Cherry Tucker is a very talented artist but her choice of moving back to Halo restricts her her opportunities for commissions. When Dustin Branson is murdered and his stepmother wants to have his portrait done, Cherry seizes the opportunity to paint him, even if it does mean painting him in his coffin.
Cherry sneaks into the the funeral home to work on her portrait and finds something in one of his suit pockets. Her efforts to remove it causes the coffin stand to collapse. All of a sudden, Cherry finds herself rolling on the floor with a dead body. Her uncle Will, the sheriff, is not pleased and warns her to stay out of the investigation. The problem is that rumors are flying through Halo.
Cherry's reputation has always been suspect but she is determined to prove that things aren't what they seem. Every step she takes puts her in conflict with the sheriff and draws her deeper into danger.
Filled with slightly crazy situations and the incessant gossip, I would have expected PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY to make me laugh more than it did. The humor just missed for me. However, fans of comedic mysteries may find this of interest.
In Halo, Georgia, folks know Cherry Tucker as big in mouth,
small in stature, and able to sketch a portrait faster than
buckshot rips from a ten gauge. But commissions are scarce.
EXCERPT
My bright yellow pickup glowed like a radiant beacon in
the sea of black, silver, and white cars. I opened the
driver door with a yank, cursing a patch of rust growing
around the lock. Standing on my toes, I reached for the
portfolio bag on the passenger side. The stretch tipped me
off my toes and splayed me flat across the bench.
"I recognize this truck," a lazy voice floated behind
me. "And the view. Doesn't look like much's changed either
way in ten years."
I gasped and crawled out. Luke Harper, Dustin's
stepbrother. I had forgotten that twig on the Branson
family tree.
More like snapped it from my memory. His lanky stance
blocked the open truck door. One hand splayed against my
side window. His other wrist lay propped over the top of my
door. Within the cage of Luke's arms, we examined each
oth– er. Fondness didn't dwell in my eyes. I'm never
sure what dwelled in his.
Luke drove me crazy in ways I didn't appreciate. He knew
how to push buttons that switched me from tough to soft,
smart to dumb. Beautiful men were my kryptonite. Local
gossip said my mother had the same problem. My poor sister,
Casey, was just as inflicted. We would have been better off
inheriting a squinty eye or a duck walk.
"Hello, Luke Harper." I tried not to sound snide.
Drawing up to my fullest five foot and a half inches, I
cocked a hip in casual belligerence.
"How's it going, Cherry?" A glint of light sparked his
smoky eyes, and I expected it corresponded with a certain
memory of a nineteen–year–old me wearing a pair
of red cow– boy boots and not much else. "You hanging
out at funeral homes now? Never took you for a
necrophiliac."
This time I gave Luke my best what–the–hell
redneck glare. Crossing my arms, I took a tiny step forward
in the trapped space. He stared at me with a faint smile
tugging the corners of his mouth. If I could paint those
gorgeous curls and long sideburns — which will never
happen, by the way — I would use a rich, raw umber
with burnt sienna high– lights. For his eyes, I'd mix
Prussian blue and a teensy Napthal red. However, he would
call his hair "plain old dark brown" and eyes "gray." But,
what does he know? Not much about art, I can tell you that.
"I thought you were in Afghanistan or Alabama," I
said. "What are you doing back?"
"Discharged. You still mad at me? It's been a while."
"Mad? I barely remember the last time I saw you." I
wasn't really lying. My last memory wasn't of seeing him,
but seeing the piece of trash in his truck. And by piece of
trash, I mean the kind with boobs.
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