DEATH on CANVAS
by
Mary Ann Cherry
DEDICATION
This novel is dedicated first and foremost to my husband, family and friends with buckets of love as well as gratitude for the continual support and editing. What would my world be like without such special people?
I would also like to dedicate this book to the Women Artists of the West. The organization is formed of fine professional women artists I am proud to know, and that I feel privileged to be associated with. You're the best, ladies!
Thanks go to the Blue Sage Writers of Idaho for the much-needed critiques and the encouragement needed to move away from the easel for a spell and write.
DISCLAIMER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or living persons is entirely coincidental.
Although events in this novel are fictitious, Thomas Moran, was an actual person, an artist and printmaker of the Hudson River School. Moran's work often featured the Rocky Mountains. He was held in high regard, and his paintings portraying Yellowstone Park influenced the decision to designate the Yellowstone area a national park in 1872.
Copyright © 2015 by Mary Ann Cherry
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or copied in any manner without the express permission of the author.
Red-headed woman cover image courtesy of Wikipedia attributed to: by dusdin on flickr, cropped by Gridge ([:Image:Woman redhead natural portrait.jpg9]) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
DEATH ON CANVAS
Chapter 1
Rural Montana, 1918
John Running Bear swatted at a mosquito near his ear as he sat bolt upright on the rickety cot in the boys' cabin at St. Benedict's Mission School. Annoyance, rather than the bug, kept him from sleeping. Why had Sister Mary sent them all to bed so early? He was too old to go to bed like some baby. Maybe he could go check the schoolhouse for something to eat. Sister often had bread left over at the end of the day, and his stomach felt empty as a water bucket on a dry day. He swung his legs out of the whisper thin blankets and sat on the edge of his cot, slipping on his moccasins. Then he cocked his head, listening. He heard raised voices coming from the nearby cabin that served as the school. One was Sister Mary's. She sounded mad as a squawking hen with a fox after her chicks. So angry. So out of control. What was going on?
Curious, he left the cabin and crept stealthily the short distance to the school to eavesdrop below the window. The other voice was that of the visitor, the woman who told them Father Michael sent her to help out until he came back from his trip—a trip made to search for funding for St. Benedict's proposed new building. Now, the woman was fairly spitting words—words low and sharp as the edge of an ax. Something about money. Whose money, he wondered.
Sister Mary's angry retort ended mid-sentence with the sound of a heavy thump. John froze. He didn't like the scary sound of that solid "thwack". The silence that followed seemed ominous. Holding his breath, he raised his head to peer into the window and by the low light of the kerosene lamp saw Sister Mary on the floor. Her head was bent at an unnatural angle and she wasn't moving. He gasped. No, no, no. Heavy footsteps came toward the window. Stifling a sob, John turned and, avoiding the direct path behind the schoolhouse with its lit windows, he ran to the nearest shelter, the outhouse. He flattened himself against the side of the building, its ripe stink filling his nostrils. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn't brush them away.
It wasn't yet full dark. The merest sliver of moon cast light over the treacherous Yellowstone River that ran swiftly past at the edge of the schoolyard, turning the flow to a metallic band of pewter. The silhouettes of trees stood against the deepening sky. If the woman had heard him and was searching, there was enough visibility for her to see John outlined against the outhouse wall. Cautiously, he slid to a prone position, ignoring the bites of mosquitos that homed in on his face and neck and the scratches from fireweed stems growing behind the outhouse. Horror and fear wrapped around him with the heaviness of a damp woolen blanket. He strained to listen.
Nothing. Wait. Just wait.
Lying on the ground as he did when stalking game with his father, John closed his eyes, letting them become better accustomed to the darkening night.
Later, when he began to tremble from the effort of remaining still, he heard the schoolhouse door open, and a sound came like that made by a deer carcass dragged across bumpy ground. John peered around the corner of the small building. Toward the band of silver river, he spied the heavy, squat woman pulling something large and pale, grunting with the effort. Sister Mary. Wincing, he realized she was in only her undergarments, and in sick dread, John watched the woman roll her into the water. Then she stood straight, rubbing her palms together as though at a job well done
As she began to turn, John's small heart froze, his mind racing as he again flattened his length against the earth. What to do? There were no options but to lie still as stone.
"Cover me with darkness, Great Spirit," John whispered inwardly. "Hide me with the fog that hangs over the Yellowstone on spring mornings."
Passing within yards of him, the woman trudged to Sister Mary's cabin instead of back to the schoolhouse. As soon as she closed the door, John ran to the river.
Too late. Too late. Too late.
There was nothing but the metallic gleam of the swift current. She was gone. The Yellowstone had taken her.
He stood and watched the door of the cabin until clouds rolled in, covering the moon. The killer hadn't once looked in John's direction. He was safe.
But what about tomorrow? Would this woman kill them all? The little ones in the girls' and boys' boarding cabins?
He had to think. John worked his way to the copse of cottonwood, letting the trees surround him. Yes, he could think better here than in the man-made building. Think. What should he do? If only he could speak to his father, but his parents lived a day's horse ride from the school. He cursed his slight stature. He couldn't fight the killer. An eleven-year old boy against the big woman? She was tall, and she was wide. An ax handle across, he thought. It was impossible.
Blending into the irregular shadows of the cottonwood trees, John Running Bear crouched motionless in the engulfing night. A slight whimper escaped from his throat, making him wince and clap a hand over his mouth. Closing his eyes, he stilled his ragged breathing, willing himself to be brave. His thin shoulders sagged, the weight of responsibility bearing down like a physical presence. As the oldest student at the school, he'd have to protect the others. Even if John could walk to his parent's home on the reservation, there were no horses for the smaller children. They couldn't go that far on foot. Without food. And without clean water. He pulled angrily at his thick hair. No, he'd have to protect them somehow. And not only the Indian children, but the little Irish girl with flaming hair. Her father had brought her to school only a week before. Kate. Her name was Kate. He snorted. Being the only white child at the school, she'd taken a lot of teasing the past week. She took it without tears. Kate was tough, but tiny as a tick. No, it came down to him, John Running Bear.
Maybe the murdering woman would be gone in the morning. He hoped she'd disappear like smoke from a campfire. He yanked again at his hair, twisting it around his finger and pulling hard. If she was still there, he could no longer be a child. John grimaced. He was skinny. Young. Not big like the bear, and not yet skilled enough to fight like the smaller, quicker, wolverine. He'd once seen a determined wolverine run off a much larger bear. Vicious. Hmmm. He considered the animals he knew well. The answer came. He stood. The fox
. The fox protected its den. But it was careful. Sly.
Small and young though he was, he was the son of a warrior. No. It is not enough to be the son of a warrior. I must be a warrior. Cunning. Strong.
While he hid and planned, the sky darkened to ink. The trees trembled in a light breeze and the stars twinkled, acknowledging his presence. John crossed his arms across his chest, wrist over wrist, fingers splayed wide like the claws of a great beast. Tears streamed from his eyes, but his heart swelled. A chill ran through his body as he whispered to the Great Spirit.
"Hear me, Great One," he whispered, tipping his head back.
With his eyes raised to the sky, he bared his teeth. He lifted his arms high over his head.
"I am John Running Bear. I am a warrior."
The next morning, John woke each child and told them to let him be the first to go to the schoolhouse, telling them, "Sister Mary left in the night. I'm not sure what happened. Don't worry. I'll go look, and I will wave to you from the school door if it is safe to come in."
His moccasin clad feet did not want to take him to the school cabin. They slowed and shuffled as if of their own accord. Finally, John reached the door and peered in. There the woman stood. She was dressed in the nun's stark black robe, leaning against the big oak desk, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands.
"Come in. Come in," she said, gesturing with her free hand. "I don't bite. Sister Mary had a family emergency. It was lucky I was here to teach you young'uns until Father Michael gets back." She smiled broadly. "Don't worry. You're safe with me."
Safe. John stood like a block of wood for nearly a minute. The word reminded him of the game of softball Sister Mary had been teaching them to play—the run and slide across the dusty square she'd called home base, her laugh when John let the little ones catch him and put him 'out'. Mixed with a sense of horror, was heartache. Sister Mary wasn't 'safe'. And she wouldn't be playing any more ball.
Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard. Then John gave himself a mental shake. Recalling the red fox he'd seen protecting its den near the reservation, he felt courage and cunning seep into him. He thought again of his plea to the Great Spirit. So that's how it's going to be. Straightening his spine, John Running Bear drew himself up to his full height. He smiled back at the woman, his grin not reaching his eyes. I am a warrior, he thought.
He stepped back through the doorway and waved the other children in.
Chapter 2
Sage Bluff, Montana, present day
Jessie O'Bourne pulled onto the shoulder of the country road, parked her battered pickup and gave the door a vicious shove to pop it open. The scent of alfalfa dredged up childhood memories. She yawned, then sat spellbound in the driver's seat, gazing out over the hayfield, the scene morphing to molten gold as daybreak spilled over the horizon. Wow—great glow around Dad's haystack. If I can't make a dramatic painting with that backlighting I should have just hit the snooze button.
She pulled out a block of sticky notes and a fine-point marker from the glove box. Peering through the windshield, she drew several thumbnail sketches of the scattering of new bales drying in the field, the massive stack of hay bales, and the windbreak of silver-leafed Russian olive trees silhouetted against the blushing sky. As she finished each tiny, two-minute sketch, she peeled it from the pad and stuck it on the dash, evaluating the new one against the previous drawing.
A low feline rumble filled the cab, emanating from the enormous orange tomcat stretched out on the Navajo patterned horse blanket covering the seat. Jessie reached over to rub his wide head and scratch behind his battle-scarred ears.
"Quit grumbling, Jack. I need several more landscapes for my display." She'd dropped paintings at several galleries during the trip from New Mexico to her dad's Montana ranch, so her inventory was low. As the judge for the upcoming painting competition, she was expected to exhibit at least a dozen of her own landscapes.
"I'll get a small one done this morning—then it's home for a decent breakfast." She yawned again as she rubbed little circles on her forehead with her fingertips. "Coffee first, though. Then I'll hit the easel."
She stepped out, reached behind the seat, and pulled out a thermos, travel mug, and a cake donut wrapped in a napkin. She broke off a nugget of the pastry and reached back inside the cab to wave it back and forth like a conductor's wand in front of Jack. His slanted yellow eyes followed the movement. His tail twitched in anticipation; a paw full of claws swiped at the morsel.
Jessie grinned and tossed it to the cantankerous cat, who snatched it in mid-air and leapt from the truck, prize held between sharp teeth. She chuckled.
While Jack munched with enthusiasm, she poured dark coffee into her travel mug and gulped a few scalding swallows, then set the mug on the hood of the beat-up red Ford with a thump. Humming to herself, she slipped on a red artist's apron, gathered her mass of auburn hair into a ponytail and pulled it through the adjustment loop of a denim ball cap gussied up with an embroidered tractor and logo 'Let's Ride – Get 'em at Yonky's Farm Supply'. From the truck bed, she grabbed a lightweight easel and set it up on the shoulder of the gravel road. The tailgate made a makeshift table for her fisherman's tackle box crammed full of painting supplies.
Jack gave the long grass by the edge of the field a predatory sniff while Jessie squeezed creamy globs of pigment onto her palette and mixed colors with a palette knife. She centered a canvas on the easel and the painting began in earnest, her brush dancing a ballet of bold strokes. A rich landscape depicting the ochre haystack and rectangles of hay littering the field rapidly materialized, the sky beginning with deep ultramarine blue at the top and feathering down to cool cerulean at the horizon line.
She glanced up. The clear sky threatened to make a liar out of Koot Lundgren, the weatherman. Old Koot, as he was affectionately called by his followers, said it was going to rain. Seems like he's right only half the time.
Jack returned to flop down under Jessie's easel, emitting guttural complaints. He narrowed his eyes with disapproval and drummed his tail in an impatient rhythm on the toe of Jessie's leather boot. She walked over, reached into the cab of the truck, and snagged another nugget of donut. But with her mind still on her canvas, she absent-mindedly put it into her apron pocket instead of dropping it to the tomcat.
"That'll hold you for a while. Not much longer 'til breakfast," she murmured to a grumbling Jack. She stepped back to the easel and worked her brush with furious speed. "Gotta catch the light."
She noticed a patch of turquoise near the side of the haystack.
Nice. A perfect little color note.
She mixed a daub of paint to match the turquoise splotch and flicked one brushstroke onto her canvas. On the bottom corner of the canvas she signed—J. O'Bourne, scribbled the location, time of day, and added the title, "Morning Light, O'Bourne's Field" in a small notebook.
She gazed up at the brightening sky, standing motionless for several minutes to admire a bald eagle soaring high above the fence line, hunting breakfast. Jack spied it as well and darted under the pickup. He turned to peer out, his reptilian yellow eyes glinting from the shadows. Jessie ducked at the waist and reached under the Ford to tickle his chin.
"Smart boy," she said, grinning. "No sense being eagle bait." She stowed her supplies in the truck and slipped the completed landscape into a storage box she used to carry wet paintings. Later, she'd work the bristles of her brushes with a special cleaner and use a little walnut oil to reshape the bristles.
She dumped the last drops of now tepid coffee on the ground before dropping the metal mug behind the seat. Her stomach growled a request for bacon and eggs, but she glanced with resignation over her shoulder toward her father's haystack.
The brilliant daub of turquoise. A neat touch for the painting, but damn it, litter was litter. Why are people such slobs?
She slammed the pickup door, strode to the barbed wire fence to shimmy under and trudge toward the trash to pick it up. Looking back, Jessie called the c
at. Jack emerged from hiding, and scurried to catch up. He ambled next to her across the rutted field, stopping every few yards to tilt his nose upward and sniff the air.
As they drew closer to the stack, the tomcat moved closer to Jessie, slowed and stiffened. High above them, a wail erupted into the air, growing into a crescendo of agonized fear. Jack crouched low next to Jessie's foot, listening, claws extended. She sheltered her eyes from the sun with the side of her hand and searched the closest line of trees. The eagle had seized opportunity—and its morning meal. Her gaze followed the rhythmic sweep of muscular wings as the bird lifted and flew, a rabbit dangling from sharp talons. The keening dropped to a whisper and grew silent.
Poor bunny. But the eagle has to eat, too, I guess.
She stroked Jack's head as she glanced back down the field. Near the haystack, she set Jack down and zeroed in on the dab of turquoise. It was a running shoe edged with reflective tape. Too weird. One shoe? A narrow tire track curved around the edge of the stack. Motorcycle. Probably some teenagers had a party or a make-out session. Crap. I'll bet they left a bunch of trash.
Jessie followed the track around the corner of the haystack. Instead of the expected rubbish, an expensive looking, red and black motorcycle lay in the dirt. Eyes wide, she circled the bike, noticing a well-worn black touring bag and a daypack with a Harley-Davidson logo mounted over the fender. Past the cycle, several bales had been removed from the stack and scattered around. Jack crouched on a short pile of bales, staring intently down.
"Watcha got, big guy? Some poor mouse?"
Jack snaked a paw into the crevice between two 90 pound bales and yowled in the guttural tone he reserved for slithery prey.
"Ugh, that better not be a rattlesnake" She waved her hand at him. "Get down, Jack."
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