Portrait of a Dead Guy Page 2

  “I thought you were in Afghanistan or Alabama,” I said. “What are you doing back?”

  “Discharged. You still mad at me? It’s been a while.”

  “Mad? I barely remember the last time I saw you.” I wasn’t really lying. My last memory wasn’t of seeing him, but seeing the piece of trash in his truck. And by piece of trash, I mean the kind with boobs.

  “You were pretty mad at the time. And I know you and your grudges.”

  “I’ve got more to do than think about something that happened when I was barely out of high school.”

  “Are you going to hold my youthful indiscretions against me now?” He smiled. “I’m only in town for a short time. You know I can only take Halo in small doses.”

  “If you’re not sticking around, I can’t see how my opinion of you matters. Not like you asked me about your sudden decision to join the Army and clear out of dodge.”

  “That’s what you’re mad about?”

  Dear God, men are clueless. Why He didn’t sharpen them up a bit has to be one of life’s greatest mysteries.

  “There are a number of things you did. But I’m not about to print you out a list.”

  “We had some good times, too.”

  “Which you sabotaged with your idiocy.”

  “You’re one to talk,” he mumbled.

  I took another step forward, but Luke didn’t move. His eyes roamed from my face to my boots. My irritation grew.

  “Do you mind? I need to get back to Cooper’s. I’m working.” I shoved him out of the way, dragging my unwieldy portfolio bag behind me.

  “Just trying to put my finger on what about you changed.”

  I clamped my mouth shut as an unwelcome blush crept up the back of my neck.

  “I know,” he continued. “Your boots are plain old brown. Where’re those red cowboy boots?”

  I stomped toward the funeral home. “At home with my Backstreet Boys albums. I don’t have time to play catch up with you. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “How about playing catch up later, then?” I glanced back to see a glimmer of a smile. “Don’t you think it’d be fun to stroll down memory lane? Does everybody still hang out at Red’s?” The sunlight played with the auburn highlights in his dark curls and the tips of his long, black eyelashes.

  Lord, why does he have to be so good looking? It was incredibly unfair how easily beauty weakened me. Gave suffering for art a whole new meaning.

  “It was seven years ago,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “What?”

  “Not ten years,” I corrected. “But a lot has happened in seven.”

  “I bet.”

  I found Wanda shredding a tissue in the viewing room, watching JB bark orders at the assorted non-nuclear Bransons who then cowed and scurried as if he were the king of Forks County. He owned many businesses that supported most of the Branson clan, including the big Ford dealership, but he had actually inherited the Branson patrilineal power seat. Ironically, the two Bransons who never bowed to JB were his son, Dustin, and stepson, Luke. And that was where the similarities between Dustin and Luke stopped.

  Luke and Dustin were never close. Luke loved his mother and put up with Dustin when she remarried. However, Luke got out of Halo as soon as possible. Couldn’t blame him, with a cold stepfather and a mother pouring her attention into rehabilitating an emerging sociopath. But poor Wanda had her hands full.

  Made me wonder, though. With Dustin out of the picture, was there now more room for Luke? Interesting that Luke left the Army right when his stepbrother got offed.

  Hating that ugly thought, I hurried over to Wanda. “I just ran into Luke,” I said, giving her shoulder a quick hug. “I’m glad to see he’s here to help you through this.”

  “Yes, it is a blessing. Served his time, you know, and of course, he won’t tell me his plans yet. But that’s Luke. Doesn’t like to worry me.”

  “Keeps his cards pretty close to his chest, does he?”

  “Look at him,” Wanda waved at her son. “I’ve never been able to tell what he’s thinking. Just like his father, God bless him. Maybe it was losing his daddy so young. He just keeps everything clammed up inside.”

  Spotting his mother’s wave, Luke wandered into the viewing room. He had always been a wiry guy, displaying his strength in high school on the wrestling team and fighting behind the Highway 19 Quik Stop with the other boys carrying boulder-size chips on their shoulder. He still seemed dangerous, yet more settled and confident. There was no softness about him. Luke was all hard edges.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I murmured. “I lost my daddy young, too, but I’ve always been an open book.”

  “Well, boys and girls are different,” said Wanda.

  “Don’t I know it.” I swung one palm to my hip but waved my other in casual deference to Luke’s arrival. “Let’s go sit, and you can take a look at my portfolio. While you’re looking at my samples, I’ll sketch some ideas I have for Dustin.”

  “What’s this?” Luke asked. “Ideas for Dustin?”

  “I’m having Dustin’s portrait done,” Wanda explained. “I’ll hang it next to the painting of him as a child. That one’s thirty-by-forty. I’d like them to be the same size.”

  Holy cow, that’s a big picture of a dead guy, I thought, but nodded my head as if it was the most reasonable idea in the world.

  “That’s downright morbid.” Although he directed the statement to his mother, the accusation lay at my feet. “I swear you haven’t changed Cherry, with all the nutty art stuff.”

  I felt like telling Luke, this is your mother’s crazy notion, not mine. Instead I responded in my most proper aren’t-you-an-idiot drawl, “Your momma is just dealing with this horrible tragedy the best she can, God bless her. It’s a memorial.”

  “A memorial for Dustin? You don’t know what Dustin was mixed up in, Mom. Death doesn’t turn a sinner into a saint. God knows you tried your best. More than his own father.”

  “Come on, Miss Wanda,” I tugged on her arm. Between Luke and Shawna, I was going to lose this commission. “I’ll get you a cup of tea and you can look at my paintings. It’ll get your mind off things for a minute, anyway. I’ve got a real cute one of Snug, Terrell Jacob’s Coonhound.”

  Wanda beckoned JB and they conferred for a moment. With a shrug he followed her out of the viewing room.

  Luke shoved his hands in his pockets. “You spent all that money on art school to paint pictures of dogs?”

  “I spent all that money on art school to become a professional artist,” I said. “It’s early days yet. For now, I take what I can get.”

  “Including painting the departed?”

  “You ever heard of a still life?” I shot back and stalked out of the viewing room, swinging my portfolio bag behind me.

  I followed Wanda and JB into a little room crowded with a table and chairs. Unzipping the large bag, I pulled out a binder of photographs of my college works and a sheaf of plastic-encased photos of my newer stuff. Snug the dog, a horse named Conquering Hero, and a half-dozen kid portraits. I much preferred animals to children as subjects, something you don’t learn in school. Getting a four-year-old to sit still is damn near impossible. However, you take a well-trained dog in the right pose, and you’ve got the perfect model. Snug the Coonhound sat better than most people. We had an easy working relationship, what with Snug’s deferential silence.

  No need for forced conversation with that subject. Of course with this job, I couldn’t expect any conversation either. I could make do with photographs.

  But first I needed to get the job.

  “I don’t know why you’re wasting my time looking at pictures,” said JB. He tossed the portraits of Snug and Hero on the table.

  “This one is just beautiful, Cherry,” said Wan
da, holding up a Sargent inspired painting. The model wore a sheet draped like a toga, but the effect was tasteful with wonderful folds to show depth and shadow.

  “I’m glad you pointed out that one. Don’t you love the light on her face? You might not be able to tell, but that’s not an oil painting. I had a tight schedule, so I used acrylics. They dry quickly and I didn’t have to varnish the painting immediately. Someone mentioned you displaying the portrait at the funeral service? Oils wouldn’t dry fast enough to get the painting done without messing up the color.”

  “I was fixing on making a photo display for the service when I realized we didn’t have many of Dustin after he passed a certain age.” Wanda’s face colored and she cast her eyes away from JB. “I’ve just been in a tizzy, not knowing what to do with myself and not sleeping. That’s when I got the idea for the memory box. Started gathering stuff Dustin left in his old room. Then I remembered the family portraits we had done at our wedding and thought maybe a new painting would be a nice tribute.”

  “Let her have what she needs,” said JB. “A picture’s not bringing him back, but if it makes Wanda feel better, she can have it.”

  “I totally agree, sir,” I said. “That’s why you should let me have the honor of painting this portrait. You can see what quality I can produce. You don’t want a final memorial done by an amateur.”

  “What about Shawna?” he said, eyeing me. “Although Shawna did set a pretty hefty price for painting my son.”

  I squirmed, caught between a rock and a rattlesnake. JB would sell out his niece for a cheaper price. But probably wouldn’t help me underbid her, either.

  “A portrait lasts for generations.” I began with my salesman pitch. “My paintings are heirloom quality and will be around long after...” Since the subject was dead, I stopped before my mouth ate my foot. “Anyway, a portrait is priceless.”

  “Priceless? You talking free?” JB leaned back in his chair.

  “Of course a professional artist would base the price on other features. Number of people. Intricacy of the clothing, jewelry and props. Complexity of the background. And of course, the size.” I could not get over the size.

  “How complex is a coffin?” He steepled his hands under his chin. “And we don’t need background details.”

  “JB, don’t be cheap,” said Wanda. “Like Cherry said, we’re talking heirloom quality.”

  “Who in the hell wants to inherit a picture of Dustin in a coffin, Wanda?” JB said. “Even if little Dustins start crawling out of the woodwork, and God help us if that happens, I’m sure none of them will want this painting. We can cut some corners, here.”

  “Coffin portrait?” I said, swallowing hard. My mouth went dry, and I had trouble getting my tongue to form intelligible words. “I thought you’d want me to work from snapshots or something. Dustin standing in a field, looking off to heaven, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh no,” said Wanda. “That would be phony. Dustin never would have stood in a field unless he was hunting, and I doubt he thought about heaven much.” She cast a quick look at her husband. “I want him as he is now. And realistic. None of that abstract stuff.”

  I gulped. “As he is now.” The man was murdered. An abstract would be easier to stomach. Not like anyone would enjoy looking at David’s “The Death of Marat” in their TV room. “All right. Uh, do you want me to create a pose, or do you want the whole, um, coffin?”

  “Could you paint it like we were looking down at Dustin? Like angels gazing?” Wanda’s moist blue eyes stared off into the distance and I shivered.

  I grabbed my notebook and made a quick sketch. “Something like this?” I showed her the rough illustration of my idea.

  “Oh, it’s just perfect,” she said, grabbing the sketchbook to shove at JB. “Let’s give Cherry a chance, honey. I really want this view. Shawna said she has an allergy to formaldehyde so she couldn’t paint Dustin this way.”

  “Tell you what.” JB leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “I’ll give you a shot. I want Wanda to be happy after what all she’s endured with Dustin. He was my son and I owe her that.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, although my skin still prickled from the word formaldehyde.

  “But,” he said, “you got to have the painting done for the funeral. The whole she-bang. Wanda can choose between you and Shawna, so you better make it good. She likes quality. After the funeral, I’m done. Wanda can hang up his picture and look at it all she wants, but I’m putting this whole blasted deal out of my mind. I’m paying off his creditors right and left, dealing with folks’ complaints, and living through the embarrassment of the way he went. Do you know what they are saying about him?”

  I knew, but I sure wasn’t going to say. Folks thought a bad drug deal or payback from a robbery ring. Or someone just got tired of Dustin’s mouth and went postal on him. Hard to say with Dustin. There were so many crimes to choose from.

  “I’ll work up a contract,” I said. “Thank you for this opportunity. I’ll get cracking right away and I’ll also do the memory box.”

  “We’ll have Cooper set out the body for you then.” JB didn’t smile but I did see a flash of teeth. “Got to admire your tenacity, Cherry. I hate to say it, but stories I heard about your family made me question your reliability.”

  A shot of heat worked its way from my toes to my scalp. People always bring up my family’s history over the years, but it never got any easier.

  “My reputation is important to me. I am judged by my own actions as well as those that surround me. You know how people like to talk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at me evenly. “I’m glad we agree on this issue. As a businesswoman, you have your own reputation to protect and a lot of history to overcome.”

  A million comebacks crossed my mind, but none were appropriate for a bereaved father sitting in a funeral home with a large check that could have my name on it. I swallowed my pride and tried not to choke. “I’ll bring that contract by tomorrow.”

  He had better keep his end of the bargain, because after that humiliation, I sure as hell wasn’t working for free.

  TWO

  I hustled out of the cramped conference room to find Cooper. Walking down the dim hallway, I glanced in the first room on the right. The wooden door rested open showing an office filled with oversized mahogany furniture and misty paintings of sunrises or sunsets. I’m never sure which they’re supposed to be.

  I waved at Cooper who chatted with Will Thompson, our county coroner and sheriff, and one of my favorite men on the planet. But that’s a pretty short list.

  “How are you, girl?” Will was a good friend of my grandpa. Will was about thirty years younger, a hundred pounds heavier, and a million times nicer than Grandpa, but they paired up better than sausage and biscuits.

  “Hey, Uncle Will. How are you, Mr. Cooper?” I waltzed into his serenity-blue office to give Will a hug.

  “What are you doing here, Cherry?” asked Cooper. “Get a time wrong for a visitation?”

  “I’m here for the Bransons. And I need a favor. Did you hear about the painting they want?”

  Cooper nodded. Will leaned back in a well-padded armchair and settled folded hands over the mounded expanse of his belly. Will had been a tackle for Georgia back in his prime. It worked to his advantage as sheriff, but I knew him as a big teddy bear.

  “Did the Bransons talk to you about making the body available?” I asked.

  Cooper pursed his lips. He almost perfected the art of masking his emotions except for the occasional tic that managed to escape.

  “Why would the Bransons need the body available today?” Will questioned Cooper while watching me. “Visitation is tomorrow, isn’t it? Is your girl even done making him up?”

  “She is,” said Cooper. “Originally, I assumed they wanted to spend e
xtra time with the body. Happens occasionally. Then they started talking about having a,” Cooper coughed quietly into his hand, “memorial painting made.”

  “Memorial painting?” said Will.

  “Portrait of Dustin,” I said. “In his coffin.”

  Bug-eyed, Will turned from Cooper to me. I rocked back on my heels, doing my best to keep a straight face. It wouldn’t do to have a Branson walk into the office with us hooting about their strange choice of commemorating their son. Will pulled himself together, but for a half a second I was sure he was going to fall out of his chair. “Good Lord.”

  “Mr. Cooper. How’s this going to work? Please tell me I don’t have to visit your basement. I’m still shaking with the heebie jeebies as it is.”

  “I can bring Dustin upstairs,” said Cooper. “His room is ready. But, honey, I thought some Branson was coming to do his picture.”

  “I convinced Wanda and JB to let me try.” I couldn’t help a little smirk at competing for the job with Shawna. She was going to throw a big hissy. And I hoped I got to see it.

  “Well, if you say so.” Creaking, Cooper rose from his wooden desk chair. “It’s your funeral.” He dry heaved a few chuckles. “That’s a little mortuary humor, hon.” A whoop of laughter burst from Will.

  “Good one,” I said and pulled the curl out of my lip.

  Cooper ambled out the office, heading for the basement morgue.

  “You best get yourself together, Sheriff Thompson,” I said to Will and made a quick pivot to speed out of the office.

  “Hang on a minute.” Will swung his considerable body around to face me. “Where you going?”

  “I’ve got some sketching supplies in my truck.”