Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (41 page)

With decreasing visibility, Katie Lee turned on the headlight. Over the rumble of the motor, she shouted, “Y’all will probably recognize a bunch of people tonight.”

“Will Billy Ray be there?” I asked.

Katie Lee gave me a duh look. “Probably.”

From the seat next to me, Patsy shouted, “Katie Lee, where are you going? We passed Meredith’s place.”

“The Marina. To pick up Nash. It’ll only take a minute. We can get beer and cigarettes.”

Nash wasn’t welcome on the Brown’s property otherwise he’d already be in the boat. I thumbed the eye of Horus I’d fastened on a chain, like a bead on a rosary. Let the games begin. First stop--sneaking around to pick up Nash.

I’d seen him over a half dozen times and easily recognized his signature stance. With both hands tucked in jacket pockets, he crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned on a wood piling.

Katie Lee dropped the speed to a crawl and puttered between docks lined with boats. We passed an angler dressed in a red flannel shirt and olive green plastic pants. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a wool winter hat that covered his head down to his lobes. Messing around with metal cages, he waved as we passed and something familiar struck me.

Katie Lee cut the motor and docked in a slip just in front of the Marina Supply Store. Patsy threw a rope to Nash. He moored the line to a dock cleat. “God damn. Don’t y’all look fabulous.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Patsy said.

Katie Lee scolded Patsy with her eyes. “Play nice.”

Leaping out of the boat, Patsy asked Nash, “What do you need, cigarettes or beer?”

Nash had a track-record of questionable decision making, but around us he managed to ooze polite and easy-going. He didn’t bite Patsy’s bait. Instead, he played her, pouting. Patsy held his gaze. “Beer,” he finally said. She held out her hand, and he pulled a five from his pocket. “From the refrigerated section.” 

“Raz,” Patsy said, “come help me.”

Nash lent a hand to steady me out of the boat. When I got out, he threw a black duffel in and leapt behind it, taking my seat. I locked eyes with Patsy, and asked him, “What’s in the bag?”

He stored it under a bench seat. “A change of clothes.”

PATSY AND I STOPPED in front of an ice machine. She straightened the bills everyone had donated for alcohol and cigarettes. As she counted, she asked, “Do you have it?”

Reaching into an inside pocket, I handed her a baggie with the butane engraved lighter and gold loop earring. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a folded note.

“What’s that?”

“I penned a love letter to Nash. Katie Lee needs to detox herself from him. Once he gets this, it’ll encourage him to wean her from his company.” She handed it to me. “Go ahead, read it.”

It had taken Patsy a lot of time to cut letters from magazines. The note read, “Lying frauds deserve to be behind bars. Fess up or we will.”

“Blackmail?”

Snatching the paper from my hand, she refolded it. “It’s not blackmail. It’s friendly encouragement.”

“Remind me not ask you for ‘friendly encouragement.’”

She slid the note into the plastic sandwich bag. “Nash needs to come clean, and we’re aidin’ his conscience.” She put “the encouragement” in an outside pocket of her vintage bolero jacket and took her time securing a wood toggle button that secured the pocket flap. “Do you want beer or BJ’s?”

Besides a few fisherman, the dock and Marina Supply Store were deserted. I checked my Swatch and waved a hand. “Whatever you choose is fine. I need to use the ladies room.”

“It’s around back, near the dumpster under Jackson’s deck.”

I didn’t give Patsy a chance to come with me. I was supposed to be using discretion in this investigation, and needed to do this alone. With urgency, I hustled to the back of the building. Patsy’s note read like something from grade school, and I had reservations about giving it and the evidence to Nash. He’d probably laugh his ass off, then say, “Fuck you.”

At the bottom of Jackson’s stairs, dusk had disappeared. Low lit dock lights glowed on the slips that bobbed with the tide. Tonight I’d dressed sensibly, tennis shoes, belted jeans and a T-shirt. From inside my jacket, I pulled out gloves and a flashlight.

Shiny silver screws held the new wood deck together. It hadn’t been stained and smelled like hamster bedding. A window rested to the right of the door, and crevices behind partially-closed, vertical blinds glowed. I watched the window for shadows and listened for signs of Jackson or his friends.

If I stayed still too long, Patsy would find me. Climbing the stairs, I counted on Bubba Jackson’s southern roots and prayed that he lived by the unlocked door mentality. If he didn’t, I’d have to figure out how to break in. I lightly knocked. If he answered I planned to use the oldie but goodie, ‘can you tell me where the bathroom is?’ I waited while the hum of a boat motor faded. Still no answer. Twisting the knob with my gloved hand, I pushed. Point for O’Brien.

Last time I’d been in this apartment, bodies stood on the stained carpet, and beer cups covered the counter. Bubba wasn’t the tidiest of bachelors; paper plates with moldy food, cultured and multiplied a blanket of fuzz. The scent of hooch and sweaty socks had replaced clambake.

The space was small, and I estimated that I could scour it in under five minutes. First the obvious. I walked the perimeter looking for paintings on the walls. The only thing I found was a swimsuit calendar in the bathroom.

Next on my list, closet checks. After the last time we were here, I’d ended up blacking out. Macy said I’d come out of sliding doors wearing a life vest and holding an oar while mumbling about a hunter. My head only carried snip-its from that night, and I had no idea where I’d been, so I’d have to search everywhere.

There were two bedrooms. Only clothes hung in the foosball room’s closet. The bathroom linen cupboard looked small, but I opened it anyway. Floor to ceiling shelves housed a few stacked towels, an unopened box of textured condoms, and a bottle of musk aftershave. Moving on, I flicked a light in the second bedroom. When I opened the closet, I inhaled a cloud of tobacco.

“Whatcha doing?”

I gasped and spun around. “Shit, Patsy. Don’t do that.”

Patsy stood in the hallway holding two plastic bags filled with beer and BJ’s. She put them down, took a drag, and asked, “Do what?”

“Make me mess my pants. How did you know I was up here?”

“You can’t get into the bathroom without a key from inside the Marina Supply. Why are you holding a flashlight and wearing black gloves?”

I heaved a breath.

“Speak to me, O’Brien.”

Macy knew, and now I’d have to tell Patsy something. Unsure if I wanted to answer her, I opened the sliding door and flashed my light in the corners where lint balls collected, and a pile of wet clothing wafted a sour smell. “I’m looking for something that was stolen.”

Patsy’s cigarette ash grew, and she stepped into the bathroom. The commode flushed. “Tell me what it is. I’ll help you find it.”

A bead of sweat tickled my neck. “A masterpiece.”

Patsy’s face creased with confusion. “That’s vague.”

“I’m looking for an oil painting. Roughly, 10 x 12.”

Pretending to smoke a joint, Patsy pinched her cigarette free fingers near her lips. “Have you been partying without me?”

I poked the flashlight between fishing poles, and inside a tackle box. “Remember Jackson’s party in November?”

Patsy chewed on her cheek. “Portions of it.”

“Beforehand, you and I stood in front of an art gallery and looked at a Clementine Hunter painting.”

“Oh yeah. Pricey thing.”

“I’m looking for it.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I have a hunch that Jackson is moving fake artwork for a dealer in New Orleans. His name is Jack Ray.”

She joked. “Any relation to Billy?”

A seagull screeched outside, and a boat horn sounded in the harbor.

“I think so.”

Absorbing what I’d said, she exhaled with force. “Holy shit. The canvases I saw Billy Ray buying at the Hobbie Lobbie around Christmas. Are you saying Billy Ray can paint?”

I nodded. “He sent me a miniature landscape for Valentines.” I motioned at Patsy to follow me. “Come on, I haven’t checked the hallway closet.”

“So it’s illegal to make copies and sell them?”

“Without the artist’s permission, it’s a federal offense.”

“Shit. I always figured Billy Ray would get arrested for growin,’ not paintin’.”

“He’ll only be busted if he’s been selling forgeries as originals. That’s hard to prove.”

“Why are you so interested in all this?”

The veneered door slid along it’s track. “My dad refurbished the
Baptism
painting. But, now the curator at the museum says the piece on the wall is a fake. Everything’s buggled. If I can find the painting, I can sort things out.”

Patsy twisted open a wine cooler. “It sounds complicated. Shouldn’t you call the art police?”

I swayed the flashlight in the corners. “I just want to check … Bingo.”

Patsy peered over my shoulder. “You think paintings are inside those boxes.”

“Hold this,” I said, handing her the flashlight so I could slide my finger under a piece of tape that secured the top of a box. Charged with electricity, I broke the seal.

“What the fuck is taking so long?”

Startled, Patsy fell on top of me. Glancing up at Macy I sighed. “Shut the door behind you.”

“You two are taking forever. Katie Lee left the boat looking for you two.”

I had a framed painting halfway out of the box. “Where is she now?”

“Hanging on the dock with Nash. I told her I needed to buy Midol and tampons, and that I’d find you two.”

“Y’all,” Patsy said, “I gotta pee.”

Macy dug in the plastic bag Patsy set on the floor and helped herself to a chilled BJ. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Jackpot.” Each of the slim boxes I’d discovered had hand addressed white shipping-labels. Art galleries spanning the state from Wilmington to Ashville. Two boxes were postmarked to Tennessee and one to Alabama.

Reaching inside my jacket pocket, I pulled out the Fuji disposable camera. “I need to untape the boxes and photograph the contents next to the shipping label.” A guilty pleasure, similar to sneaking peeks at wrapped Christmas presents under the tree, pinged inside of my chest.

Macy plopped onto Jackson’s sofa. “You’re fucking kidding me. That’s gonna take forever.”

“Not if you and Patsy help.”

Patsy emerged from the bathroom with a wide grin. She held a gallon size plastic bag with duct tape around the center. “Y’all ‘ll never guess what I found.”

“Is that fuckin’ grass?”

“Oh Jesus,” I said. “Where’d you find that?”

 “Taped under the toilet tank.” She put her face in the bag and inhaled. “You realize I’m obliged to smoke this. Make sure it’s not oregano.”

I wound the camera film. “Patsy, don’t. Put it back.”

Under bubble wrap, I could see an oil still life of a dead duck, hanging upside down from a shed roof and hoped it wasn’t an omen. I didn’t know the artist. The framed piece had a paper backing with a sticker that read Terrell:
Hanging Game
. I snapped a photo.

Patsy pulled out a small wooden pipe from her pocket. “Jackson won’t notice if a little’s missin’.”

Macy rubbed her hands together. “I’ll help you test it.”

“Macy!”

She raised a red polished nail to hush me. “Relax. Patsy and I’ll be more productive.”

Wrapping the dead ducks back up, I secured the tape and pulled out the next painting. A Thomas Richards landscape. Then a George Cooke. Some of the art in the boxes were duplicates with different addresses. I didn’t know these artists, I’d have to look them up when I got back to campus. Patsy and Macy helped me tape the boxes and put them in the closet.

I kept opening boxes and snapping photos. I warned the girls. “When Jackson comes in here, he’s gonna smell grass.”

Patsy moved toward the bathroom and giggled. “It always smells like weed in here.” She tripped over herself. Dried herbs shot into the air like confetti. “Don’t worry, I’m puttin’ the bag back ” she said, picking through the carpet.

Bubba Jackson was part of the ring but was Billy Ray? Had he painted these? The last package was the smallest. No bigger than 5 x 6. When I unwrapped it, I recognized the artist. Heavy breath settled into my lungs. Macy bent over my shoulder. Squinting, she said, “It’s a tiny watermelon and some fruit.”

I snapped a photo. “That watermelon is a James Peale miniature.”

“Is he famous or something?”

“Yeah, he’s famous.”

“That’s the same size as the Valentine landscape Billy Ray sent you.”

Before I answered her, the apartment door swung open. Fish scented air blew in with Nash. He tipped his head up. “Ladies, what’s going on?”

“Jesus Christ, Nash,” Patsy said, “don’t you know how to knock?!”

Nash inhaled. “Are you pre-partyin’ without me?”

I handed Macy a ten. “I need another disposable camera. Can you go down to the store and buy one? And make up an excuse to Katie Lee. I need five minutes.”

Nash walked behind me. “What have you found?”

Patsy locked the door behind Macy.

I slid the closet door shut. “Nash, we need to talk.”

NOTE TO SELF

I was right. Not sure why I don’t feel relieved.

40

B
uggered

Nash
parked himself on the Mexican-blanket cushioned-sofa. Patsy handed him a beer and me a BJ, before taking out another for herself. Patsy stood, and I sat on the coffee table across from him. We all took deep gulps. Besides the waves that collided into the boat docks, a silence elapsed.

“Nash,” Patsy said. “We know.”

Nash smiled. “What do you know, Patsy?”

“Don’t be an ass. We know that you cheated on Katie Lee with Bridget.”

He stopped smiling. “What are you talkin’ab--”

“Save the bullshit,” Patsy said.