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

by Larissa Reinhart

  “You called it.” Todd glanced at me, and I tapped my finger against my lips to keep him from continuing.

  “She called what? This artist is some diviner?” Viktor leaned around Mike to serve me a vicious glare. “Why can she boss around the outfitters like the police? She’s not the police.”

  “Diviner? Cherry does like to eat,” said Todd. “But I meant she said someone else was going to die.”

  “Thank you, Todd,” I mumbled. “So, so helpful.”

  Mike dropped his hand and jerked around to face me. “You thought someone was going to die?”

  I blew a loud sigh through my nose. “This weekend feels jinxed, is all. With everyone on edge and Lesley skulking around, I feared he might get accidentally shot.”

  “How did you know this Lesley is creeping around the woods?” Viktor’s flashlight beam caught me full in the face.

  I blinked back the spots. “We caught him sneaking into the preserve last night. Then Todd and I saw him after we left the deer stand.”

  “You followed this Lesley? This is why you left the utility vehicle in forest? You lied.”

  I raised my hand to block the beam. “I wanted to see what Lesley was doing. I thought he was behind the pranks back at the lodge and I was worried what else he may do.”

  “And you did not tell us this?” Viktor’s flashlight beam swung to Mike Neeley. “I suspect this woman of cutting tires. She also abandons the utility vehicle and chases this man. Who is now dead. And she finds the other dead man. Who died in the same way.”

  Evidently I wasn’t the only one to draw comparisons between Abel and Lesley.

  “What are you getting at?” Mike shoved the flashlight away.

  The beam of light smacked me dead-on in the face. “I find this woman much suspicious.”

  “She does get pretty suspicious,” said Todd. “She’s been real suspicious of Lesley, poor guy. And of what happened to Mr. Abel.”

  “Abel Spencer’s death was an accident,” said Mike.

  “Maybe for one lil minute, y’all want to focus on the dead man lying at the bottom of this hill and not on me?” I stepped toward Viktor and swatted his flashlight. “Point your beam on the forest floor and see if there are any footprints that haven’t been washed out by the rain or trampled by the Cherry Inquisition.”

  “You are not police.” Viktor flipped the beam back toward my face. “Mike Neeley, place this woman under house arrest. If she is chasing this man in woods, maybe that is why he fell. And who else could slash the tires?”

  “Miss Tucker, maybe we should take you back to the bunkhouse. Just stay there until we get some of this figured out,” said Mike. “I still can’t get Jeff Digby on the walkie and Avtaikin’s team is stuck at his deer stand. I need to think. This feud between you and Viktor isn’t helping.”

  “I’m not the one trying to feud,” I gasped. “Todd’s been with me the whole time. Ask him. We didn’t chase Lesley, we followed him. Lesley didn’t even know we were tracking him. I don’t think. And I didn’t slash those tires or do any of those other things.”

  “No sign on peacock coop?” sneered Viktor. “Artists have paint.”

  “Viktor, you are slandering my very name.”

  “I know who is your sponsor, artist. Max Avtaikin. The Bear. You are the associate of the known criminal. He worked for the casino boss. I was cook at the same casino restaurant. You think I do not know what he does?”

  “Dammit, I don’t even know what the Bear does.”

  “Calm down.” Mike waved his hands. “Cherry, go on back to the bunkhouse. Viktor, go with her.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I said. “I’m liable to find myself at the bottom of a ditch with my neck broke.”

  “If I want to break your neck, I would not do it without an alibi.”

  “That’s comforting.” I snatched Todd’s hand. “I’m bringing Todd.”

  “Actually, we might need Todd,” said Mike. “With Lil Joe back at the bunkhouse with LaToya and Rick, I could use him. Todd’s got some heft and we may need it to move Lesley.”

  “Do not mess with the crime scene,” I cried. “It’s a suspicious death until the police rule it an accident.”

  “Cherry.” Mike sighed. “The poor man deserves to be hauled out of that gully before the water carries him away or buries him. I’m sure this is real upsetting, seeing two accidents in one weekend. Unfortunately, coincidences happen.”

  But coincidences were something I found difficult to believe. I struggled to grasp, let alone assume, that two men were fated to fall to their death in the same area, on the same weekend, and in the same company.

  I made Mike promise to radio the police upon reaching the cabin, then insisted on Buckshot’s accompaniment. As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, I refused to speak to Viktor on the long, rain-soaked hike back. I liked to think Max had reformed his ways, but I sure as hell didn’t trust his past associates to have settled old scores.

  Viktor had just written his name on my shit list in indelible ink.

  The bunkhouse should have been cozy and comforting after the raw, wet woods. A fire hissed and sparked in the stone fireplace. A small Christmas tree blinked. The antler clock ticked, proving my stomach right in thinking the time was near dinner. However, I felt anything but comfortable.

  LaToya kept her eyes on a book. Lil Joe entertained himself by tossing trash into the fire. Rick, I assumed, still slept in the second bedroom. Viktor, having returned to the small kitchen, occasionally shot me malicious looks as Buckshot and I prowled the area near the front door.

  Could Lesley have slashed the tires before his accident? The steep hillside where we had found him wasn’t far from the bunkhouse. In different weather, it would have been a pleasant walk.

  Was it an accident? That question nagged me more than the first. What would have caused him to tumble over that ridge? Lesley’s spill made more sense than Abel’s. Heavy rain, slippery conditions, unknown territory. The ridge wasn’t far from the bunkhouse if he was spying on us. But why did Abel wander off a path known to him since childhood? I hadn’t gotten any closer to learning the truth. I hoped Rookie Holt had found something.

  I almost wished I had never seen that spot of blue.

  “Artist, sit or go in bedroom,” called Viktor. “You are driving peoples crazy with the pacing.”

  I snatched my coat, more comfortable with the wet and cold outside than the chill I felt from the guests indoors. Buckshot pawed the door, ready to accompany me.

  “You cannot leave,” said Viktor. “We do not trust you where we can’t see you.”

  My face flamed. “I’m going to wait on the porch. If I do something suspicious, I’m sure Buckshot will alert you.”

  Outside, the rain had subsided, but the damp and dark still seeped beneath my layers. Buckshot bounded off the steps, then slunk back to the drier confines of the porch. Smoke from the bunkhouse fire hung heavy, reminding me of past campfires. Back at Savannah College of Art and Design, I had often joined friends for bonfires on nearby Tybee Island.

  There had been a night like this in late fall. Windy, cold, and damp with the mist from the ocean. Someone had introduced me to a tall, dark, and gray-eyed criminal justice major from Southern. He had a girl hanging on his arm, some idiot who had worn a bikini top with her jeans but refused to put on a sweatshirt. We had ditched her behind the pylons at Tybee’s pier and walked the length of the beach before heading back to his truck for romance that didn’t include angry turtles or sand fleas.

  After coming up for air, Luke had brushed the hair from my cheek, twining a cornsilk strand between his fingers. “I remember you from high school. You were a freshman or sophomore when I graduated.”

  I ran a hand up his arm and toyed with the string from his hoodie. “I know. You’re Luke Branson.”

  “I’m no Branson. I didn�
��t take his name when he married my mom. My dad fought in Iraq.” The fingers released the strand.

  “That suits me fine,” I said. “Because as much as I’m enjoying this night, I couldn’t date a Branson.”

  “Who said anything about dating?” His low voice teased and he lowered his head to my earlobe. “And if you’re so against dating Bransons, how’d you end up in my truck?”

  “Poor judgment after too many beers.” I sucked in a breath and held it until his mouth had moved from my ear to my neck. “I liked talking to you. I had previously thought all Bransons self-involved and self-serving.”

  His lips moved slowly, following the curve from my chin to shoulder. “I told you I’m not a Branson. Besides, Ballards have a reputation too. I always heard y’all were easy to sweet talk into trucks.”

  I jerked upright, popping him in the nose with my shoulder, and slid off his lap. The chuckling behind the hands holding his nose irritated me even more than his words.

  “I’ll tell you something, high and mighty Luke ‘I’m-no-Branson.’ If you think all it takes is some lively conversation and good looks to charm your way into my pants, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  The hands had dropped from his nose and I was pleased to see a smear of blood on his finger. “Lighten up, sugar. If I was looking to score that easy, I wouldn’t have ditched Dee back at the pier. I’m just showing you why you shouldn’t judge someone by their name.”

  The memory faded.

  Now that I was older and a bit wiser, I wondered if Luke and I had hooked up just to prove that statement true. If that was the case, I hadn’t done well in proving him wrong about the questionable moral standards of my family name.

  But at least we were ethical.

  That these people believed I would slash a vehicle’s tires for no apparent reason ticked me off to no end. Couldn’t they tell the difference between a curious, albeit willful, gal asking pertinent questions and someone with malicious intent to scare and possibly harm folks?

  I halted my front porch pacing, causing Buckshot to perk her ears and raise her head. Why would someone want to flatten all the tires on the Gator? If it was Lesley trying to prevent hunters from getting to their blinds, wasn’t there a simpler method?

  Pulling the flashlight from my coat pocket, I hopped from the porch to the Gator. I squatted before the first flat tire, beaming the flashlight over the slick rubber. No cut appeared in the sidewall. Surprised, I held the flashlight against my knee to catch my balance. Tread would be much harder to cut. Why go to the trouble and not just do some other stupid act?

  Reluctant to stand and expose myself to more chill, I gazed at the mud-splattered rim for a long second. I moved the flashlight beam to circle the metal rim. Pulling my left hand from my coat pocket, I felt along the wide lip, closest to the tire, until my fingers touched the rough edge of a rubbery protrusion.

  “He cut the valve core.” Startled by my own words, I dropped the flashlight.

  Buckshot yipped and rushed to save me, knocking the flashlight under the Gator. The beam illuminated a rocky puddle beneath the tire. Dead set in the circle of light lay the jagged remains of the tire valve. An efficient means to quickly flatten a tire. The tire-cutting idiots I had known in my youth generally tried a puncture in the sidewall. Usually in revenge against an ex who had gone looking for love in the wrong places.

  I grabbed the flashlight, received a face lick for my efforts, and used the side of the Gator to hoist my stiffening legs to standing. Bending to pet Buckshot, I murmured praise for finding the tire valve while my mind worked on a motive. This tire cutting didn’t seem like a mere act of vandalism. More of a means to hamper our transportation back to the lodge. Which made no sense, since Lesley would want us out of the woods. Not trapped in the forest.

  Maybe cutting the tire valves was meant to trap us at the bunkhouse.

  Maybe whoever had cut the tire valves wasn’t Lesley.

  I shivered.

  Buckshot pawed at my jeans, craving more comfort.

  “Lesley had denied his involvement in any of the lodge pranks,” I told Buckshot. “Maybe he was telling the truth.”

  The pranks took a sinister turn in my mind. Was someone else out in the woods with us or had one of the hunters or guides turned on the party?

  I started toward the porch steps and halted. In my peripheral, I thought I saw a light flicker.

  Turning to face the drive, I squinted past the ring of light streaming from the porch. The flicker had glinted in the timber northwest of the bunkhouse, the opposite direction from where the party rescued poor Lesley’s body. The wall of trees loomed in the thick gloom, concealing what lay beyond our small bastion of civilization.

  Buckshot’s ears flattened. Drawing back on her haunches, she pulled her head back and uttered a low growl.

  Another light flickered in the murky depths of the forest. I dashed for the porch with Buckshot on my heels. Cracking the door, I felt for the light switch. Inside, a barrage of “heys” rang out as I hit the wrong switch. Correcting my mistake, I cut the lights to the porch. The Christmas lights lit the rafters but left the porch floor in darkness.

  At my feet, Buckshot tucked her tail, snarling.

  I squatted to stroke her and squinted into the dark.

  The solar-powered security lights offered a dim glow onto the drive. The starless sky shrank, binding the bunkhouse and surrounding forest in the cold, damp skin of early winter.

  The flickering light had disappeared. Other than the hum of the bunkhouse generator, the forest sounds had stilled. Inside, I could hear the clink and rattle of bowls and imagined the tick of the antler clock, hammering long minutes. I tuned my ears to the dark, hoping to hear a Gator.

  Instead, the dark projected a dull thudding accompanied by the soft squelch of footsteps. Quickly drowned out by Buckshot’s deafening bark.

  Twenty-Five

  I’m not normally spooked by what my deceased Granny Jo called the boogerman. I relished Flashlight Tag and Ghost in the Graveyard and never needed a nightlight to sleep. However, these malicious pranks and deadly accidents made me hesitant to expose myself, not only to some evil trickster, but also to a thousand-pound hog with tusks the size of my leg.

  My first thought was to grab a gun from inside the bunkhouse, but Viktor would try to stop me. It would also rile the hunters into action. And something other than a monster hog might get shot. Like poor Buckshot.

  Safety first, as Uncle Will always said.

  Whatever crept toward the bunkhouse approached slowly. I continued to squint and squat on the dark porch, avoiding the light pouring out the windows where I could see the small crew enjoying Viktor’s soup. Someone had thrown new logs on the fire and the smoke billowed from the chimney, luring night travelers toward our small beacon in the woods.

  Buckshot had calmed.

  I stroked her and murmured happier thoughts. We huddled and watched the dark for a good ten minutes when light bobbed along the rutted drive.

  The indistinct form seemed to clump, then break. I wasn’t sure if I saw it with my eyes or my imagination. Strains of a familiar brassy whine caused me to pop from my squat. Buckshot burst off the porch, baying. I ran after her, sloshing through the drive.

  “Where is everybody?” hollered Bob Bass, beaming his flashlight on me. He wore two rifle packs slung over each shoulder and his fleece collar had grown dingy and matted.

  Buckshot danced a circle around the group, panting and stopping before each newcomer in turn.

  “Man, what a night.” Jeff Digby carried a large duffle with his rifle pack. Setting the duffle on the ground, he gave Buckshot a quick ear scratch. However, the grim set to his features betrayed a chink in his stoic armor.

  “Where’s your Gator? Mike’s been trying to reach you.” I left the latest emergency for a later discussion. “I was on the po
rch and heard you coming.”

  Looking more bedraggled than a wet cat, Peach trudged behind Bob. In the beam of my flashlight, her back bowed with the weight of her pack, and I reached to take it from her. She clamped a hand on the strap. “I’ve got it, thanks.”

  “You look exhausted,” I said. “Let me help you.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Here you go.” Bob shoved the two rifle packs at me, took Peach’s arm, and hurried her toward the bunkhouse.

  Buckshot yapped and trotted after them.

  While I hoisted the heavy packs over my shoulders, Jeff watched the pair escape. “We tried to get to Team Three, but a tree had fallen, blocking the easiest route there. Tried another way to get through and got stuck. Ended up leaving the Gator for now. Bass pitched a fit, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “What happened to your walkie?” Another tendril of worry unfurled within me.

  “Damnedest thing. I thought I had left it in the Gator while we got out to move that fallen tree. Couldn’t find it when we got back. Hunted around by the tree, but it was too dark to find my own feet, let alone anything else. Plus Bass was bellowing to get moving.”

  “Someone took it from the Gator?”

  “Took it? This isn’t the city. You think a raccoon’s gonna want a walkie-talkie?”

  “Somebody’s up to something.” I explained the tire valve cutting and Lesley’s fall.

  Jeff uttered a few curses, apologized, then cursed more. “Damn fool. I told him it was too dangerous to hike around in these woods.”

  He stared at the bunkhouse. “Mike’s gotta be beside himself. Did he radio the lodge to tell the sheriff’s department? It’d take them a good while in this weather. Not until tomorrow at least, and it smells like we’ll get more rain. Damn forest is clogged in mud. No one wants to hunt in this shit.” He expelled more curses. “Pardon, ma’am. I should have talked Mike out of this hunt, lodge be damned.”