He cleared his throat. "Jess, we really need to talk."
"No." She flung her hand up in a blocking gesture, tilting her head to the side away from him. "I don't want to talk about anything right now." She wouldn't look at him. "All I can think about is that poor girl."
"Well, we'll do it on your timetable. You've been gone for several years. Whenever you've come back to visit your dad, nobody let me know. But sooner or later you, your dad and I have to talk. I miss—"
Her face took on a stony, stubborn look that he knew well.
Let it drop.
He sighed. Giving himself a mental shake, he reminded himself she thought of him only as a family friend—and a married man.
So be it. I'm also a patient man. A very patient man. And Jess girl, I have something you are going to want.
Through the window, he glimpsed Jack coming from the barn, heading toward the house with something dangling from his jaws. The big tom had a purposeful stride, his belly wobbling a little side to side in time to his swishing tail.
"Okay then. Getting back to the business at hand, I want you to be careful out here by yourself. Lock your doors and windows. Keep a phone handy." He placed one of his business cards on the counter. "Here's my number."
"You don't think it could have anything to do with the missing Thomas Moran paintings, do you? Maybe that's what Amber was trying to tell me."
"Hmph. Get real. We already have a lead we're following. And nobody's going to kill someone over a couple of paintings."
"No? You'd better rethink that, Mr. Smarty Cop. Today they'd be worth, oh . . . upwards of ten or fifteen million. Each. I read that one of Thomas Moran's paintings of the Green River area of Wyoming sold for nearly eighteen million dollars in 2008. You may not appreciate art, but plenty of people do."
"You're yanking my chain. Eighteen million?" He laughed. "You were always lousy at math. You probably misread the amount and added a few zeros."
She glowered at him.
"Besides, I do like art. I appreciate it as much as the next guy." He bit his bottom lip. "Hey, I'm sorry I used to give you such a hard time about drawing every minute of the day when you were in school."
She ignored the comment. "Yeah sure, you're a connoisseur, all right. There's nothing quite as artistically pleasing as the tapestry of dogs playing poker you used to love. And I'll bet you still have it."
He felt the telltale flush creep up his neck.
"Thought so." Jessie smirked.
"K.D. likes it."
"Yeah. Little kids would," she said sarcastically. "Better wrap your mind around that art disappearance as a motive. You know, I've always been surprised nobody was still looking for those two missing paintings."
"Oh, Jess. Nobody around Sage Bluff today would have a clue about the value of a painting like that. Not a clue. My bet is on a hopped up ex-boyfriend." He walked to the door and glanced over his shoulder. "Don't forget. Call her folks."
"Tomorrow."
He started to push open the door, telling himself the first thing he'd do when he got home was pitch that tapestry. He turned back to Jessie.
"By the way, that window …," he cleared his throat, the words coming almost of their own volition. He flipped his hand toward the stained glass. "The window you made, Jess. It's—it's goddamn gorgeous." He stepped through the open door.
Jessie stood there, open-mouthed as Jack strolled proudly in, dropping the still live mouse on the welcome mat. The big tomcat squinted at her with a pleased expression. A small grey blur bolted for the narrow space under the kitchen range.
Chapter 8
O'Bourne's ranch, present day
Stars were scattered across the sky like confetti when Jessie finally gave up on sleep. She tossed the covers aside, got out of bed and padded barefoot down the stairs in her green silk pajamas. She looked at the kitchen clock, mentally computing the time difference between Sage Bluff and Honolulu. Grabbing her phone, took the slip of paper from under the magnet on the refrigerator, and punched in her father's number.
What a way to interrupt a honeymoon.
"Hey, Dad. Um, getting a good tan?"
"Having a ball, little girl. So, what's wrong? You sound funny. Tell me fast, we're heading to a luau. It's a fancy word for barbecue." He yelled something unintelligible to his wife, Marty, in the background, then came back on the line. "What?"
She tried to give him a shorthand version, but he interrupted every sentence to say, "Oh God, on MY property? That's just awful." Then to Marty he said, "Go get yourself one of those coconut drinks. This is going to take a while."
"Yes. And they hid her in your haystack. It was hideous."
"In my haystack—oh dear Lord."
"Yeah, sorry. This gets worse. Russell called after dinner to say your big bull-nose pliers, the one you use for fence repairs, was definitely the weapon." She heard muffled swearing. "Did you ever hear of Amber Reynolds?"
"Don't think so."
"She was coming here. I don't mean to Sage Bluff. I mean here, to the house!"
"What the—?"
She bit her lip and closed her eyes.
"Yeah. I know, Daddy. It's all awful. There was a message on the answering machine from her saying she wanted to stop by, but the beeper was turned off and I didn't hear it until tonight."
"Lord have mercy. What an awful thing."
Again, she heard him yell to Marty.
"I'm telling you, honeypot, go down to the bar and get yourself a piñata colada or something, I'll be down in a few minutes."
Muffled tones came through the earpiece, then, "I don't care what they're called. I need to talk to Jessie, so I might be a few minutes late. Go enjoy yourself with the tour group. For god's sake, don't let them leave without my fat behind sitting in the bus. Try to get one of those bench seats in the back."
"So?" Jessie prompted.
"No, honey. I didn't know her, but you'd better go check the mail on my desk. There's a letter there you'll want to share with Russell. It's from an FBI agent."
"What? You're kidding, right?"
"No, it's the doggondest story. It seems the FBI has an art theft Office. The Thomas Moran paintings that disappeared years ago . . . well, there's an agent following a new lead."
"I know the old story, Dad. What about the FBI fellow?"
"Someone called Christie's auction house and described the little painting Moran had given Kate Morgan, asking if they could list it on consignment. It's been on a list of stolen Moran work ever since it disappeared, and the employee at Christie's was well aware of that. Sounds like all of the auction houses have a list of "hot" art—full descriptions, the whole shebang."
"Did they find the person trying to sell it?" She paced back and forth holding the phone to her ear, wishing she'd put on her slippers. The tile floor felt like ice on her bare feet.
"No. The guy was calling from a disposable phone. They couldn't track the number. And something spooked him and he hung up."
"Wow. How did you find all this out?"
"I talked to the FBI agent." He paused. "If the girl did say Thomas Moran, then Russell is on the wrong trail. You'd better call that FBI fellow and tell him about this girl. And tell Russell again to check the Moran angle."
Jessie groaned. "Like I can get him to listen about anything."
"I know you and Russell don't get along, but you used to be as close as brother and sister. He's a good guy." He cleared his throat. "I know you're mad that he married Kevin's girl. And there's something—"
"Don't get me talking about him, Dad," she interrupted. You'll never get to your luau."
"Yeah, yeah. Methinks you doth protest too much."
She ignored him. "But what if the girl was afraid of the police for a good reason? What if it was a cop who hit her? If the FBI wrote to you, they may have touched base with the Sheriff's Department in town, too."
"But that would have nothing to do with the girl. Where would she fit in?"
"No idea. When
I talked with Russell this afternoon he said they have a lead. Something about a druggy boyfriend. I don't know if the girl had any drugs in her system, or in her bags, but he wouldn't tell me if there was. He'd probably say 'police business' if I asked."
"But—"
"I'll tell him about the letter from the FBI, but he already thinks I have a screw loose. And if it really was a cop who murdered that girl, what if he shares my info with the wrong guy?"
"Hmmm. I don't know. I just can't imagine any of the police . . . ." His voice trailed off.
"Dad," she said hesitantly. "I've always wondered. Several friends from school told me Kevin and Russ had a huge fight the day he died. Did you know that? Do you think Russ was involved somehow in Kevin's—um— accident? Dad, what if Russ is the cop the girl was afraid of?
A belly laugh erupted into the phone. "Honey, if you think Russell is the guy, you do have a screw loose. No way. There is no way in hell he would hurt anyone. And no damn way he'd use one of my tools to do it. Hahahah. And not on our property." He sighed. "I don't care if Russell's old man was a louse, the kid is not his old man. He loves our family."
"But—"
"Aw cripes, I'm not going to argue with you about it on the phone."
"Sorry, Dad. I'm just worried. There aren't that many cops in Sage Bluff and—"
"Just be careful. If someone hurt this college student—on our property, damn it—because they thought she knew something about the missing Moran paintings, they must know she was coming to see you. Sweetie, you might not be safe there at the ranch all by your lonesome."
"Don't worry. I'll be fine," she said reassuringly.
"Hope so, honey. You know, it always seemed like one of those wild treasure hunt stories. Buried gold. Missing jewels. But those paintings would be worth a lot of money. Enough for some jackass to kill for." He cleared his throat. "I think I'd better grab a plane ticket and come home."
"Oh no you don't! I wouldn't be safe from Marty if I ruined your honeymoon. No. Absolutely not."
"Hmph. I'm getting homesick, anyhow. The trees are weird here and there's too damn much water." She heard a crash and then, "No, I did NOT say I was sick of the honeymoon! No, I'm not putting off the luau trip. I'm coming."
"I'm sorry I upset you," Jessie said, trying not to chuckle. "I'll call Russell tomorrow. Go to your luau. Eat some roast pork. Watch some hula dancers. Go—"
"You do that. I gotta go."
Click.
She sat on the kitchen stool with the dead phone in her hand, twirling a long strand of red hair around and around her finger. Something was bothering her. Just out of reach. Then she had it, and her stomach clenched. She really hadn't noticed there was a message. The answering machine only turned off the beeper if someone had already played the message.
It was nearly 10:45, too late to call Russell. She went to the window and looked out. She considered going out to the studio over the barn to get some painting done, but she was just too keyed up, too worried. Her eyes found the Big Dipper in the inky blackness, the constellation surrounded by stars as numerous as salt poured from a shaker. She latched the window, then moved on, locking and checking each of the others in turn.
After flipping on the porch light, she went down to the basement to secure the windows and visit her father's Browning gun vault. It was a black steel monster as tall as she was, adorned with a picture of an eagle and American flag. Her fingers spun the combination lock, and she opened the heavy door and lifted out a Remington pump-action shotgun and a handful of shells.
When she was in high school, she used to shoot it at the local range. She didn't much like the noise, but her dad pushed hearing protection headphones at her and told her it was something important to learn. She smiled. She could almost hear his gruff voice saying, "Since we're going to have them in the house, everyone in the family should be competent with every single model. Don't give me that 'But Daddy, I'm a girl' crap."
Up in the guest room, she propped the shotgun in the corner nearest the bed, put the shells in the nightstand and locked the bedroom door. She crawled back under the covers and made a mental list: do some target shooting to get back up to speed, phone the FBI fellow, call the folks down in Denver.
And call Russell to tell him someone must have been in the house and had listened to the answering machine message.
Chapter 9
Rural Montana, April 1918
Thomas Moran, a bent reed of a man, stood on the hill, thumbs and gnarled index fingers touching to form a rectangle. He peered through this makeshift picture frame at the picturesque scene below. A smile creased his grey beard. Then he mounted and nudged his horse downhill toward St. Benedict's Mission schoolyard. Behind his patient chestnut gelding plodded two pack animals with panniers holding well-organized art supplies, finished paintings, a ragbag of foodstuffs and several water canteens, most a half sip from empty.
In Thomas's mind, a painting was already in progress, with color brushing onto the mental canvas in bold strokes to shape the dilapidated school, the two rustic cabins, and the tangle of Blackfoot Indian children playing tag nearby. A scattering of colorful chickens were quick swipes of a loaded brush. Beyond the drab buildings, the Yellowstone River flowed, blue and rough, its banks lined with blood-red willow and the contrasting mustard green of budding cottonwood trees. Waving his hand in the air, he filled in swatches of color only he could see.
"I think I'll title it Spring on the Yellowstone. Not real imaginative, but accurate."
Thomas, sitting on a plump pillow strapped to the saddle to cushion his thin bones, continued on, lost in thought. He was unperturbed by excited yells and giggles erupting from the irrepressible small brown bodies who now swarmed like bees toward his pack train as he entered the schoolyard.
The artist's imaginary painting was interrupted when a scowling, black-robed figure emerged from the doorway of the schoolhouse. A sour-faced nun stood watching him. She shooed the children away and gestured to the left toward the water pump and hitching post near the building. It was hospitable to let a stranger drink at the well before pleasantries or business—anyone riding in would be coming from a distance. Thomas gave her a quick wave and tipped his hat. He guided his horses to the pump area and climbed, saddle-sore and weary, from his high perch.
Yep, the old bones are getting arthritic.
A redheaded girl of nine or ten, her hair in disheveled braids, sat cross-legged on the ground, not looking up as he pumped a dipperful of water for himself, drank, filled a canteen, and drew a bucket for each horse. He looped their reins over the hitching post and walked over to the girl. She was drawing in the dust at her feet with a twig, the tip of her small pink tongue smothering her upper lip as she concentrated.
"What are you working at, sprout?" he asked, peering over her shoulder at the drawing scratched into the hard soil. Several other sticks and twigs of various thicknesses were scattered on the ground around her feet. Remarkable—a makeshift sketching set—working with dirt instead of paper, and still getting a better drawing than most adults.
She jumped up, startled, and stood to face him, smoothing her threadbare calico dress with grimy hands. The pale fabric hung baggy and wrinkled on her small frame, the name 'O'Bourne' embroidered over her heart.
"Good gravy, mister, you liked to scare the bejeezus right outta me!" she yelped. She smiled wide. "I don't hear nothin' when I'm drawin'. I'm making a picture of them hills over yonder." The girl pointed toward buttes in the distance. She surveyed her handiwork with a solemn expression. "Wish I had colors." She tugged thoughtfully on one braid, then looked apprehensively around and saw the nun steaming toward them. Her little foot darted out and obliterated the detailed landscape.
The youngster focused on the approaching woman with a shimmer of fear in her blue eyes. Involuntarily, her small hand flew to her cheek and touched the shadow of a bruise on the delicate skin. Her face paled, the freckles peppered across her cheeks lending the only hint of color. Then Thomas sa
w her straighten her back, lift her chin, and all emotion vanished from her expression.
"Kate! What have I told you about such language? You rinse your filthy hands at the pump and get right in there and work on your reading. Maybe extra work will teach you to use better manners. The good Lord knows you need to find something more practical to do with your hands. Always drawing lines in the dirt—it's disgusting. Now git!"
Kate stiffened and turned to the pump, grabbed the pump handle and hung her weight on it to pull it down, drawing several gushes of water. On the ground under the spigot, a metal tub was placed to catch the flow. Kate squatted and swished her hands in the cold water, then yanked her hands out, wiped her fingers on her dress and sprinted toward the school.
The nun glared after the running child, then swiveled an acne-blanketed face toward Thomas. Her eyes were the pale green of spring moss—almost startling, he noticed with interest. They'd be beautiful, Thomas thought, if she didn't have the expression of a rabid badger. His mind went immediately to what colors he'd need to mix to get that shade of luminous green. Thomas gave himself a mental shake when he realized the nun was speaking to him.
"Sorry, mister—that one has her head in the clouds. She's more work than the rest of the students put together. I'm the teacher here. . . Sister Mary Campbell. What can I do for you?"
"Name's Thomas Moran, Sister Campbell." Thomas removed his hat. "I'm traveling through Montana to do some painting." He turned his head and watched the small figure run to the schoolhouse and disappear, braids bouncing, through the door. The artist stroked his chin thoughtfully and scratched his head. "I had some business with the priest, partly concerning that little gal. Leastwise, I imagine that was Katherine O'Bourne—heard you call her Kate, and that flaming red hair runs in the family. I'm afraid I got here several days before Father Michael expected me. Is he here?"
"No. Sorry. Father Michael is away hunting for funds to pay for the new building the church hopes to build near Sage Bluff." She bowed her head slightly. "I pray for his success every day, Mr. Moran. However, I'm filling in. I'm stuck here until he returns, and I expected him to be more reliable. He's way overdue."
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