Priscilla’s head snapped toward me, knocking her hat back. “You bitch.”
“Sorry, sugar,” I said. “But you dropped too many hints to the Colonel about making easy money. He suspected you immediately when he heard about the scam. Your mouth runneth over.”
“And we made such a good Angels team.”
“We did, didn’t we?” I said sadly.
Cop Number Two lifted the trilby off the floor, running his fingers inside the brim. “Well, here’s some of the money,” he said, holding up folded hundreds. He deposited the money and hat into separate ziplock bags.
“Come on,” he shoved Priscilla toward the conference room. “I can search you here nicely, or you can resist and we can do it at the station which will not be so nice.”
“Are you the realtor?” I said to Luther. “Somebody has to represent Venture when you get the keys to the empty offices. And you’ve got a day job a few doors down from Venture Realty. Little Jimmy’s working in the Green Room and drafting guys to play poker. They probably don’t even know it’s a scam, do they? Just an opportunity to have a little fun at some chump’s expense.”
Luther stared at me stone faced. So unhelpful. I glanced at Byron. “Help us out. Use my sketches and point out who played poker with you at FBN.”
Cop Number One uncuffed Byron and they circled the room together. Byron tapped on the face of Elvis, then pointed at the Elf. “This was Mr. Smith.” At Chet’s picture, he hesitated.
“What the hell,” said Chet. “I’m not involved with these people. You’re trying to set me up.”
“Why’d you have Little Jimmy shred my good sketchbook?” I said.
He eyed Cop One’s notebook and pressed his lips shut.
“Don’t want to see any evidence connected to your underground business?” I looked at Byron. “Was it Chet?”
“Wasn’t Chet,” said Byron. He tapped on Fred’s picture.
“Dang,” I said. “I liked Fred. He had those cute dimples.”
“Baby.” Todd flashed me a look to remind me of his own dimples.
“How about Lucinda?” I said.
“You wish,” she said.
Priscilla and Cop Two returned from the conference room with a bag packed with such an exorbitant amount of money, it made me want to cry. Cop Two laid the bag on the cooler with the other evidence he had collected.
“I can’t believe the amount y’all are willing to risk on games.” The money in that bag would have paid off my student loans and gotten me a decent used vehicle. “Now Byron’s family is really sunk. A daddy spending Christmas in jail and not a penny to their name because of poker. I hope you learned something from this, Byron. You, too, Todd.”
“It’s not worth the risk without a big reward, baby.” Todd shrugged. “If you don’t understand, I can’t explain.”
“Come on.” Cop One shoved Priscilla, Luther, and Little Jimmy toward the exit. “There’s an escort waiting for you outside.”
“What about them?” Priscilla looked over her shoulder as she stumbled out the door behind Little Jimmy.
“I’d focus on worrying about yourself just now,” said Cop Two, guiding Priscilla out the door with a not so friendly push.
“We’ll meet again, Miss Thing,” called Priscilla over her shoulder.
“I hope so, Priscilla.” Despite her criminal inclinations, I liked Priscilla. And Eddie.
“What’s going to happen to us? I wasn’t involved in any scam,” demanded Chet. “I had no idea we were trespassing.”
Candy Cane Man sauntered from his corner observation spot to our group.
“Let him go,” he said to Cop Three. “I won’t press any charges on him or the others. I want the instigators. The Colonel, the artist, the blond guy, and the other painter.”
As Lucinda hurried past Todd, she made the international phone sign. “Call me when you get out,” she winked.
I would have said something, but I had more important considerations than jealousy. Like the fact that Todd, Byron, the Colonel, and I were cuffed and under police custody.
With the conference door still opened, blue lights flashed through the room’s open window and played a disco pattern over my drawings. A December breeze drafted in, ruffling the paint tarps.
I shivered.
“Well, what can I say?” said the Colonel, his eyes fixed on the blue lights outside. “You win some, you lose some.”
Thirteen
The Suicide King
Absorbed in our own thoughts, our small, cuffed group watched the blue lights disappear.
“You win some, you lose some.” Todd’s grin met his ears. “But I sure like winning better than losing.”
Byron laughed. “I think you had to work harder at losing than you did at winning.”
“And to think I made fun of you in high school for acting in all those school plays.” Todd slapped his back. “You can cry on cue better than a soap opera star.”
“I will never understand poker,” I said, shaking out my hands as Cop Three—also known as Marylou Draeger, Lonnie’s receptionist—pulled the handcuffs away. “Man, those cuffs are uncomfortable. I hope I never have to wear them again.”
“Really?” said Todd. “I thought I’d keep a pair and bring them to Vegas. We could have some fun…”
“Think again, smart guy,” I said, but gave him a celebratory kiss that would have the extra effect of making him forget Lucinda.
I’m a believer in killing birds with as few stones as possible.
“Byron, collect Jupiter’s stuff.” Barry tossed his hat and tie to the floor, ridding himself of the Colonel, his Heartache Motel uniform. “He’s coming back in thirty minutes to pick it up. We better get before the next shift comes on. Cherry, you need to get rid of those pencil marks. Lonnie, hurry up and count that money. We need to pay Byron and Todd back before we divvy up the rest.”
“Sure thing,” said Lonnie, the candy cane rotating around his lips. He pulled a handful of cellophane-wrapped treats from his pocket and handed one to me. “Want one?”
“Yes. Hell’s bells, I’m starving.” I looked at Barry. “I really had no idea how boring most of this night would be. We should have gotten this deal catered.”
“You are too much,” replied Barry. “I was sweating bullets as it was. I love a good thrill as much as the next guy, otherwise I wouldn’t tend bar at the Heartache. Or play poker. But this sting near gave me a stroke.”
“But you had a great idea meeting up at the Heartache, Barry. You were right about Priscilla and her crew falling for a big game. And we appreciate you doing all this for Byron.”
I hugged him, then popped the candy cane into my mouth.
“Byron, Lonnie, and I have been in the same fantasy football league since Byron moved here. Tina won’t let Byron play the tables with me at the Green Room, but we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well during our league meetings and watching the games on Sunday.”
“Yeah, thanks, Barry,” said Byron. “I owe you and Lonnie big. Y’all get my first picks in the draft this year. Thank you, too, Todd and Cherry.”
“Anything for my cousin,” said Todd.
“We were going to Vegas, anyway,” I said. “And it’s not like you have to beg Todd to play poker.”
“I didn’t know the real cops were coming,” said Barry. “I thought I would lose my lunch. No one said anything about real cops in the original plan. Lonnie and I should have known about this days ago.”
“I made a call home.” I squeezed Todd’s hand. “I know you thought real cops would scare everyone away, but the FBN scammers needed a greater punishment than just losing to you in a poker game. Uncle Will ran the pictures and sketches I faxed and collaborated with a detective in the Memphis PD. They found our charity poker tournament amusing, so we’re not in trouble.”
“Charity poker. Pretty much true,” said Lonnie, smiling. He handed Byron a candy cane. “Guess you’ll get out of the dog house yet.”
“Still
got to find a new job,” said Byron. “But yeah, my kids will have full stockings this year thanks to y’all. Mostly it feels good to get even with those bastards.”
“And I bet you’ll find that wedding ring in the Venture Realty’s office safe,” I said. “Or in the pawn shop next door.”
“You’re so smart, baby.” Todd hooked an arm around my neck and kissed my head. “We’ve still got the Blue Hawaii suite for the rest of the night. Let’s say we go back and I teach you my best poker moves.”
I thought about Priscilla’s words of wisdom on my ineptitude as a girlfriend. Even though she had no qualms about ripping off innocents at Christmas, she might have had a point when it came to relationships.
I needed to let go of my tall, dark, and dimpled past and focus on a possible future of tall, blond, and dimpled.
Todd might not be ambitious or brilliant, but he did have interesting creative pursuits like music and making bucketloads of money off folks stupid enough to bet against him. He liked living in Halo and wanted to support my art career.
And, as it turned out, he was an excellent smoocher.
“Guess we could practice a little Viva Las Vegas before the real deal,” I said, stretching on tiptoes to meet his lips. “Merry Christmas Baby.”
He broke off the kiss to pin me with a glassy, blue-eyed gaze. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
The End
And Merry Christmas!
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A One Chapter Preview of Portrait of a Dead Guy
A Cherry Tucker Mystery #1
In Halo, Georgia, folks know Cherry Tucker as big in mouth, small in stature, and able to sketch a portrait faster than buckshot rips from a ten gauge — but commissions are scarce. So when the well-heeled Branson family wants to memorialize their murdered son in a coffin portrait, Cherry scrambles to win their patronage from her small town rival. As the clock ticks toward the deadline, Cherry faces more trouble than just a controversial subject. Between ex-boyfriends, her flaky family, an illegal gambling ring, and outwitting a killer on a spree, Cherry finds herself painted into a corner she’ll be lucky to survive.
* Winner of the Dixie Kane Memorial Award * Nominated for the Daphne du Maurier Award and the Emily Award *
One
In a small town, there is a thin gray line between personal freedom and public ruin. Everyone knows your business without even trying. Folks act polite all the while remembering every stupid thing you’ve done in your life. Not to mention getting tied to all the dumbass stuff your relations — even those dead or gone — have done. We forgive but don’t forget.
I thought the name Cherry Tucker carried some respectability as an artist in my hometown of Halo. I actually chose to live in rural Georgia. I could have sought a loft apartment in Atlanta where people appreciate your talent to paint nudes in classical poses, but I like my town and most of the three thousand or so people that live in it. Even though most of Halo wouldn’t know a Picasso from a plate of spaghetti. Still, it’s a nice town full of nice people and a lot cheaper to live in than Atlanta.
Halo citizens might buy their living room art from the guy who hawks motel overstock in front of the Winn-Dixie, but they also love personalized mementos. Portraits of their kids and their dogs, architectural photos of their homes and gardens, poster“-size photos of their trips to Daytona and Disney World. God bless them. That’s my specialty, portraits. But at this point, I’d paint the side of a barn to make some money. I’m this close from working the night shift at the Waffle House. And if I had to wear one of those starchy, brown uniforms day after day, a little part of my soul would die.
Actually a big part of my soul would die, because I’d shoot myself first.
When I heard the highfalutin Bransons wanted to commission a portrait of Dustin, their recently deceased thug son, I hightailed it to Cooper’s Funeral Home. I assumed they hadn’t called me for the commission yet because the shock of Dustin’s murder rendered them senseless. After all, what kind of crazy called for a portrait of their murdered boy? But then, important members of a small community could get away with little eccentricities. I was in no position to judge. I needed the money.
After Dustin’s death made the paper three days ago, there’d been a lot of teeth sucking and head shaking in town, but no surprise at Dustin’s untimely demise from questionable circumstances. It was going to be that or the State Pen. Dustin had been a criminal in the making for twenty-seven years.
Not that I’d share my observations with the Bransons. Good customer service is important for starving artists if we want to get over that whole starving thing.
As if to remind me, my stomach responded with a sound similar to a lawnmower hitting a chunk of wood. Luckily, the metallic knocking in the long-suffering Datsun engine of my pickup drowned out the hunger rumblings of my tummy. My poor truck shuddered into Cooper’s Funeral Home parking lot in a flurry of flaking yellow paint, jerking and gasping in what sounded like a death rattle. However, I needed her to hang on. After a couple big commissions, hopefully the Datsun could go to the big junkyard in the sky. My little yellow workhorse deserved to rest in peace.
I entered the Victorian monstrosity that is Cooper’s, leaving my portfolio case in the truck. I made a quick scan of the lobby and headed toward the first viewing room on the right. A sizable group of Bransons huddled in a corner. Sporadic groupin
gs of flower arrangements sat around the narrow room, though the viewing didn’t actually start until tomorrow.
A plump woman in her early fifties, hair colored and highlighted sunshine blonde, spun around in kitten heel mules and pulled me into her considerable soft chest. Wanda Branson, stepmother to the deceased, was a hugger. As a kid, I spent many a Sunday School smothered in Miss Wanda’s loving arms.
“Cherry!” She rocked me into a deeper hug. “What are you doing here? It’s so nice to see you. You can’t believe how hard these past few days have been for us.”
Wanda began sobbing. I continued to rock with her, patting her back while I eased my face out of the ample bosom.
“I’m glad I can help.” The turquoise and salmon print silk top muffled my voice. I extricated myself and patted her arm. “It was a shock to hear about Dustin’s passing. I remember him from high school.”
I remembered him, all right. I remembered hiding from the already notorious Dustin as a freshman and all through high school. Of course, that’s water under the bridge now, since he’s dead and all.
“It’s so sweet of you to come.”
“Now Miss Wanda, why don’t we find you a place to sit? You tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll take notes. How about the lobby? There are some chairs out there. Or outside? It’s a beautiful morning and the fresh air might be nice.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Wanda. “Tell you what I want?”
A Christmas Quick Sketch Page 8