Portrait of a Dead Guy by Larissa Reinhart Page B

arms. “I’m going to talk to my goats. They have more sense than the two of you.” He pushed off the table and snapped his arm, waving us off. “You two are just like your mother. You better watch yourselves.”
    Casey and I stared at each other with raised brows. That was the one line that could always hush us up.

     
    I went back to Cooper’s Funeral Home, but Cooper kicked me out. Told me to come back in the morning when it was less hectic. He failed to understand, even after a mostly patient explanation from yours truly, that I needed to start painting tonight. I couldn’t spread my tarp and lay out my paints within hours of the visitation. And even as fast as acrylics dried, I still had to use glazing to get the look of an oil painting, which took some time.
    Nothing would stop me from getting this painting perfectly executed and delivered to that funeral. Not even a little thing like locked doors to an empty funeral parlor. In a creaky, old house probably riddled with ghosts.
    And if Cooper didn’t want people showing up after hours, he needed to have strong words with his beautician who left her keys in plain view on the kitchenette counter.
    I unlocked the side door and slipped in under the hazy orange glow of a security light. I chuckled at the simplicity of creeping in after hours. It reminded me of sneaking into the high school art room after dark. I was finally caught by a late-night janitor, but until then, I had done some of my best work in the empty building. Taught me to clean up well, too. And how to pick locks on closets with a paperclip.
    Not that working in a funeral home after dark was my idea of a good time, but at least Cooper wouldn’t lurk over my shoulder asking questions. And I wouldn’t choke on undertaker fumes either.
    I used my flashlight to find my way along the dim hallway. At the entrance to the lobby, my hand hovered over the light switch. Passing car lights shone through the glass front doors, spotlighting my still form. Some nosy biddy would surely notice lights on at Cooper’s after dark and call Mr. Cooper. Or the sheriff.
    I left the lights off and stole into the Branson viewing room.
    “Hey there, Dustin,” I whispered. After adjusting the dimmer, I dumped my bag and tackle box on the floor and crept out. Several minutes later, I returned with a primed canvas and another larger tackle box. I spread a thin plastic sheet under the easel and kicked off my boots and socks.
    I surprise myself sometimes. I’m not known for being shy or cautious, but I never imagined hanging out with a dead guy. Yet here I stood next to a coffin, bopping along to the music on my headphones while I brushed on Dustin’s underpainting in bold strokes.
    “Looking good,” I sang to my painting.
    My head beat along to the throbbing chords ringing from my earbuds. The purplish base color, mixed from alizarin crimson and ultramarine blue, would provide a cooler tone to Dustin’s skin and the shadowy background. I had snapped some photos of Dustin in case I needed to work at home, but using a live subject is always preferable. Or dead, in this case.
    Taking a break for the first coat to dry, I covered my palette of mixed paints with a wet paper towel and grabbed a Coke from my bag. I took a deep swig, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and sighed. Painting made me happy. Getting paid for it made me downright ecstatic. A beer would perfect the moment, but I sucked on the Coke instead. Breaking into a funeral home to paint a dead body was bad enough. Somehow cracking into a six-pack pushed the crime into redneck realm.
    Wandering over to the coffin, I took another swig and stared at Dustin. Something looked different. I scanned him again and spotted the incongruence. The pocket flap on the far side of his suit jacket was folded inside itself, a minor detail that would bug me. I should fix it. But no, thank you.
    Though I wouldn’t actually have to touch Dustin. Just his pocket.
    I twitched my