A Christmas Quick Sketch Read online

  Contents

  Books by Larissa Reinhart

  Foreword

  1. Once Upon a Few Months Before a Notorious Coffin Portrait…

  2. The Trigger

  3. The Door Card

  4. The Angle

  5. The Action Card

  6. The Slowroll

  7. The Catch

  8. The Idiot End

  9. The One-Eyed Jack

  10. The Dark Tunnel Bluff

  11. The Fade

  12. The Dead Hand

  13. The Suicide King

  Larissa’s Gift to You!

  A One Chapter Preview of Portrait of a Dead Guy

  A Two Chapter Preview of 15 Minutes

  A Sneak Peek of The Cupid Caper

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A Christmas Quick Sketch

  A Cherry Tucker Mystery Prequel

  Larissa Reinhart

  Books by Larissa Reinhart

  A Cherry Tucker Mystery Series

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY (#1)

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW (#2)

  HIJACK IN ABSTRACT (#3)

  DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (#4)

  THE BODY IN THE LANDSCAPE (#5)

  A VIEW TO A CHILL (#6)

  A COMPOSITION IN MURDER (#7)

  Novellas

  A CHRISTMAS QUICK SKETCH (prequel)

  THE VIGILANTE VIGNETTE (#4.5)

  A MOTHERLODE OF TROUBLE (2020)

  Audio

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW

  Box Set

  CHERRY TUCKER MYSTERIES 1-3

  Maizie Albright Star Detective Series

  15 MINUTES

  16 MILLIMETERS

  A VIEW TO A CHILL

  NC-17

  17.5 CARTRIDGES IN A PEAR TREE (novella)

  18 CALIBER (2020)

  19 CRIMES (2020/21)

  Box Set

  #WANNABEDETECTIVE, MAIZIE ALBRIGHT 1-3

  A Finley Goodhart Crime Caper Series

  PIG’N A POKE (prequel, short story)

  THE CUPID CAPER

  THE PONY PREDICAMENT (2020)

  THE HEIR AFFAIR (2021)

  Foreword

  On Writing Quick Sketch

  Although QUICK SKETCH is a prequel to PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY, the first in my Cherry Tucker Mysteries, I actually wrote it between my third and fourth mysteries. At the time, I was chatting (horsing around) with two of my Henery Press writer friends, Terri L. Austin and LynDee Walker, about how much fun it would be to put our three amateur sleuths together. Because our characters lived in Kansas City, Missouri; Richmond, Virginia; and Halo, Georgia, it felt quite a feat to get them together. That’s how Memphis evolved. It would seem all the characters would have a reason to visit Graceland and we took that idea to our editor. To date, it’s the only time Cherry Tucker (fictionally) leaves Georgia in one of my novels.

  We didn’t realize that although our characters would all stay at the same hotel, they would never meet. However, we had a great time coming up with all the drag queens who would work at the notorious Heartache Motel, the eponymous name for the anthology where our stories appeared.

  For my part, I wanted to write a sting rather than a straight-up mystery. I’ve always loved con artist stories and a seedy motel like the Heartache seemed the perfect place for a long con. THE STING and PAPER MOON were two of my favorite movies as a kid.

  The con that Byron fell for was actually based on a real scam. When I first wrote this story my editor couldn’t believe it. Which goes to show you, truth is stranger than fiction!

  Years later I would take my love of con artist stories and create a new character, Finley Goodhart. I’m including an excerpt of her first book, THE CUPID CAPER, at the end of this one, as well as the preview for Cherry Tucker’s first mystery, PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY.

  And if you’d like to have Finley Goodhart’s prequel, the short story PIG’N A POKE, it’s my free gift for my VIP readers’s group. You can sign up to get PIG’N A POKE and unsubscribe if you don’t want to stay. :) Just tap here:

  https://www.larissareinhart.com/larissasreaders

  You’ll be the first to learn of my new releases, my upcoming projects, and exclusive giveaways including bonus content, monthly drawings, free downloads, and signed book giveaways at each new release.

  I hope you enjoy A CHRISTMAS QUICK SKETCH!

  xoxo

  Larissa

  For poker and Elvis lovers everywhere.

  Except for the crooked ones. They don’t deserve anything but jail time.

  One

  Once Upon a Few Months Before a Notorious Coffin Portrait…

  In the setting December sun, the fluorescent Heartache sign flickered to life, then winked into retirement. Evidently most of the bulbs had not been replaced since the Heartache Motel’s Memphis inception, somewhere between 1962 and 1983, give or take a lost decade. If I squinted I could see the remnants of the vintage Triple-A insignia, probably torn out for fear of libel. It didn’t give me much hope. But we were here to help a friend. And because of the friend’s circumstances, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the seediness of our chosen meeting place.

  I supposed when you wanted to find low-down, dirty crooks, you had to look for them in their habitat. Which would also be low-down and dirty. And The Heartache Motel matched that bill pretty dang well.

  “A cross-country trip to Vegas sounds a lot more exciting in theory. Remind me next time not to do it by bus.” I dropped my suitcase on the sidewalk and eyed my traveling companion. How the man could survive an eight-hour bus ride and still look like he stepped out of an ad for Modern Viking Magazine is one of God’s great mysteries.

  I had caught my own reflection in the bus window and almost spit Coke out of my nose. My sequined “Santa’s Ho” t-shirt had more creases and stains than da Vinci’s original sketches. My fair skin felt drier than a Saltine and somewhere between Halo, Georgia, and Memphis, Tennessee, my makeup had disappeared. I will not mention my hair, but eight hours of piped-in air had produced enough static electricity in my blonde filaments that I could possibly solve an energy crisis.

  “Baby, I don’t know about this place,” said Todd McIntosh. He had shortened my given name, Cherry Tucker, to “Baby” sometime after our first date a few months past and I had given up correcting him. Todd was one of those adorable guys who made the dumb stuff they did seem cute. But as I didn’t see our relationship going anywhere except Vegas, I didn’t fret.

  “The address matches the one Byron gave me, but it looks kind of run-down.”

  “Bill Campbell’s thirty-one-year-old thoroughbred is run-down,” I said, pointing to the graffiti tagging decorating the side of the building and the creative use of plywood as window treatments. “This place is plain ol’ sleazy. Are you ready for this?”

  “Byron’s my cousin.” Lines worried Todd’s angelic features. “I should be asking you that question. It’s one thing to take you along to Vegas, but to ask you to stop in Memphis for this sort of thing…”

  “Don’t you worry, hon’.” I patted Todd’s bulky bicep, which sent a teensy thrill spiraling through me. “I’m always ready for squaring things to rights. And I think we’ve got a great plan.”

  “Yeah.” Todd’s grin lit the evening sky brighter than the fluorescent motel sign. “I remember some of your great plans from back in the day.”

  I had known Todd forever and more. In high school, he had wandered the edges of my social circles, a gangly lone wolf who became a poker phenom when no one was looking. I had returned from college and found he had retained his beanpole height but replaced the lankiness with a chiseled six-pack, sculpted shoulder
s, and rock hard boo-hiney.

  Throw in the fact that he’s a drummer with dimples, when he had finally asked me out, I RSVP’d with a “Hell, yes.” Against my better judgment.

  Which I should listen to more often.

  We pushed through the cracked glass doors and into the wood-paneled lobby. Blue Christmas warbled through hidden speakers and tinsel glowed dully from flaccid garlands looped around the room. The Heartache’s attempt at Christmas cheer hadn’t extended into the scent department. A dumpster had a more festive aroma.

  “I got us the honeymoon suite,” said Todd. “It included the Christmas Elvis show and a bottle of champagne. Isn’t that cool?”

  I gave him a what-kind-of-girl-do-you-think-I-am look.

  Todd shrugged, but couldn’t hide his saucy grin.

  Not that I didn’t trust Todd. Although sometimes my hormones around beautiful men couldn’t be trusted. My mother had the same problem but gave in to the call of her libido. I tried to learn from my mistakes. Namely a disastrous romance with a man who escaped me by joining the Army. Seriously, what level of commitment-phobe uses an Afghanistan bunker as an escape from a relationship?

  Behind the garland and tinsel-festooned window, a very masculine woman smiled at us. With a red wig teased and combed to achieve heights not seen since the 1960s, the drag queen fluttered her triple-elongated falsies and placed a large hand over the low, rounded neckline of her canary yellow chiffon dress. A charm bracelet slid from her wrist down her arm, and she dropped her hand to wiggle the bracelet back to her thick wrist.

  As I had gone to art school in Savannah, the sight of a female impersonator was akin to old home week. I glanced at Todd to see if he had taken note of Ann Margaret’s muscular arms and thick neck. Todd’s happy grin had not changed. Which probably meant he was too focused on the honeymoon suite to notice Ann’s Adam’s apple.

  “Welcome to the Heartache Motel,” called the Ann Margaret-wannabe in a deep voice set to tittery. “We’re famous as the only Elvis-inspired motel with staff that specializes in impersonations of the King’s entourage. I’m Man-Margaret. How can I help?”

  “We’ve got a reservation,” I said, handing her our printout. “We’re in the honeymoon suite.”

  “Isn’t that cute.” She slid an appraising glance over me then stopped on Todd’s dimpled grin. “Newlyweds? You’ll love our Blue Hawaii Honeymoon Suite. One dip in the Love Me Tender hot tub with a complimentary glass of the All Shook Up sparkling wine and you’ll be in wedded bliss.”

  With a wink toward Todd, she put a hand next to her mouth and mimed whispering. “Or let the misses enjoy the hot tub and you can join me in the bar, honey.”

  “We’re on our way to Vegas,” said Todd. “Staying two nights because my cousin lives nearby and recommended this place. Thought we’d shake the dirt from our boots and say ‘Merry Christmas’ to him before getting back on the bus.”

  “Vegas? Wonderful. You’re honeymooning in the King’s second home,” Man-Margaret exclaimed.

  “We’re not married, nor getting hitched. We don’t need the honeymoon suite. Any old suite will do,” I said with a fair hint of impatience towards Man-Margaret’s obsession with weddings. “Todd here is playing in a poker tournament. I’m accompanying him as a personal cheerleader and to make sure he doesn’t get lonely spending Christmas away from home.”

  “You need to tell the Colonel all about your poker tournament. He’s quite the poker connoisseur. He’ll know where to find a Texas Hold Them or whatever. He tends bar for us in the Suspicious Minds.” She drew her hand in a Vanna White wave toward the bar entrance at the far side of the lobby.

  With prepared lines I wished I meant, I turned to Todd and placed a hand on his arm. “Now Todd, you are going to play plenty of poker in Vegas. This stopover was meant to be a visit with your cousin. Then there’s Graceland and the art museum.” I smiled at Man-Margaret. “I’m an artist.”

  “Exciting,” Man purred. “An artist and a poker player.”

  “I’m also a drummer,” said Todd.

  “Then make sure you have time for our Blue Christmas show. One night only. It’s at eight o’clock tonight in the Suspicious Minds Bar. One of our local girls booked the limited showing.”

  “Sounds great,” beamed Todd.

  She tapped on the keys of her computer. “Sorry, but looks like you used one of those discount sites, so you can’t switch rooms.” She winked and held out the metal key attached by a chain to a plastic heart. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll need a honeymoon suite by the end of your Vegas trip.”

  “Maybe,” said Todd, grabbing the key. “I’m feeling pretty lucky this trip.”

  “Honeymoon? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” I said. “Save up that luck and spend it on your poker tournament.”

  “One thing poker’s taught me, you never know your next hand.” An unusually thoughtful gleam sparked Todd’s eyes. “I feel like I’m going to get lucky in all sorts of ways this trip.”

  “I can tell you one way you’re not getting lucky and it involves the honeymoon suite.”

  That took a little holly jolly out of Todd’s step, but I believed in showing all my cards when it came to sharing rooms with themed hot tubs and sparkling wine. I’d had my share of that kind of luck with my first love, Luke Harper, although our suite and champagne was a pickup and six-pack. Now, I was older and wiser in the ways of sweet-talking men.

  Besides, Todd needed to hone his concentration on the task at hand and then the Vegas tournament. If he won big, we’d discuss his luck in other areas.

  Two

  The Trigger

  “Look at you,” said Todd. “You look like walking Christmas.”

  “Thank you.” I fiddled with the silk poinsettia necklace I had made to accompany my viridian green sweater dress with the gold spangle trim. The red cowboy boots were old, but the color fit the theme. “I have always felt that you should show the joy of the season as much as possible.”

  “I’m feeling all kinds of holiday cheer. This Blue Hawaii room is something else.”

  “Something else, all right.” I closed the door to our kitsched-out room decorated with fake palm trees and a round, platform bed. “I like the mural, though. You’ve got to admire a muralist who has the guts to paint Elvis riding an eight-foot wave on a surfboard. In tiny, white shorts. And judging by the shorts, the artist felt enthused by certain parts of Elvis’s anatomy.”

  “I need to get me some of those Elvis shorts,” said Todd.

  I reflected on the glorious idea of Todd in tiny, white shorts as we sauntered down the graffiti dappled hallway. We stopped at the elevator. Cracked gold faux-finish in keeping with the sixties theme. Or lack of interest in updating. It groaned in protest at the push of the down button. The doors jerked open revealing an avocado green box covered in even more explicit graffiti, lit by a flickering single florescent bulb.

  I hesitated. Our previous trip in this elevator made low-rent carnie rides feel safe. And clean.

  “Byron should be in the bar,” Todd said and yanked me into the elevator before the heavy doors slammed shut on my spangled skirt. “Sounds like everything’s ready to go on this end.”

  “We still need to cast our bait,” I reminded him, then mumbled a quick prayer that we’d live through another elevator journey.

  We hurriedly slipped through the Jaws of Death elevator and crossed through the lobby. The placard for the Suspicious Minds bar advertised several seasonal shows. As Man-Margaret mentioned, the Blue Christmas Review had top billing tonight.

  Todd tapped a happy rhythm against the small of my back as we entered the dimly lit bar, decorated for Christmas circa 1965. More impersonators worked here dressed in various shades of Elvis’s gals. At the leather-topped bar, a tall, slim man with a thin mustache and the McIntosh thick mane of blond hair sat slumped over a mug of beer.

  “There he is,” said Todd, hurrying toward his cousin. “Byron. Merry Christmas! Man, it’s good to see you. You rem
ember Cherry from high school, right?”

  “We were in drama club together.” Byron offered me a sad smile and pumped my hand. “Hey Cherry, how’re you doing? Still painting pictures? Last time I saw you was my wedding, but near the whole town was there. Look at you in that Christmas getup. You always did dress…interesting.”

  “It’s been a long time.” I gave Byron a quick hug. “Thanks for meeting me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “We’re ready to help,” said Todd. “Got it all figured out.”

  “Shh.” Byron cut his eyes toward the bartender. He waited until a waitress passed and make a loud sniffle. “Y’all make a nice couple. Just like me and Tina did.”

  “Byron.” Todd clasped him on the shoulder with dramatic finesse. “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just so depressing. Tina will be done with me for sure this time.” Byron began to weep on cue. “Today we were supposed to go Christmas shopping for the kids, get a tree, and a frozen turkey to fry for Christmas dinner. Nothing I like better than standing in my driveway and frying a bird on Christmas day.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. At the end of the bar, a huddle of waitresses waiting on drinks had stopped to watch us. “Byron, it can’t be that bad. You’ve got another two weeks until Christmas. Tina will forgive you.”

  He shook his head and his voice grew louder. “My bonus and our savings. Gone. And I just told my boss what happened and now I’ve lost my job. I’m such an idiot.”