Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) (6 page)

Six

After running a few errands around Halo, I p
arked on the street before my house. I gazed at the old bungalow for a long moment, admiring my tropical print cushions on the rocking chairs and ferns hanging from the porch rafters. The paint and pretties could not make up for the sagging foundation, faulty electric, and leaky plumbing. However, I did love this house.

I could not let Shawna Branson run me out of town. Even if it meant entering a bargain with the Bear. Of course, Shawna had mentioned Max also sponsoring a show for her. The Bear worked angles better than a protractor.

With that irritating thought, I readied to hop from the truck, grabbed my phone, and noticed my missed call alert showed an Atlanta area code. An Atlanta call meant opportunity. Or bill collectors.

With another glance to my crowded house, I closed my truck door and hit redial. The tone buzzed twice before a smooth female voice answered with clipped tones. Not a local.

“Rupert Agadzinoff’s office,” said the voice. “How can I help you?”

I was momentarily stunned. “Who is this?”

“Are you trying to reach Mr. Agadzinoff? Did you need an attorney?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t been in an accident.”

“He’s not an injury lawyer. Immigration law.”

“I’m not looking to immigrate,” I said. “I’m pretty happy where I am.”

The voice cleared her throat. “Were you trying to reach Mr. Agadzinoff or is this a wrong number?”

“Actually he called me, but I didn’t know who he was.”

“Who are you?”

“Cherry Tucker. I’m an artist. Maybe he had the wrong number.”

“Just a moment,” the line clicked and my ear filled with a steady stream of Muzak. I sang along with Diana Ross before the line clicked again.

“Miss Cherry Tucker, hello,” said the new voice. “I have found you.”

Considering the voice was somewhere in metro-Atlanta and I was sitting in my truck in mid-west Georgia, I didn’t follow. “Were we playing hide and seek?”

He found that line hilarious, judging by the full thirty seconds of laughter that followed.

“You are one funny lady,” he said. “And a very talented artist. I am the owner of your Reconstructing Classicism works.”

“That’s what the gallery named the show. I call the paintings,
Three Greek Todds
. Or
Greek Todd
for short.”

Another string of laughter had me feeling pretty good about my ability to entertain lawyers. Which is always a handy trait to have.

“I’m Rupert Agadzinoff. Call me Rupert. I recently began collecting art. A friend of mine has your work and I became interested. I found your paintings in a gallery, bought them, and here we are.”

“Wow. I’m kind of speechless. Which, if you knew me, you would find remarkable.”

He laughed again, and I timed it to thirteen seconds. “I want you to come to Atlanta tomorrow to discuss a portrait commission with me.”

If I were a cartoonist, I would have drawn dollar signs in place of my pupils. “Tomorrow?”

“I am free tomorrow. Usually Wednesday is my golfing day. Are you busy?”

“Let me check my schedule,” I stared at my watch-free arm and counted ten seconds, “I’m free tomorrow. Where do you live?”

“Darling, do you know Buckhead? I can send a car to pick you up.”

A car to pick me up? Like a long distance pizza delivery? Buckhead was the ritziest part of Atlanta. Old money ritzy. Home of the governor and folks who tipped with hundred dollar bills. “I don’t live in Atlanta. I’ll drive up.”

“If you insist, my dear. My secretary will email you the directions. This is a preliminary visit. I want to meet you before I decide.”

“Of course. I’ll bring my portfolio and contract stuff. By the way, who is your friend?” I figured Max, but I had thought Max the buyer. Sometimes my figuring went south.

“A secret.” He giggled. “See you tomorrow.”

The line clicked off.

Holy crap. I had a possible commission.

I passed the three vehicles lining my drive, stumbled around the junk in my car port, and tumbled through my kitchen door.

“Where is everybody?” I hollered. “I’ve got great news. Drinks on me tonight at Red’s.”

At the arched entryway to my living room-studio, I halted. Cody and Todd struggled to hold a large, flat screen between them while Casey stood before the front door, tapping her chin with a fingernail painted Venetian red with bordello fishnet lines. My vintage fainting couch, antique roll top, and easel had been pushed to the middle of the room. A faded, overstuffed sofa featuring a pattern of hunting dogs and pheasants had been shoved against the picture window.

A nerve above my eye began hammering a rapid staccato. “What in the hell are you doing to my studio?”

Casey spun toward me. “What’s the great news?”

“Casey, hurry it up. This TV set weighs a ton,” said Cody. “What’s the occasion, Cherry? Not every day you offer drinks.”

“Did you sell a painting, baby?” asked Todd. His muscles barely strained under the set.

“Never mind that for now. How did this TV and sofa come to appear in my studio? Y’all do know I work in this room? Customers come in here.”

“Right. All those customers. We’ve been turning them away all day,” said Cody. “If I’m going to live here, I need a decent TV and a better place to sleep.”

“Cody, set the flat screen against that wall.” Casey pointed to the kitchen-facing wall, currently housing ten by ten inch portraits of friends and family.

“You are messing with my gallery space,” I said. “Those paintings are examples for my portrait clients.”

“You said yourself you haven’t been able to get a portrait customer since you did the painting for the Bransons,” said Casey. “Put it there, boys. That wall has a good outlet.”

“If I’m going to drill a hole in the wall to splice in the neighbor’s cable, we need to use the outside wall,” said Cody.

I slapped a hand on the nerve threatening to pop through my skin. “Drill a hole for illegal cable?”

“It’s all right, baby,” said Todd. “We talked to Mr. Johnson. We’re going to split the cable bill and make it cheap for everybody.”

“It’s still illegal,” I said. “That’s all I need is the cable cops all over my butt.”

“Let us worry about cable cops,” said Cody. “And if you do get a customer, we’ll just toss a painting in front of the TV.”

“Speaking of losing all your customers,” Casey paused from shoving a TV stand under my small gallery of oils, “what did Shawna say?”

“Do y’all know anything about some missing pictures?” I explained Shawna’s blackmail scheme while I watched Cody and Todd heave the immense flat screen onto the small stand. I refrained from an explanation of basic structural engineering in fear it would lead to more jimmy rigging.

“Sounds like those pictures are worth a lot to Shawna,” Cody’s brown eyes gleamed beneath his Kobalt Tools cap.

“Don’t go getting any ideas, Cody,” I said. “If you find any pictures of Shawna, you give them to me so I can get her off my back.”

“I’m kind of surprised at you.” Todd dropped onto the dead pheasant couch, folded his arms behind his head, and stretched out his long legs. “You’re playing defense with Shawna when you’re an offensive type of gal.”

Casey rolled her eyes. “I think Todd is wondering why you’re bothering to look for these pictures in the first place. Knowing Shawna, it’s just an excuse to make you look bad. I say you let us deal with Shawna. She’s been riding us Tuckers long enough. It’s time to make her pay.” She cracked her knuckles and gave me a look that would have scared a lesser mortal.

“Good Lord, Casey. That’s all Shawna needs is you doing God knows what and adding more fodder to her fire. Let me handle this my own way. I’ll look for the pictures, but I think Max’s show will do better for my reputation.”

“I think you better come up with a Plan B.” She flipped her pony tail over her shoulder. “We’ve got your back.”

“Let me think on it.” I yawned. The excitement of the commission drained, washed out by the day’s events that began at two in the morning.

I dragged down the hallway, threw myself on my bed, and gazed at the painting of Snug the Coonhound hanging above me. Normally that painting made me smile. Now it was a reminder of the kind of local art I had once done and could no longer get commissioned.

Lucky for me, I thought sleepily, rich immigration attorneys found me talented. And funny.

I woke when the bed shifted beneath me. My hand automatically flung over the bedside to reach for my shotgun, but then I remembered I no longer lived alone. I rolled over and stared up at the big, cerulean blue eyes hovering over my head. Cerulean flecked with cyan blue.

“You awake?” Todd asked.

“Get out of here,” I yawned. “I need to sleep.”

“I need to tell you something. But first, what’s your good news? You never told us.” He dropped next to me and propped his head on his upraised hand.

“A lawyer from Buckhead bought my paintings and he might want me to do his portrait. I’m meeting him tomorrow.”

“That’s exciting, baby. You’re living your dream.”

“Not exactly. Pearl is seriously screwing with my family. I don’t get what’s going on between her and Grandpa. And I don’t understand Shawna,” I yawned again and rolled on to my side, facing Todd.

“You never cared what people thought of your art before.” Todd reached over me to pull the quilt off the side of the bed and draped it over my body.

I snuggled into the quilt and pillowed my head on my curled arm. “The ladies of Forks County are already steamed at me for shutting down bingo. Now they think I’m corrupting you.”

Todd laughed. “That’s funny,” he paused to smooth my hair. “I’m glad we’re talking again.”

I frowned. “I’m not talking to you. This is an exception. I’m still mad. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie,” he continued to stroke my hair. “I was just protecting my reputation.”

“Reputation as the town idiot?” I closed my eyes to better concentrate on his rhythmic hair stroking. The man was a drummer. He did rhythm well.

“You lied to me about playing poker again. You lied to me about helping Max with his illegal gambling consortium. And you lied when you played the ringer in our relationship by acting all innocent and naive, when you knew exactly what you were doing. You helped place the final nail in the coffin of my breakup with Luke and I believe you aren’t even sorry about that.”

“You can’t be that ticked at me.” His hands left my hair, trailed to my shoulder, and began to knead. “You’re letting me live here.”

“It’s my Christian duty to help the needy. The same reason I don’t kick out Casey and Cody.” I rolled on to my front to grant his deft fingers better access to my tight back muscles. “I’m on to you, Todd. You’re trying to trick me into a romance, just like you tricked me into marrying you.”

He rubbed a particularly hard knot, and I moaned.

“Not going to work,” I mumbled. “You’re smarter than you act, but you’re not that smart.”

“I put my application in at the SipNZip,” He spoke while his fingers made magic on my back. “And I picked up some stuff for patching your foundation. I’ll work on that tomorrow.”

“You’re trying to woo me with your obedience. Not gonna happen,” I licked the drool dribbling from the corner of my open mouth. Dreamy images of SipNZip employees spackling my house danced through my mind.

“I almost forgot the reason I came in here,” said Todd. “The Sheriff’s Office called.”

The SipNZip employees disappeared and I sat up, pulling the quilt around me. “Uncle Will? What does he want? Is he okay?”

“Pretty sure he’s fine. Wants you to come down to the station right away. Something about Tyrone somebody,” Todd slid off the bed.

“Tyrone Coderre. Maybe they found the hijacker.” Excitement pumped adrenaline through my blood and exhaustion fled.

“I don’t know for sure, but it sounded serious,” said Todd. “I got the feeling something happened to this Tyrone.”

“I just saw him this morning,” I said. “What could have happened in that short amount of time?”