Portrait of a Dead Guy by Larissa Reinhart Page B

heard your Grandpa doesn’t play.”
    “No, Grandpa was never one for playing cards. He spends most his time with goats and fishing, though.”
    “I see.” Barb moved the cat back to its original position and sighed. “Tell Ed I said ‘hey’ anyhow.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I beat a hasty retreat out the office, almost trampling Wanda in the process.
    In the hallway, a tall stocky man in ironed chinos and a silk golf shirt huddled with JB and Ronny Price. The three men watched me clomp through the doorway holding the painting. I avoided eye contact with JB as I began the trek back to the showroom.
    “Wait a minute, Cherry.” I heard Wanda’s singsong and stopped to pivot back, clasping the frame’s awkward size against my chest. “About the items I gave you.” For a moment, my face projected the blank interlude of my thoughts. “Dustin’s special things. For the memory box. I guess you could still do that. It won’t have your name on it or anything, will it?”
    “No ma’am, I don’t sign shadowboxes,” I sighed. “I’ve got Dustin’s things in my truck. I was fixing to go through them today. I won’t let you down.” I fired off a rapid smile and turned back toward the men blocking the hallway.
    Their attention drifted from Wanda to me. The third man raised a magnificent brown eyebrow and studied me with interest. With his massive frame and square jaw, he looked like an offensive lineman dressed for a meeting with the NFL Commissioner. Before I maneuvered through the small crowd, he brushed past me to walk down the hall.
    “Come with me, Mr. Price,” he growled in a thick accent.
    “Mr. Avtaikin?” Ronny called, pushing past me to hurry after the large man.
    I took two steps backward, trying to recover from Mr. Avtaikin’s jostle. The folder under my arm commenced a slow slide. A stout squeeze pressed the folder into my side, but caused my palms to slip from the painting. I jerked a knee underneath to steady the canvas. A quick glance behind me revealed JB and Wanda hadn’t noticed. They had already returned to his office. I hopped toward the wall to recover my hold on the awkward frame while squishing the folder against my side.
    I sidled down the hallway with my back against the wall and the painting pushed against my chest like a crab carrying a giant clam. My shoulder blades struck air. I had reached the recessed window for the garage. Through the window, I glimpsed Cody leaning against a wall, drinking a soda. He faced the garage doors with blank absorption, oblivious to my hard stare. Most likely dreaming of Dustin’s Malibu.
    I continued my scoot along the wall until a doorknob poked my spine. I bumped my hip against the lever and the door swung open quicker than I expected. I spun to the side and caught the doorframe against my shoulder. The folder dropped from my armpit and the contract splayed across the floor. My knee jerked up and saved the painting from falling, but the other foot landed on a piece of paper that scrunched and ripped beneath my boot.
    As I hopped and cursed, I realized I interrupted the end of a heated conversation in the small office. Ronny and Mr. Avtaikin gawked without taking the time to wipe the snarls off their faces.
    “Sorry,” I stuttered. “I lost my grip on the painting.”
    They stood motionless for a beat before relaxing. Their furious stares had been meant for each other and not for me.
    “Perhaps a cart next time is better,” the large man said in his heavy accent. He grabbed my elbow, jerked me to standing, and bent to pick up my ripped contract. Slapping the papers into the fallen folder, he jammed the lot into the back waistband of my jeans. “Plenty of room in there, I think,” he said, giving the folder a pat.
    Did he just shove that contract in my panties like it was a twenty at a nudie bar?
    “We’ll talk later, Price.” Mr. Avtaikin lumbered to the showroom door. His large frame and bulky upper body pushed his shoulders forward, making