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

sausage,” I muttered, then turned back to Desiree. “I heard about your recent troubles. Sorry about the passing of Mr. Abel. Actually, I’m the one who found him. Met his dogs too. They nearly broke my heart with their grieving.”
    Desiree clucked her tongue and folded her arms. “Real shame. He didn’t even have his usual. Poor guy.”
    “Usual?”
    “Home brew. You want to try some?” Beneath the counter, Desiree drew out the glass pitcher.
    Todd poked me in the ribs, but I ignored his worry. “Sure, why not?”
    Desiree set two new cups on the counter and poured a tablespoon in each. “That’s free. You want more, I charge five a cup.”
    “Thank you, ma’am,” said Todd, accepting his cup. He sniffed and jerked his head back. “I think I’ll stick to the beer.”
    I took a careful sip and felt the slow burn start at my lips and travel over my tongue, down my throat, and into my stomach. I tried to cover my cough and reached for the beer cup to put out the flames.
    Desiree barked a laugh. “Can’t handle your liquor, hon?”
    “Not when it’s jet fuel,” I panted. “This was Abel’s drink of choice?”
    “Usually. That’s why most show up. Not for the fryer.”
    Todd and I exchanged a wary glance.
    In the back of the room, a shout preceded a boisterous scuffling. Desiree stomped to the back of the room and hollered a string of curses, ending in a mangled Bible verse.
    “If Abel didn’t have his usual and I didn’t smell anything on him, there goes the town’s theory of him falling drunk into a ditch. I’m going to see what else I can learn about his last visit.”
    “At least you’re cleared as a suspect,” said Todd.
    I lowered my voice. “Witness, Todd. Witnesses are not suspects. Usually.”
    The picnic table argument quieted and Desiree returned. “So how’s the big hunt? Are the police going to make them cancel?”
    “The hunt’s still on. The location of Abel’s fall wasn’t in the preserve anyway.”
    “Bet the Woodcocks loved the news about Abel.” Her snarky tone struck one of my already shortened nerves.
    “I’m sure the owners are upset a local man died.”
    “Pissed at a dead man for ruining their big event, you mean.” Desiree pursed her lips. “I hope it puts those Atlanta snobs out of business. Stealing folks’ land and keeping honest people from hunting in spots where they’ve always hunted. The Woodcocks probably fixed things with the police to quiet it all down . They sure wouldn’t want it in the news.”
    Before I could remark on that interesting tidbit, the back door banged open. A heavily bearded and tattooed man held the door for Sheri, then folded his arms to stand sentry. She stepped into the small kitchen and shoved paper towel-lined paper plates of okra and turkey patties on the counter. The heap of crispy, golden okra still sizzled. The patties steamed, giving off an herbal fragrance of thyme and sage. A droplet of drool rolled off my lip and I quickly wiped it with my hand.
    Todd snatched a plastic spork from the coffee can holder.
    “I guess you don’t care for the Woodcocks,” I said to Desiree.
    “They tried to buy out our land. No one takes property away from the Gutersons. Accused us of poaching too. We’re hunting where we’ve always hunted.”
    Sheri laughed. “We opened this bar just to tick them off. Their lawyer sent a letter asking us to clean up our property. We cleaned up all right. Cleaned out this old trailer and made it a bar.”
    “That’s very enterprising of you,” said Todd.
    As I dug into the okra, the front door smacked the flimsy trailer wall. Our gazes fell upon the newcomer, Rick Miller, the lodge’s vanishing dinner guest. Rick gave the bar a quick glance, ducked his head before we could catch his eye, and shuffled to the mangy couch. Sheri scurried to bring him the house pour.
    I lowered my voice. “We met Rick tonight at the lodge. He won the raffle to enter the hunt.”
    “Heard about that. He’s here