket, phone raised to his muzzle. This was the problem with accidental eavesdropping. Instead of sketching Luke, my artist subconscious had chosen my loud neighbor as a subject.

  “...how do you think? Distract him,” said my neighbor.

  I added a mustache. And erased the mustache. My neighbor didn’t sound mustache-y. Although he did sound youngish. I replaced the mustache with a hipster beard.

  “What do you mean, what did we eat? Always thinking about food.” Luke chuckled. “Wouldn’t you rather hear what I’d do after I took you home?” I could hear his smile stretch until the dimples broke to frame his grin.

  I jumped at the sound of a loud bump. No-Mustache had dropped or kicked something. On my sketchpad, the deer kicked off his field boot.

  “Sure, tell me,” I said, refocusing on Luke. I forced my hand to draw hearts and cupids. “What’d we do when you took me home?”

  “First, I’d peel off that denim jacket you love to wear. And you’d kick off those old cowboy boots.”

  “Getting comfortable. Sounds good.”

  No-Mustache’s voice oozed with condescension. “You know how. And don’t tell me you don’t like the benefits...” His voice trailed off as he began to pace again.

  My deer now stood with his hooves on his hips, bearded chin raised. Below him, a bunny with drooping whiskers stared at the ground. I drew in a limp carrot.

  “Let’s see, you’re still wearing that skirt I like.” Luke’s voice deepened and dropped to a caress. “What should we do about that?”

  I scribbled out the limp carrot. “Um, how about your jacket and boots?”

  “You want me to take anything else off?”

  “...is good,” said No-Mustache. His voice grew louder. “But I’d rather see him dead.”

  “Dead?” I exclaimed. Then realized No-Mustache could hear me.

  And so could Luke.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Sugar? You okay?”

  In the next room, a door slammed.

  “Fine, fine.” I dropped my sketchpad, ran to my door, and cracked the door to peer into the hall. “Where’d he go?”

  “Where’d who go?” said Luke.

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. Curiosity was one thing. Admitting to spying on your neighbor while your sort-of-boyfriend-but-not-really thought you were concentrating on nekkid fantasies was a whole other deal.

  “You’re breathing hard. And not in a good way.” Luke’s voice switched from sizzle to snap. “What are you doing, Cherry?”

  I swapped my attention back to the phone. “Nothing. Where were we? Do you still have on your imaginary pants?”

  “Are you even in your room?”

  “Of course I’m in my room.”

  “Then why are you asking yourself about where some guy went?”

  Dangit.

  “That was nothing. The TV.” I glanced at my dark TV. “In the next room. The walls are paper thin at this place.”

  A young man in a knit beanie and skinny sweats stepped through an open door at the end of the hall. He balanced an ice bucket under one arm while he checked for his room key in his pocket.

  I shut my door before he caught sight of me. “Soul patch,” I whispered. “Not a beard. But definitely no mustache.”

  “I don’t have a beard. Or a soul patch,” said Luke. “Are you spying on your neighbor?”

  “Possibly.” I rolled my eyes at my own idiocy. “I’d say I couldn’t help it because he was loud and saying crazy stuff, so I wanted to see the face that matched the
voice. But I know that’s not a good reason.”

  “What’s a good reason?”

  “That we shouldn’t be talking like this, so I’m distracting myself. Just like I’m distracting myself with Abel’s death so I don’t have to think about what’s going on at home.”

  “Sugar—”

  “You don’t have to say it. I shouldn’t have called in the first place. I don’t want to lead you on.”

  “Lead me on? Darlin’—”

  “I’ll just say goodbye now.”

  “Cherry—”

  I hung up before I said something stupid.

  More stupid.

  Like, “I may love you but our families will never give us their blessing, so what’s the point of nekkid fantasies when we’re never going to live the real thing?”

  Ten

  As it turned out, I was not as put off from eating as previously thought. Crackers and Coke weren’t nourishment enough for my hummingbird metabolism, nor were they comfort enough for my broken heart. On my search for sustenance, I bumped into the lodge’s twenty-four hour security patrol: a Red Bull-swigger named Ty, who manned a diesel-powered golf cart. My stomach’s violent growl had reminded Ty of his favorite stock car. After recovering from his shock, he regaled me with a story of similar engine noise he had experienced at his last NASCAR weekend. Then learned he spoke to the gal who had found Abel’s fallen body.

  “I’d say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. Abel was looking for an accident in some ways.” Ty blushed. “That’s an ugly thing to say about someone who just passed, pardon me. Where’d that come from?”

  “I have that problem all the time. Somehow my mouth got wired to my subconscious.” I wondered if Ty’s subconscious matched the unsaid suspicions of Rookie Holt’s. “That sounded like Abel’s accident was deliberate. Like someone had it in for him?”

  “No, I don’t know why I said that.” Ty sipped from his Red Bull can, considering. “Abel did like stirring pots, though. You had to watch what you said around him. If you spoke out of turn about someone and Abel happened to overhear, they’d sure learn what you said quick enough. Most folks ignored him, but Abel seemed to enjoy tattling whenever he could. Real spiteful. He probably caused enough divorces and broken friendships ’round here anyway.”