Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) by Larissa Reinhart

form of a reassuring hug. “Don’t worry, sister. It’ll all work out.”
    Red looked up from wiping bar glasses. “I sure hope so. I’ve never liked Shawna, but I’m in the minority. I’ve a mind to stop serving her. She called my bar ‘quaint.’”
    I spun on my stool to face Todd. “Enough about me. Did you hear back from the SipNZip?”
    “Not yet,” he slapped a spunky rhythm on the bar top. “I feel good about my chances though.”
    “I’d hire you here,” said Red, “but let’s see how this whole painting deal shakes out. If people associate you with Cherry, they might stop eating here because of you, too.”
    “Great,” I said. “Another reason for me to find those pictures. Todd won’t be able to work in this town either.”
    “What are these pictures?” asked Red. “Kodak moments? Must be pretty hot if she’s willing to blackmail for them.”
    “I have no idea.”
    “If you find the photos, I want to see them before you give them back to Shawna.” Red gave me a toothy smile and waggled his auburn brows. “Shawna’s a pain in the ass, but she’s a well-endowed pain in the ass.”
    I rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose.
    “Have you checked the farm?” asked Todd. “Maybe you don’t realize you have them and they’re in your old room. Maybe the pictures are from high school or something.”
    “Good idea, Todd.”
    Todd grinned and his drumming moved from spunky to ecstatic.
    “Tomorrow I’m going to Sweetgum to see the Coderres. I’ll head to the farm before checking on Miss Gladys.”
    His drumming slowed. “Sweetgum? Maybe I should go with you.”
    “I had no problem in Sweetgum today,” I said. “The Coderres need groceries brought. What could happen on a goodwill visit?”
     

Twelve

    The next morning I sped down the county highway in my sister’s Firebird, loving the freedom that an overhauled 350 small block V-eight engine could bring.
    I needed to find Shawna’s snapshots on this visit, but thought Pearl might have some advice on how to help the Coderres. I also hoped Grandpa might have some word on the hijacking. Uncle Will sometimes slipped him a few nuggets that didn’t leak out to the rest of the world.
    At the turn to the farm lane, I did my usual scan for goats and other dangerous road blocks and proceeded with caution down the gravel road. At the fork, no bearded monsters appeared. I continued toward the house and parked in the driveway. Hopping out of my truck, I glanced around and scurried to the kitchen door, unslobbered and unchased. For one long masochistic minute, I stood on the stoop, searching the half-chewed azaleas and gardenia bushes for bobbing white tails. Seeing none, I hopped from the stoop and poked my head around the corner of the ranch house. The vegetable garden stood empty except for cages of tomatoes and the long, twisting pumpkin vines opening their blooms for the early sunshine.
    “Maybe he sold the herd,” I muttered and felt a small pang of sadness. The pang dispersed as my eyes darted to the barbed wire enclosing the back forty. In the distance, other hooved and horned beasts pranced in a pretty Turner-like pastoral.
    At the fence line stood the white billy goat, Tater. His amber eyes gleamed in recognition, and he bleated a note of welcome. Or warning. You could never tell with Tater.
    “What are you doing in the pasture, boy?” I asked, approaching the fence with my normal goat caution.
    He bleated again and shook his gigantic goat head.
    “I know. Your life has been turned upside down, hasn’t it? Everything was rosy there for a time. Had the barnyard to yourself. Rammed my truck when you damn well pleased. Now fate has intervened and stuck you behind a fence.”
    He bobbed his head, his beard catching in the fence barbs.
    I gingerly extended my hand through the fence and rubbed his head. He nibbled at my shirt and then set his teeth to it. I yanked my hand back.
    “Don’t go pushing your luck. But I know how you feel.