“Cherry. It’s not like you’ve ever been sweet to Shawna. Your sister can be downright mean. And your brother did try to forcibly abduct her in order to perform a flippin’ DNA test.”
“Allegedly.” My jaw ached from my teeth clench. “You just wouldn’t understand about missing parents. Shawna wants to know what happened to her father more than she wants to hate on the Tucker kids. She thinks our momma took him from her. It’s basic psychology.”
“Sounds like basic horseshit to me. I know something about not having a father, or have you forgotten?”
“Burying a parent is different from one gone missing. I should know something about that, or have you forgotten?”
“Sugar,” he said without a lick of sweetness. “How can I forget when you constantly remind me? Did you ever think you might be transferring your feelings about your mom to Shawna? That’s basic psychology too.”
I never did care for Freud.
Halting on the steps of the lodge, I considered a sharp retort when movement caught my eye. Between the lodge and the gift shop, a dark shape lurked. I sucked in a slow breath.
Had Rick returned from the Double Wide without my noticing?
“Luke, hon, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “We’ll talk about this later. I’ve got to go.”
“Sugar, wait. I’m sorry too.”
The lurker slipped to the corner of the building. Red and green lights in the gift shop window outlined the shadowy form. The man hesitated, then darted toward the open drive, heading toward Big Rack’s gates.
Thirteen
I expelled the breath I hadn’t realized I held. There was no mistaking that silhouette. Or that awkward gait.
“Cherry?” Luke’s voice called from the phone I still clasped against my ear.
“Dangit if that’s not Balaclava Beach Ball,” I exclaimed. “What is he doing now?”
Fed up with the mysteries of Big Rack Lodge, I charged toward the man.
“What’s going on?” hollered Luke.
“Everything’s fine. I just saw someone who needs to bend my ear a bit. Later.” Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I chugged my legs and felt the ice melt from my veins with the heat of the chase.
Balaclava had traded army greens for black. On his back, he carried a bulging pack that almost matched his midsection. He looked like an overripe plum. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied me and hurried out the gates onto the main road dividing the lodge grounds from the preserve.
“Hey,” I called. “Stop running from me. I need to ask you something. Were you at the Double Wide last night asking questions?”
How many other lodge guests could be described as big and weird?
The man jerked to a stop, teetered, then spun in a sloppy pivot. “Shush,” he hissed. “Why do you keep stalking me?”
“Because you’re sneaking around on private property.” Panting, I jogged to a stop before him. “Why did you run last time?”
“I don’t know you. Why shouldn’t I run?” Mr. Plum had a slight lisp. And halitosis. And that creepy air of those who wrapped themselves in the cloak of geekdom to stifle any glimmer of reality.
“I am Cherry Tucker, a portraitist. I’m the official artist for the hunt.” A horseshoe and hand grenades sort of lie. “I heard you were a novelist.”
“Lesley Vaughn. Not a novelist. I write nonfiction.” He adjusted his glasses, the thick variety that were probably often duct taped as a kid.
“Anyway, I’d like to know what you’re doing.” I waved a hand at his ninja hiker outfit. “Where are you headed? I hope not back to the Double Wide, because I don’t like the thought of what might happen to you there. They’re a bit nervy tonight.”
“Of course not,” he sneered. “Do I look like I’m dressed for a bar?”
“I don’t know what you’re into.”
“What I am into is cryptid animals. The Wendigo. Yeti. Pukwidgie. Sheepsquatch. Et cetera.”
“Sheepsquatch?”
He resettled his glasses on his nose. “This creature you so callously hunt is one of many found in history. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Calydonian Boar?” At my headshake, he continued, “The Crommyonian Sow? The Erymanthian Boar? Surely you know that story. Hercules captured that giant wild boar.”
“I’m no historian, but I’m pretty sure Hercules wasn’t real,” I said.
“Please,” lisped Lesley. “The point is not whether Hercules captured the boar. The point is there have been stories about super swine since the dawn of history. Ten years ago, a man named Larry Earley killed an eleven-hundred-pound hog in Florida. Hog Kong. Surely Larry Earley is not mythical.”
“I don’t know Larry Earley, but his name doesn’t sound mythical, I’ll give you that.”
“These are feral hogs. You can tell by their foreheads which are concave and not flat. The media likes to call them Hogzilla.” Lesley wheezed a laugh.
“And you’re writing a book about Hogzillas?”
Lesley cut the laugh. “I am researching the reality of such mythical beasts for my book. The world needs to see that these creatures do exist. The word on the street is Big Rack’s particular swine exceeds Hog Kong in size.”
“The housekeeper told me it ate one of Big Rack’s calves. Looked like something large tried to get in the peacock pen too.” I didn’t mention I had thought the something large had been Lesley.
“Aha. The wild boars caused widespread havoc and death in ancient Greece as well. I must write this down. Hogzilla eats small cow and attacks peacocks. I thought those peacocks looked suspicious.”
He reached to pull off his backpack.
“Did the Greeks hunt those boars too?”
Lesley jerked his head from his pack. “Have you forgotten? Theseus killed Phaea, the sow. And most likely Tydeus killed—”
I interrupted. “Lesley, if you know how dangerous these hogs are, why are you skulking around in the dark? Don’t you know they’re semi-nocturnal? This is dangerous. Let the hunters do their job and you can take a picture when they’re done.”
“No. No!” screamed Lesley. He dropped his pack to jab a finger at me. “You cannot let them kill Hogzilla. Who knows when the next super swine will turn up? They’re crafty and superb predators. Larry Earley got lucky. This is an organized hunt. I know Jeff Digby’s using special feeders to trap Hogzilla. The man is a menace.”
“Calm down,” I snapped. “What’s going on? Are you trying to stop the hunt?”
“I’m going into those woods to find Hogzilla and get footage before he hides for good.”
“It’s a hunting preserve, Lesley. It can’t hide forever. Besides that, the hog’s tearing up the local farms. They need it gone.”
“I’m sure they said the same of the mastodon.” Lesley grabbed his pack and shoved his glasses up his nose. “Farewell, Miss Tucker.”
“Sorry, Lesley, but I can’t let you endanger yourself. And I still have some questions for you.”
He made a move to leave and I launched myself at him, knocking his pack to the ground and skewing his glasses.
“Now, tell me about the Double Wide. Did you speak to Abel Spencer?”
He let out a shrill shriek. “Control yourself, Miss Tucker.”
“I’ve got this.” Jeff Digby’s deep voice called from the lodge gates. “Mr. Vaughn, I’ve warned you. Do not go hiking into the forest at night alone. It’s too dangerous. I don’t care if you’ve paid for a room, I’ll get you kicked out.”
“You are no Theseus, Jeff Digby,” squawked Lesley. “I will not let you kill the Georgiana Boar before I can study it.”
“Miss Tucker?” Jeff stopped in the road, surveying us. “What are you doing out here? Maybe you should go on back to your room.”
I had wrapped my arms around Lesley’s belly. My head butted against his beach ball protuberance and my feet d
ug into the road. Lesley waved his arms above my body, afraid to touch me. Rain had begun to drizzle again, slicking Lesley’s coat.
It was like trying to cling to a tubing raft.
“I’m protecting him from endangering himself,” I exclaimed. “Plus he met Abel Spencer. Rookie Holt needs to talk to this man.”
Like a tick on a pug, Jeff Digby grabbed my hips and pulled me off Lesley Vaughn. Setting me down, Jeff cast an uneasy eye on me, and then on Lesley. “Mr. Vaughn, no one but the hunt party is allowed in those woods. You have a good chance of getting lost and hurt. Possibly shot.”
“Shot?” exclaimed Lesley. “Ridiculous.”
“Look at you,” said Jeff. “Dressed head to toe in black. What if we went out tomorrow, not knowing you were in the woods? That’s why we wear safety colors, man.”
“You insult me,” lisped Lesley.
One of God’s lightbulbs cut on in my brain. “Lesley, did you send the hunt party a themed cake?”
“Themed cake?” Lesley snorted. “This woman is a nuisance.”
Jeff pointed toward the lodge. “Let’s go, Mr. Vaughn. I’m personally going to see you to your room. Miss Tucker, next time there’s a problem, just let our staff know.”
“I was just trying to help.” I raised my chin. Frigid raindrops splattered my face. I dropped my head.
“Let’s get moving, you two.” Jeff jerked his chin toward the lodge. “I’m seeing you both back to your rooms.”
It was a good thing I was used to public humiliation or the idea of Hunter McHottie lumping me in with Lesley Vaughn would have burned the rain right off my cheeks.
Under escort from Jeff Digby, I trudged through the antler chandelier-lit foyer and rode up the elevator to the symphonic rendition of the Ramone’s Christmas hit, “Fight Tonight.” Alone at my door, I paused to listen for stirrings from 206, but No-Mustache was either asleep or out.
With my keycard, I slipped through the door and trod on paper. Below my wet boots lay one of my drenched and dried watercolors. I picked it up and examined the streaky woodland scene, now looking more Jackson Pollack than Claude Monet.
“What a mess,” I told the painting. “Did housekeeping stop in and drop you?”
I tossed my wet coat on a chair and walked into the bathroom. My easel and supplies still stood in the tub and the watercolor pad still in the garbage. Feeling relieved the maid hadn’t trashed my supplies, I retrieved the watercolor book. I grabbed the last dry towel, wrapped it around my head, then flipped through the pages until I reached the blue hat scene, hoping I could pick out something I might have painted unawares.
Then it hit me.
My eyes darted around the bathroom. Towels still lay under the sink and the toilet paper had not been refolded into an origami arrow. Also, the shampoo and conditioner I had pilfered had not been replaced.
No maid had entered this room.
I spun from the bathroom and quickly searched my small living quarters. It was difficult to tell if my suitcase had been rifled through since I had torn through it to find my reindeer sweater. My drawing pad still lay on the bed. I pawed through it, but nothing was missing. Not even the deer and bunny drawing.
“Maybe I’m going crazy,” I said to the soul-patched deer. “Or maybe I forgot I had picked up that painting, then dropped it on my way out to meet Todd. Clearly, the day has taken its toll.”
That seemed a better explanation. I blew off the willies, grabbed my Talladega sleeping t-shirt, and headed for the bathroom. The scrunched landscape lay on the counter and I flicked it away from the sink. The paper fluttered to the floor, landing backside up.
I snatched the drawing and stifled a gasp.
Scrawled, most likely with one of my Berols, was a message.
“Accidents happen.”
Fourteen
I paced the room. Did the note mean that Abel’s fall was nothing but an accident and I should leave local tragedies alone? Was it aggressive or plain-spoken? The scrawl looked neither angry nor peaceful, just rushed.
Knowing small towns, my curiosity probably shared a grapevine byline with Abel’s fall. And knowing small towns, my curiosity was unappreciated. The Gutersons didn’t like it. Rick didn’t like it. And here at the lodge, the hunters wouldn’t like me calling more attention to the drama and possibly further delaying or ending the hunt. Someone snarky like Bob Bass or the Sparks could have paid off one of the staff to leave me a note.
Jeff Digby had popped up out of nowhere tonight. No issue for him to get a key to my room. On the other hand, Lesley Vaughn had been sneaking away from the lodge building when I caught him. Maybe he had left notes on paintings and cakes to scare us into stopping the hunt.
Leaving the message on my own paper would keep the accuser more anonymous. And it made no bones about the intended recipient of the message.
Was it a threat? Could my poking lead to an intentional accident?
I debated what to do. Luke would want me to pull up stakes and come home. Or he’d drive out and draw attention to the relationship we weren’t having. Uncle Will would have my hide if he thought I was interfering in an investigation. If he thought me threatened, he’d raise some hell with Swinton PD, which would cause that hell to rain down on me.
I called Rookie Holt instead. Better to do my own rain dance.
“Did you find someone to take care of the dogs?” This had been in my thoughts, but it also eased us into a conversation instead of jumping into, “I’ve been asking around about Abel and received a questionable note for my efforts.”
“I took them in temporarily,” said Deborah.
“Lord bless you, Deputy Holt. I’ve been worried about the dogs. Particularly the Bluetick. I can’t get her cries out of my head.”
“She’s still howling.” She held the phone away to give proof to the mournful lament. “The neighbors aren’t happy. Neither are the other dogs. I’m hoping they’ll settle in soon. It’s only the first night. And one’s still at the lodge, the Mountain Cur. Maybe she’s some kind of alpha for them.”
“I need to visit her. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it until now,” I said. “Speaking of Abel Spencer, I heard the police were asking questions at the Double Wide. Was that you?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“At the Double Wide. Do you think Abel heard or saw something that afternoon that might have caused some sort of retaliation towards him? Sheri Guterson thought he seemed excitable and like he was waiting for someone. Desiree said he didn’t have his usual.”
“Abel Spencer was a nosy old coot, but he’s been a nosy old coot his whole life. If someone around here wanted to retaliate against him, I’d expect to find a few slugs, not blunt force trauma. It’s an unfortunate thing to say, but it’s true.”
A long, insistent howl accompanied the deputy’s words. I pulled my ear from the receiver to separate myself from the painful wail and search my brain for something useful. “What about footprints? There must’ve been some footprints around the ravine.”
“Sure, lots of footprints,” she snapped. “Abel’s. Yours. Your friend Todd’s. Also a nice cushion of pine straw and leaves that prevents footprints from showing up.”
“You sound frustrated. I know you need physical evidence, but it doesn’t always tell the whole story. I can help you by relaying anything useful I might hear.”
“I hope you’re not telling me how to do my job.” After a long, weighted pause, she adopted a more businesslike tone. “I made a few calls. It seems you have a habit of getting involved in criminal investigations. This is not Forks County. I’m here to uphold the law, not entertain you. I don’t know if you just have a morbid curiosity or are some kind of instigator, but I am warning you to cool your jets. If we feel you’re causing problems, we’ll serve you with a warrant quicker than a flea can bite.”
Shinola. I guess
now would not be a good time to bring up the semi-threatening message. I also guessed our Thelma and Louise adventures wouldn’t be starting anytime soon. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Enjoy your stay at the lodge.”
That possibility ended with the dead man in the woods.
The next morning, I ducked out of the room just as No-Mustache stepped into the shower (he had a pretty good falsetto). Instead of rooster crow o’clock, the hunters wouldn’t leave until the afternoon, which suited me fine. I was up and raring for answers. The heebie-jeebies and a gusty storm had kept me awake most of the night but had given me plenty of time to doodle in my sketchpad. As I made quick caricatures of my list of possible suspects—the hunt party, staff, Lesley Vaughn, and the Gutersons—I noted each of their connections to recent events. If Abel Spencer’s fall had been a simple accident, why did I receive this vaguely insidious message? I’d bet my best sable brush he hadn’t taken a spill on his own accord.
Lesley Vaughn and Bob Bass had been at the Double Wide that fateful night.
If Abel had learned something dirty on either of them while dropping off his dog, their appearance at the Double Wide might explain his edginess and inability to drink. They could easily have followed Abel. Then an accident had occurred. An accident otherwise known as manslaughter.
All the more reason to investigate before getting trapped in the woods with a homicidal maniac. Or, as it might be, I thought, a maniacal manslaughterer.
Through a spattering of drops, I rushed up a brick path winding through a garden speckled with fall flowers and metal animal sculptures to the tin-roofed cabin housing the lodge’s nerve center. Each raindrop smacked the sculptures with a brittle ping.
The lodge office could help me. Security footage of the hall could tell me who had snuck in my room. And shut the door, I would’ve solved a case for my new BFF, Rookie Holt, and a pack of lonesome hunting dogs.
The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 9