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

by Larissa Reinhart

  I found manager Mike Neeley behind the counter, tapping on Big Rack’s laptop. Closing the computer, he swept his Big Rack cap off with a good morning.

  “Sleep well?” he asked. “Hope you caught breakfast before heading over.”

  “Not yet. Best meal of the day in my opinion. Particularly if it starts with biscuits,” I said with a voice full of hopeful persuasion. “Jeff Digby mentioned one of your cooks, Jessica, was particularly talented with Southern fare.”

  Mike grinned with managerial pride. “Jess’s cooking has consistently drawn in weekend diners from surrounding counties, which is great for the lodge. People around here have family land to hunt on, they don’t need to pay to hunt. But we like having them for dinner.”

  “Can I get counted as a local instead of a lodge guest for the rest of my meals?” I fluttered my eyelashes and flashed him my sweetest smile.

  He laughed. “Viktor’s cooking at the bunkhouse. We need Jessica here for the weekend.”

  Viktor. I had almost forgotten about his veiled stalking promises. Maybe he had left the note. “Sounds like Jessica’s doing well for you. Why did you bring in Viktor?”

  “The owners want to provide the lodge guests with fine dining.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Canada. He was a chef at a five-star inn. The Woodcocks were impressed with his awards and they enticed him down here with a chance at head gourmet chef at the lodge.”

  “Are you sure he’s from Canada?”

  “I flew out to meet him there.” Mike’s eyes widened. “Is there a problem?”

  “His accent didn’t sound Canadian, that’s all.” I eyed the computer, thinking about segues to security footage when another thought struck me. “Did you contact the bakery to find out who sent the cake?”

  “There was some confusion about that. An online order, but paid in cash. No one can remember who dropped off the cash.”

  “Dang,” I said. “And no activist group taking credit for it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Seems strange to go to all that trouble and not publicize your protest. I met Lesley Vaughn last night. Strange would be a good way to describe his obsession with giant hogs.”

  “That’s Lesley.” Mike gave me a quick smile and popped open his computer. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  “By the way, I got locked out last night. Your security guy gave me a new key.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I’m worried that someone could have gotten in my room using my old keycard.”

  He shut his computer. “If you lost a key, Ty should have recoded your door for the new key.”

  “Maybe you could check your security footage of the hall to see if anyone tried to get in my room.”

  “Was anything stolen?”

  “I don’t think anything’s missing.” His stricken look caused pangs of guilt to shoot through me. I hated lying. Although the secret romance I wasn’t having made me more proficient.

  “That’s good.” He opened his computer. “I understand if it makes you nervous, what with everything that’s happened, but our key system is very good. Our cameras only watch the entrances and exits. So I wouldn’t be able to tell if someone went into your room. As a small hotel, we don’t have hall cameras.”

  “I thought I saw one in my hall.”

  Mike’s face reddened. “Decoys. The Woodcocks invested in a state of the art key system and felt it would be sufficient with the exit cameras. We’ve not had issues with our security before, so we haven’t felt the need to pay for CCTV in the halls. Plus we have Ty roaming the grounds at night.”

  “I don’t suppose I could take a look at last night’s footage anyway?” It was worth a try, although I hated how it made me sound pushy. And paranoid.

  “I’m afraid as a guest, I can’t let you do that.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, nothing’s really missing.”

  “Of course. I’ll look to see if anyone who isn’t a guest or staff entered the building.” Mike glanced at the clock. “I’ll check on that and let you know what I find. We’ve scheduled target practice this morning. You’re welcome to join the hunters for lunch there. We’ll be headed into the preserve just after.”

  I had until lunch to find the culprit. “See you then, Mike.”

  Defeated, I slunk out the office door. No way to tell who entered my room, and unless the perpetrator was an outsider to the lodge, Mike wouldn’t alert me. I pulled in a deep breath, relishing the wet pine and woodsmoke-scented air, but shoved my hands into the pocket of my fleece fuchsia and lime green hoodie to stave off the cold.

  I guess some people would give up or go home.

  But no way in hell could someone break into my room, vandalize my own art—even trashed art—and think I’d slink away from asking questions about Abel now.

  Fifteen

  Seeking expert consultation on threats, I found Todd and the Bear in his new den. The picturesque cabins circling the far side of the fishing pond were built from roughhewn pine, painted Scarlet Lake with white trim, and had a covered fishing porch built over the big pond. Max’s had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a living area with a small bar. His also had a squirrel painted on the door, with more stuffed squirrels cavorting in his rafters. I eyed the squirrels and then Max, who glared at the frolicking creatures.

  “This insults me,” he said, waving a hand at the squirrels.

  “I don’t reckon you feel bad for their death,” I said, “but I thought taxidermy was universal. Don’t they hang trophies in your country?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The laugh at my expense. I know this joke.”

  I reexamined the squirrels, who although happy, did not seem mocking.

  Todd caught my eye and shrugged. He didn’t get the joke either.

  Max scowled and folded his brawny arms over his black flannel-covered chest. “The American television show with moose and squirrel that attempts to teach children Cold War ideology.”

  Todd’s brain chugged. “Rocky and Bullwinkle.”

  “You think someone is making fun of your accent? How did you put that together?”

  “A man such as me should have the cabin with the large game animal. Not the tiny creature for the young boy to trap.” Max pointed his gaze out the window at the next cabin. “I was known as the Bear. I should have that cabin.”

  “Who has the bear cabin?”

  “Bob Bass,” said Todd.

  “Oh my stars, is Bob Bass making fun of you for having the squirrel cabin?”

  Max shifted to glare at a dancing squirrel on the rafter beam.

  “We’ve got more important issues than you getting teased by Bob Bass.” I explained what we had learned at the Double Wide, my meeting with Lesley, and the discovery of my painting-turned-secret-memo.

  “I told you to leave this alone,” growled Max.

  “Now you believe me?”

  “But this ‘accidents happen’ message. I do not find so threatening.”

  “You don’t?” asked Todd.

  “If I send the threatening note, it is explicit,” explained Max. “I describe in detail the consequences of the action. For example—”

  “I prefer not to have examples,” I said. “You see the note as someone telling me that Abel had an accident.”

  “Yes. But this means it was no accident.”

  “Come again?” said Todd.

  “Why else would they leave the note?” Max steepled his hands under his chin. “You must take into account the timing.”

  “I agree,” I said. “A man dies on the eve of the lodge’s biggest event.”

  “Perhaps there are peoples who would wish this to not be an event.”

  “Peoples like Lesley Vaughn?” I
shook my head. “I mean, people?”

  “Perhaps. But in the sport hunting, you must be responsible, paying attention to sex and age of the animal for the conservation. Some say Bob Bass does not follow these rules.”

  “That’d bring him some enemies. Anti-hunters and hunters alike.”

  A scowl curled the Bear’s lips. “And I think Bob Bass cheats to win. He’s won too many times in my presence. But he is like fox.”

  “You’re talking about gambling,” I said. “How can he cheat in a hunt?”

  “I tell you, this Bob Bass is sly. Maybe he sends this cake to himself. To spook other contestants and make himself look more important.”

  “I thought we were talking about Abel Spencer’s death. And it was just a cake. These are separate incidents.” I stopped and circled back to an earlier thought. “Or are they? Lesley Vaughn wants to protect his mythical Georgiana Boar. He’s crazier than a sprayed roach.”

  “You said Lesley didn’t know about the cake,” said Todd.

  “Lesley could have been lying. Abel provided the hunting dog. Maybe he tried to scare Abel too, and that’s what caused Abel’s fall.” I lowered the finger that had shot in the air. “But if he did and Abel died, Abel’s death should have frightened Lesley into hightailing it out of town before he’s caught.”

  Max raised a heavy brow. “If the perpetrator thought this Abel’s death served some purpose and they are not afraid of being caught by police, they would continue their plan.”

  “That means they have no problem with murder,” I exclaimed. “I figured Abel’s death as manslaughter.”

  “Cherry.” Todd’s fingers drilled the wooden chair arms in a rapid-fire rhythm. “They’re not afraid of getting caught by the police, but they were worried enough to warn you.”

  “Then we’re back to my note being menacing.” I scowled.

  “Maybe Mike should call off the hunt,” said Todd. “You could be in danger.”

  “I don’t want to get Mike in trouble if it’s nothing,” I said. “He hasn’t worked at Big Rack long, and I get the feeling the lodge may be in trouble. Let me do a little more digging first. It takes more than a vague note to scare me.”

  No protest issued from Max. The Bear wanted the hunt to continue. It hurt a teeny bit that he never tried to climb on a white horse for me, but I was glad Max trusted my intuition. I had meant what I said. I needed more information before I’d pull up stakes. We were back to square one.

  The discussion had felt like a dog chasing his tail.

  And I feared it was my hindquarters that would get bit.

  I needed to clear my head to think, but my sketchpad was at the lodge. As it was not raining, I chose to walk back. Max, Todd, and I had agreed to meet at the skeet range for the scheduled target practice, an opportunity which would bring all the contestants together again. Without mentioning it, we acknowledged if someone wanted to stop the hunt, the shoot was also an opportunity for another incident. We had debated whether to warn Mike and decided to wait. Mike had enough on his plate.

  At this point, we, like the police, were without any real evidence to prove foul play was at hand.

  A golf cart whizzed past me, and I jumped to avoid a splash from the water-filled ruts. Jenny and Clinton zipped by in matching gear and Big Rack ball caps. Jenny waved.

  A high-decibel shriek had me clutching my chest. Switching my hands from heart to ears, I hurried around the peacock pen and spied the Twenty Point.

  I hadn’t explored another obvious motive. Max didn’t know Viktor, but Viktor thought he knew Max enough to wave a knife at my reindeer buttons. Viktor might have planned the squirrel cabin as a Boris and Natasha message for Max. Maybe Viktor killed Abel because he had learned Viktor was a communist spy from the Bear’s homeland. However, Max’s homeland politics were more criminal than philosophical.

  But what did we know about Viktor, other than he snuck over the border from Canada? Why would a chef leave a five-star inn for Swinton, Georgia?

  A sudden gust swept icy droplets off the peacock’s roof.

  Canada for Georgia? Probably for the weather.

  I still had yet to spy the lauded cook, Jessica. I also failed to have breakfast. I figured two birds with one stone might land me a leftover biscuit and some information about Viktor. Because I’d met most of the other staff, I had this crazy feeling she hid from me. And why would someone who’s heralded for their chicken fried steak hide from me, of all people? Maybe Viktor kept her hostage. Chained to the fryer, so he was free to serve VIPs his gooey superfoods.

  I circled round to the back of the Twenty Point and knocked on the kitchen screen door, hoping my friendly assertiveness might grant me a stray piece of ham. The enticing aroma of grill grease spilled out as a woman cracked the door, then pushed it open. Her Big Rack hat covered her blonde curly hair except for the ponytail poking through the back. Beneath the brim of her hat, dark circles lined her eyes. I supposed most cooks serving three meals a day often wore weary.

  “What can I do for you?” Her words were curt and her eyes wary.

  “Are you Jessica?” I asked.

  She searched the gloom behind me, then studied my face. “Who are you?”

  “Cherry Tucker. I just wanted to meet the cook famous for her chicken fried steak.” I extended a hand to shake.

  “Are you one of the hunters in the contest?”

  “Not a hunter, but I am in the entourage. I’m a painter and am supposed to do the winner’s portrait with the prize pig.”

  She hesitated, glanced at my extended hand, then began to pull the door shut. “I can’t talk. I’m busy.”

  “Wait.” I’d had enough of Big Rack oddities and shoved my foot into the crack of the door. “You are Jessica?”

  She peered beyond me. I glanced over my shoulder to see what could possibly have her so spooked. I may be a lot of things, but spooky was not one of them.

  “Are you afraid of someone?” I covered her hand gripping the door frame. “What’s going on at Big Rack?”

  “Nothing’s going on.” She jerked her hand out from under mine.

  “Then what’s scaring you? Does this have to do with Abel Spencer?”

  “Abel Spencer?” she said. “What about Abel?”

  “You must have heard he died on Big Rack property two nights ago. Strange doings are going on here. What do you know about Abel?”

  “Nothin’. Abel had one too many and should’ve asked for a lift instead of cutting through the property.” Her eyes narrowed beneath her cap. “Now, leave me be. I’ve got no more to say to you.”

  Jessica slammed the door, leaving my foot sore, my stomach empty, and my skin crawling with the willies.

  Sixteen

  Something scared Jessica, and my suspicion meter had shot to the top of the charts, just like Bob Bass’s Christmas hit, “I’d Rather Be Downtrodden Down Home Than Uptight And Uptown.” I didn’t know if Jessica’s heebies were connected to the jeebies jumping around Big Rack, but I’d bet my best boots she was hiding from someone on the premises.

  With an eye toward mysterious skulkers, I circled to the front of the Twenty Point, deliberating on my next move. Would Rookie Holt be interested in the caginess of a cook? Likely not. I’d best find other staff who might enlighten me on the reason for Jessica’s paranoia before calling.

  As I stood in front of the restaurant, scanning the grounds, the angry screech of the peacocks caught my attention. I hurried to see why the peacocks had halted golf cart traffic, half expecting to find Lesley playing Spiderman against their pen. A small crowd had gathered in front of the coop.

  I sped my hurry to a trot.

  I had questions for Lesley that had nothing to do with magical pig quests and everything to do with meeting Abel Spencer at the Double Wide Wednesday night.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted.
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br />   A light rain began to sprinkle. I flipped my hood up, lost my peripheral vision, and shuddered. Yanking my hood off, I let the rain style my frizzy hair and cursed my silly nerves for furthering my bad hair day.

  The Sparks sat in their golf cart, parked in the middle of the path. They turned at my shout, almost drowned by the ear-splitting peacock screams.

  “Another demonstrator,” said Jenny. A breeze whipped her hair and her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I wonder if it’ll make the news?”

  “Is the demonstrator named Lesley?” I tried to see beyond their cart, but the angle only revealed Peach and Bob, not the front of the peacock cage. “Did he get in there with the peacocks?”

  “Nobody’s inside, they just left another message on the front of the cage,” said Clinton. “Jenny, we don’t want the media here. Better to ignore this.”

  “It might be good publicity for the hunt.” Her voice rose.

  “Not all publicity is good publicity.”

  Disappointed, I left them to their argument and ambled past their golf cart. I wanted Lesley, not another scary pig cake. Reaching the corner of the coop, I halted. A banner flapped against the wire mesh while Bob bent over an object resting against the coop. Each time he tried to get his hands around the pumpkin-sized orb, the peacocks screeched and pecked at the mesh.

  Bob’s hands flew from the flesh-colored object and jogged backward. “Damn birds.”

  “What is that?” I said to Peach as she filmed Bob’s struggle.

  “Hog head.”

  Bob took a run at the cage. A peacock brandished its fan with a screech, Bob backed off, and the bird strutted away.

  “Still cold,” said Bob. “Probably butchered around here. Damn activists.”

  The breeze stilled and the sign left off flapping to recline against the wire mesh. I sucked in my breath. In dripping red letters, someone had written, “Squeal like a Pig.” Below the sign, the empty eyes of the hog stared at us, an almost ghoulish smile frozen beneath its snout.