Spotting Max and Todd, I headed toward their group. With the Sparks and LaToya, they stood around a stone pit where a cheery fire blazed. Max chatted with the Sparks, so I sidled between LaToya and Todd.
“What’s going on?” I squinted at the targets set up on the far side of the range, then positioned myself to watch Rick and Viktor. “Guess y’all aren’t shooting skeet.”
“No ma’am,” said LaToya. “Skeet is for birds. We’re doing long range rifle practice. Just waiting for instructions.”
“Although there’s already been an argument about who’s shooting first,” said Todd.
“Let me guess who wants to be first at bat,” I said.
“Jackass,” muttered LaToya. “We should draw numbers or something. Everyone wants to go first.”
“It does seem unfair.” I eased against Todd.
He threw an arm around my shoulder and grinned down at me. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I stood on my toes to get closer to his ear. He inclined to meet me halfway. “I met the cook in hiding, Jessica.”
“Yeah?” His words were muffled in my hair. “Did you talk her into a sausage biscuit?”
“I wish. She refused to talk, let alone feed me. I think she’s afraid of something or someone. She kept looking over my shoulder until she shut the door on my face.”
“What a dis.”
“Peculiar is a better word for it,” I whispered. “Everything’s looking peculiar these days. Did you hear about the new message on the peacock shed?”
Todd nodded.
Raucous laughter, more nervous than amused, burst from the Bob Bass circle.
I drew away from Todd. “LaToya, how are you feeling about the hunt? Did that ugly cake or the sign on the peacock cage unsettle you?”
She shook her head. “Just someone acting stupid. That happens. Like I said before, sometimes we get protesters. At a marksmanship contest, they’re usually crackpots who don’t know anything about guns. Bob Bass has a lot more enemies, though. He’s a better one to ask.”
“Enemies?”
I switched my gaze from LaToya to Bob and was caught by the rocker’s restless eyes. Bob tipped his hat and winked.
“If that man lays a hand on my butt, I’m going to borrow a rifle. Peach may put up with it, but I sure as hell ain’t.”
“Who?” Todd checked my rear, still safely hidden in my jeans.
“Bob Bass,” I hissed.
“Usually when I hunt with men, they are gentlemen and good sportsmen.” LaToya kept her eyes on the fire. “My dad wanted to come with me, but I told him no. I’m eighteen. I wanted to do this hunt on my own, without any coaching. I felt safe with a group of adults. Now I wished I had taken him up on his offer.”
“You could call your daddy. It’s not too late,” I said.
She shook her head. “It’ll be all right once we get into the woods. Everyone will stop focusing on themselves and get their head in the game. It’s like we feel trapped here at the lodge, waiting to leave.”
I studied LaToya’s profile. “Is anyone bothering you, hon?”
“I’m fine.” She dropped her gaze to her boots. “I just want to get this show on the road. They don’t believe I’m good enough to be here because of my age. I’ve got something to prove.”
I spied Mike hurrying from the parking lot. “I guess you’ll get your chance here in a minute.”
Mike walked into the pavilion and swept off his cap. Jeff Digby stood behind him, legs spread, feet planted, a rifle held against his shoulder.
“Good morning,” said Mike. “Hope y’all are ready for another meal prepared by our top-rated chef. I’m sure Viktor’s got something special planned for an early lunch.”
“Viktor makes a superb grilled root salad with scorzonera, rampion, and skirret,” squealed Jenny Sparks. “We are so lucky. Not everyone uses vegetables once lost to history.”
“Historic vegetables?” I moaned beneath my breath.
Todd patted my shoulder.
Mike smiled at Jenny. “Grab a bite after target practice. I think the heavier rain is going to hold until this afternoon. We can leave at high noon, but be prepared for a wet ride.”
A frisson of excitement zipped through the small crowd.
“It’ll take a bit to get out to the area where Jeff tracked the hog’s recent activity, especially in the weather we’re expecting. The feeders are set up with green night lights and that big boy’s been attacking each in turn. We’ve been watching him on video. We’ll set up in the bunkhouse and break into our positions. Sun goes down at 5:29. You’ll climb into our stands before then. Because of the weather, he might be out early.”
The idea of sitting in a cold and soggy deer stand into the wee hours of the morning made my eye twitch, but the hunters looked akin to a pack of Jack Russells eyeing a treed raccoon.
“Hey, you hear any more about our protestor?” asked Bob.
Mike shook his head. “I hope it’s not upsetting you.”
“Naw, don’t bother me. You’d just think they’d have the balls to come out and say what’s on their mind,” Bob spat. “Damn activists. Probably waiting on a camera crew. They don’t know we’re only using the GoPro. I didn’t want a crew scaring a hog of this size.”
“I don’t want anybody out there who doesn’t feel safe,” said Jeff Digby. “Nervous people make mistakes. They’d be a danger to others and to themselves. Anyone who wants out will get a full refund.”
Mike blanched, but his smile remained fixed.
“Of course I’m in,” said Bob. “I’ve always planned on bagging that pig. Peach is in too.”
Peach squeaked and jerked upright.
“Besides,” Bob pulled his hand from Peach’s backside, “we’re filming and you know what they say about shows. They’ve gotta go on.”
“I too will continue,” said Max. “We have some reassurances, yes? The party is separated, but each has the guide.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jeff. “Each outfitter has basic medical training and is tacked out with equipment, including their own rifle.”
“Very good,” said Max. “But I am thinking of the witness to be certain the cheating does not take place.”
“What are you implying?” Bob stepped out of his group.
“Maybe there is reason no protestor has claimed the joke.” Max’s eyebrow lifted. “Maybe it is not the protestor who protests too much.”
The publicist Risa and Bob’s manager glanced up from their phones.
Mike held his hands up. “Let’s just simmer down. I’m sure no one’s planning on cheating. Now does anyone want out because of the weather or otherwise?”
“We still want to go,” said Clinton Sparks.
“LaToya and Rick, are you okay?” asked Jeff.
Rick had turned to face the group. After LaToya’s nod, he added his own. The temper I had witnessed the previous night had been replaced with a lackadaisical deference. Maybe the alcohol did turn his personality.
“I’m going to talk to Rick again during target practice,” I whispered to Todd. “He was acting really weird this morning. I still think he knows something about Abel.”
“Just remember what I said about catching him without a gun.”
Eighteen
I waited to approach Rick until Jeff had finished the safety rules for target practice. As the group headed toward the shooting boxes, I intercepted Rick with a “Morning.”
He ducked his head to fix his attention on his boots, but shared my greeting and an apology. “I get a little worked up when I’m drinking.”
“Why don’t you want me talking about Abel?”
“Can’t see how it helps.”
“But it sounded like Abel was worried about something the night he died. Do you know what it was?”
“No. Abel w
orried himself about lots of things that weren’t his problem.”
“Do you think Abel would have blackmailed anyone? Like listened in on a private conversation and used it against them to make some money? I heard he tended to pry in others’ affairs.”
“I don’t know.” Rick’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Just keep me out of this. You’re drawing a lot of attention. The wrong kind of attention.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” His gaze wandered from his boots to a table leg.
“Are you threatening me?” I lowered my voice. “Did you leave me a note?”
Rick jerked his head up. “Another note?”
“Did you get a note too?”
“There was that cake. And the sign on the peacock house.”
“Are you worried about protestors?”
His gaze fell upon my chin. “Have you seen any protestors?” When I shook my head, his eyes flicked to mine. “Those signs aren’t from any protestors and you know it.”
A large hand clamped on my shoulder. I flinched, then glanced behind me and relaxed.
“Artist,” said Max. “Mr. Miller, we are waiting. Mr. Bass would like to change the position with you.”
I peered around Max. Behind the row of firing stands, Bob stood with hands on his hips, tapping his boot. At my glance, he threw his hands in the air. “We ain’t got all day. You can chitchat later, Blondie.”
“We’re going to chitchat all right,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at Bob.
Rick used my break in concentration to escape. He scuttled toward the firing point line, meekly agreeing to the stall Bob had chosen for him.
I looked up at Max. “Did you hear about the sign on the peacock pen?”
Max ignored my question, his eyes on Viktor, who had bent over the grill, artfully maneuvering food that was neither burgers nor hotdogs.
“Are you sure you don’t know Viktor? He’s been staring daggers at you all morning.”
“No.”
“You aren’t sure or you don’t know him?”
“I do not know of this peacock sign.”
“Another warning.” I shivered. “Rick doesn’t think they’re made by an activist either.”
“He is correct. I’m sure it is nothing more than bad sportsmanship on Bob Bass’s part. When do you become so nervous, Artist? Usually, you have the bravado.” Max shook his head. “Do your problems at home divert your thoughts?”
“If only I could divert your thoughts,” I muttered, thinking of his obsession with beating Bob Bass.
“You do so on more occasions than I would like.” A thick eyebrow rose, elevating a small scar. He raised a hand as I opened my mouth. “I do not want your theories now. I must prove my skill on this gun range.”
“Then I want a word with your competitor to sort out my theories. Bob Bass may be pretending to act as a demonstrator, but he is guilty of visiting the Double Wide the night Abel died. I’d like to talk about that before we’re stuck in the preserve with him.”
The Bear growled a foreign phrase that needed no translation to understand.
“I won’t disrupt the target practice.” I gave him my “don’t worry, I’ve got this” smile and marched over to the firing line, where contestants still played musical range positions. Behind the row of firing stands, Todd lounged against a support beam of the control tower, tapping his drumsticks against his thighs. He wore safety glasses, although I suspected his headphones piped in music rather than silence.
“Where are Mike and Jeff?” I asked, then waited for Todd to pull off the headphones before asking him the question again.
Todd hiked his thumb at the parking lot. “Mike ran back to get Rick a new rifle. Rick brought an old shotgun. Jeff followed Mike.”
“Good. I’ve got a minute.” I trotted over to Bob Bass, who had switched positions with Rick to take the first stand. He stood with his rifle mounted against his shoulder, fixing his sight on the targets. “Hey, Mr. Bass. Can I talk to you about a man you might have met the other night?”
“I don’t sign autographs. It’s my policy.” He made a popping sound and jerked the gun, pretending to fire.
“No, someone you met at the trailer bar, the Double Wide. Abel Spencer. He’s the man who died recently.”
Peach turned to face us in the next stall. Instead of a rifle on her shoulder, Peach had a camera before her face. “Say hi to the camera.”
“Hey, camera.” I turned back to Bob. “Would you mind putting the gun down for a minute?”
He sighed with the impatience of a child deprived of a toy, but laid the rifle on the ledge before him. “Didn’t meet him. We were only there for a minute or two. I offered to sing ‘Santa Got Drunk on Moonshine.’ Can you believe they’d never heard of it?”
“Actually, no. That’s pretty popular in Halo.”
“I know.” He beamed beneath his cowboy hat. “Beat ‘Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer’ last year on the holiday charts. Anyway, I didn’t meet anyone named Abel Spencer.”
“Did you, Peach?” I turned to find the camera aimed at me again.
“Nope. Sure didn’t. I try not to talk to Bob’s fans.”
I wasn’t sure if Abel was actually a fan, but I guess at this point it didn’t matter. “What about your publicist, Risa? Or your manager?”
“They didn’t go inside.” Bob shrugged. “City folk.”
I ignored the pot and kettle comment. “I don’t suppose you saw anybody talking to an older man? Kind of wiry and stooped. Had on a blue Braves cap.”
At their indifferent headshakes, I pointed at her camera. “Did you take any footage at the Double Wide? Maybe you caught Abel on screen.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Did you, Peach? It’s not like I was doing anything interesting.”
“I think I got a minute or two of you trying the moonshine.” She touched buttons on the back of the camera, then held the camera out for us to see.
There was no mistaking the kitchen counter and the surly Gutersons who had handed Bob a plastic cup of white lightning.
We couldn’t hear his comment, but the women had exchanged a look just before Bob swallowed, then spit the liquid on the counter.
“Hey now, Peach. You need to edit that out,” Bob whined.
“Sorry, babe.” Her thumb moved over the delete button.
“Wait,” I said, spying Abel Spencer in the background. He stood by the front window, peering into the darkened glass.
His gaze shifted from the window to Bob’s sputtering and the scene disappeared.
“Dammit,” I said. “That could be evidence for the police. You shouldn’t have erased it.”
“There’s nothing there but me trying stuff that didn’t pass the FDA standard. Don’t worry about it, honey.” Bob smirked. “Like I always say, hakuna matata.”
“Bob,” said Peach. “I think animals say that. Vegetarian animals.”
“That can’t be right.”
I had a feeling Bob and Peach were one taco short of a combo plate. Each.
My hair whooshed around my face. A scream sent me spinning.
A small orange saucer flew toward the parking lot. Jeff and Mike halted their hike from the lot and followed the skeet’s trajectory before twisting back toward us.
The air whistled. I dropped to the soggy mat.
This time, a heavy thud smacked the control tower and bits of clay rained onto the cement beneath.
“Todd,” I screamed. “Get down.”
“Drop,” yelled Jeff, running forward with his rifle. “Everyone, get on the ground.”
I flattened myself. Above me, another orange disc whizzed through the air and flew toward the pavilion, crashing into a pillar.
If I hadn’t ducked, that pillar would have been my head.
Ni
neteen
“Holy shit,” wheezed Bob. He had rolled into a ball on the stall’s mat. “We’re not supposed to be shooting clay. What the hell is going on?”
I jerked up my chin and watched another teal fly from the low trap house. It zinged like a fastball pitch, flying through Bob’s stall and smashing into the control tower behind us. I glanced at Peach in the next stand. The camera lay next to her, still pointed at us, while Peach had covered her head with her hands.
“Peach, it’ll be okay,” I said. “The traps can only hold so many teals.”
“I’m getting soaked,” she complained.
Getting wet seemed the least of our worries. But she hadn’t been the one almost decapitated by a chunk of china.
A crack broke the air and more clay rained, this time before it reached the firing stands. I turned my head and saw Jeff Digby kneeling behind the stalls. With his rifle wedged into his shoulder and his cheek against the stock, he readied to blow another target out of the sky.
“Jeff, what’s going on?” I hollered.
Another disc whizzed from a tower. Jeff’s rifle tracked the orange disc and blew it to bits over the range.
“No idea. We didn’t even turn on the skeet software.” The rifle barrel trained on the next tower. “Mike, get to the breaker panel and shut this down.”
“Already on it.”
I craned my head and saw Mike running in a crouch toward the tower. I glanced over my other shoulder and saw the contestants flattened on their stall mats. Max’s cane had fallen next to his body and he was holding his knee.
Jeff’s rifle cracked.
I flinched.
The pungent smell of sulfur and hot metal mixed with the grill smoke pluming from the pavilion.
“Bear,” I hollered. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your knee?”
He raised onto a thick arm to send me a chilling look. “Do not worry about the knee, Artist. Keep your head down. Did you not notice every disc is aimed at you?”
“I’m out of here,” said Bob, army crawling out of the stall. He waited until Jeff had shot another clay pigeon to dust and hunker-ran for the pavilion.
The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 12