Phyllis Smallman - Champagne for Buzzards: A Sherri Travis Mystery (Sherri Travis Mysteries)

In a strange awkward dance, a large black creature, its wings stretched out for balance, hopped around on the roof of the red pickup. Another perched on the tailgate while a whole convocation of the ugly creatures conferred on the ground around the truck.

Whats with the frigging birds on Big Red? I asked Tully. Tully came and stood at my shoulder and looked out the kitchen window. Buzzards. Theyre not just birds theyre buzzards looking for a meal.

Oh yeah? Well, Ive got all the freeloaders I can handle.

Are you referring to me and your Uncle Ziggy? I turned and grinned at my father over my coffee mug.

Youve cut me deeply, Sherri, Tully Jenkins said with his hand on his heart and a hurt look on his face. But he couldnt sustain his impression of damaged pride. Tully was about as sensitive as old leather. Actually that pretty much described my old man. His gaunt face looked like it was made of old rawhide. In his early sixties, his dark hair had only a little gray and his black eyes still shone, the sparkle in them saying he wasnt quite dead yet, thank you. Still a little dangerous, he wasnt a man to be messed with. Well, at least not by anyone but me. Lately I found trashing my dad a whole lot of fun.

My father and I were out at Riverwood, an hour and a bit northeast of my normal stomping grounds of Jacaranda, Florida. These three hundred acres of jungle were my partners new passion in life.

I dont do country. For me Riverwood was only a place to stash my old man and spend an occasional weekend. And yet, to be honest, I seemed to be spending more and more of my free time hanging out at Riverwood with my dad, just sitting on the porch and having long conversations that went nowhere.

Clay Adams, my business partner and lover, seemed to treat Tullys stay at Riverwood as part of the normal course of events. Tully hadnt said he was moving to Clays ranch, certainly no one had asked him to; he just sort of went out there and hung around for longer and longer periods of time, moving more of his junk into a bunkhouse that had once housed hired men. The day his fish smoker arrived in the back of his rusted-out pickup, I knew Tully was there to stay.

And Tully wasnt my only family at Riverwood. Uncle Ziggy had moved in with Clay and me after a fire wiped out his home and left his face and hands badly scarred. Hed moved out to the ranch when he had stopped needing his dressings changed. The idea had been that he would stay at the ranch while he looked for a new place to live. It had become the longest property search known to man so long, I no longer asked how it was going.

Now Uncle Ziggy stepped through the door of the kitchen, letting the screen slam closed behind him. The polar opposite of my father, Uncle Ziggy is about six-foot-three and pushing up near three hundred pounds, a huge barrel of love and joy.

Mornin, sweet pea, he said.

Where you been, Uncle Zig?