Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) (16 page)

Twenty

The next morning, I gathered my sketching supplies and made a hasty exit from the crowded house before anyone complained I used all the hot water. No BMW lurked nearby, but Rupert’s town car waited for me. At this hour, the street was quiet. Rather unusual to not have prying eyes about and rather unfortunate, I thought, as I climbed into the back of the vehicle.

I could’ve used the good press of a chauffeured car.

I made the driver, Nick, drive through the middle of town. The post office was empty, save for a poster of
Greek Todd
, which I ripped down and stuffed in my bag.

I studied the Tru-Buy as we passed, but the early hour left the parking lot empty. Feeling disappointed my brush with a chauffeur did not lend itself to bragging, I allowed Nick to continue toward the interstate exit. I would’ve loved to have him drive down to Line Creek and park in front of Shawna’s store, but I didn’t want to push her over the edge. Yet.

As we neared the exit, I eyed the SipNZip sign, looming in the distance between a liquor store and a Motel 8. “Nick, can we stop at the SipNZip?”

Nick nodded. He wasn’t much on talking. On the drive through Halo, I had tried my best to pull conversation from him. The back of his buzzed, light brown head nodded or shook. Once he turned his head so he could give me an “are-you-serious?” look. Not a chatter.

We pulled into the SipNZip and I popped open my car door, forgetting that was part of Nick’s role. “Are you coming in?” I asked him.

He shook his head, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, and leaned against the car.

“You want a cup of coffee?”

His eyes cut from the lighter he cupped before the cigarette in his mouth. Giving me a quick head shake, Nick torched the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke in my direction.

I gave up on Nick and wandered past the gas pumps to the store. Max might have shut down my SipNZip line of questioning, but I am a woman who follows through with her intentions. I wasn’t quite sure of my intentions, but while I tried to catch some ever-elusive sleep, I had thought about Max’s reasons to not want Todd in his store. Max had hired Todd for odd jobs in the past. Like calling bingo and dealing poker and something between the two that dipped into card sharking. Max trusted Todd. The problem wasn’t Todd.

The problem was the SipNZip.

Max didn’t want anyone to know he owned it, which was also strange considering he didn’t hide his presence in the community. What was going on with the SipNZip? I reckoned there was only one way to find out. I would have to get a job at the SipNZip. Without Max knowing. In between my hours of working on Rupert’s painting, taking care of the Coderres, and figuring out why Shawna wanted to destroy me.

I’d give the job a week. I couldn’t sleep anyway. Not with all these people in my house. I was sharing a bed with my sister, for gracious sake.

The sparkling glass door of the SipNZip banged behind me as I walked to the counter. The spindly, young woman I had met earlier worked the cash register again. She looked up from her magazine, recognition dawning in her eyes. Quickly replaced with irritation. She enjoyed my need to chat as much as Nick the driver.

“I want an application to work here,” I said.

She shrugged, pulled a piece of paper from the drawer beneath her, and shoved it at me. With a winning customer service smile and a thank you, I took the form and a pen. Five minutes and one cup of flavored coffee later, I returned with the completed application.

“Cherrilyn Ballard?” She stumbled over my name as she scanned the form.

I bobbed my head, taking a cue from Driver Nick. Ballard was my Grandpa’s name and my real name was Cherrilyn, so no real foul there. And using my Grandpa’s farm address wasn’t really a lie. However, my extensive work in the service and retail industry was a bit overblown.

“I’m willing to work the graveyard shift,” I said. “Actually, it’s really the only time I can work. And on Friday and Saturday nights, I’d rather come in after the bars close.”

“We’ll call you.”

“Alrighty. Have a good day now.” I traipsed back to the car.

Nick tossed his cigarette onto the blacktop and opened my door. I clambered in and noticed the poster sticking out of my satchel.

Yanking it out of the bag, I pressed out the wrinkled paper and examined the enlarged photograph. Shawna had used a Sharpie to draw arrows and enhance some of Todd’s features. She had also written, “You Call This Art? Concerned Citizens for Decency in Art,” followed by her phone number. Todd’s face had been Sharpied out. Which I guess was good for Todd, although he might have liked Shawna’s enhancements. Likely would have gotten him some high-fives from the guys.

I shoved the poster back in my satchel, pulled out my phone, and called my sister.

Casey bleated an obnoxious word in my ear.

“I found a
Greek Todd
poster in the post office. You, Cody, and Todd need to drive around the county and pull those posters down.”

She repeated the offensive word.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Shawna’s forming a concerned citizens group about me. The witch hunt has begun. I’m on my way to Atlanta, otherwise I would do it.”

I hung up before she cussed again. Casey was not a morning person.

I dialed another number.

“Girl, how are you? I’m on my way to the church for organ practice,” said Leah. “Mercy, it’s a beautiful day. Don’t you think?” Leah was a morning person. Which is why I rarely talked to her in the morning.

“Leah, I need your help.” I glanced out the window and saw a sign for the Cracker Barrel. My stomach’s resonant growl caused a shriek from Leah and a concerned glance in the rear view from Nick. I held the phone away from my body until my stomach finished complaining. “Shawna Branson is up to no good again. Have you heard her newest campaign plan?”

“Honey, yes. I was in the office yesterday when she tried to reserve a meeting room at the New Order Church for Monday night. Some kind of Concerned Citizens League. Wanted it sooner and got real ugly with the receptionist, Beth Daniels. You’re lucky Beth doesn’t take any guff and wouldn’t move the Boy Scouts to another night. They’re getting ready for their pinewood derby. Isn’t that cute?”

“I tell you what’s not cute. What people are going to think of me after Shawna leads this meeting. She’ll get all the Bransons to back her. I’ll be blackballed from the Lions’ pancake breakfasts, much less sell a pencil sketch or anything else.”

“Plus your Grandpa will wring your neck. The boys at the hardware store will not let him live this down.”

“He’ll likely kick me out of my over-crowded house. Which means I’ll really need to work in this town to pay rent,” I sighed. “Can you talk to Shawna? See if you can get any sense out of her? Find out what she means by these pictures she thinks I have?”

“Of course, I’ll try. This is plain silly. How does this one woman get a whole county to shun you?”

“My family history doesn’t help. I’ve got plenty of friends, but most aren’t respectable. With the exception of you and, ironically, Max Avtaikin. He can slip through the fingers of the law and still get a key to the city.” I squinted in thought. “You’d think the elderly community would be angry with him for that bingo deal, but they blame me instead.”

“Everyone loves Mr. Max. And you’re sort of easy to blame.”

“Don’t start spouting the ‘blessed are the meek’ lines. I get enough of that from Red.”

“You do have a mouth on you, honey. No denying that,” Leah giggled. “But you generally use it for the good of others. You have a big heart.”

“Almost as big as my mouth,” I smiled.

“Some Halo residents see a problem with both. Folks don’t always appreciate your public service. At least the public you are serving. Unfortunately, the big folks think the people you like to help deserve their misfortune. People like the Bransons don’t like your interference.”

“I guess helping the Coderres isn’t going to get me a Citizen of the Year award, either. Leah, tell me why I want to live in a town who looks down on the unfortunate?”

“Because that happens everywhere, baby. City, country, suburbs. You want to live in this town because your family and friends live here. And it’s a good place to raise children.”

“Who said anything about raising children? Lord, Leah. Your mind likes to take some exotic leaps.”

“I’m going to hunt down Shawna today and try to talk some sense into her. Are you off to your fancy art job? Don’t forget Sticks plays tonight at Red’s.”

“I’ll be there. Unless I have to work at the SipNZip. Thank you, Leah. You’re the best.” I hung up before she questioned me about the SipNZip.

I felt a little better about Shawna’s craziness. However, I was still playing defense. Unless I could stop Shawna’s forward motion, I had better hope for an interception.

I needed to find those damned mysterious pictures. Before the Concerned Citizens meeting. I didn’t have much time before the tar and feathering commenced.

Twenty-One

Inside Rupert’s house, I left my sunglasses on to allow my eyes to adjust to his blinding decor. And the retro, red faux-Ray Bans accentuated my red hombre dyed tank top and gold denim jeans. Couldn’t hurt to let the patron think I admired his favorite colors. The outfit also worked well as interior camouflage.

Miss David greeted me in head to toe black. Very classy, although I suspected she used monotones to rebel against Rupert’s ostentatious style. I followed her to his office where she left me. Rupert sat at his desk, talking on the phone. At my hesitation, he waved me in and then spun his chair so he faced a window.

A decorated Christmas tree now stood on the far side of the office. Compared to the tacky office decor, the tree was beautiful. Southern ideal, professionally decorated beautiful. In other words, it stood out like a Christmas tree in September.

I dropped my satchel on the floor before the tree and crossed the room to gather my other belongings from the town car. Mindful of Rupert’s telephone chat, I closed his door softly and tiptoed into the hall leading toward the foyer. Near the front door, Nick and Miss David stood chatting. He had my easel, tackle box, and portfolio under one arm. The other hand reached for Miss David’s ass. I backed up, bumped into a Chippendale table, spun, and caught the porcelain vase before it spilled flowers and water onto the table. My lightening reflexes saved the arrangement but had broken the butler-chauffeur dalliance.

Assuming Miss David was a butler, of course. Which didn’t matter, because they looked miffed either way.

“May I help you?” asked Miss David, striding to the table. She adjusted the vase three centimeters from where I had just righted it.

“I was coming to get the rest of my things.”

Carrying my gear, Nick schlepped past me and into the office.

“Thanks Nick,” I said to his back.

“Anything else?” asked Miss David.

“You know, I don’t care if you have a thing with Nick. I’m here to do a job, same as you.”

“Then go do your job.”

“Mr. Rupert’s on the phone. I’ve got a minute. So, where are you from? I can tell it’s not Atlanta.”

Her pale lips clenched. “Do you want to see my passport?”

“No,” I wrinkled my nose, wondering yet again what had happened to the art of pleasantries. “I’m just making conversation. Are you Canadian? You have a teeny accent.”

“No,” she said with a sneer that would insult most Canadians. “I’m not the one with the accent. Mr. Agadzinoff is expecting you. He’s a busy man.”

Miss David didn’t realize snubbing me tended to have the opposite effect intended. Now I was dying to pull her into a conversation even if I humiliated myself. And use the opportunity to learn more about Crazy Rupert. “What does an immigration lawyer do?”

“Helps immigrants file their citizenship papers.”

“Must be lucrative,” I leaned against the table and the vase threatened to spill again. Hopping off, I righted the vase and saw Miss David’s consternated look. “Does he pay you pretty well?”

“That’s an impertinent question.”

“I don’t mean to be impertinent,” I said, honestly. “I’m just curious.”

“You know the fable about the curious cat?” She folded her arms over her black suit jacket.

“The one where the cat dies?”

“Mr. Agadzinoff is paying you well for your artistic services. Extremely well so he can truthfully tell his Buckhead friends his art is expensive. That is all you need to know.”

“In order to paint a realistic portrait, I need a sense of the person I’m representing. Their personality is reflected in the painting. My curiosity helps me to do my job well.”

“Then I’d advise you to ask Mr. Agadzinoff what he pays his employees and not me.”

She stalked down the hall. I waited until she was out of sight to shudder off the chill left behind. As I turned back, Nick opened the office door and sauntered toward me.

“Hey Nick,” I said, seeking further opportunities for humiliation and information. “Do you think I’m impertinent?”

Nick shook his head and tried to move past me.

I hopped in front of him. “Miss David thinks I’m impertinent. I think I’m giving her the wrong impression. What can I do to smooth things over with her?”

He shrugged.

“Do you have a stutter or something? If you do, I don’t mind. I have a cousin who stutters. You can sing your answer if you like. Or write it down.”

“I don’t have stutter,” he said. “You are fine. Miss David doesn’t like anybody.”

“I think she likes you. And you don’t talk to me either.”

“She don’t like me. I don’t talk for my English is not so good.”

Aha, I thought. Maybe Miss David’s English was also poor. Although she did know the word impertinent. “Are you one of Mr. Agadzinoff’s immigrants?”

“Yes.” Nick’s gaze moved to his shoes. “My name is Nikolai, but Nik sounds American.”

“Nikolai is nice, too.” I smiled. “Welcome to America, Nik. Hope you like it here.”

He blushed, shrugged, and toed the Chippendale table. “I better wash cars. Mr. Agadzinoff likes to ride in clean car. He wants me to wash your truck, too.”

“No need for that, Nik. If you wash the Datsun, her paint might peel off. She’s one rinse from completely rusting out.”

Nik gave me a half-smile and stepped to get around me. I stopped him with a hand to his arm. “Listen Nik, if I talk too fast, let me know. I’d hate for you to think I was being rude.”

“You are not talking fast. You just talk much.” Nik’s grin broke wide.

“So I’ve heard,” I dropped my hand from his arm and grinned back. “I’ll see you later.”

Nik gave me a nod and continued toward the foyer.

I returned to Rupert’s office. He had finished his phone call and paced before the Christmas tree.

“Where have you been, darling?” he asked. “I have some free time now. Let’s begin.”

“I’m going to start with some quick sketches,” I said, hurrying to the Christmas tree. “I’ll work at my easel. Feel free to talk and try different positions. Would you like to be seated or standing?”

Rupert turned to examine the Christmas tree. “Sitting will be more comfortable, but I will have better lines if I stand. Don’t you agree? And sitting might appear aggrandizing. Like I’m a king on a throne.”

I looked up at him from my squat before my tackle box. Rupert put a lot more thought into posing than anyone I ever met. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me. We can try both and you can look at my sketches before you decide.”

He strode to his desk and picked up his phone. “Miss David? Can you get the full length mirror from my dressing room and bring it in here?”

This was probably why Miss David hated me. My appearance caused her more work. A butler’s job is never done.

Grabbing a good piece of charcoal and my sketch pad, I placed both on my easel and set to work sketching Rupert as he fretted about his pose. I concentrated on getting his relative proportions before worrying about detail and composition. The head is amazingly symmetrical. Pupils are your center. You can actually draw a line from pupil to pupil and use that line to make a perfect square to help find the lines for the mouth and nose.

I find that aspect of the human face amazing. And I don’t even like geometry.

Once you understand the shape of a face, drawing becomes much simpler. However, everyone but super models have quirks to their symmetry. Those small faults had to be noted, too, without drawing too much attention to them. People with a crooked nose don’t want to see a crooked nose in their portrait. But the painting still has to honestly reflect their face. Tricky.

As I told Miss David, in order for a portrait to look realistic, it needs the personality of the sitter. Portraits are all about nuance, not geometry. A tilt to the head, an uplift at the corner of the mouth, or a slant in an eye’s gaze makes all the difference. Otherwise you end up with a robot face.

Or a paint by number project by Shawna Branson.

Miss David returned with the mirror. We set it up next to my easel so Rupert could pose himself as Father Businessman Christmas or whatever look he was going for. He tried standing, leaning, and sitting, then settled on standing.

“So how long has Miss David worked for you?” I waited to ask that question until she had left the room. The less Miss David talked, the more I wanted to know.

“A few years,” he picked a piece of lint off his suit jacket. “Do you think I should wear a black or blue suit?”

“Blue. It’ll pull out some of the colors from the tree decorations and work better with the undertones in your skin.”

I flipped a page in my sketchbook and worked on a close up of his small, bushy mustache. It would not do to have him looking like Hitler.

“So what did Maksim say when you told him I hired you?” asked Rupert. He smiled at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie.

“Mr. Max?” I looked up from my mustache. “I forgot to tell him, actually.”

“You must tell him, my dear,” Rupert shook a finger at me. His eyes twinkled. “And be sure to report the look on his face. It will make me laugh, I know.”

I began working on a set of Rupert’s eyes, trying to capture the “I bested Max Avtaikin” twinkle. That look was pure gold. And Rupert liked gold. “Yes, sir. How long have you known Mr. Max?”

“A long time.” Rupert’s gaze drifted to his gold and brass coffered ceiling. “I helped him immigrate. Did you know his mother was an artist?”

“He told me that once,” I said, eager to learn more about the Bear. “Didn’t she go to art school before she got married?”

“She was very talented. It’s a shame she didn’t amount to much.”

“Max turned out pretty well. His mother must be proud of him.”

“She died long ago.” Rupert paused, then shrugged. “Didn’t see Maksim amount to anything more than a gangster.”

I bit my lip. “I am sorry to hear that. Must have been hard on him.”

“Maksim is a hard man.” Rupert glanced back to the mirror and slicked down a stray hair. “Before she died, I believe he was involved in some kind of crime organization. Luckily, he eluded the law, otherwise he would still be back home. No immigration for convicts. Legally, anyway.”

“Really?” I set my charcoal down. “Tell me more.”

“I would think Maks would have told you these stories,” said Rupert.

“Max is really good at avoiding reports on anything he doesn’t want me to know.”

Particularly anything personal or illegal, I thought. Next to the mustache and eye sketch, I drew a bear. A bear with expensive cologne, giant pecs, and a small scar above his eyebrow. A bear who knew maneuvers.

It had been a long while since I had experienced maneuvers, I thought. My old maneuvers were embarrassed to be seen with me or busy telling me I’m overdramatic. My other old maneuvers had tried to trick me into thinking they were someone they were not.

Of course, Rupert’s stories weren’t doing much to win me over to the side of new maneuvers. And I had to remind myself I had never trusted Max, with or without interesting maneuvers.

I realized I had missed part of our conversation during my bear sketch. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Maksim Avtaikin is a difficult man to read. What do you think?”

“Yes, sir,” I said and flipped the page on my sketch book to hide my little bear. “Real difficult.”

“He only has one of your paintings. But you have spent some time with him. He hasn’t commissioned you for a portrait yet?”

“Max’s mentioned it, but we never talked about it officially. However, he’s helping me out with a show in Halo.”

“A show? He’s commissioning a show?” Rupert’s mustache made a peevish dance above his lip.

“Not commissioning. I’m sure he’ll take a hefty cut of anything that sells. But more than likely nothing will. There’s a,” I could not call Shawna an artist, “gallery owner who thinks the
Greek Todd
s are immoral. Or at least she’d like the town to think they are.”

“Immoral?” Rupert started a laughing attack that allowed me to capture his likeness in charcoal. Bent over. Wheezing. Tears.

I flipped to a clean sheet. I was saving that to show him later.

“How could you consider those paintings immoral?” Rupert wiped an eye. “Is that what your mother hinted at earlier? Will it increase their value if the public thinks they are immoral?”

“Pearl is not my mother,” I shuddered. “It won’t increase the value in the public she was speaking of. They don’t spend much on art.”

“But the paintings are representative of classical antiquity works.”

“Doesn’t matter to Forks County.”