The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) by Larissa Reinhart Page A

coonhound.
    Embarrassed, I looked away.
    Murky light broke on our path as we passed a bend in the road. “Almost there,” I said, looking for a change in subject.
    The trees fell away for a collection of ramshackle trailers and sheds. The diffused glow of a telephone pole’s security light illuminated several trailer homes surrounded by rusted-out vehicles in various stages of decrepitude.
    Behind and inside the homes, dogs snarled and barked. Two pickups, a golf cart, and one tractor had been parked before a single weather-beaten trailer. A large sign made from plywood had been nailed to the building.
    The Christmas lights poking through the sign’s holes told us the Double Wide was open. I wasn’t sure if it was meant as a greeting or warning.
    If it weren’t for the crazy delicious smell of hot oil and batter emanating from that trailer, I would have run back to the lodge, abandoning Abel’s demise to the official police report.
    “I’ve seen worse,” I said, trying to stay positive.
    “I’ve played poker in worse,” said Todd, parking beside the tractor. “In fact, it looks like this bust-out joint I once visited.”
    I nodded, my concentration focused on a search for unchained dogs. The barking here had a fierceness I had not heard at Abel’s.
    “I wonder what they’re frying,” said Todd. “It smells like heaven. Like funnel cake?”
    My stomach cried in anguish. “Let’s not get my hopes up. I’d take a cold hushpuppy at this point.”
    We mounted the cinderblock steps of the Double Wide and opened the door once painted white. Inside, we stood on a welcome mat missing most of its letters.
    Three barstools rested before a kitchen counter turned bar.
    A beaded curtain separated the back hall from a living room fitted with two picnic tables and a decrepit couch.
    A vintage Blow Mold Santa lit one corner. With his off-center eyes and red cheeks, he looked as tipsy as the customers sitting at the picnic tables.
    I recognized one woman as the lodge housekeeper. She was deep in conversation with a gentleman in sleeveless flannel with matching beard and ponytail braids. I left them to their date and pointed Todd toward the empty barstools.
    Behind the kitchen counter, two women alternately handed out mugs of beer and poured a clear liquid from a glass tea pitcher. A generation separated the women, but both wore self-dyed roots, frown lines, and a hard set to their eyes. They studied us peripherally while hurriedly rearranging items below the counter.
    Hiding the illegal stuff, I gathered. But I didn’t need to make that my problem, so I kept my gaze elsewhere.
    “You here to drink?” asked the older woman.
    “And eat, if you’re still serving.”
    Todd slid onto the stool next to me. “Two beers, ma’am.”
    The woman nodded, but jerked her chin toward the tapper in the back corner. A hole had been cut out of the counter for the nozzle. “We’ve only got one kind.”
    “That’s fine. And we’ll take whatever I smell in your fryer.” I arched my neck, searching the tiny kitchen for a deep fryer. “What’s your name?”
    “I’m Desiree Guterson. My daughter-in-law, Sheri, made up a batch of okra tonight. And I’ve got wild turkey patties and deer sausage.”
    Sheri tipped a plastic cup beneath the keg spout. She placed the beers on the yellowing Formica counter. “Two bucks each.”
    While Todd fished out a five, I leaned my elbows on the sticky counter. “We’ll take the okra and turkey too.”
    Sheri grabbed a t ray from the fridge and disappeared through the back door.
    “You got a kitchen elsewhere?” I asked.
    “We keep the turkey fryer on the back porch.” Desiree’s thin lips quivered. “Safety, you know.”
    “Of course.” I left off my wonderment about the health inspector’s feelings about porch turkey fryers. At least I was finally getting some turkey.
    Todd leaned into me and placed his lips next to my ear. “You sure about the turkey?”
    “Seemed safer than the