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

by Larissa Reinhart

  “Why do folks love getting up in other people’s business?” I said, thinking of my nemesis Shawna Branson, the darling of Forks County who had caused my brother’s unfortunate incarceration. Shawna’d had it in for me since the Forks County Courthouse’s live nativity when, as one of the Christmas angels, I had stood too close to a mini heater and caught my wing on fire. My dance through the stable accidentally knocked over the manger, exposing Mary secretly holding hands with the donkey and not Joseph. Joseph (Wade Boiken) broke up with Mary (Shawna) and Shawna had hated me ever since.

  Shawna had a similar quality for spreading gossip just for the enjoyment of getting others in trouble. I felt saddened by this new information about Abel Spencer. He hadn’t struck me as Shawna-like when I met him. Other than he loved animals and she loved to wear animal prints.

  “You’d think they’d recognize the pain caused by rumors. You’d think they’d feel ashamed.”

  Ty nodded.

  “Besides, Wade Boiken, that idiot, ended up taking Shawna to prom five years later anyway.”

  Ty had no answer for that.

  I returned to the original subject, internally cussing myself for opening that damn mental box. “If he was so disliked, how did Abel learn the local scandals? I’d think everyone would avoid him.”

  “He was pretty sly. He mostly did his spying at the Double Wide.” Ty smiled at the name. “The liquor makes folks forget to shut their mouths.”

  “Where’s this Double Wide? And do they serve real food?”

  Todd and Max had returned to their cottage, but I called to see if they would join me for a drink at the Double Wide. A bar where liquor-loosened tongues seemed like a good place to appease my hunger and revive my downtrodden spirits. And hopefully, quench my curiosity about the mysterious Abel Spencer. Max had planned on spending the evening cleaning his guns, but, as usual, Todd had been amenable for greater amusement. He offered to meet me in their golf cart, the vehicle by which the cottage dwellers traveled around the large bass pond to the main lodge grounds.

  Outside in my puffy coat, I admired the Christmas lights reflecting off the pond before turning to watch for Todd’s golf cart. A long, low building that looked like a giant chicken coop blocked my view of the dirt drive that led around the pond to the cottages. Decorative lighting shone on the quaint structure, obscuring the inhabitants. It was too far for me to see clearly, but a bird much larger than a chicken strutted along the pen adjoined to the coop. Which made me think of Thanksgiving turkey, the particular fowl I had missed this year.

  Had Abel Spencer shared his Thanksgiving dinner with people or just his dogs? Was he only friendly to Swinton outsiders, like me, or had I mistaken the sweet affection with his dog for a general amiability? He had wanted to know about my participation in the hunt and whatever information I had about the contest. I thought he had just been curious. Was there a more malicious intent to his questions that I didn’t notice?

  A strange scream, high-pitched and piercing, rang out from the giant chicken coop. My hands flew over my mouth as I stifled a scream of my own.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered. The screech still rang in my ears and sent tiny aftershocks buzzing through my nerves. “Why is every little thing giving me the jitters today?”

  Cherry Tucker did not get the jitters. And to prove it, I jogged up the path to check out the odd building. Twenty yards from the coop, I halted. “What in the hell?”

  A heavyset man crept around the edge of the building. A camouflage balaclava covered his face, except for the pair of glasses balanced precariously on his camo nose. Matching coveralls stretched over his full stomach.

  As the building was painted Scarlet Lake and spotlighted, his Army Surplus camo did not blend but gave the appearance of skulking vegetation. Vegetation that had just digested an extra-large beach ball.

  “Hey,” I called. “What are you doing?”

  Balaclava Beach Ball froze against the building, but the protruding belly blocked his ability to flatten himself. He stretched his arms and clung to the walls with his fingertips.

  “I can see you,” I said. “Are you a guest of the lodge?”

  He ran with the eagerness of a bat released from hell, but without the necessary wingspan to lift his weight productively.

  As he took off, another shriek pierced the night.

  Eleven

  Like Balaclava Beach Ball, I ran surprisingly slow. Which is really not so surprising, considering my runty size.

  The pen was now empty, but another high-pitched scream resonated from inside. I followed the path around the corner and found the far side of the building dark but covered in a fine mesh screen.

  Yanking my phone from my pocket, I pressed the lit screen against the mesh. More shrill cries rang out. Inside, turquoise and brilliant blue fans brandished and cascaded.

  “I’ll be damned. Peacocks.”

  A large “Keep Out” sign made me wonder if Balaclava Beach Ball had planned to disobey orders. I scanned the pen door and walls for breaking and entering. The padlocked door remained fixed. Curiously though, a section of wooden slats had been replaced and one of the posts had been splinted with two-by-fours. Something had cracked the thick beam. Recently. A can of red paint sat next to the beam, waiting for someone to finish the job.

  “What was up with that guy?” I asked the birds. “Just some weirdo playing GI Joe? Or a man with an unnatural love for peacocks?”

  A shadowy peacock shape stopped in mid-strut and paraded to the mesh to stare at me.

  “I hope the owners aren’t raising y’all for some fancy meal. I’d be worried after seeing the gourmet stuff coming out of that kitchen. Can you even eat peacock?”

  The male peacocks screeched a decibel short of permanent eardrum damage. I took it as a no.

  “Why is everything at this lodge so strange? Or am I just seeing strange because my life is a mess?”

  As the peacocks had no answer to that, I turned toward the path. A few minutes later, the whir of a battery-powered motor and the churn of tires on damp clay told me Todd approached.

  He stomped the brake on the golf cart, slamming to a stop and flinging mud. “Hey, Cherry. Hop on.”

  I eyed the cart, caked in more mud than a redneck tailgate party, and turned my attention to the bulky blond driving. “Did you see a fluffy GI Joe running through the trees? I just caught some guy decked in head-to-toe camo about to do who-knows-what to these peacocks.”

  “Aren’t those peacocks something? They scream every time I drive by. About scared the life out of me the first time.” Todd turned to glance back at their pen. “I didn’t see anybody. Who do you think he was?”

  “No clue. But he ran when I confronted him.” I climbed into the golf cart. “I tell you what, Todd. This relaxing weekend has turned into some kind of sideshow act. I am looking forward to spending a little time away from this fancy lodge at a real bar.”

  “Bars suit you better,” agreed Todd.

  “However, a trailer bar might not get me far from the sideshow act.”

  “Trailer bar?”

  I’d had a similar reaction.

  According to Ty, the Double Wide was located on the land next door to Big Rack Lodge. “Can’t miss it,” Ty had said between swigs of Red Bull. “The neighbor, Guterson, has that little trailer town you passed just before reaching Big Rack’s property. The Gutersons wouldn’t sell, even when the Woodcocks bought the land around them.”

  “Right,” I had said. “Seemed out of place. A few trailer homes on that narrow strip of land.”

  “One’s a bar. The Double Wide.”

  “A trailer bar?”

  I figured a trailer bar would be easy enough to spot, and as the Gutersons’ property wasn’t far, Todd and I took the golf cart. Outside the lodge, the dark forest loomed on either side of the road, increasing the shive
r factor in both temperature and setting. My eyes swept the dark for wild-eyed hogs and rotund men. Rain began to spit, dotting the plastic windshield and dampening the seats. I burrowed deeper into my insulated coat and wondered if outlining camo vines in puff paint had diminished the waterproof factor.

  “I hoped we could talk. At the lodge, it seems we never get a chance.” Todd squinted at the road, barely lit by the headlights.

  “I know what you mean. Either we can’t hear ourselves think with all the hunters’ boasting or there’s something crazy happening.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Like that cake and then this odd peacock fellow. Plus my hipster lodge neighbor’s ranting carried through my walls. He’s wanting to kill someone. Not that I don’t take that particular phrase as a figure of speech, but those words tend to stick in your craw when you’ve found a body earlier in the day.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “You know, I really get the feeling that Rookie Holt thinks something happened to Abel Spencer. Not sure what she’s suspecting, just that he didn’t drunkenly fall into that ditch. I hope the Double Wide folks or their patrons can help me. The news said he was last seen there before his death. At least I’ll find out if he had gone three sheets between meeting me and his untimely demise. That’d settle some of my nerves.”

  “That’s why we’re going to a trailer bar?” Todd began tapping a jerky rhythm against the steering wheel. “Are you sure you’re not trying to make an accident into something worse? To give yourself something else to think about?”

  “Possibly.” I unfolded my arms, then folded them again to regain my escaped body heat. “But maybe I can help Rookie Holt. I’m sure if I learn something at this bar, she’d be mighty happy to hear about it.” I wanted to make a better impression with Rookie Holt. I hoped to get her to warm to me.

  Or at least thaw her a little.

  The look Todd gave me reminded me of Abel’s coonhound.

  Embarrassed, I looked away.

  Murky light broke on our path as we passed a bend in the road. “Almost there,” I said, looking for a change in subject.

  The trees fell away for a collection of ramshackle trailers and sheds. The diffused glow of a telephone pole’s security light illuminated several trailer homes surrounded by rusted-out vehicles in various stages of decrepitude.

  Behind and inside the homes, dogs snarled and barked. Two pickups, a golf cart, and one tractor had been parked before a single weather-beaten trailer. A large sign made from plywood had been nailed to the building.

  The Christmas lights poking through the sign’s holes told us the Double Wide was open. I wasn’t sure if it was meant as a greeting or warning.

  If it weren’t for the crazy delicious smell of hot oil and batter emanating from that trailer, I would have run back to the lodge, abandoning Abel’s demise to the official police report.

  “I’ve seen worse,” I said, trying to stay positive.

  “I’ve played poker in worse,” said Todd, parking beside the tractor. “In fact, it looks like this bust-out joint I once visited.”

  I nodded, my concentration focused on a search for unchained dogs. The barking here had a fierceness I had not heard at Abel’s.

  “I wonder what they’re frying,” said Todd. “It smells like heaven. Like funnel cake?”

  My stomach cried in anguish. “Let’s not get my hopes up. I’d take a cold hushpuppy at this point.”

  We mounted the cinderblock steps of the Double Wide and opened the door once painted white. Inside, we stood on a welcome mat missing most of its letters.

  Three barstools rested before a kitchen counter turned bar.

  A beaded curtain separated the back hall from a living room fitted with two picnic tables and a decrepit couch.

  A vintage Blow Mold Santa lit one corner. With his off-center eyes and red cheeks, he looked as tipsy as the customers sitting at the picnic tables.

  I recognized one woman as the lodge housekeeper. She was deep in conversation with a gentleman in sleeveless flannel with matching beard and ponytail braids. I left them to their date and pointed Todd toward the empty barstools.

  Behind the kitchen counter, two women alternately handed out mugs of beer and poured a clear liquid from a glass tea pitcher. A generation separated the women, but both wore self-dyed roots, frown lines, and a hard set to their eyes. They studied us peripherally while hurriedly rearranging items below the counter.

  Hiding the illegal stuff, I gathered. But I didn’t need to make that my problem, so I kept my gaze elsewhere.

  “You here to drink?” asked the older woman.

  “And eat, if you’re still serving.”

  Todd slid onto the stool next to me. “Two beers, ma’am.”

  The woman nodded, but jerked her chin toward the tapper in the back corner. A hole had been cut out of the counter for the nozzle. “We’ve only got one kind.”

  “That’s fine. And we’ll take whatever I smell in your fryer.” I arched my neck, searching the tiny kitchen for a deep fryer. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Desiree Guterson. My daughter-in-law, Sheri, made up a batch of okra tonight. And I’ve got wild turkey patties and deer sausage.”

  Sheri tipped a plastic cup beneath the keg spout. She placed the beers on the yellowing Formica counter. “Two bucks each.”

  While Todd fished out a five, I leaned my elbows on the sticky counter. “We’ll take the okra and turkey too.”

  Sheri grabbed a tray from the fridge and disappeared through the back door.

  “You got a kitchen elsewhere?” I asked.

  “We keep the turkey fryer on the back porch.” Desiree’s thin lips quivered. “Safety, you know.”

  “Of course.” I left off my wonderment about the health inspector’s feelings about porch turkey fryers. At least I was finally getting some turkey.

  Todd leaned into me and placed his lips next to my ear. “You sure about the turkey?”

  “Seemed safer than the sausage,” I muttered, then turned back to Desiree. “I heard about your recent troubles. Sorry about the passing of Mr. Abel. Actually, I’m the one who found him. Met his dogs too. They nearly broke my heart with their grieving.”

  Desiree clucked her tongue and folded her arms. “Real shame. He didn’t even have his usual. Poor guy.”

  “Usual?”

  “Home brew. You want to try some?” Beneath the counter, Desiree drew out the glass pitcher.

  Todd poked me in the ribs, but I ignored his worry. “Sure, why not?”

  Desiree set two new cups on the counter and poured a tablespoon in each. “That’s free. You want more, I charge five a cup.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Todd, accepting his cup. He sniffed and jerked his head back. “I think I’ll stick to the beer.”

  I took a careful sip and felt the slow burn start at my lips and travel over my tongue, down my throat, and into my stomach. I tried to cover my cough and reached for the beer cup to put out the flames.

  Desiree barked a laugh. “Can’t handle your liquor, hon?”

  “Not when it’s jet fuel,” I panted. “This was Abel’s drink of choice?”

  “Usually. That’s why most show up. Not for the fryer.”

  Todd and I exchanged a wary glance.

  In the back of the room, a shout preceded a boisterous scuffling. Desiree stomped to the back of the room and hollered a string of curses, ending in a mangled Bible verse.

  “If Abel didn’t have his usual and I didn’t smell anything on him, there goes the town’s theory of him falling drunk into a ditch. I’m going to see what else I can learn about his last visit.”

  “At least you’re cleared as a suspect,” said Todd.

  I lowered my voice. “Witness, Todd. Witnesses are not suspects. Usually.”

  The picnic t
able argument quieted and Desiree returned. “So how’s the big hunt? Are the police going to make them cancel?”

  “The hunt’s still on. The location of Abel’s fall wasn’t in the preserve anyway.”

  “Bet the Woodcocks loved the news about Abel.” Her snarky tone struck one of my already shortened nerves.

  “I’m sure the owners are upset a local man died.”

  “Pissed at a dead man for ruining their big event, you mean.” Desiree pursed her lips. “I hope it puts those Atlanta snobs out of business. Stealing folks’ land and keeping honest people from hunting in spots where they’ve always hunted. The Woodcocks probably fixed things with the police to quiet it all down. They sure wouldn’t want it in the news.”

  Before I could remark on that interesting tidbit, the back door banged open. A heavily bearded and tattooed man held the door for Sheri, then folded his arms to stand sentry. She stepped into the small kitchen and shoved paper towel-lined paper plates of okra and turkey patties on the counter. The heap of crispy, golden okra still sizzled. The patties steamed, giving off an herbal fragrance of thyme and sage. A droplet of drool rolled off my lip and I quickly wiped it with my hand.

  Todd snatched a plastic spork from the coffee can holder.

  “I guess you don’t care for the Woodcocks,” I said to Desiree.

  “They tried to buy out our land. No one takes property away from the Gutersons. Accused us of poaching too. We’re hunting where we’ve always hunted.”

  Sheri laughed. “We opened this bar just to tick them off. Their lawyer sent a letter asking us to clean up our property. We cleaned up all right. Cleaned out this old trailer and made it a bar.”

  “That’s very enterprising of you,” said Todd.

  As I dug into the okra, the front door smacked the flimsy trailer wall. Our gazes fell upon the newcomer, Rick Miller, the lodge’s vanishing dinner guest. Rick gave the bar a quick glance, ducked his head before we could catch his eye, and shuffled to the mangy couch. Sheri scurried to bring him the house pour.