Still Life in Brunswick Stew Read online

  Praise for Larissa Reinhart’s Cherry Tucker Mysteries

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW

  “Reinhart’s country-fried mystery is as much fun as a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl at a state fair. Her sleuth wields a paintbrush and unravels clues with equal skill and flair. Readers who like a little small-town charm with their mysteries will enjoy Reinhart’s series.”

  — Denise Swanson,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of the Scumble River and Devereaux’s Dime Store Mysteries

  “Still Life in Brunswick Stew proves beyond doubt that Larissa Reinhart and her delightful amateur sleuth Cherry Tucker will be around to entertain us for many books to come.”

  – Lois Winston,

  Author of the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series

  “Cherry Tucker finds trouble without even looking for it, and plenty of it finds her in Still Life in Brunswick Stew…this mystery keeps you laughing and guessing from the first page to the last. A whole-hearted five stars.”

  – Denise Grover Swank,

  New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author

  “Reinhart lined up suspects like a pinsetter in a bowling alley, and darned if I could figure out which ones to knock down... Loaded with Southern charm. Can’t wait to see what Cherry paints herself into next.”

  – Donnell Ann Bell,

  Bestselling Author of The Past Came Hunting

  “The hilariously droll Larissa Reinhart cooks up a quirky and entertaining page-turner! This charming mystery is delightfully Southern, surprisingly edgy, and deliciously unpredictable.”

  – Hank Phillippi Ryan,

  Agatha, Anthony and Macavity Award-Winning Author

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY

  “Portrait of a Dead Guy is an entertaining mystery full of quirky characters and solid plotting…Highly recommended for anyone who likes their mysteries strong and their mint juleps stronger!”

  — Jennie Bentley,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of Flipped Out

  “Reinhart is a truly talented author and this book was one of the best cozy mysteries we reviewed this year…We highly recommend this book to all lovers of mystery books. Our Rating: 4.5 Stars.”

  — Mystery Tribune

  “The tone of this marvelously cracked book is not unlike Sophie Littlefield’s brilliant A Bad Day for Sorry, as author Reinhart dishes out shovelfuls of ribald humor and mayhem.”

  – Betty Webb, Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Portrait of a Dead Guy is pure enjoyment, a laugh out loud mystery with some Southern romance thrown in. Five stars.”

  — Lynn Farris,

  National Mystery Review Examiner at Examiner.com

  “Larissa Reinhart’s masterfully crafted whodunit, Portrait of a Dead Guy, provides high-octane action with quirky, down-home characters and a trouble-magnet heroine who’ll steal readers’ hearts.”

  —Debby Giusti,

  Author of The Captain’s Mission and The Colonel’s Daughter

  “A fun, fast-paced read and a rollicking start to her Cherry Tucker Mystery Series. If you like your stories southern-fried with a side of romance, this book’s for you!”

  — Leslie Tentler,

  Author of Midnight Caller

  The Cherry Tucker Mystery Series

  by Larissa Reinhart

  Novels

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY (#1)

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW (#2)

  HIJACK IN ABSTRACT (#3)

  (coming November 2013)

  Novellas

  QUICK SKETCH (prequel)

  (in HEARTACHE MOTEL)

  (coming December 2013)

  The Cherry Tucker Mystery Series

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  Reader’s Discussion Guide

  About Larissa Reinhart

  Other Henery Press Mysteries

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW

  A Cherry Tucker Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Digital Kindle edition | May 2013

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2012 by Larissa Hoffman

  Cover illustration by Jessie Porter

  Author photograph by Scott Asano

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938383-43-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my sister, Gina, for putting up with me,

  and to my sister-in-law, Chrys, for putting up with Crohn’s.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the following:

  John Peterson for your expertise in poisonous farming substances.

  Vicki Locey and Cheryl Crowder for your goat expertise.

  Officer John Upole for giving me such great information about the life of a rookie officer in small town Georgia. And to Mayor Jim Sells of Grantville, Georgia for helping me find a police officer willing to listen to my odd questions.

  Palmarin Merges, a real-life Cherry Tucker, for sharing your gallery knowledge.

  D.P. Lyle, MD, for teaching such a wonderful class about toxins it made me wish to poison people in every story I write (but I won’t).

  Dan McIntosh for teaching me about insurance fraud.

  The Hen House girls for all the laughs and hand holding. Special hugs to authors LynDee Walker and Gretchen Archer who make me giggle every day.

  Terri L. Austin for keeping me sane and giving me opportunities to make you snort.

  Denise Plumart for being such a supportive critique partner and to Jen Tanner for her wealth of information about everything.

  My cheerleaders in Andover, Peachtree City, Highland, Orion, New

  Bern, and Dallas, particularly the Funks, Niebrugges, Reinharts, Hoffmans, Walkers, Concepcion-Metzlers, Johnstons, and Wituckis.

  Linda, Chris, Gina, and Mom for subjecting yourselves to my early drafts and for your support.

  Art Molinares for all your support, willingness to help, and general marketing guruship.

  Kendel Flaum, my extraordinary editor, for believing in me and Cherry. Thank you for teaching me how to be a better writer. You blow me away with your genius.

  And to T
rey and the girls. I cannot do this without you.

  ONE

  They should’ve kept the mud pit.

  That was my first thought when I heard another brawl had ensued, the second or third of the day by my count. This happens when festival committees get all high-brow and replace four-wheeling with an arts and crafts display. What kind of crazy wants to walk around an old cotton field to shop for macramé pot holders and corn husk dolls? Or even quality art, like my Cherry Tucker still life oil paintings. Or exquisite Raku pottery from my buddy, Eloise Parker.

  That’s my opinion, anyway. Based on the fact that the Annual Sidewinder Brunswick Stew Cook-Off took place smack dab in the middle of a Georgia summer when you needed activities like mud pits to cool off the locals.

  Bad enough the hundred year old argument over the origin of Brunswick Stew breaks out every time you get Virginians and Georgians together. And we all know there is only one town of Brunswick with a giant iron kettle for a landmark. Which would be in Georgia.

  Sidewinder’s also in Georgia, but a tenth of the size of the Golden Isle of Brunswick. Sidewinder’s not even a town. More like a spit in the road farming village that once was a plantation burned down by Sherman. My hometown of Halo is bigger, and we aren’t even big enough for a Walmart. Some might say Halo’s not big enough for my art studio, but I’m not much on what folks say.

  Unless they’re customers, of course.

  Eloise begged me to participate in this cook-off turned art festival, which is why I’m spending my weekend slumped in a camp chair, drinking tea by the jug, and sweating up a storm. And not selling any paintings. People come to taste stew, eat pulled pork, and watch the rednecks churn up the Georgia clay with their four-by-fours. So when the guy hawking koi ponds in the booth opposite leaned into our tent to report the newest altercation, I jumped at the chance to break my boredom. Actually, my jump was more of a sweat-soaked slide out of my seat.

  “Eloise,” I asked. “You want to come and see what the fuss is about?”

  “And miss the possibility of a single customer? I’m not hauling my butt out of this chair except to get more stew.” She stubbed out a cigarette. On the folding table sat her second or third bowl of the thick Brunswick Stew, brimming with shredded meat, tomatoes, butter beans, and corn. “One of my students gave me a bunch of free tickets to his family’s booth, and I plan to use them all. My Crohn’s isn’t bothering me, so I’m eating to make up for the times my stomach doesn’t let me.”

  Although the stew had a lovely cinnamon color, eating it in record-breaking heat held no appeal to me. Particularly the amount Eloise had already consumed. The concoction of veggies and meat once got poor folks through hard times by tossing in whatever you could salvage. I’ve had it made from chicken, beef, pork, venison, and even rabbit. Some like to add squirrel with their pork. However in college, after enjoying a bowl with a large side of tequila shots at a Savannah bar, I vowed never to touch the stuff again. Does not taste as pleasant the second time around.

  Watching Eloise eat made sweat break on my neck. “On a scorcher like today, I would think you’d rather have a Sno-Cone than a hot bowl of stew.”

  “As a Sidewinder native, it is my duty to eat Brunswick Stew, particularly at our annual cook-off,” said Eloise. “I love Brunswick Stew. You should know better. How long have we been friends?”

  “Let me see,” I pretended to think, not trying to hide my grin. “Seems I beat you in the Forks County Art Competition in third grade...”

  “And I stole your drawing and you promptly announced it over the PA, getting me in all kinds of trouble. I still have the handprint on my behind.”

  “Serves you right, you art thief.”

  “I loved your drawing,” Eloise’s eyes grew misty. “I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen such a beautiful unicorn.”

  “It was not a unicorn. I would never draw a unicorn.”

  “I’m pretty sure there were rainbows, too.” Eloise laughed at my horrified look. “You were eight. Anyway, I recognized talent then and now. I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re the one that got me into the Reconstituting Classicism gallery show. If I can pull off something great, that crowd will pay big bucks. I’m down to my last twenty dollars and change.” At that thought, I fished in the pockets of my cutoffs to look for Sno-Cone change, disappointed to find only thirty-five cents and a few gum wrappers.

  “No one around here wants a portrait made, not even one of their pet,” I moaned. “I had the hunting dog market cornered there for a while. The art well in Forks County has mysteriously run dry ever since I was snubbed by the Bransons after painting the portrait of Dustin. Then Shawna Branson became president of the Forks County Arts Council and suddenly I have paintbrush leprosy.”

  “How are those classical paintings coming?” Eloise dropped her eyes to her stew bowl. She knew me well enough to avoid conversation about Shawna Branson. “Aren’t you supposed to send digital photos of the portfolio soon?”

  “Week from Monday,” I said. “Plenty of time. I’m doing famous Greek statues as paintings. Except to make it edgier I’m covering the model’s body in tiny Greek letters. Head to toe.”

  Eloise swatted me with her spoon. “You haven’t done them yet? Don’t make me look bad, Cherry Tucker. The show is organized by my old drawing professor at UGA. He’s still ticked I went into pottery. I’m hoping to get back in his good graces and get my own show out of the deal.”

  I held one hand over my heart, the other palm up in Pledge of Allegiance mode. “I swear I would never do anything to make you look bad, Eloise Parker. You have my word. I’m just having a little trouble convincing my model to pose nude as the Dying Gaul.”

  “Who are you using as a model?”

  “Luke Harper.”

  It took a moment for Eloise to regain control over her laughter. I helped her right her chair when it threatened to tip.

  “Luke is the perfect model for a Greek statue,” I explained. “Tall, lean, with great muscle definition. Especially those indentations between his waist and hips.” I paused a moment in delicious ecstasy, ruminating over Luke’s V-cut. “He even has the dark curly hair and the straight nose of a classic Greek. And I don’t think he’s got a drop of Greek blood in him. Pretty sure Harper’s not a Greek name.”

  “Nor Roman. You just want to paint Luke naked,” Eloise cackled. “This doesn’t have anything to do with art.”

  “Of course it does. I have an eye for beauty, that’s all.”

  “You got a thing for beauty, all right. As long as it’s got a—”

  “You can stop right there, Eloise Parker. No need to get trashy.”

  “I’m not the one obsessed with painting Luke Harper nude.”

  “He never lets me paint him, nude or otherwise. I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

  “Probably because he’s worried the criminals in Forks County will laugh at him after seeing his bare ass in a painting,” Eloise lifted her brows. “Hard to arrest somebody when they’re laughing at you.”

  “The criminals of Forks County will never see his bare whatever. The paintings would go straight to a gallery in Athens. No one in these parts would ever see it,” I said.

  “But they’d hear about it. No way you can stop the biddies from clucking about something like that.”

  “You’re an artist. You’re supposed to encourage me.” I pointed at her neat rows of Raku ware lining the table in our tent. The traditional Japanese pottery style used lead glazes and a quick firing and cooling process. Eloise favored black pots hand-molded into interesting shapes with a white glaze applied in sparing drips and splatters. Refined elegance. Neither of us was making money, though, unlike the Redneck Golf Club booth next door. Attaching a stick to a beer can is a lot easier than rendering shadow and depth on a bowl of peaches.

  “I need this gig,” I said. “I’m not selling any paintings at this cook-off, not even my peach still lifes. And you know h
ow tourists love Georgia peach souvenirs.”

  “Do what you need to get the Greek paintings done.” Eloise fixed me with a lethal stare while lighting a cigarette. “You better not let me down or I’ll hear about it. I don’t need ulcers on top of Crohn’s Disease.”

  I sobered, knowing the pain Crohn’s had caused Eloise to suffer over the years. At one point, she had been whittled to skin and bones by the intestinal disease. She was finally looking like her old self. “I’m sorry, hon’. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “I don’t need your gratitude,” she said. “I just want the works submitted. That’s all I ask. Now go check out what’s going on at the cook-off. You can’t sit still anyway and it’s making me nervy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I saluted her, walked out of our tent, and into the scorching rays of the mid-day sun.

  The hollering drifting across the stubby field had abated. I slowed my amble. Eloise and I had been given a spot on the far side of the festival near the pony rides, a slight in my opinion. I had to thread through the craft tents before I reached the food area.

  I owed Eloise more than gratitude for getting me into the Athens’ gallery show. Getting noticed in the Athens art community meant news of my work might travel to well-financed Bulldog alumni living in Atlanta or farther reaches. I assumed the educational praises lauded on the esteemed University of Georgia meant their graduates made inroads to places like New York. And everyone knew New Yorkers loved art. More importantly, if folks didn’t start shelling out some bucks for my paintings, I was going to have to get a real job. Even worse, a job that might involve slinging hash, as my art degree didn’t come with a minor in brain surgery.