Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) (8 page)

Eight

I stalked up the rise to my bungalow. Luke had been correct about a party in my house. Through the picture window, I could see a baseball game on the big television.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the front door. My brother’s friends glanced over, yelled greetings at my entrance, and turned their eyes back to the game. I waded through the passel of bodies, gritting my teeth at the beer cans cluttering my desk and antique table I used when painting. In the kitchen, more men sat around my table playing cards.

My brother was nowhere to be seen.

Todd stood at the stove stirring a pot of something with the delectable aroma of spices and ground meat. “Hey, baby,” he said. “You want some chili?”

“What’s going on here?” I said. “I’m in no mood for a party.”

“It’s not a party. Cody invited some guys over to watch the Braves. I’m making chili for our dinner.”

My stomach gurgled, causing the men at the table to lay down their cards and tip their chairs back to glance in my direction. I waved a hand at them to get back to their cards.

“Looks like a party to me. Are you in on that poker game, by the way?”

Todd dropped the spoon into the pot, then jerked his hand up after trying to reach into the boiling mess to grab it. “Of course not, baby. I told you I quit.”

“You have a gambling problem.” I eyed the empty chair at the table and Todd’s fingers playing a tempo on his cargo shorts. I glanced back at the men sitting around my kitchen table. “Did y’all hear about Todd’s amateur poker championship last year? Got him a free ride to Vegas.”

Two faces glared sullenly at Todd.

I smiled. “Enjoy your chili and your game, fellows.”

“That was when me and Cherry got hitched,” said Todd, with a quick grin for the table. He slung an arm around my neck and kissed the side of my head. “We had a beautiful wedding with Elvis as our minister. What I can remember of it anyway. That night was a blur.”

“Touché,” I muttered and shoved off his arm. “That chili smells good. I wish I felt like eating.”

“You don’t feel like eating?” Todd’s snapped shut his dropped jaw. “What happened at the Sheriff’s Office?”

“Uncle Will told me someone murdered Tyrone, the guy who gave me the description for the composite. Fact is, I knew Tyrone was returning to the scene of the crime, and I didn’t report it to the Sheriff’s Department. I am responsible for his death.”

Todd took my hand and pulled me to the corner of the kitchen. “Baby, I’m so sorry. If they lock you up, I’ll visit you in prison.”

“Not that responsible. But I feel horrible about it. Luke offered to take me to visit Tyrone’s family tomorrow.”

“Where did it happen?” Todd studied the fret lining my face, captured my other hand, and drew me closer.

“The interstate rest stop outside Line Creek.” While I focused on repeating the details of the hijacking and Tyrone’s death, I talked my brain out of comparing the comfort of Todd’s warm grasp with Luke’s earlier quick but capable squeeze. I pulled my hands from Todd’s to finish the story.

“Damn. So, the hijacker must have seen Tyrone? Why didn’t he do anything when Tyrone saw him?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. Uncle Will said maybe he didn’t have enough time.”

“I guess you probably want to check that out.”

“What do you mean? Go to the rest stop?” I dropped my gaze to my boots.

“Baby, I know you. You’ll be stewing about this all night, wondering how this happened to Tyrone. You are a curious type of person. You’re fixing to drive out there, just to see for yourself, aren’t you?”

“I am curious. But I thought it might seem morbid.”

Todd pulled me into his body for a long hug. “I don’t care what the town thinks. You’re a good woman, caring about folks like murdered copper thieves. Let me take you to the rest stop. I love doing stuff like that with you.”

I shoved off his chest. “Don’t go getting any ideas. I’m still not talking to you. That also means no hugs.”

“Sure, baby,” Todd grinned. “Whatever you say.”

T
odd parked his little, red hatchback before the low pitched building holding Georgia travel brochures, soda machines, and bathrooms. We hopped out of the Civic and studied the empty car park area. The evening air had cooled. I shivered in my beaded flag t-shirt, but the goose bumps rose from the lonely setting, not the chill. We could hear the whine of motors zipping down the interstate toward Atlanta or Alabama. Behind the building, the low rumble of a parked diesel truck hummed.

I looked at Todd. “Guess we better head around back. That’s where Tyrone would have seen the hijack. Maybe there’s still yellow tape marking off the areas. The police would have already scoured for evidence in both crimes, so there won’t be much to see.”

We followed the sidewalk around the back of the building. A lone Georgia State Patrol vehicle had parked on the edge of the lot. Under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, one semi pulling a long trailer rested near the woods. The GSP car door opened and a tall figure in full uniform stepped out of the vehicle.

“Rest stop closes at ten,” he said. “On your way to Atlanta?”

“No, just stretching our legs,” I called. “Going to sit at one of these picnic tables for a minute.”

“Don’t take too long. Stay away from the taped off areas.” The officer left his door open and leaned against the car, folding his arms. “I can see y’all from here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Todd.

We crossed the lot, heading toward the wooded picnic area behind the truck parking. With the dim light from the parking lot lights, we could spy the yellow tape looped around a stand of spindly pines in the distance. I stopped at the edge of the blacktop. My shoulders drooped. Todd laid a gentle hand on my neck.

“Tyrone didn’t get very far into the woods,” I said. “That perp has balls of steel. If anyone drove up, they would have witnessed the murder.”

“I don’t get why they didn’t kill Tyrone right away,” said Todd. “Were there any other trucks parked back here during the hijack?”

“Good question. My guess would be no, unless the drivers slept pretty hard. They would have heard gun fire.”

“Maybe the hijacker saw Tyrone but thought it was too late to do anything about him,” said Todd.

“If I had just shot someone in cold blood and then saw a witness, I would not let that witness get away.”

Todd pulled his hand off my shoulder.

“They must have heard about it after the fact,” I explained. “Or followed Tyrone.”

“Do you think they know about you?” said Todd. “That you drew a picture of the killer?”

A breeze rattled the leaves on a sweetgum tree and I shivered. “Why would that matter?” My pitch drew high and loud, and I lowered my voice. “As far as anyone knows, that composite was drawn by a cop. I didn’t sign the sketch.” Did I? I drew my hands in to clutch my arms as I tried to remember if I had. Signing pieces had become a habit from school. Why would I sign a sketch, though?

A breeze carried the sound of someone heavy thrashing through a pile of leaves. I jumped, and Todd grabbed my arm. We backed onto the blacktop, and I glanced over my shoulder to check on the State Patrol officer. A moment later, a giant man and a small jumble of fur popped out of the woods.

“Hey there,” the giant called. The man’s t-shirt strained to hold his girth, and I caught belly peekage. His toes hung over his flip flops. The fur yapped and strained at the leash, eager to inspect us.

“Hey yourself. Are you the driver of that rig?” I relaxed my stance and Todd dropped his hand. I bent over to let the giant hamster smell my hands. “You’re a cute, little thing.”

“She’s Princess Yapadoodle. I’m Joe, and yep, that’s my Bulldog. My Mack truck. Hauling wine through the Bible belt.” He grinned. “Y’all stopping through to the Big A? Sorry if I scared you. Princess needed to tee-tee.”

“Actually we’re local,” I said. “I’m Cherry and this here is Todd. Did you know a truck was hijacked here last night?”

Joe’s jowls brushed his neck as he nodded. “That news spreads fast. Heard about it at the Flying J outside Birmingham.”

“What are folks saying?”

“Most are shocked. I knew the driver from a mutual acquaintance. Got a wife and kids in Chattanooga. You know he wasn’t even supposed to be driving? Took the shift when the original driver got tossed in the can for drunk driving. I believe he’s from these parts.”

“That’s bad luck,” said Todd. “Pick up an extra shift and get jacked.”

Princess barked and turned three circles. Joe glanced down at the mop of fur. “Princess’s got to go tooty. She didn’t finish her business.”

“Be safe, Joe,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Joe saluted me. “Y’all have a nice night.” He pulled Princess back toward the woods.

I glanced at the patrolman, still leaning against his vehicle and watching us. “I’m glad he’s there for Joe’s sake.”

Todd watched the giant clomp through the trees. “I don’t think many people would bother Joe. He could crush a person with his thumb.”

“I don’t think a thumb can crush a handgun.” I scowled. “That semi-automatic sure did a number on poor Tyrone. Where was the state patrol when he was getting shot?”

Nine

The next morning, the drive to Atlanta took an hour. And given the confusing lack of signage accompanied with the winding streets of residential Buckhead, finding the home of my newest patron, Rupert Agadzinoff, took even longer.

The trip gave me time to ponder my predicaments including Shawna’s missing pictures, the Bear’s dubious offer of help, and the hijacking. The sharp barb of guilt over Tyrone Coderre’s murder had caught and dug into my conscience. I hoped the police would have some news for the Coderres before my visit with Luke that night. I didn’t look forward to admitting I could have prevented Tyrone’s death and didn’t expect the Coderres to take that fact too kindly.

The tree-lined drive to Mr. Agadzinoff’s address curved up a steep hill graced with a palatial antebellum home. My Datsun chugged up the drive, while I squished my mouth to the side and studied the Tara knock-off. Max’s house was bigger, but Agadzinoff would have paid more for the zip code. What was it with these Ruskies and their plantation fantasies?

I parked in the donut drive and slid out of the Datsun with my portfolio case. While I waited on the wide, brick stoop, I admired the ornamentals and the decorative metal bracketing on the tall, graceful windows on the first floor. Not the usual plantation decor, but Agadzinoff did live in the city, and I supposed lawyers might need to protect themselves from irritable clients.

After a few minutes, my ding-dong was answered by a woman dressed in a study of gray chromatics starting at her feet with expensive looking charcoal pumps and gradually lightening to her smoke gray blouse. Her white-gold hair had been tightened into a bun, the strands refused release even with their good behavior.

“May I help you?” Her sharp, blue eyes combed over my contract outfit. Boots and an orange tank dress I had decorated with day-glow puff paint. An oversized neon paintbrush, of course. My wispy, blond hair never had a day of good behavior in my life. Luckily, my dress distracted her attention from my hair.

“I’m Cherry Tucker, the portrait artist, come to see Mr. Agadzinoff.” I held out a hand she shook with an alarmingly strong grip. I pulled my hand away and slipped it behind my back to wiggle the blood back into my digits.

“Come,” she said and held the door open wide.

I entered into a parquet foyer with a blend of wood forming a giant script A in the middle of the floor. Whereas Max’s foyer glittered with sunlight and marble, Agadzinoff’s was a study of mahogany and teak.

I slid my portfolio case off my back and into my hand, afraid a sudden swing would knock over the fancy vases filled with professional arrangements.

A wide staircase of more polished wood anchored one end of the foyer. On the staircase landing, an older, balding man with a heavy, dark mustache paused his descent to wave at me. For his casual Wednesday, he wore khakis and a polo with an oversized insignia on his left breast. Perhaps so the nearsighted could easily calculate the cost of his wardrobe.

“Miss Cherry Tucker,” he called. “I am Rupert Agadzinoff. Please call me Rupert.”

“Hey Rupert,” I slipped past Miss Monochrome to the staircase. “Nice to meet you. Beautiful digs you’ve got here.”

“Thank you.” Rupert stopped on the last stair, making me look up to eyeball him. His brown eyes lighted on my puffy paintbrush. “Ha, ha. You with the sense of humor.”

As I did not intend my contract dress to be humorous, I ignored my hurt feelings and braved my best customer service smile. “I brought my portfolio.”

“First, let me show you my recent acquisition.” He snapped his fingers. “Miss David.”

At the snap, Miss David whipped her chromatic self to a set of gilded French doors to the left side of the foyer. She opened the door and held it with her back. I followed, careful with my portfolio case, and wondered how much Miss David was paid to answer to snaps.

As I reached the entrance, our blue eyes met. No friendly, woman-to-woman, “hey, my boss may snap at me, but you’ll do fine” passed between us. In fact, her look said, “I can disembowel you with a bobby pin.” I fought off a shiver and scooted through the door, then stumble-halted in the entrance.

I had thought no one could surpass Max Avtaikin’s love for red and gold accents, but I was sincerely mistaken. This sitting room’s decorator had harbored murderous intent by way of stroke-inducing design and color choice.

The blood red walls sported gold molding of every kind, from rosettes to panel molding, chair rails to crown. Delicate Louis XIV furniture in more gilt and red sat in clusters on a richly vibrant oriental rug. Several gold chandeliers and electric candelabras as well as gilt angels and cupids completed the look. A Victorian-Baroque decorating mashup.

My classical triptych had been hung on the wall directly opposite the tall southern exposure windows, shedding angled light over the three paintings.

“You put my
Greek Todds
in here?” The words left my mouth before I could soften them. “I mean, that sunlight is going to fade those paintings. You’ve hung the bare canvas. You need to put them under glass to preserve them.”

I glanced around the room again and received a Tilt-A-Whirl feeling for my effort. My poor
Greek Todd
s. This was the problem of visiting the resting place of your creative ingenuity. Sometimes it was better not to know. “I’m sure you’ve got some ornate gold frames laying around this house somewhere. Stick the paintings in those and they’ll match the rest of the decor.”

“I see,” said Rupert, striding into the room. His white polo glowed amongst the violent reds. “Miss David, take care of this problem.”

Miss David’s thick lashes flashed in compliance and she exited the room on long, nimble legs. A cool draft followed, more evidence of her frigid personality.

“Of course, I will frame these, darling.” Rupert shoved his hands in his pockets, rolling back on the balls of his feet while he studied the paintings. “I don’t know much about art, I am sorry to say.”

I nodded then blinked, my eyes still dilating from the insanely colored room. “So your portrait? You’re thinking of putting it in here?”

“Actually, I think I will hang the portrait in my office. Or my dining room. Which do you think is better?”

“Are they decorated like this room?”

“The dining room. Not my office.”

“Office.” At his questioning glance, I backpedaled. “I’ll style the painting to complement its surroundings. And I’m getting an office vibe from you.”

“I see.”

I could not imagine eating in a room that looked like a Stephen King set, much less painting in it. “Let’s see your office.”

We left the red room, crossed the foyer, and traipsed down a hall. The heavy wooden door swung open, I stepped aside and stifled a maniacal giggle. “Gold paneling with brass trim. This is a first for me.”

“Thank you. Please sit down, my dear.” He waved me toward a hunter green chair before the gold-paneled desk.

I sat and brought my portfolio case to my lap to duck behind. I needed the case to get my face sorted out before Rupert sat opposite behind his desk.

“So, darling,” he sank onto the leather chair and spread his hands on his desk. “You’re a professional artist.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, sliding my portfolio case to the floor. “I studied at Savannah College of Art and Design. I specialize in portraits, but I can swing a variety of genres.”

Unzipping my case, I pulled out a binder of photos taken of my works. I laid the folder on his desk and Rupert began flipping through the clear plastic pages. He stopped on the portrait of Dustin Branson and looked up.

“I have seen this one.” He tapped on the photo, while studying me with shrewd, brown eyes.

“
Dustin
was in an emerging artists gallery show in Virginia Highlands last spring.”

“Another gallery show? I am impressed. But I have seen the painting in the owner’s home, my dear. Perhaps you know him? Maksim Avtaikin?”

“We’re acquainted.”

Rupert smirked. “I think you are more than acquainted, darling. He lives in your very small town. I attended a party at his home and he spoke very well of you.”

I straightened in my chair. “Did he now?” This was news to me. Perhaps Max could save my reputation.

“Maksim enjoys speaking of his pet interests. He’s always had interesting hobbies, even back in the old country.” Rupert chuckled and swirled his finger over the painting’s plastic sleeve. “He does go on.”

“That he does,” I said, thinking of the history lessons I’d endured.

“I knew he was looking at collecting more of your works. So I bought your paintings just to give him a kick in his pants.” Rupert leaned back and laughed until tears ran in his eyes. “It is if I can steal you away from Maksim.”

“It’s not like Mr. Max owns me. He just owns one of my paintings.” I smiled politely and wondered if Rupert wasn’t just a little bit nuts.

“Now,” Rupert’s loud pronouncement made me jump. “Let us talk about the portrait, my dear. I am thinking of wearing a suit and standing by a Christmas tree.”

“Christmas tree? We’ve got three and half shopping months left.”

He barked laughter. “The Christmas tree shows my love for the American tradition, very important in my business, and also shows my reputation as a nice guy. Nice guys like Christmas trees. The suit because I am a business man. Although I had thought my football jersey would be fun.”

“How about dressing like Santa?” I kidded. “Kill two birds with one stone?”

He whooped and slapped his legs, giving me the impression I had a chance of success in stand-up comedy.

Rupert was more than a little bit nuts. But it didn’t seem to hamper his ability to make money. I could work with nuts.

“If that’s what you want, I can paint a Christmas tree. Did you have other family members you wanted in the portrait?”

He rubbed his chin. “I think not. This is for my clients to see. Perhaps I’ll do a family portrait as well, if this painting is a success.”

My wallet snapped to attention. “Sure, whatever you want.”

“Leave your contract with me. I am a very busy man, so you’ll have to be available when I can spare the time.”

“I’m very fast. The only thing that will slow me down is the time it takes for the oil to dry between coats.”

“I am in no rush, but I do expect the people I hire to oblige me.” He jumped from his chair and wandered to a gold paneled credenza lined in brass and covered with crystal bottles and glasses. “Let’s have a toast.”

“Sounds good,” I left the portfolio and joined him.

He handed me a small glass and opened a panel, revealing a wine fridge. He yanked out an oddly shaped bottle, spun off the cap, and filled my glass. Topping his own glass, he held it up and clinked the crystal against mine. “
Za zdarou’e
.”

“Bottoms up.”

We tossed back the vodka shooters. I gasped at the pleasant, delicate flavor. I had expected something harder to digest.

“This vodka is made from the best Russian wheat. They only make it when the wheat has a perfect harvest,” Rupert refilled my glass. “It’s good, no?”

“The last time I had a vodka shooter, someone lit it on fire,” I said. “This stuff is amazing.”

“Drink,” said Rupert. “To art.”

“To art.” I threw back another glass and smacked my lips. “It tastes like biscuits.”

I timed Rupert’s laugh to thirty-five seconds. He rang a bell and minutes later, Miss David strode in carrying a silver tray. After she scooped caviar on wafers with a mother-of-pearl spoon, Rupert offered her a glass of vodka. Feeling warm and happy, I nibbled at the fish eggs for politeness sake.

Rupert snapped his fingers. Miss David disappeared with the tray, then reappeared, and showed me to a town car. I opened my mouth to protest a chauffeured trip back to Halo, but then thought better. A couple of vodka shots and driving in Atlanta traffic were not a good mix. I climbed into the town car.

“Darling, you should tell Max Avtaikin about our friendship.” Rupert leaned into the backseat and patted my knee. “I will enjoy you rubbing it in. Tell him I will
have more Cherry Tucker paintings than him.”

“Sure,” I said, although I had no plans to get involved in an inside joke between friends. However, next time I saw Max, I wanted to get the inside scoop on nutty Rupert.

Rupert laughed, wiggled his fingers in a goodbye, and closed the back door.

I settled into the roomy, leather seat for the drive and watched the mansion disappear behind the trees. Getting used to the lifestyles of the rich and lawyerly might be a little too easy. However, after a day in Atlanta, I already missed Halo.

Even though the hijacking and murder put us too close to Atlanta for comfort.