Free The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) by Larissa Reinhart Page B

dwellers traveled around the large bass pond to the main lodge grounds.
    Outside in my puffy coat, I admired the Christmas lights reflecting off the pond before turning to watch for Todd’s golf cart. A long, low building that looked like a giant chicken coop blocked my view of the dirt drive that led around the pond to the cottages. Decorative lighting shone on the quaint structure, obscuring the inhabitants. It was too far for me to see clearly, but a bird much larger than a chicken strutted along the pen adjoined to the coop. Which made me think of Thanksgiving turkey, the particular fowl I had missed this year.
    Had Abel Spencer shared his Thanksgiving dinner with people or just his dogs? Was he only friendly to Swinton outsiders, like me, or had I mistaken the sweet affection with his dog for a general amiability? He had wanted to know about my participation in the hunt and whatever information I had about the contest. I thought he had just been curious. Was there a more malicious intent to his questions that I didn’t notice?
    A strange scream, high-pitched and piercing, rang out from the giant chicken coop. My hands flew over my mouth as I stifled a scream of my own.
    “Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered. The screech still rang in my ears and sent tiny aftershocks buzzing through my nerves. “Why is every little thing giving me the jitters today?”
    Cherry Tucker did not get the jitters. And to prove it, I jogged up the path to check out the odd building. Twenty yards from the coop, I halted. “What in the hell?”
    A heavyset man crept around the edge of the building. A camouflage balaclava covered his face, except for the pair of glasses balanced precariously on his camo nose. Matching coveralls stretched over his full stomach.
    As the building was painted Scarlet Lake and spotlighted, his Army Surplus camo did not blend but gave the appearance of skulking vegetation. Vegetation that had just digested an extra-large beach ball.
    “Hey,” I called. “What are you doing?”
    Balaclava Beach Ball froze against the building, but the protruding belly blocked his ability to flatten himself. He stretched his arms and clung to the walls with his fingertips.
    “I can see you,” I said. “Are you a guest of the lodge?”
    He ran with the eagerness of a bat released from hell, but without the necessary wingspan to lift his weight productively.
    As he took off, another shriek pierced the night.

Eleven

      
    Like Balaclava Beach Ball, I ran surprisingly slow. Which is really not so surprising, considering my runty size.
    The pen was now empty, but another high-pitched scream resonated from inside. I followed the path around the corner and found the far side of the building dark but covered in a fine mesh screen.
    Yanking my phone from my pocket, I pressed the lit screen against the mesh. More shrill cries rang out. Inside, turquoise and brilliant blue fans brandished and cascaded.
    “I’ll be damned. Peacocks.”
    A large “Keep Out” sign made me wonder if Balaclava Beach Ball had planned to disobey orders. I scanned the pen door and walls for breaking and entering. The padlocked door remained fixed. Curiously though, a section of wooden slats had been replaced and one of the posts had been splinted with two-by-fours. Something had cracked the thick beam. Recently. A can of red paint sat next to the beam, waiting for someone to finish the job.
    “What was up with that guy?” I asked the birds. “Just some weirdo playing GI Joe? Or a man with an unnatural love for peacocks?”
    A shadowy peacock shape stopped in mid-strut and paraded to the mesh to stare at me.
    “I hope the owners aren’t raising y’all for some fancy meal. I’d be worried after seeing the gourmet stuff coming out of that kitchen. Can you even eat peacock?”
    The male peacocks screeched a decibel short of permanent eardrum damage. I took it as a no.
    “Why is everything at this lodge so strange? Or am I just seeing strange because