Portrait of a Dead Guy by Larissa Reinhart

witnesses. “All right then, if you’re careful how you hold it. Can you brace it between your hands without touching the front?”
    “Of course.” He gave me a salesman smile, better than the one I pulled out for customers. We slid the wrapped canvas out of the truck.
    “Whoops,” I muttered.
    Wanda’s crumpled bag, smashed under the large painting, threatened to dump off the floor and onto the asphalt. I caught it with my knee, pushed it back on the floor, and slammed the door shut. Ronny strode across the blacktop toward the dealership entrance. Grasping the folder with the contract, I scurried after him and opened the door so he could pass through sideways.
    We cut through the showroom where new cars rested in sexy poses. My longing bounced off the tinted windows of a gleaming Mustang. I ran my hand over the robust frame. Stealing a deep whiff of new car smell, I ogled the beauty. A battle between lust and envy broke within me, but the price on the manufacturer’s sticker cut the seduction faster than a cold shower. I gave the trunk a booty smack of admiration and jogged toward the back door.
    We traipsed down a friendly apricot colored hallway sided with doors on the near end. We passed several tiny sales offices, then a long window with a view into the garage. I squinted into it, trying to catch sight of Cody, but lost him in the sea of coveralls bent over and under vehicles. Ronny stopped at the end of the hall, waiting for me to catch up. I hurried to open the door, and we stepped into a waiting room.
    “Hey Barb,” called Ronny.
    JB’s trusted office manager looked up from her desk and patted her hot-rolled curls at Ronny’s entrance.
    “Are JB and Wanda inside?” Ronny nodded toward the door she guarded. “Cherry Tucker’s here to see them.”
    Barb smiled. “Hey there, Cherry. Let me just see.”
    She shoved her rolling chair back from a desktop littered with stacked papers and cat statues. Along with the dealership, JB owned four quick lube shops, a catfish restaurant, and an unknown quantity of silent partnerships in Central-West Georgia. As his personal assistant, Barb Mason piloted the businesses with efficient aplomb from her perch at the dealership. She and twenty porcelain cats.
    “Hey, Miss Barb. Nice to see you again.”
    Barb heaved her round figure from the chair. My smile disappeared as Ronny thunked the painting on the floor. I darted forward to rescue the canvas from leaning against an armchair.
    “Thanks for your help, Mr. Price.”
    “No problemo. Enough with the Mr. Price,” he said. “I think you’re old enough to call me Ronny.”
    He winked and smoothed his hands over his hair before settling into an armchair. The door to JB’s office swung open. Barb leaned her wide posterior against it, waving me in.
    I bent forward to palm the large frame’s sides. She pointed toward the painting. “Do you need help with that?”
    “No, ma’am.” After Ronny’s manhandling, I didn’t want anyone touching this painting.
    Upon entering JB’s office, I murmured admiration for the numerous white tail trophies adorning the walls. Halo grapevine reported the Branson home held even more exotic prizes from hunting trips to Montana and South Africa. I had never seen them, but my relationship with Luke wasn’t exactly the take-home-to-Momma kind. Luke did not share his private home life, and at the time, I didn’t care.
    After two minutes of carefully unwrapping Dustin’s portrait, a stunned silence filled the room. Wanda clutched her sides with tears running rivulets down her face.
    “It’s amazing,” she said. “It’s like a work of art.”
    JB tossed the contract folder on his desk, tipped back in his office chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Look here, Cherry. I admire your gumption, but we can’t have you painting our son.”
    “I don’t understand, sir. You said if I finished it for the funeral, you’d consider buying it.”
    “That was before you tried