Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) Page 7

  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 Todds. 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 reputati
on.

  “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.

  Ten

  The Coderre clan lived in Sweetgum, an incorporated shantytown south of Halo. During the great years of locomotive travel, Sweetgum had been passed over as a whistle-stop for Halo. When the interstate came through, once again Sweetgum had been shunned for Line Creek.

  When meth labs came in vogue, Sweetgum was all in. Of course, Sweetgum folks believed in diversifying their portfolios. Plenty of pot heads, alcoholics, and itinerant farmers found Sweetgum a good home base as well.

  Again, I felt relieved Luke had offered to take me on this visit. If I had dragged my best friend Leah to the Sweetgum Estates, her mother would have had a conniption, then hunted me down in her crazed state to murder me.

  The Coderres occupied a double wide in the back of the small trailer park. Considering all of the trailers were made of corrugated metal and tar paper, propped on cement blocks, and circled with chain link fences of dubious integrity, I felt the term “park” was used loosely. As many of the trailers had pit bulls snarling and barking at the edge of said chain link fences, “dog park” might have been a better term.

  “I bet some of these are fighting dogs,” I said, eyeballing the scene from the seat of Luke’s Raptor. He had parked near the Coderre driveway, and we found ourselves procrastinating the actual departure from the vehicle.

  “Probably,” said Luke grimly. “They need the dogs to protect their homes, though. You could punch your fist through the walls of these trailers.”

  “To steal what?”

  Luke raised his brows. “Do you even have to ask? You think they smoke all the meth they cook?”

  “Too bad we couldn’t take the Datsun. I’d hate to see something happen to your fine truck while we’re talking to the Coderres.”

  “These folks aren’t known for carjacking. Although I wouldn’t put it past anyone here. Where is your Datsun, by the way?”

  “In Buckhead,” I said. “With the rich lawyer.”

  “I knew you shouldn’t have driven that scrapheap all the way to Atlanta.”

  “That scrapheap is fine. I was the one who couldn’t drive home.”

  Luke cut off the ignition and turned to face me. “Your art buyer got you drunk? In the middle of the day? At his house?”

  “Not exactly drunk. We were celebrating our contract. He’s a very jovial kind of guy.”

  Luke set his lips into a line of disapproval. Before he could settle on a nagging spree, I picked up the casserole I had convinced Casey to toss together and popped open his truck door. “Let’s get going.”

  I didn’t wait for Luke, but strode to the trailer’s door and knocked. A moment later, the door inched open and a brown eye peeped at me.

  “Are you one of those church women looking to help the immigrants? They live on the other side of the park,” said the voice belonging to the eye.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m here to express my condolences about Tyrone and bring you some food.”

  The door swung wide and a tiny, shriveled woman lugging an oxygen tank squinted up at me. “You knew Tyrone?”

  “Briefly,” I said. “I met him the morning he passed.”

  Luke appeared behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Ma’am. I’m sorry about Tyrone.”

  A pudgy boy waddled to the door and looked us over. “What kind of casserole is that? Mac and cheese?”

  “Chicken and rice, I believe.” I clung to the casserole, fearing the boy�
�s ability to share food with the shrunken woman.

  “Are you Tyrone’s mother?” asked Luke.

  “Grandmother,” she wheezed. “This is my great-grandson, Jerell. My name is Gladys.”

  “Mrs. Coderre, ma’am, could we come in and visit with you?” I asked. “I feel real bad about Tyrone’s passing.”

  The elderly woman poked her head out to see around Luke and I. I followed her look. Doors to trailers had opened and people in various stages of undress stood on their stoops, craning their necks at us. She waved us inside and shut the door. “Nosy good-for-nothin’s.”

  “Can I put this in your fridge?” I asked.

  At her nod, I walked around a table heaped with newspapers and into the kitchen. The tiny galley had a full size fridge newer than mine, but old by most people’s standards. Inside the fridge, I pawed aside a jumble of condiments to make room for the casserole. The tiny kitchen had a sink of unwashed dishes and a layer of grime covering the counter.

  “Ma’am,” I called, peering through the pass through. Luke sat on the edge of a couch across from Miss Gladys and Jerell. I could tell Luke didn’t like the closed doors down the small hallway past the kitchen. He looked like a Pointer listening for the rustle of wings. “You get any help around here? I couldn’t help but notice you were a little laid up with the oxygen tank.”

  She yanked the breathing apparatus from her nose. “I have the emphysema. You’d think they’d take better care of me.”

  I didn’t know to whom she referred, but I agreed with her. “Let me clean up in here a bit. And then I’ll come out and we’ll talk. You got some tea or something you want me to make?”

  “We got Kool-Aid,” said Jerell.

  “That’ll work.”

  “It ain’t real Kool-Aid, though.” He left his great-grandmother to accompany me in the kitchen. “It’s dollar store Kool-Aid.”

  “Gets the job done, doesn’t it?” I patted Jerell on his frizzy head. “Looks like you enjoy yourself a lot of Kool-Aid. How about milk? You drinking any milk?”