Read Still Life in Brunswick Stew Online
Authors: Larissa Reinhart
Tags: #Mystery, #humor, #cozy, #Humour, #Romance, #cozy mystery, #southern mystery, #humorous mystery, #mystery series
Max laughed. “Lemons, sugar, and the water. I also add the vodka sometimes.”
“You better leave the vodka out of mine or I might not make it home.”
“An interesting fact to remember. Try the biscuits.”
We settled into the plump cushions of two deck chairs. I grabbed a cookie from the tray, took a bite, and moaned. I ate two more and forced myself to get to business.
“Bear, your popularity with a certain group of church women did not get by my notice. I also know Shawna Branson is interested in you.”
“I commend you on your powers of the perception.”
“Thank you. Besides the granny brigade, I saw Belinda Gable at New Order Church, too. She’s not from Halo. I think she’s stalking you.”
“I don’t know this Belinda Gable.”
“She was on a cook-off team at the festival. Team High Cotton. We watched her and her husband fight with the other cotton team just before you participated in the judging.”
He took a slow sip of lemonade, mimicking thoughtfulness. “What do I know of these people? I barely remember this argument. I was too distracted by you and Miss Shawna Branson fighting over me.”
“I wasn’t fighting over you,” I gasped. “But what does Shawna want with you anyway?”
“She’s interested in promoting the arts in the county. It’s a good thing for you, no?”
“You tell me. I’ve heard she hopes it’s not a good thing.”
“I do not listen to women like this Miss Shawna Branson. She’s better for the eyes than the ears, don’t you think?”
I didn’t like the direction of this conversation. I decided to pump the brakes and turn off onto a side street. “I also heard you have your hand in another gaming scheme.”
“Gaming scheme?” An eyebrow rose, elevating the small scar. “What is this gaming scheme?”
“Bingo. I heard you’re treating the old ladies to bingo.”
“Always with your suspicions, Miss Tucker. I am offering a service to the community.”
My eyes took a quick roll in their sockets while Max poured more lemonade. I ate another cookie.
“Why do you find the difficulty to believing me?” he asked.
“Because I know you. I know you wouldn’t do anything without ensuring it could make a fast buck.”
He watched me lick the crumbs from my fingers before commenting. “You find capitalism vulgar, perhaps? It offends your artistic sensibilities? Maybe you are a secret Marxist.”
“I wasn’t one for social studies in school,” I waved my glass. “I’ve got no beef with making money. I am in financial straits at the moment and could use some cash myself. I’ve taken to selling paintings of dolphins and peaches at craft fairs. I’ve got a couple art professors who’d call that selling out.”
“Your objection is not the way I live?”
“Hell, no. I wouldn’t mind living in Lifestyles of the Rich and Southern, especially if it included these particular cookies and lemonade. Seriously, what is in this stuff? Heroin? Dried unicorn horns?”
“Perhaps you are jealous of the attention I receive from these women.”
I almost fell off my chair, laughing at the idea of Max hooking up with the Crochet Club.
Or Shawna Branson. That thought sobered me up fast.
A gong chimed within the house and Max stood. “Excuse me for the moment.” He gave a short bow and disappeared through the French doors.
I snatched another cookie and took a vicious bite. Once again, Max had deflected my questions. I promised myself to stay on the subject of bingo when he returned. To ensure that decision, I ate the remaining cookies. No sense getting distracted by a little butter, flour and sugar. With a hint of vanilla. As I pondered the ingredients, I strolled through the kitchen to the cozy sitting room hung with art.
I found a nice pen and ink sketch near the doorway leading to the foyer. It just so happened, my admiration of the sketch made Max and his visitor accessible for a quick looky loo. I peered around the door. A cluster of older women stood on the porch arguing with Max about the state of his air conditioning unit.
“I have the repairman coming today,” he said. “The company said I must remain home between nine and four. It is frustrating.”
“They always say that,” said a sharp looking woman with tightly permed hair and glasses. “The minute you slip out, they’ll show up. Guaranteed, Mr. Max.”
Three other women nodded in agreement. I recognized one in a floral blouse and polyester stretch pants from the New Order service. With her cane, she pointed at glasses and permed hair.
“That’s beside the point. Your young man can read the numbers while you wait for the a/c man.”
“My dear,” Max spoke gently, causing a small flutter of cooing from the crowd. “The house is stifling. I couldn’t possibly let you in today.”
“Your basement is cold as a witch’s you-know-what. I keep my own thermostat on eighty-one. We’re not going to melt.”
“Sugar dissolves in heat.”
This line from Max caused a titter to burst from the group. Two ladies turned an unbecoming shade of magenta.
I narrowed my eyes.
“In the meantime,” Max strolled to the door and opened it, “tell your friends. I met so many lovely ladies at the church. Thank you for the recommendation.”
“Mr. Max,” said a shriveled woman wearing pearls and a baseball hat. She pressed a package into his hand. “I made this especially for you.”
“Thank you, my dear. I will be sure to serve it at the next social hour.” He leaned over to drop a kiss on her hand.
I turned from the doorway and hustled through the kitchen. If I hadn’t known about the bingo, I would have thought Max was pimping himself out for shortbread and divinity candy. Maybe he had turned a leaf and actually performed a community service.
But Max Avtaikin was also the Bear. And the Bear didn’t do anything for free.
I strolled onto the deck and refilled our glasses with the heavenly lemonade. Goblet in hand, I leaned on the deck rail and gazed out. A door swung open on the pool house. I did a double-take as Todd McIntosh strolled out of the small house to the pool. In a tiny Speedo. Very tiny.
Miniscule.
He dove into the pool and his body skimmed the surface in a slow crawl. Water sluiced across his broad shoulders as his powerful arms drew from the water. His lazy kick barely marred the surface, causing ripples to accentuate his long legs and tight bottom. I suddenly realized Max stood beside me, watching me gawk. I averted my eyes and took a deep pull from the lemonade.
“I apologize for my long absence,” he said. His cool blue gaze swept off me to the pool. “I see you have found something to amuse yourself while I attended to my visitors.”
“What is Todd doing here?”
“Swimming. Perhaps for exercise? It is a hot day. How long shall we suffer from this heat?”
“I mean what is Todd doing at your house, Mr. Obvious?”
“Cherry!”
I swung around to face the pool.
Todd stood in the shallow end, waving. “Cherry! Just a minute.” He pulled himself out of the pool and stood in the itty-bitty suit, hopping up and down.
“Good Lord, stop that jumping,” I yelled. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Cherry, I’ll be up in a minute. Or come down here! I want to talk to you.”
I slapped a hand over my eyes. “I have to get out of here.”
“So soon?” Max lifted the crystal goblet from my hand and placed it on the glass table. “Does my guest offend you? I thought Todd McIntosh was a friend of yours.”
“I have to go.”
I sped through the open doors with Max on my heels. In the foyer, Max pushed buttons on the security monitor next to the door. His past robbery must have taught him to be more careful.
“Is Todd working for you?” I questioned. “Are you running poker games again? I’ll kill you both if Todd is involved in poker. He has a gambling problem.”
A banging sounded from below, and I glanced toward the basement door at the far side of the foyer. I bounced on my toes, eager to get out of the house before Todd popped through the door in his all-but-nothing.
Max turned from the small security screen. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He sounds eager to speak with you.”
I tossed Max a look of frustration. “I don’t want to speak with Todd. I want to speak with you. You don’t answer any of my questions.”
Max leaned against the door, crossing his ankles. “So we speak now. What is the question I didn’t answer?”
Below us, another door banged. Feet pounded up the basement stairs.
“Open the door,” I said and tugged on the handle. Max eased off the door and ushered me onto the porch. “I’ll get to the bottom of this bingo thing with or without your help.”
Behind us, I heard the basement door swing open and smack against the wall. I ran down the porch stairs, glancing over my shoulder at Max.
“I want nothing more than to be of assistance to you, Artist,” he called.
“I have a feeling you want to assist me as much as I want to assist you.” I popped the door of the Datsun.
“Then my heart is gladdened,” Max called, watching me slide into the truck. “We have the mutual concern for each other.”
“Touché,” I muttered and turned the key with a small prayer she’d crank on the first turn. The Lord answered my distress and the motor rumbled to life.
“Cherry, wait! Where are you going?” Todd rushed down the stairs onto the drive. He immediately hot-footed it back to the steps, dancing off the searing heat of the blacktop. “I need to talk to you.”
I gave a last glance at the sculpted body of perfection, dripping water and dazzling the sun with his beauty.
“For the sake of all that is decent, put some drawers on!” I called through the open window and pulled away.
When Casey arrived at my house, she found me sitting on the kitchen floor in an old wife-beater and cut offs. With my legs spread on the linoleum before me, I poised a paintbrush above my knee. As soon as I had returned from Max’s house, I threw myself into the Greek painting project to save my brain from turning into soggy grits.
Something needed to occupy my thoughts that didn’t include Todd dressed in a Speedo. I decided to use myself as a guinea pig with the body paint portion of my painting. Although I had no model yet, I thought it best to be prepared when Luke finally caved.
Casey tossed her purse on the formica counter and stuck her hands on hips clad in black biker shorts and a matching racer-back tank. I hadn’t seen Casey on a bicycle since she was ten, so I assumed this was some new look. Sparkly cobalt blue shadowed her eyes and Rose Madder pouted her lips.
Kind of rough for a Monday night. Which made me wonder where she planned to go after my house.
“What in the hell are you doing?” she asked. “I thought you were going to cook.”
Although used to strange bouts in my creativity, it still shocked her to see the columns of tiny Greek letters running down my face.
“I know the Mu, Nu, and Xi under my chin are smudged and runny. It’s really hard to see what you’re painting when your head is tipped up,” I said. “That’s why my neck is so messy. I didn’t even try to do my ears.”
She covered her mouth in her hands. “Will that stuff come off?”
“Of course.” I stood up carefully, holding my wet arms away from my body. “I tried the face paint stuff they have at the Crafty Corner, but it’s too thick. I want the letters to look almost transparent so I switched to watercolors. I can thin them out to the opacity I want.”
I held out my arms to Casey. “Which shade do you like better? I’ve got raw umber to burnt ocher on my left arm and blues on the other.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. They look the same to me.”
“I’m thinking burnt sienna, although I’m partial to the earthy reds. However this indigo is nice and will make the shadows interesting.” I pointed to a Sigma painted in the crook of my right elbow.
“I don’t have time for your craziness.” Casey rubbed her forehead. “What’s the cooking emergency?”
I bit my lip. “Will you cook a supper for me?”
“I cook dinner for y’all almost every day.” She folded her arms over her chest. “And I’m getting tired of it.”
I flapped my hand in the air, passing off her constant complaint.
“But at least you appreciate my cooking, unlike some people.”
I got the feeling she was talking about Grandpa and Pearl, but I wasn’t going to open that can of worms. Casey might start a “moving in with you” discussion.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I want you to cook me a dinner here so I can serve it to Luke.”
She arched a manicured brow. “Luke knows you can’t cook.” The brow dropped. “Doesn’t he?”
“Yes.” I leaned over, gathering paints and brushes off the floor. “But I feel like I’ve got to up my game.”
“Why?”
The red beating into my cheeks matched the vermillion Omega drawn on my left shoulder. I took my time swirling the brushes in a little jar of water, remaining bent over until the blush passed. When I came up, Casey leaned against the counter, examining me.