Still Life in Brunswick Stew Read online

  I halted in the open area before the festival stage and glanced wistfully toward the booths of fried pies, funnel cake, and barbecue. If I didn’t sell a peach painting today, there would be no Sno-Cones in my future. Nor beer tonight at the Viper, the local Sidewinder bar that Eloise said has the best catfish in central Georgia. And I did love catfish. And beer.

  Spying a fried Moon Pie booth, my gut cried in anguish at the misery my lack of money created. I had second thoughts about hanging near a contest that involved watching other people eat, even if it was Brunswick Stew. To prevent more gut-ache of want, I glanced away from the food stalls toward the information booth to my right.

  The officials had abandoned the booth for the cook-off, but a gigantic source of distraction did stand in the empty tent. With hands on his hips, he surveyed the flyers scattered over a picnic table.

  When you’re five foot and a half inch, any guy over six foot is big, but this particular man would put a steroid-infused Soviet weight lifter to shame. A frown twisted his mouth and his glacier blue eyes appeared troubled.

  I hesitated at offering help. Max Avtaikin might be a supporter of the arts, but he had a dubious criminal background. And I kind of accused him of murder a few months back. Which is just plain embarrassing.

  Before I could skedaddle, Max turned and caught me gawking.

  I skimmed a hand over my limp, blonde ponytail, flapped the sweat off my neon pink halter, and entered the booth. “Hey, Mr. Max. You need help?”

  He leaned in for one of those European double kisses. “Cherry Tucker. A pleasure, as always. Do you have the artist stand?”

  It took me a second to understand his meaning. Max grew up in one of those Eastern bloc countries when they were still more bloc than country. Using his wily business acumen, he got rich and then got the hell out of Dodge. He settled in small town Georgia because of his odd love for the War Between the States. His accent moved with him.

  “I’m selling little oils,” I said. “Still lifes mostly. And trying to advertise my portraiture business. I’ve got a booth with my friend, Eloise Parker. She does pottery. You should check it out.”

  “I am wanting to see this art works, but I was asked to judge a food competition,” Max said.

  “Really?”

  “You sound surprised, Miss Tucker.”

  “I just thought, with your, uh, recent trouble, folks would kind of...”

  “I am involving in the community services.” He shifted his stance. “You disapprove?”

  “Helping the community is a good start.”

  “But?”

  “You’re still playing cards in your basement?” I asked, referring to his illegal poker games busted a few months ago.

  Men like Max would play it cool for a while, but find a stealthier way to restart their business. Some folks don’t care about local vice if it’s kept indoors. There’s a history of juke joints and moonshining in rural Georgia that’s transferred to other realms in the modern era. However, I grew up around a county sheriff and know for a fact that doings behind doors eventually seep outside and run havoc elsewhere.

  “I’m not understanding your meaning,” he said.

  “Oh, I think you do. But it’s none of my business.”

  “That didn’t stop your interest a few months ago.”

  I fiddled with my sunglasses, wondering what good manners dictated in this situation. Grandma Jo never covered apologies for accusing criminals of the wrong crime. “Well, I hope you’re not messing around with poker anymore.”

  “I like games,” Max paused. “And you do, too.”

  We shared a long look.

  I had an inkling Max had some tricks up his sleeve that might warrant closer scrutiny. And oddly enough, he seemed to enjoy baiting me. Maybe he missed the excitement of outsmarting the secret police in his old country. I couldn’t help a small shiver of pleasure at the thought of Max finding me a worthy opponent. Although he probably just found my antics amusing.

  I gave Max a half-hearted shrug to show this rabbit wasn’t about to sniff around his traps. If he wanted to corrupt Halo with his shady dealings, well, he just better be careful. I was dating a deputy.

  “I have noticed you no longer have use of my nickname,” Max said, steering the conversation down a different current.

  “You want me to call you Bear?” Max’s shadier cohorts called him The Bear.

  “You used to call me Bear.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe there is significance to your more formal manner?”

  A shriek cut off our conversation. “Dangit, I’m missing the fight.” Thankful for the excuse, I fled the stuffy tent.

  Max caught up with me in two strides. “What is this fight? A boxing match?”

  “Maybe boxing if we’re lucky. Probably just some smart mouthing and shoving.”

  “Is this usual at the American festival?”

  “America, I’m not sure. But Sidewinder, you bet. Partly it’s the weather. My Grandpa says Southerners used to handle the heat until everyone got air conditioning. You find a shady spot for fishing or sit on your porch and wait for the sun to go down. Now we’re running around in the sun like stray dogs working up a lather.”

  Judging by that shriek, it sounded like a stray dog howling up a storm. And that stray dog sounded a lot like Shawna Branson.

  TWO

  We rounded the corner of the fried Moon Pie booth, and the aroma of simmering meat and vegetables overpowered the sweeter festival smells of cotton candy and kettle corn. Unlike our jimmy-rigged tents in the craft section, this area held matching white tents for the cooking stations. Some booths had professional signs and all were decorated with kitsch, mostly in a redneck theme. Fake hillbilly teeth, corncob pipes, and battered straw hats prevailed. Portable grills and camp stoves held massive pots in a variety of conditions from sparkling new aluminum to rusting cast iron. All twenty gallons or larger to meet the one pot cooking rule.

  Under a long tent in a roped-off area, a stretch of people sat at folding tables, expectant looks on their faces and spoons at the ready. I guessed this was the judging area Max had difficulty locating.

  However, all eyes were glued to the passel standing near the judges’ tent. Two men stood on the edge of the crowd, doing their best imitation of gorilla alpha male dominance without actually beating their chests.

  Behind them, two lanky women faced off. Their snarling expressions matched almost as well as their big hair and flashy nails. The brunette and blonde obviously shared the same Sidewinder beauty shop. And clothing boutique. Both wore tiny sundresses swaddled in aprons proclaiming their team names in adorable curlicue letters and polka dots.

  I recognized the signature curlicue style belonging to the meanest woman in Forks County, Shawna Branson. It figured she had found a way to make money off the festival. Now I understood the reason for my tent’s position next to the pony manure dump. Shawna had it in for me since we were kids and my scrawny, little self out dodged her wild throws to win a VBS dodge ball tournament. She got me back by almost garroting me with a well-placed arm in Red Rover. We have been enemies ever since.

  I scanned the crowd looking for Shawna and caught a glimpse of her bubblegum pink visor stating OFFICIAL in curlicue letters. Wearing a white seersucker shorts ensemble and platform wedge sandals, she waved a clipboard. Evidently the eardrum-piercing scream came from Shawna. An unhappy Shawna will rupture any number of body parts.

  “Get back to your booths,” Shawna yelled. “How dare you ruin this festival with your backwoods country shenanigans. I’ve put a lot of effort in bringing culture to this hillbilly folk fest. The Brunswick Stew competition is making a name for itself and you’re going to ruin everything. We’ve got real people here. Out of town folks. Even foreigners.”

  “What is she meaning, the tall woman in the pink hat?” asked Max.

  “She’s meaning they had better break up their fight. Shawna doesn’t want anyone making a spectacle of themselves unless it’s Shawna.”

/>   The blonde woman with an apron reading “Team Cotton Pickin’ Good” stepped forward and snatched Shawna’s clipboard.

  The crowd sucked in a communal breath.

  “This will all be over as soon as you disqualify them.” The blonde pointed a long, French-tipped fingernail in the direction of the brunette. “Team High Cotton is messing with our stew recipe. I caught Bruce and Belinda Gable going through our bins.”

  “Give me back my clipboard.” Shawna yanked the board out of the woman’s hands and studied the other couple. “And y’all just need to simmer down. The missing judge will be here soon. I don’t give a monkey’s hoot about your recipe, but I do care about you upsetting the judges. Go back to your cooking station.”

  “What happened to Joe McGill?” asked the tall blonde. “He’s been officiating this contest for years. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m the official now, and that’s all you need to know,” said Shawna. “I’m presiding over the Forks County Arts Council, and I took it upon myself to shape up this festival. So get your behinds back to your tent.”

  “Maybe I can help.” A diminutive woman, as delicate looking as a baby bird, strolled forward wearing a straw hat that dwarfed her tiny head. “I’m Marion Maynard of Cotton Pickin’ Good. It’s true the Gables of Team High Cotton were looking through our bins, but some of the boxes did get switched around during the unloading this morning. Perhaps they thought we had their bins.”

  “Well?” Shawna stared at the accused couple.

  Bruce Gable took a moment too long to answer and received an elbow jab from his wife.

  “That’s what happened,” said Belinda Gable, patting her glossy, brown hair.

  “Bullshit,” said the heavier of the gorillas. He folded his arms over his Team Cotton Pickin’ Good apron. “They were rifling through our stuff. Marion, whose team are you on anyway?”

  “Don’t be ugly, Lewis.” The tiny Marion smiled at Shawna. “That’ll be all. Thank you.”

  Dismissing Shawna, Marion and her giant hat strolled back to the Team Cotton Pickin’ tent. Shawna gaped after her, unused to an abrupt dismissal.

  With a few mouthed obscenities tossed at each other, the men scurried toward their stations with the women following.

  “Now that’s class,” I said. “That Marion with the hat has some good breeding. You can tell just by her posture. You can’t learn to walk like that with a couple cotillion classes. That’s good genes, is what that is.”

  Max didn’t reply. He probably had trouble following the argument. Shawna shooed off the festival bystanders and spotted us.

  “Mr. Avtaikin,” the snarl in Shawna’s voice slipped into a sugary drawl. “Yoo-hoo.”

  “Hey, Shawna,” I said, always prepared for a detente in our girl feud. “Hot enough for you?”

  “Mr. Maksim Avtaikin.” She ignored me to give Max a full eyelash flutter. Nauseating stuff. “You have finally graced us with your presence. I’ve been waiting your arrival most anxiously.”

  I wrinkled my nose. When Shawna tried too hard, she sounded like she swallowed Gone with the Wind.

  “Show Mr. Max his seat and tell him the rules,” I said. “He doesn’t need to be whitewashed.”

  “It’s not whitewashing. It’s called being polite,” snapped Shawna. She turned to Max, smoothing the seersucker over her abundant curves. “You surely need to keep better company, Mr. Avtaikin. This is an old county with old families. Some raised better than others. Since you come from Europe, you are probably unaware.”

  “We have old bloodlines in my country, Miss,” said Max.

  Shawna fanned herself with the clipboard in long strokes, eyeing Max like a malnourished tiger let loose in a hog confinement. “I’m sure you do. So you understand, as a business man, the importance of the type of company you keep.”

  “Are you hinting I’m not good enough to hang around Mr. Max?” I snorted. However old Max’s bloodlines, I was pretty sure he didn’t come from the elite. His people likely led revolutions against the aristocracy. Or sold black market armaments to the coup leaders.

  “I understand this perfectly,” Max said. “I will take my place with the judges. Good day to you, Artist.” He gave a short bow to me and strolled past Shawna to enter the judges’ tent.

  “Hey Bear,” I called after him. “Enjoy the stew.”

  He looked over his shoulder and gave the slightest hint of a smile.

  The crowd swelled around me, eager to watch the judging. I dug my heels in to keep my spot in front. Teenage girls in matching gold aprons sashayed into the tent bearing trays of numbered cups filled with stew. As contestants for the Stew Princess pageant, the poor girls also wore headbands adorned with a bobbing, golden stew pot. Another Shawna idea to class up Sidewinder’s country festival.

  “You’ve got one of those looks on your face like you’re either thinking hard or doing something unladylike,” said a familiar baritone. Then he goosed me.

  I spun to the side and took a quick second to admire the dark, brown curls—raw umber with a tad of burnt sienna in his highlights—that had finally grown back from his Police Academy buzz. I had missed those curls, even though Luke had a finely sculpted head. But Luke had a finely sculpted everything.

  Behind his kick-butt cop shades, cool gray eyes studied me. “I thought you were working a craft booth.”

  “Taking a break to watch the cook-off judging,” I said. “They send the cops out to break up the fight?”

  “What fight?” Luke swiveled his gaze from me to the crowd.

  “Between two cook-off teams. Don’t worry, Shawna took care of it.”

  “Good for Shawna.” Luke smirked at my scowl. “We’re taking shifts at the festival and a couple deputies got hired to direct traffic. I just kicked a guy out for handing out some health drink without a permit. Did you see a short, beefed-up dude hauling a cooler and passing out Dixie cups with green stuff in them?”

  “That would be Griffin Ward,” I said. “Eloise’s musclehead boyfriend. He came by our booth earlier to drop off stew and hassle Eloise. He forced her to drink the green stuff.”

  “Forced her?”

  “That’s what I would call the emotional blackmail he uses on her. Claims his health drinks have healed her Crohn’s Disease. And she won’t admit it, but I think he’s gotten physical with her a few times. How can she go out with a jerk like that? Eloise is smart and talented. What is it about women with weight issues falling for guys with No Fat Chicks stickers on their vehicles?”

  Eloise’s family and mine represented a common characteristic of the Georgia cracker: our body types ran to extremes. My Grandpa and I leaned toward the whippet-thin, rangy side of the Southern physique. My sister Casey, like my mother, took my Grandma Jo’s genes.

  Their curves could run to pounds if left unchecked. With Casey’s love of Southern cooking, she fought to contain her weight. Eloise’s family gave in to the inevitable, finding happiness in bacon, butter, and lard. God bless them, they were content in their obesity, but Eloise suffered from a poverty that had to do more with self-image than money.

  I sometimes wondered if Eloise found her Crohn’s Disease a mixed blessing as the disease sometimes starved her appetite. I also wondered if Griffin felt that way as well, with his love of “No Fat Chicks.”

  “Eloise is a smart gal, but I’ve seen it all. You can’t even imagine some of the domestic calls I’ve been on,” said Luke. “Not just in Forks County, but on the bases when I was an MP, too. It’s sickening.”

  “He does it again, and I’m going to get Eloise to put a restraining order on him,” I said.

  Luke sighed. “Chances are she won’t do it. I don’t get it. Some women get the living daylights beat out of them and won’t even press charges.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t worry. By the way, I have to cancel tonight,” he said and leaned down to kiss me before I could argue.

  “Again? Eloise and I ar
e going to the Viper for catfish. No way in hell do I want to be a third wheel if Griffin Ward shows up. Earlier today, I thought he was going to take a swing at me when I told him to lay off Eloise.”

  “Don’t bait a guy like that. Do me a favor and take off if he shows up.” Luke lifted his shades so I could get a glimpse of his serious intent.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll leave Griffin alone. I wish you’d come out, though.”

  “We’re stretched thin with the festival.” He shrugged. “You wanted me to work in Forks County. I got switched off nights. You should be happy.”

  “I could talk to Uncle Will,” I said.

  “Do not. I don’t like people who play favorites, and I sure as hell don’t want that reputation. Bad enough the crap I get for dating you.”

  “What kind of crap? Why?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to get.” He twitched my ponytail. “My shift here is over. I’ll try to catch you later.”

  I watched him amble away, too agitated to enjoy the view.

  Another broken date. From the difficulty of his twelve-hour shifts and his disinterest in doing much more than snuggling in his free time, the honeymoon period on our renewed dating status had cooled. It seemed we hadn’t quite worked out what we were doing romantically. Other than some real hot snuggling.

  Cornering him on the state of our relationship was harder than lassoing a squirrel.

  My irritation grew as I watched the judges take an outrageous amount of time to appraise their tiny cups of Brunswick Stew. What was so hard about swallowing stew and voting up or down? They raised the clear plastic cups of stew to eye level, exposing various shades of brown. Using the pressure of a spoon, one judge tested corn, potato, and okra slices for durability. Another loudly slurped each minuscule sip and pondered the taste like it was fine wine and not a side dish for barbecue. One woman picked out each piece of shredded meat and laid the insignificant threads on her tongue before swallowing.