Portrait of a Dead Guy

(
coming November 2013
)

A Cherry Tucker Mystery

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

First Edition

Kindle edition | August 2012

Henery Press

www.henerypress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2012 by Larissa Hoffman

Cover design by Kendel Flaum

Author photograph by Scott Asano

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1-938383-17-5

Printed in the United States of America

First of all, I know I’m going to forget somebody. Forgive me and thank you!

Thank you to all the fabulous writers at GRW and KOD from whom I learned so much. Particularly to Debby Giusti, who didn’t know she would become my mentor a year ago, Pamela Mason, Leslie Tentler, Bente Gallagher, and Donnell Bell for their support, and to Denise Plumart, my fabulous critique partner and Team PITT co-captain. Also in that group belongs my fellow Hen House chicks, Terri L. Austin and Susan M. Boyer. Thank God Twitter doesn’t charge by the tweet.

Gratitude to my goat herders. Cheryl Crowder for your goat stories and information (and general support and humor). And to the talented writer, Jennifer Tanner, for being a good sport about letting me steal your fictional horse’s name.

Thanks to Elbert Nieves for all the scoop on MPIs and CIDs and cool stories about the army. Good luck to you!

Thanks to Michelle, Nate and Maizie for their expert advice, time and effort (and cuteness).

A very special thanks to all my cheerleaders in Peachtree City, Andover, Orion, New Bern, Highland, St. Louis, and Nagoya, Japan. Y’all rock!

Thanks to Ann & Linda for your support and helping me dress and do my hair for a professional picture. I would be incredibly embarrassed otherwise. To the Metzler-Concepcions and Johnstons for their encouragement. Plus all the Funks, Reinharts, and Hoffmans for their love and for spreading me around Facebook and Pinterest.

Special thanks to my best readers, Gina and Mom, who read all the early drafts and put up with character and plot changes half way through the stories. Also for all the bags of books you’ve let me borrow and introducing me to some of my favorite authors. The book industry should thank you for your support.

A super duper, extra special thank you to my genius editor, Kendel Flaum. I am so lucky to have you as an editor & for you tolerating all my questions. Your words “I like your voice” are in my top 5 best things I’ve ever heard. Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything else you said in that original conversation.

And my undying gratitude to Trey and my girls. Telling me to write down my stories is the second best gift you gave me. Giving me the time to do it is the third. Your love is the first.

In a small town, there is a thin gray line between personal freedom and public ruin. Everyone knows your business without even trying. Folks act polite all the while remembering every stupid thing you’ve done in your life. Not to mention getting tied to all the dumbass stuff your relations — even those dead or gone — have done. We forgive but don’t forget.

I thought the name Cherry Tucker carried some respectability as an artist in my hometown of Halo. I actually chose to live in rural Georgia. I could have sought a loft apartment in Atlanta where people appreciate your talent to paint nudes in classical poses, but I like my town and most of the three thousand or so people that live in it. Even though most of Halo wouldn’t know a Picasso from a plate of spaghetti. Still, it’s a nice town full of nice people and a lot cheaper to live in than Atlanta.

Halo citizens might buy their living room art from the guy who hawks motel overstock in front of the Winn-Dixie, but they also love personalized mementos. Portraits of their kids and their dogs, architectural photos of their homes and gardens, poster-size photos of their trips to Daytona and Disney World. God bless them. That’s my specialty, portraits. But at this point, I’d paint the side of a barn to make some money. I’m this close from working the night shift at the Waffle House. And if I had to wear one of those starchy, brown uniforms day after day, a little part of my soul would die.

Actually a big part of my soul would die, because I’d shoot myself first.

When I heard the highfalutin Bransons wanted to commission a portrait of Dustin, their recently deceased thug son, I hightailed it to Cooper’s Funeral Home. I assumed they hadn’t called me for the commission yet because the shock of Dustin’s murder rendered them senseless. After all, what kind of crazy called for a portrait of their murdered boy? But then, important members of a small community could get away with little eccentricities. I was in no position to judge. I needed the money.

After Dustin’s death made the paper three days ago, there’d been a lot of teeth sucking and head shaking in town, but no surprise at Dustin’s untimely demise from questionable circumstances. It was going to be that or the State Pen. Dustin had been a criminal in the making for twenty-seven years.

Not that I’d share my observations with the Bransons. Good customer service is important for starving artists if we want to get over that whole starving thing.

As if to remind me, my stomach responded with a sound similar to a lawnmower hitting a chunk of wood. Luckily, the metallic knocking in the long-suffering Datsun engine of my pickup drowned out the hunger rumblings of my tummy. My poor truck shuddered into Cooper’s Funeral Home parking lot in a flurry of flaking yellow paint, jerking and gasping in what sounded like a death rattle. However, I needed her to hang on. After a couple big commissions, hopefully the Datsun could go to the big junkyard in the sky. My little yellow workhorse deserved to rest in peace.

I entered the Victorian monstrosity that is Cooper’s, leaving my portfolio case in the truck. I made a quick scan of the lobby and headed toward the first viewing room on the right. A sizable group of Bransons huddled in a corner. Sporadic groupings of flower arrangements sat around the narrow room, though the viewing didn’t actually start until tomorrow.

A plump woman in her early fifties, hair colored and highlighted sunshine blonde, spun around in kitten heel mules and pulled me into her considerable soft chest. Wanda Branson, stepmother to the deceased, was a hugger. As a kid, I spent many a Sunday School smothered in Miss Wanda’s loving arms.

“Cherry!” She rocked me into a deeper hug. “What are you doing here? It’s so nice to see you. You can’t believe how hard these past few days have been for us.”

Wanda began sobbing. I continued to rock with her, patting her back while I eased my face out of the ample bosom.

“I’m glad I can help.” The turquoise and salmon print silk top muffled my voice. I extricated myself and patted her arm. “It was a shock to hear about Dustin’s passing. I remember him from high school.”