Four minutes later, I held a delicate china cup and no fix on the real Mr. Tinsley. “Good cup of joe. Thank you.”
He gave a small bow. “The extra effort is worth it, don’t you think? I feel the same way about my little theater projects.”
I had a feeling his theater projects weren’t little.
Circling the desk, he sank into a leather office chair cranked to its fullest height. Either that or someone had sawed the legs off my chair and his desk.
He beamed at me from his perch. “Let me explain why I want to take you on as art director, even with your limited qualifications.”
I masked the gust of air I blew out as a cough.
“I do nothing halfway and I always do my research.” He leaned forward, pressing the tips of his fingers on the desk. “You, Cherry Tucker, have been in the local press several times in the past six months. Stories reporting you consorting with malefactors and pursuing criminals.”
“Those reports are highly exaggerated. The Halo Herald lacks real news, so anything printed leans toward sensationalism.”
“No matter.” He waved his pinky ring. “My point is this. Your combination of visionary artworks and courage under fire has piqued my interest. Your friendship with Max Avtaikin as well. I suppose you have heard of these references on Tinsley Talks?”
“Tinsley Talks?”
“My small blog where I have referred to the surprisingly fresh talent emerging from the murky depths of the humble burg called Halo. But now you understand why I called on your assistance?”
“Not really.”
“It’s simple.” He sighed. “First, my production of Romeo and Juliet will not be of the gauche amateurish melodrama usually portrayed in high schools. I’m thinking a musical comedy version. Like a Glee meets Avatar. Except underwater. The Capulets are blue humanoid sea creatures and the Montagues are the aquanauts. In retro-scuba dress.”
I tried to remember to blink. “Retro-scuba dress?”
He stroked his goatee. “You are right, of course. Difficult for dance numbers. I may have to rethink that. Anyway, you can see why I need an unconventional artist for the groundbreaking scenery. I can’t rent what I want for this production. It needs to be original. I want the Tiny Tony.”
“Tiny Tony?”
“High school theater version of the Tony. The pinnacle of awards.”
My intelligence seemed to diminish the more time I spent in this school. Maybe I needed to get out of my humble burg more often.
“Second,” he said, “your name is often linked to Max Avtaikin. I would like his support.”
“If you mean you want him to help fund your theater, I’m telling you up front, I can’t persuade Mr. Max to do anything. He’s got a foreign view of things that I don’t understand.”
“You can introduce us. Invite him to the production. He’ll be impressed.” Tinsley left his chair and began to pace. “Tell him the contribution is tax deductible.”
I couldn’t promise anything on Max’s behalf, so I figured it safe to keep my mouth shut.
Tinsley stood facing the bookshelves with his hands clasped behind him, head bowed. “The third reason has to do with your vigilante spirit. Your willingness to disregard rational thought and safety in the face of danger.”
“Excuse me for saying so, sir, but I use rational thought. And I’ve been schooled in safety by my uncle, the sheriff. I’m not a vigilante. I just have the wrong place, wrong time kind of luck and a strong sense of justice.”
“Call it what you will.”
“I’ll call it stepping up to the plate and doing the right thing.”
Tinsley turned to face me, his dark eyes somber. “Then I need you to do the right thing by me.”
“By painting your alien underwater scenery?”
“By protecting me. I think someone’s going to kill me.”
Were all art patrons this crazy or just the ones who wanted to hire me?
Six
I rehinged my jaw and spun in my seat so Tinsley couldn’t catch site of my reaction. That reality show crew must be hiding. Someone’s going to jump out and surprise me, I thought. No way is this guy for real.
No one jumped out to surprise me.
I sought a different explanation. And prayed it didn’t result in finding out Tinsley was off his meds. Painting underwater alien scenery sounded fun. Protecting a crazy man from paranoid delusions, not so much.
“Mr. Tinsley, why do you think someone is trying to kill you?”
He left the bookshelf to do another circuit of the room, plodding the soft carpet with his hands behind his back and glasses pointing toward the ceiling. “Metaphorically trying to kill me. Kill my career. Which is the essence of me. However, my physical body might join the metaphorical if I am left in ruin.”
I squeezed the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index. Didn’t help to stop my head from spinning. “Sir, what do you mean?”
“They’ve been torturing me the past two weeks. The evil texter. Why do you think I chose that particular scene in the office? Beneath the bowels of this school, some sinister fiend is at work on his computer cum pipe organ. I am his Carlotta.”
My face must have expressed my what-in-the-hell-are-you-talking-about thoughts.
“Have you never seen the Phantom of the Opera?”
When I shook my head, he waved off my ignorance. “No matter. This is the second year in a row that our school has been besieged by a social media hit man. Or woman. Last year, it affected a few students and an unpopular teacher. This year more of the faculty and staff have taken the brunt.”
“What do the messages say? Can’t they be traced?”
“Not yet.” Tinsley stopped in front of the mirror to watch himself stroke his goatee. “It is my belief that Maranda Pringle was a victim of poisonous messages hinting at her illicit doings. The police have confiscated her computer and all her electronic equipment.”
“No shit?” I fell back in my chair. “I mean, really? So she was cyberbullied. I’ll be damned. She didn’t sound the type.”
“You see the seriousness of the situation. I heard she took her life last Friday night and lay in her apartment all weekend. They didn’t find her body until this morning when Cleveland stopped by, hoping to give her a ride to school. Pathetic.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I mean Cleveland wanting to take her to school, not that Maranda was dead. Cleveland was constantly hounding Maranda like a lovesick basset hound.”
“So you’ve been a victim of this texter, too.” I ignored his digs at the principal. “That’s why you’re worried about the messages killing your career.”
I knew exactly how that felt as Shawna Branson had tried some of that poison on me. I wondered what skeletons the texter had dug from Tinsley’s closet. But, like in my case, even an innocent mistake could be twisted to appear ugly.
Tinsley gave up the distressed pacer affectation and collapsed back into his chair. “The texts,” he moaned. “The texts are torturing us all. Maranda’s must have been a doozy.”
My heart went out to Tinsley and the other Peerless teachers. No matter how odd Tinsley acted, he didn’t deserve this stress.
And no matter how mean or immoral Maranda Pringle had been in her life, she didn’t deserve to be driven to suicide by a vicious prankster.
“So the police have been notified?” I made a quick mental note to question Uncle Will and Luke again.
“The police hadn’t been notified about the texts. The administration took it as some cruel prank and told us to ignore them. But with Maranda’s death, the police are now involved.”
“Good.” I nodded. “The cops’ll trace the bugger.”
“But these things take time.” Tinsley leaned forward. “I need you now.”
“I d
on’t understand what you want me to do. I don’t know anything about electronics. I’m a classical artist. I didn’t even take a Photoshop class in school. I use my hands for art, not a mouse.”
Tinsley steepled his hands before his mouth once again, practicing the full dramatic pause. “You can observe.”
“Observe what?”
“As an artist, I trust you have strong visual instincts. The perpetrator is obviously someone jealous of my success. You’re also an outsider without preconceived ideas about the students, staff, or parents. You have experience with felons.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘experience with felons.’”
“Miss Tucker, you are the perfect person to find the phantom texter.” He opened a desk drawer and fished out another envelope. Smoothing the paper on his desk blotter, he pushed it toward me. “I’ll add a personal check. To express my gratitude.”
My eyes drew from the envelope to Tinsley’s face, this time looking past the smug set of his lips to the dark bags beneath his eyes, the grooved lines, and the weariness he hid behind the theatrical bullshit. He felt hunted.
A voice from an overhead speaker announced the faculty meeting in five minutes and ordered all students and non-staff to leave the premises.
“Hell, I’ll do it. I don’t like bullies. Particularly ones who hide behind a screen to take potshots at their victims.” I fingered the check and pushed to my feet.
He made a little bow. “Thank you. Auditions are Wednesday, but we’ll start work on the show tomorrow. I’ll see you have your clearance. I’ll speak to Cleveland after the faculty meeting. He’s amenable to my needs.”
“I look forward to working on the scenery. But there’s no guarantee I can help you find your phantom texter.” My wallet cried as I slid the envelope across the desk toward him. “Hold on to this. If I figure this deal out, you can still thank me. A starving artist appreciates any dollar she can make, but I don’t take money unless I earn it.”
Seven
As Max’s name had come up in my conversation with Tinsley, I figured he deserved to know that Tinsley had set his funding sites on the Bear’s wealth. A month ago, Max had blown out his knee. Since that time he never left his house, making him easy to track down. Once again, I hopped into the Datsun, cranked her windows down, and cut on her engine, pointing her grill toward Halo. Outside my hometown, Max lived on his own mini estate, dressed in the antebellum garb of Corinthian pillars, upper and lower verandas, and a modern cooling and heating system.
You could tell by his name, but Maksim Avtaikin a.k.a. the Bear, was not born and raised wrapped in Stars and Bars bunting. He found his way to the land of low property tax and high temperatures by way of Eastern Europe and a love for the history of the War Between the States. He also had a love for gambling, particularly the illegal kind, which got him into a spot of trouble in the past. The trouble mainly caused by yours truly. But we were past all that now.
For the most part.
I drove through his gate and up the drive to park near his Civil War cannon, part of the Bear’s Ol’ Rebel collection. Hopping out of the truck, I took the porch stairs two at a time and rang the bell. After a beat or two, the door opened and I was greeted by my sister, Casey.
Her long, brown hair hung in loose waves down her back and her thin lips quirked into a smile. She drew an arm back, welcoming me into the house that was not hers. “I thought you already had your sick visit with Mr. Max today. Are you into masochism now?”
I gave her a hug and took a second to take in her outfit. Black leggings, boots, and a black tee under a black leather lace-up vest. “No, but maybe Nik is. You got a whip that goes with this ensemble?”
“My husband doesn’t need a whip from me. He gets enough from Mr. Max.” She shut the door to lean against it. “I appreciate Max letting us stay here in exchange for helping him through his recovery, but man, is he crabby. I don’t know how much more we can take.”
I feared that meant Casey and Nik moving back in with me. And I already had a roommate. “Let me see what I can do. As patients go, grown men are worse than children. How’s Nik’s job search going?”
“Cody’s trying to get him on at JB’s dealership garage. Nik has an interview at a service station in Line Creek today. Actually it’s good you’re here. I’ve got to get ready for work. I’ll leave the babysitting to you.”
She waved at the stairway curling toward the second level and clomped her boots across the marble foyer. “Mr. Max’s still in his bedroom. I’ve got a plate for him in the fridge. He wouldn’t take it earlier.”
“Thanks.” I watched her open the door to the basement and disappear down the stairs, heading to the pool house where she and Nik now squatted. Nik shared the same motherland as Max, but Nik had immigrated to the land of opportunity with less money in his pockets. After a bout of indentured servitude to his immigration lawyer, he had met Casey and they eloped a few days later. He obtained his green card when Casey swapped the Tucker name for Ivanov. Now she supported him on her salary of tips from Red’s County Line Tap. These were the kinds of relationships that coursed through the Tucker bloodline.
And folks wondered why I hadn’t settled down yet.
I crossed the foyer, through a familiar route to the kitchen in the back of the house. The granite and stainless gleamed under Casey’s care, although the espresso machine had been shoved aside for her set of cast iron-ware. I found a bowl of ham and beans in the fridge and a hunk of cornbread wrapped in plastic on the granite countertop. I popped the ham and beans into a microwave that cost more than my entire set of kitchen appliances. After another poke through the fridge, I emerged with a glass of tea and found a tray to carry the lot to the invalid.
The salt and savory aroma of the ham and beans had my stomach crying all the way up the grand staircase and down the hall to Max’s bedroom suite. I knocked on the outer door, adjusted the tray, and popped into the little sitting alcove.
I glanced up at the portrait I had painted of the deceased Dustin Branson, hanging on the wall above a small loveseat. I’d gotten lucky that the Bear admired the work because in hindsight the composition had been a teensy creepy. Max had known Dustin in life and now had a daily view of the hooligan in death. Max said he liked the brushwork and perspective, but I think he used “Dustin” as a reminder of his past transgressions. I wanted to believe that anyway.
I knocked on the Bear’s bedroom door and heard his grunt of welcome. With the tray balanced against my hip, I pushed open the door and blinked into the gloomy interior. The ham and beans aroma mixed with the scents of wood polish, leather, and the spicy sandalwood of Max’s cologne.
“I’ve got you some dinner,” I called.
“I don’t want this food,” said the growl from the far corner of the room. “You eat it. I hear your noisy stomach from here.”
I found the overhead light and found him sitting at a small desk by a window, his focus on a laptop screen. Swaddled in a black robe and gray sweatpants, the big man hunkered at the edge of his armchair in order to lean over the tiny desk.
One long, heavy leg lay immobilized in a brace and propped on a footstool with pillows.
“You sure are living up to your nickname today. Stop being such a baby. Casey shows her love with food. Many people with knee surgery have a better attitude.”
“I’d have better attitudes if your sister would leave me alone. I have the work to do.” Shifting in his chair, Max angled his head back toward me. “I eat her food, I’ll get fat from sitting all day. Please, eat.”
I crossed the room and slid the tray on a dresser. “Have you been doing your physical therapy? You need to get out of the house. If you’re not steady enough on your crutches, use the wheelchair.”
The look he gave me almost put me off the ham and beans. I broke off a hunk of cornbread and offered it to him. He shook his head, a
nd I sank my teeth into the moist, salty sweet bread.
“You are missing somethin’ special,” I mumbled between bites of cornbread. “When you’re sick you want familiar comfort food.”
“I am not sick. I am frustrated with the lack of mobility. And I don’t want anyone to see me like this. The Bear can not appear weak.” Max pushed a hand through the thick, brown hair that nearly brushed the collar of his robe. A lock flopped over his forehead, hiding the small scar above his left eyebrow. “Weren’t you just here? Why are you bothering me again?”
“I’m just checking on you because that’s what friends do when one is sick. Or frustrated.” I licked the spoon, then dove it into the bowl for a bigger taste. “And I need to deliver a message.”
“What is this message? Who gave it to you?” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. The small chair creaked in pain.
“It is from the drama teacher at Peerless Day Academy, Mr. Tinsley. He has his sights set on your coffers. Although from the look of the school, they already have plenty of money.” I ate another spoonful of beans and considered Tinsley’s request. “Anyway, he wanted me to ask you. I’ve asked you.”
“I need more information. If he wants the charitable contribution, my accountant must investigate to be certain we can get the tax credits. I must be careful of the audit.”
I shrugged. “He has a blog. Does that help? Tinsley Talks. Can you pull it up on your laptop? I want to check it out.”
“Unless he publicizes his accounts, this blog doesn’t help me. But for you, I will examine it.” Max watched me lick the spoon. “Why are you involved with the drama teacher?”
“I’m not involved. I’m going to do some art work for his production.” I paused to grin. “And he wants me to hunt down a heinous texter who is harassing the faculty.” I explained Mr. Tinsley’s worries and the death of Maranda Pringle.
DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE Page 5