The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 2

  The police had immediately recognized the dead man, Abel Spencer, and figured the situation to have been an accident. It seemed Abel often trespassed through the lodge woods. And from their offhand mutterings, I understood they knew Abel as the town drunk. Which didn’t make the situation any less sad.

  I had met Abel the night before, not knowing his notorious nature. To me, he had not been unlike the grizzled, older men who hung around the farmer’s co-op with my Grandpa Ed, talking about tractor parts and the price of seed.

  Except Abel had talked about dogs.

  I reflected on this as I stood with my back against a sweetgum, trying to stay dry as well as blend into the background, so I could watch the local police work. Although blending proves challenging when you’re wearing a neon fuchsia and lime green hand-painted camo sweatshirt with the outline of a deer rack studded in mandarin-orange crystals.

  I prefer to bling out my own version of hunting wear.

  I didn’t want anyone with a deer rifle mistaking me for an in-season creature while I painted.

  The phone in my hand was also studded with crystals. The stick-on kind that tend to peel off when you shove your phone in and out of pockets.

  While I waited for a “Rookie Holt” to speak to me, I watched the police and rubbed my thumb over the faux jewels, fighting the temptation to dial Luke Harper’s number. His particular drawl was Southern Comfort to my ears. Strong and smooth with a potent heat that leaves you with a hint of sweetness.

  However, I didn’t want to be that girl. The one who ran to a man every time she verged toward Hot Mess-ville. My life was entirely too full of ramps toward that exit. And anyway, I’d tired of fighting the town’s negativity pressing down on my family. About tired enough to give up on Luke. Dating the stepson of the family bent on incarcerating my brother felt like more than I could handle just now.

  As much as I pined for Southern Comfort, I was on the wagon. For a girl who favored a nightly nip, it sure was tough.

  “Miss Tucker?” A young deputy approached. Rain dripped off the edge of her navy Deputy Sheriff cap and her nose had brightened to match my fuchsia sweatshirt. The hat looked brand new, matching the “Rookie Holt” nickname her fellow officers had teasingly called her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Do you feel like answering some questions now?”

  I nodded, more reluctant to leave the protection of the sweetgum than to answer questions.

  After my initial statement, I had offered to wait in the woods with the local authorities. Because Todd had run back to get help while I stayed with the body, I assumed his interview had been done at the lodge.

  “I’m fine. Glad to help.”

  She shook my hand. “I’m Deputy Deborah Holt. I understand that not only did you find the victim today, you met him last night?”

  “Briefly. I had just arrived at Big Rack Lodge. My friends were stowing their suitcases and gear in their cottage, but I’m staying in the main lodge. While I waited for them, I took a walk around the grounds. I was heading toward the parking lot, actually.”

  “That’s when you met the victim? What time was it?”

  “We checked in around eight. Couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes after, but I don’t wear a watch.”

  She nodded and noted that dubious fact in her notebook.

  “Mr. Abel was over at the kennels. Saying goodbye to his dog, Buckshot. He told me Big Rack sometimes used his dogs in hunts. They were real sweet together, Mr. Abel and Buckshot. He was sitting in the kennel with her. Gave me a start.”

  It had been dark, but the lodge grounds were generously lit. The kennels were located just behind the office, on the way to a parking lot where Max had parked his Range Rover. I couldn’t find my sketchbook in my duffel bag and hoped to spot it in Max’s fancy SUV. Abel’s low murmuring had caused me to glance into a kennel where I spotted a grotesque form. After my heart had returned to my chest and I had convinced myself the lodge didn’t keep Hogzillas as pets, I moved closer to the kennel and realized the lumpy shadow with additional legs and a tail had been man and dog combined.

  “How did he seem?” asked Holt.

  “Fine. A little concerned about his dog’s comfort. That was real nice. Also very interested in meeting me. He came out of the kennel, wanting to know who I was and what I was doing. We talked for maybe fifteen minutes. I learned about Buckshot and the rest of the pack. He sure loves those dogs.” I swallowed hard. “Loved those dogs, I mean.”

  The deputy kept her pen flowing over the notebook. “Abel raised hunting dogs for a living.”

  “He explained which dog was used for what kind of hunt. Sounded like a nice assortment of breeds.”

  “Did you notice anything else about Mr. Spencer? Any details are appreciated, even if they don’t seem important.”

  “He was wearing the same clothes, near as I can remember. And he was extremely curious about the Hogzilla hunt contest, although I couldn’t give him much information.”

  “What do you mean by extremely curious?”

  “He asked a lot of questions, but once he realized I didn’t know anything, he stopped.”

  “Was there anything unusual about his speech or the way he acted?”

  I shook my head. Based on the chitchat I had overheard, she likely wanted to know if I’d noticed if Abel had been drinking. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt a need to defend this man. There’s something about knowing a victim, no matter how briefly, that creates a bond. Law enforcement becomes somewhat immune to this phenomenon. Having grown up around them, I knew flippant remarks worked as a defense mechanism created to protect that immunity. I also knew most law enforcement were more careful about letting those remarks slide in front of civilian witnesses.

  Yep, that bothered me.

  A voice calling for the deputy stopped me from explaining my headshake. She glanced toward the glen where I had been painting. Two men strode toward us. Mike Neeley, the Big Rack Lodge manager, I had met upon check-in. He wore a Big Rack ball cap and fleece jacket, and moved with his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the rain.

  Mike was not local, unlike most of the other Big Rack employees. I felt for Mike, who seemed like a nice guy. The approaching storm had been an inauspicious start for such a huge hunting event. Then to find a death on lodge grounds just before the beginning of the hunt? A PR nightmare.

  The other man I hadn’t met. I shook the rain from my blonde ponytail and straightened my spine to my full five feet and a half inch. I couldn’t help myself.

  Call it an inherited defect from my floozy mother, but even if my heart consistently pounded for Luke Harper, the sight of certain specimens still made my pulse race.

  Besides, I was an artist and appreciator of natural beauty, whether it be autumnal- or testosterone-enhanced.

  He was decked in camo head to toe, but he wore Realtree real well. Nearly six feet of good ol’ boy, minus any hint of beer gut, with a five o’clock shadow roughing up a strong jaw. The man looked impervious to the cold and rain. From beneath the brim of his Big Rack cap, serious brown ochre eyes flashed around the surrounds and zeroed in on the fresh hog rooting. He left Mike and the deputy to track the animal evidence, stopping before the yellow tape strung between pine trees near the ravine.

  “Do you know this woman?” the deputy asked Mike.

  I drew my attention back to the officer and manager. “I met you in the office when I checked in.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see this.” Mike turned from me toward the deputy. “Deborah, Miss Tucker’s a guest for the Hogzilla hunt this weekend. You’re with the Avtaikin party, right?” He stumbled over Max’s name but most did. Ex-Iron Curtain names did not occur naturally to the country vernacular of rural Georgia.

  “I’m not hunting, though. I’m here to paint the winner’s portrait,” I said. “Bob Bass and Max Avta
ikin both think they’re going to win the hunt. They’re calling it a ‘kill portrait’ and have a little bet going with the portrait as the prize.”

  “Mr. Bass and his party arrived yesterday too,” said Mike. “The Avtaikin party arrived later. Around eight, I think?”

  Rookie Holt nodded, probably noting that his reported time jived with mine.

  Because I’m a curious sort, I asked, “Who’s that?” and nodded toward the Realtree Hottie. Good looking he may be, but I liked knowing who tramped around a suspicious death scene, even if the local law enforcement didn’t seem to care. I had learned as much from my Uncle Will.

  “Jeff Digby, our head guide,” said Mike. “How’d you find Abel?”

  “I came out here to catch some quiet and paint when I spotted a hat over by that creek.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry about this.” Mike shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “We’ve told Abel a million times not to trespass, but before the Woodcocks bought this land, lots of folks used an old logging path to cut through to town and across our fields. Can’t break old habits, I guess.”

  “The Woodcocks?”

  “Big Rack’s owners,” said Rookie Holt, and added with small town finality, “They aren’t from around here.”

  “They’ve got a condo on the top floor of the main lodge units, but the Woodcocks don’t come much anymore,” said Mike. “They live in Atlanta. Corporate folks.”

  That explained the two thousand thread-count sheets and thin walls in my room. They paid for sumptuous bedding but skimped on contracting. The owners likely had tired of hearing their guests whoop about deer kills and stopped spending their weekends in their tax write-off.

  “Did you alert them about Abel?” asked Rookie Holt.

  Mike sighed and nodded. I got the feeling Mike didn’t like alerting the Woodcocks to bad news.

  “Gutersons probably cut the fence wire again. I keep blocking off that cut-through.” The guide, Jeff Digby, paced toward us. His eyes sharpened on Rookie Holt. “Y’all got to get on them more.”

  “Who are the Gutersons and why would they cut your fence?” I asked, then shot a glance at Holt. My mouth often acts before my brain catches on.

  “Neighbors,” said Mike, flashing a harsh look at his employee. “Let’s not get into this now.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Jeff touched the brim of his cap. “Poor ol’ Abel. He must have tripped or something. That guy was drunk as Cooter Brown, more than likely.”

  “Was that his hat? The Braves cap?” I looked at Rookie Holt.

  “Yes, ma’am. Guess it came off when he fell.”

  I wondered why the hat wouldn’t have fallen into the creek with poor ol’ Abel. “You think he was scared by a wild hog? I noticed the rooting before I saw Mr. Abel.”

  “That’s an old dig.” Jeff’s eyes gleamed. “And not our big boy, either. This morning I found his fresh wallow in the preserve, not far from the bunkhouse.”

  “You should check on the fence line anyway,” said Mike.

  Jeff nodded then hiked off, following the path I had taken to my painting retreat.

  Mike glanced at the deputy. “Deborah, if you don’t need me, I’ve got to tend to my guests. We’ve got one who still hasn’t checked in.”

  “I wish I could do something for Mr. Abel’s family.” I chewed the inside of my cheek, remembering the old man who had given his dog a final hug before leaving her in the kennel. Neither had known the goodbye would be final.

  “No family,” said Rookie Holt.

  “No friends either,” said Mike. “Most gave him a wide berth, unfortunately.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Abel wasn’t a criminal, was he?”

  “No ma’am,” said Rookie Holt. “Unless you count the trespassing. Abel was just a mangy ol’ coot. Always getting into people’s business. Kind of sneaky.”

  “He irritated a lot of people.” Mike shook his head. “Plus he was drunk more than half the time. And look what happened. Such a shame.”

  Rookie Holt glanced toward her senior officers, now hoisting Abel Spencer’s body from the ravine. Remembering her place, she cut off the hearsay and got back to her job. “You’ll need to do an official witness statement at the station, then you’ll be finished with this to enjoy your vacation. Thank you, Miss Tucker.”

  Dismissed, I followed her through the glen toward the waiting police vehicle. First impressions didn’t mean much. The Abel I had met was not the man they described, but this wasn’t my town. Maybe Abel Spencer acted differently with strangers. Sometimes familiarity did breed contempt.

  Maybe he had just been unlucky enough to be born on the wrong side of the tracks, like me. I felt sorry for him. Whatever he did to tick people off in town, no one deserved to die falling into a ditch. Which made me a little curious to know more about the night of his passing. Did he tie one on after leaving his dog? And in that case, why was he found in the lodge’s woods?

  Because there was one significant problem with Abel Spencer drunkenly falling into that ditch without his blue Braves cap.

  When I had met Abel, he wasn’t drunk.

  Three

  The Swinton police station needed better coffee. Rookie Holt also needed a refresher on “establishing rapport with witnesses.” A certain gray-eyed Forks County deputy (more of a light Payne’s gray bordering on Blue Deep, although I still had not captured that color to my liking) had explained the importance of that interview strategy to me on more than one occasion. Like the time I suspected little Clayton Jeffries of pilfering from his sister’s Girl Scout cookie cash box while she was busy talking up the Thin Mints to Mrs. Meyers. According to my personal deputy, my interview techniques with Clayton’s best friend (and eyewitness), Jeremiah, could have used some work.

  But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not a professional. I can’t say the same for Swinton’s Rookie Holt. But she was young and eager to get her commander to sign off on our interview.

  “Look, I appreciate your concern,” she said in a voice that didn’t mark any appreciation for my concern. “But expressing your condolences to Abel Spencer’s people is not necessary.”

  “There’s got to be someone. My visit with Mr. Abel might be a very comforting story for them to hear. Knowing in his final hours, he was caring for his dog and friendly to strangers.”

  She shook her head.

  I pressed my point, hoping for at least one name who would be sorry that Abel Spencer had died.

  There had to be someone who knew him differently. “I’m sure they’d like to know he hadn’t been on some kind of tear before he fell. The Abel Spencer I met is not the Abel Spencer y’all described.”

  “Because Abel Spencer—” Rookie Holt zipped her lips in a firm line, probably remembering recent training in spilling too much info to overeager witnesses. “Look, I’m glad he was friendly to you. And he was good with his dogs. That’s all you need to know. You’re finished here. Unless we need you later.”

  “Look, I can’t bring anyone a casserole, but I can shake a hand and say I’m sorry. It’s not like I often meet people just before their accidental death. That’s a remarkable event. My Uncle Will could vouch for me. He probably knows your sheriff pretty well since, as Forks County Sheriff, Uncle Will knows everybody. Particularly other country law enforcement.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Rookie Holt’s spine cracked as her shoulders tensed.

  “No, ma’am.” My super-ego began butt-kicking my id. I had gone too far again.

  “Let me tell you, Miss Tucker. Flashing your uncle’s name around may get you out of tickets and such in your own town, but it won’t work here.”

  “I was just trying to be helpful. And it doesn’t get me out of tickets. Believe me on that one.”

  “Witnesses don’t offer casseroles and comforting stories to victim’s families they don’t know. Y
ou’re old enough to know that.” She consulted my witness statement form. “Twenty-six years old, in fact. What’s wrong with you?”

  Well, I thought, my daddy died when I was a toddler. My momma took off soon after, and my moral compass, Grandma Jo, stopped moving about the time she passed. Which was when I was fifteen. As my brother and sister do act their emotional age, I thought I was doing pretty good.

  Instead I said, “I was raised to bring casseroles and comfort the grieving. Although Red says my need to help victims of unfortunate circumstances is most likely a form of projection.”

  “Red’s your therapist?” She clicked her pen and flipped her notebook open.

  “Bartender. He just watches a lot of daytime TV.”

  “Thank you for your testimony.” The air nearly frosted with her words. “That’s all we need from you.”

  However, filling out a witness testimony sheet was not all I needed. Some could question my compulsion to learn more about the victim, but meeting someone just before they plummet to their death? That’s an event you can’t file under “weird shit that just happened” and go on about your day. I had to spend a weekend hanging with rich and famous people. Hopefully making a good impression so they’d want to hire me for future portraits. I needed my head in that game. But my head was in the “I just met a man before he died” game.

  Not a fun game.

  Particularly when I couldn’t resolve the man I met with the man the police muttered about under their breath.

  After a hot shower and change of clothes, I still hadn’t thrown off the chill of finding Mr. Abel’s body.

  Unnerved, I grabbed my phone and let my finger hover over my favorite speed dial number.

  Before I could give in to the impulse, the phone shook in my hand and sang “I Walk The Line.” The personal ringtone for Max Avtaikin, a.k.a. the Bear. Not that he’s hairy. Just big and scary. And able to score from shady dealings quicker than a grizzly snatches salmon.

  But I’ve pretty much forgiven him for that trait.