Portrait of a Dead Guy Read online

  Praise for Portrait of a Dead Guy

  “Portrait of a Dead Guy is an entertaining mystery full of quirky characters and solid plotting. Larissa Reinhart writes with panache and flair, her colorful details and vibrant descriptions painting a vivid, engaging picture of a small Southern town…Highly recommended for anyone who likes their mysteries strong and their mint juleps stronger!”

  -- Jennie Bentley,

  NY Times Bestselling Author of Flipped Out

  “The story moves at a rapid pace taking you on a curvy road with a disastrous funeral, crazy ex-boyfriends, and illegal high stakes gambling…Portrait of a Dead Guy is pure enjoyment, a laugh out loud mystery with some Southern romance thrown in. Five stars out of five.”

  -- Lynn Farris,

  National Mystery Review Examiner at Examiner.com

  “Laugh-out-loud funny and as Southern as sweet tea and cheese grits, 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

  Praise for Portrait of a Dead Guy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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  NINETEEN

  Reader’s Discussion Guide

  About Larissa Reinhart

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY

  A Henery Press Mystery

  First Edition

  ebook edition | August 2012

  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 design by Kendel Flaum

  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: 978-1-938383-03-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated with love to Larry Reinhart, who partly inspired my story, and to Trey, Sophie, and Luci, who support me at my craziest.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First of all, I know I’m going to forget somebody. Forgive me and thank you!

  Thank you to all the fabulous writers at GRW and KOD from whom I learned so much. Particularly to Debby Giusti, who didn’t know she would become my mentor a year ago, Pamela Mason, Leslie Tentler, Bente Gallagher, and Donnell Bell for their support, and to Denise Plumart, my fabulous critique partner and Team PITT co-captain. Also in that group belongs my fellow Hen House chicks, Terri L. Austin and Susan M. Boyer. Thank God Twitter doesn’t charge by the tweet.

  Gratitude to my goat herders. Cheryl Crowder for your goat stories and information (and general support and humor). And to the talented writer, Jennifer Tanner, for being a good sport about letting me steal your fictional horse’s name.

  Thanks to Elbert Nieves for all the scoop on MPIs and CIDs and cool stories about the army. Good luck to you!

  Thanks to Michelle, Nate and Maizie for their expert advice, time and effort (and cuteness).

  A very special thanks to all my cheerleaders in Peachtree City, Andover, Orion, New Bern, Highland, St. Louis, and Nagoya, Japan. Y’all rock!

  Thanks to Ann & Linda for your support and helping me dress and do my hair for a professional picture. I would be incredibly embarrassed otherwise. To the Metzler-Concepcions and Johnstons for their encouragement. Plus all the Funks, Reinharts, and Hoffmans for their love and for spreading me around Facebook and Pinterest.

  Special thanks to my best readers, Gina and Mom, who read all the early drafts and put up with character and plot changes half way through the stories. Also for all the bags of books you’ve let me borrow and introducing me to some of my favorite authors. The book industry should thank you for your support.

  A super duper, extra special thank you to my genius editor, Kendel Flaum. I am so lucky to have you as an editor & for you tolerating all my questions. Your words “I like your voice” are in my top 5 best things I’ve ever heard. Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything else you said in that original conversation.

  And my undying gratitude to Trey and my girls. Telling me to write down my stories is the second best gift you gave me. Giving me the time to do it is the third. Your love is the first.

  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 groupings 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?”

  “For the portrait. Dustin’s portrait.”

  “Is there a problem?” An older gentleman in a golf shirt and khaki slacks eyed me while running a hand through his thinning salt and pepper hair. John Branson, locally known as JB, strode to his wife’s side. “You’re Cherry Tucker, Ed Ballard’s granddaughter, right?”

  I nodded, whipping out a business card. He glanced at it and looked me over. I had the feeling JB wasn’t expecting this little bitty girl with flyaway blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. My local customers find my appearance disappointing. I think they expected me to return from art school looking as if I walked out of 1920s’ bohemian Paris wearing black, slouchy clothes and a ridiculous beret. I like color and a little bling myself. However, I toned it down for this occasion and chose jeans and a soft orange tee with sequins circling the collar.

  “Yes sir,” I said, shaking his hand. “I got here as soon as I could. I’m sorry about Dustin.”

  “Why exactly did you come?” JB spoke calmly but with distaste, as if he held something bitter on his tongue. Probably the idea of me painting his dead son.

  “To do the portrait, of course. I figured the sooner I got here, the sooner I could get started. I am pretty fast. You probably heard about my time in high school as a Six Flags Quick Sketch artist. But time is money, the way I look at it. You’ll want your painting sooner than later.”

  “Cherry, honey, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.” Wanda looped her arm around JB’s elbow. “JB’s niece Shawna is doing the painting.”

  “Shawna Branson?” I would have keeled over if I hadn’t been at Cooper’s and worried someone might pop me in a coffin. Shawna was a smooth-talking Amazonian poacher who wrestled me for the last piece of cake at a church picnic some fifteen years ago. Although she was three heads taller, my scrappy tenacity and love of sugar helped me win. Shawna marked that day as a challenge to defeat me at every turn. In high school, she stole my leather jacket, slept with my boyfriend, and brown-nosed my teachers. She didn’t even go to my school. And now she was after my commission.

  “She’s driving over from Line Creek today,” Wanda said. “You know, she got her degree from Georgia Southern and started a business. She’s very busy, but she thinks she can make the time for us.”

  “I’ve seen her work,” I said. “Lots of hearts, polka dots, and those curlicue letters you monogram on everything.”

  “Oh yes,” said Wanda, showing her fondness for curlicue letters. “She’s very talented.”

  “But ma’am. Can she paint a portrait? I have credentials. I’m a graduate of SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design. I’m formally trained on mixing color, using light, creating perspective, not to mention the hours spent with live models. I can do curlicue. But don’t you want more than curlicue?”

  Wanda relaxed her grip on JB’s arm. Her eyes wandered to the floral arrangements, considering.

  “I have the skill and the eye for portraiture,” I continued. “And this is Dustin’s final portrait. Don’t you want an expert to handle his precious memory?”

  “She does have a point, J.B,” Wanda conceded.

  JB grunted. “The whole idea is damn foolish.”

  Wanda blushed and fidgeted with JB’s sleeve.

  “The Victorians used to wear a cameo pin with a lock of their deceased’s hair in it,” I said, glad to reference my last minute research as I defended her. “It was considered a memorial. When photography became popular, some propped up the dead for one last picture.”

  “Exactly. Besides, this is a painting not a photograph,” said Wanda. “It’s been harder as Dustin got older. I wanted to be closer to him. JB did, too, in his way. And then Dustin was taken before his time.”

  I detected an eye roll from JB. Money wasn’t the issue. Propriety needled him. Wanda loved to spend JB’s money, and he encouraged her. JB’s problem wasn’t that Wanda was flashy; she just shopped above her raising. Which can have unfortunate results. Like hiring someone to paint her dead stepson.

  “A somber representation of your son could be comforting,” I said. Not that I believed it for a minute.

  “Do you need the work, honey?” Wanda asked. “I want to do a memory box. You know, pick up one of those frames at the Crafty Corner for his mementos. You could do that.”

  “I’ll do the memory box,” I said. “I’ve done some flag cases, so a memory box will be no problem. But I really think you should reconsider Shawna for the painting.”

  “Now lookee here,” said JB. “Shawna’s my niece.”

  “Let me get my portfolio,” I said. Pictures speak louder than words, and it looked like JB needed more convincing.

  I dashed out of the viewing room and took a deep breath to regain some composure. I couldn’t let Shawna Branson steal my commission. The Bransons needed this portrait done right. Who knows what kind of paint slaughter Shawna would commit. As far as I was concerned, she could keep her curlicue business as long as she left the real art to me.

  My bright yellow pickup glowed like a radiant beacon in the sea of black, silver, and white cars. I opened the driver door with a yank, cursing a patch of rust growing around the lock. Standing on my toes, I reached for the portfolio bag on the passenger side. The stretch tipped me off my toes and splayed me flat across the bench.

  “I recognize this truck,” a lazy voice floated behind me. “And the view. Doesn’t look like much’s changed either way in t
en years.”

  I gasped and crawled out.

  Luke Harper, Dustin’s stepbrother.

  I had forgotten that twig on the Branson family tree. More like snapped it from my memory. His lanky stance blocked the open truck door. One hand splayed against my side window. His other wrist lay propped over the top of my door. Within the cage of Luke’s arms, we examined each other. Fondness didn’t dwell in my eyes. I’m never sure what dwelled in his.

  Luke drove me crazy in ways I didn’t appreciate. He knew how to push buttons that switched me from tough to soft, smart to dumb. Beautiful men were my kryptonite. Local gossip said my mother had the same problem. My poor sister, Casey, was just as inflicted. We would have been better off inheriting a squinty eye or a duck walk.

  “Hello, Luke Harper.” I tried not to sound snide. Drawing up to my fullest five foot and a half inches, I cocked a hip in casual belligerence.

  “How’s it going, Cherry?” A glint of light sparked his smoky eyes, and I expected it corresponded with a certain memory of a nineteen-year-old me wearing a pair of red cowboy boots and not much else. “You hanging out at funeral homes now? Never took you for a necrophiliac.”

  This time I gave Luke my best what-the-hell redneck glare. Crossing my arms, I took a tiny step forward in the trapped space. He stared at me with a faint smile tugging the corners of his mouth. If I could paint those gorgeous curls and long sideburns — which will never happen, by the way — I would use a rich, raw umber with burnt sienna highlights. For his eyes, I’d mix Prussian blue and a teensy Napthal red. However, he would call his hair “plain old dark brown” and eyes “gray.” But, what does he know? Not much about art, I can tell you that.