Jason Deas - Benny James 03 - Brushed Away (4 page)

Vernon crept forward, still tingling from the new revelation. He had read the
Tilley Bee
earlier in the day as he drank his coffee and had his breakfast. From across the camp site he could see the headline, “Murder. Again.” The killer had been back since the murder.

Chapter 5

Uncle Karl invited Benny into his studio to talk. Benny thought it would be a strange place, and it was. Hanging on the walls and from the ceiling he saw a green tuba, a polka dotted swordfish, antique saws, dream catchers, scuba gear, and a plethora of other random items. Benny guessed there must have been at least twenty paintings in various stages of completion. Canvases leaned against the walls ten or so deep under handmade signs. Each sign had a symbol which looked to Benny to be Chinese script.

“Did you make those signs?” Benny asked.

“Yes.”

“Is that Chinese?”

“Nope.”

“Japanese?”

“Nope.”

“I give up.”

“It’s Uncle Karlnese.” Uncle Karl walked over to one of the signs that stood above the biggest line of leaning canvases. “This one reads, ‘Waste of Time, Get a New Hobby.’” Uncle Karl tried to kick his foot through the first canvas but was unsuccessful. He merely put a giant scuff mark across the painting’s surface. He looked at the painting with the new feature and picked it up. His eyes twinkled. “Now we’re talking.”

Uncle Karl put the painting in a different line of paintings, under a different sign. “This one reads, ‘Maybe.’”

“What does the last sign say?” Benny asked, pointing to the last line of paintings.

“It don’t
say
anything. Signs can’t talk.”

“What does it read?”

“It reads, ‘Golden,’” Uncle Karl said, making a rainbow motion above his head. “Those are the paintings that keep me going.”

“I thought you were a sculptor?”

“I dabble with a little bit of everything.”

Uncle Karl pulled the tube of lotion out of his pocket and started to inch closer to Benny. Benny jammed his hands into his pockets and cut him off before he could even ask.

“My hands are beginning to itch. I forgot I’m allergic to aloe,” Benny lied.

Uncle Karl took three steps to his left and grabbed a thick rope that hung from the ceiling. He yanked it down and a loud clanging noise filled the air. He repeated the action two more times and stopped. Before the last chime had stopped reverberating in Benny’s ears, Angel appeared in the doorway.

Upon seeing nothing was wrong she scolded, “Uncle Karl! The church bell is for emergencies only.”

“This is an emergency.”

“Mr. James is here, what could be your emergency?”

“He won’t rub aloe on my back. Says he’s allergic.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said taking the tube of aloe from her uncle. “Good morning, Mr. James,” she said pleasantly, turning and smiling at Benny.

“Good morning.”

“Uncle Karl, you have got to stop welding with your shirt off.”

“This is the first time this has happened.”

“Really?” Angel rubbed lotion into his shoulders with attitude. “Would you like to try that one more time?”

“It’s the first time it has happened this month.”

“It’s the first day of the month! It happened once last month. And, it happened last Thanksgiving. Remember how you missed the meal because you couldn’t sit down? I don’t even want to think about how it happened.”

“I was welding in a strange position behind me and the flap of my pants was blocking my vision.”

“I said I don’t care.” Angel finished rubbing the lotion and handed the tube back to him. She wiped her greasy hands on the back of her jeans and looked at Benny. “I think I’m starting to be allergic to aloe myself.” She turned and walked out of the barn.

“Where were we?” Uncle Karl asked.

“You were just about to tell me about the art scene here in Tilley.”

“Ah. Chattanooga, Tennessee.”

“No. I said Tilley, Georgia.”

“But the riff started in Chattanooga. Sit down.”

Uncle Karl pointed to a purple bean bag chair behind Benny. It had been a long time since Benny had sat in a bean bag chair, and he slowly lowered himself to the ground and fell into the oddly-shaped thing. Uncle Karl grabbed a wooden rocking horse and pulled it in front of Benny. From a post, he unhooked a cowboy hat, put it on his head, and climbed onto the wooden rocking horse. He began rocking.

“In 1960, I was twenty and full of ideas. Still am. I left the plantation here in search of ideas.” Uncle Karl continued rocking and adjusted the cowboy hat atop his head. “This house here was all about money. I wanted something more. Art in the 1960’s was evolving as it always does, and I had heard about a group of artists forming in Chattanooga. A bus full of flower-power folks stopped in, heading that way, and one of them let me look at his sketch book. Now, I didn’t know one thing about art. I couldn’t draw a stick person or dog or pony to save my life. But, I wanted to be a part of what I was seeing. Something about the images in that sketch book set my soul on fire. I wanted to learn how to do that.”

Uncle Karl once again pulled the tube of aloe out of his pocket and started rubbing it on his chest and shoulders. As he reached for his back, Benny reluctantly pulled himself out of the bean bag chair and held out his hand for the tube.

“Stop rocking and give me the tube,” Benny said.

“I thought you were allergic?”

“I lied. I’m allergic to hairy old white men, but I’ll get over it.”

Benny filled his hands with aloe and covered Uncle Karl’s back with the lotion. As he rubbed, Uncle Karl continued his tale.

“When the next flower-power bus came through town, I climbed aboard and went with them. They didn’t care that I didn’t understand art. They were just happy that I was in love with it. I soon found out that I was actually talented at making sculptures. I could make anything I could touch. It was so easy; I was a natural. And then I tried painting and drawing. I was lost. I failed. My brain didn’t think that way. I guess I could say I have a 3-D brain. To make a long story short—I have devoted my life to art. I still make my sculptures with ease, but I live in hopes that one day something in my brain will click and I’ll be able to paint and draw the things I see in my mind’s eye.”

Benny handed the aloe back to Uncle Karl and once again lowered himself into the purple bean bag chair. “This is a fascinating story, don’t get me wrong, but what does it have to do with the Tilley art scene?”

“I’m getting there.”

Uncle Karl started rocking again.

“In Chattanooga I quickly learned there were two schools of thought when it came to art. There were the new thinkers and the old.”

“They were a little behind the times, weren’t they? I mean, I’m no art historian, but didn’t art take a major turn away from realism and classic ideas in the 1920’s?”

“Remember, we’re talking about Chattanooga, Tennessee, not New York City.”

Uncle Karl pulled the cowboy hat off his head and tossed it to his right without looking. It knocked over a glass jar full of brown water and paint brushes and shattered on the concrete floor. Uncle Karl acted as though he didn’t hear it as he didn’t turn his head to look and see what happened.

“Switch,” Uncle Karl said as he got off the wooden rocking horse.

“You want to sit here?”

“Yeah. And you got to take a ride on this filly.”

Uncle Karl fell into the purple bean bag with a sigh. Benny threw his right leg over the wooden horse and settled into the painted saddle.

“If you want the hat, it’s over there on the floor. It might be wet and have some glass in it.”

“I’ll pass.” Benny started rocking.

“You ever seen West Side Story?”

“I have.”

“The old and new art groups were like the Jets and the Sharks. Two gangs that hated each other.”

“The old is always scared of the new,” Benny said, “but what does this have to do with Tilley, Georgia?”

Uncle Karl heard something off in the distance and Benny could almost see his ears perk up. Uncle Karl’s eyes doubled in size, and he planted his palms down on the concrete floor, ready to pop up out of the bean bag. In the next instant, Benny heard it—the ice cream truck. As Uncle Karl sprinted out the door, Benny checked his watch. It was 9:30 and too early in his mind for an ice cream truck to be making its rounds.

Uncle Karl hopped in place as he waited. Benny walked up beside him and wanted to say something, but somehow he wasn’t sure what. As the obnoxious repertoire of songs blaring from the ice cream truck crept closer, Benny finally thought of something to say.

“Really? It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Ice cream is good,” Uncle Karl said.

“I’ve never thought of ice cream as a breakfast food.”

“Don’t be an old thinker. Join me in new thoughts. What do you pour over cereal?”

“Milk.” Benny already knew where this was going.

“What is the main ingredient in ice cream?”

“Milk.”

“Thank you! I like my milk frozen.”

The truck appeared. It was not an ordinary ice cream truck. A white vehicle approached, which had hundreds of rubber duckies glued to its exterior.

Something clicked in Benny’s brain and he asked, “Do you own this truck?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the rubber duckies gave it away. Maybe because instead of Yankee Doodle Dandy or Pop Goes the Weasel, the music coming from the truck is unrecognizable noise yet beautiful.”

“It’s Mozart backwards,” Uncle Karl said with a smile.

“Nice touch.”

“I make my employee come here first every morning.”

“Interesting.”

The truck stopped in front of Uncle Karl and Benny. Uncle Karl continued to hop up and down like a child. The driver slid the glass window open and greeted Uncle Karl with cheer.

“Two Super Buddy Chocolate Dips.”

“Coming right up, sir.”

The man handed Uncle Karl the two ice creams and he gave him money.

“I don’t want one of those,” Benny said.

“One of them is not for you. But get whatever you like.”

“No thanks,” Benny said.

Uncle Karl nodded to the driver and he slid the window shut and drove away.

With an ice cream in each hand, Uncle Karl began to eat, going back and forth between cones. It was as if Benny had disappeared. Benny stood and watched in amazement as he devoured the treats like a professional eater. When he was almost finished he popped his head up and walked toward the back of the house. Benny followed.

Clarice, the ostrich was waiting by the fence. Walking over to her, Uncle Karl said, “I didn’t forget you.” He held out the nearly finished cones and Clarice gobbled both of them.

“Nap time!” Uncle Karl announced.

“What? You haven’t finished the story about the art here in Tilley. You actually haven’t even started talking about the art in Tilley.”

“That’s why they make tomorrows.” Uncle Karl saluted Benny and said, “Toodles,” and disappeared into the house.

Chapter 6

Walking down the dock toward his houseboat, Benny noticed the blinds were now back up in Donny’s office. Thoughts of Rachael slipped across his mind and he tried to push them away. Looking toward his boat, he noticed slight movement and knew Vernon was already inside and waiting. Benny had given him a key after a time in which he’d found Vernon camped out on the upper deck of the houseboat one late evening in emotional shambles. It had been a bad day at home and Vernon needed a place to escape to calm his mind. Benny made him a key the next day and told him anytime he needed a place to breath, he was welcome to let himself in and relax.

Benny walked in the door and found Vernon pacing the room. Vernon looked up and smiled.

“That’s the smile of a confident man,” Benny said, smiling too.

“I think I’m getting good at this.”

“You’re not getting good; you were already good, and you’re just now realizing it.”

“Thanks.”

“Hungry?” Benny asked.

“Not really, but I know I should eat.”

“You should. You talk and I’ll cook. You need a drink?”

“No. I’m good.”

Benny walked to the fridge and pulled out a spaghetti squash. He turned the oven to 400 degrees. Seemingly at the same time, he pulled out a cutting board and a black frying pan. From the fridge he retrieved a package of lean ground beef and began browning it in the black cast iron pan. With a sizzle in the background he sliced the spaghetti squash in half and scooped out the seeds. He continued to work, drizzling olive oil on the squash as Vernon talked.

“I found some major clues today at the campground.”

“Do tell.” Benny flipped the squash over on an aluminum foil lined cookie sheet and popped it in the oven. He grabbed two tomatoes and an onion from the fridge.

“I got to really thinking about how the killer got into the campground and decided it had to be by boat.”

“Of course. Why didn’t we think of that sooner?”

“Don’t know. But I found something very interesting down by the water’s edge.”

“What?” Benny diced the onions and tomatoes and added them to the browned ground beef. He opened a can of tomato paste as he continued listening to Vernon.

“An artist’s brush was stuck in the sand with a notch in it!”

“Shut up.”

“Not kidding. And that’s not it.”

“What else?”

“You can tell where the boat landed. They came in hot and heavy. Made a huge gash in the sand.”

“I still can’t believe I didn’t think of the water entrance. I guess I’m a little off today because of Rachael’s call last night.”

“You doing OK?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“All right. Let me know when you do.”

“We need to check the boats at all the marinas to see if any of them have muddy spots on their bows.”

“Yes. And we need to do that today before they get washed away. I’ll get some deputies on it.”

Benny opened the oven door slightly to check on the spaghetti squash.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but what the hell are you making?”

“Spaghetti.”

“Where are the noodles?”