1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Her brush flicked.

  "Anyway, she said I wasn't clean, and I said, 'Least if I had on someone else's clothes I'd take care of 'em'." Kate wiped her brush on a rag. "That's when she got mad. Mean old bat."

  "Why didn't you mention this before?"

  "Never thought of it 'til I started paintin' ornery, old Big Bud. He's as wicked as she is. Guess it reminded me."

  "Hmmm," Thomas mumbled thoughtfully.

  I'd like to pitch that woman in the Yellowstone. Feed the catfish. But I'm betting if I interfere, it'll be harder on Kate after I leave.

  He took a deep, slow breath. "Well, don't worry your head over it. Stay out of her way. Let Father Michael sort it out when he comes back. Sounds right up his alley."

  He picked up a brush and made several strokes on her canvas.

  "Fix this part here. Your brush strokes should be made in the direction the feathers grow."

  While his small charge concentrated on bringing life to the meanest chicken in the schoolyard, he resumed his packing, methodically stashing brushes and the paint Kate was through using in special compartments of his panniers. But his mind was on the little girl.

  Heck, I never even liked kids much. Sure like this little bugger. . . hate to leave. Might send a telegram from Great Falls, tell Jim to come and get her as soon as he can. Something is wrong here, and why in heck does that older boy, John Running Bear, keep giving me the fish eye?

  "We've got to have a talk, little miss." The light was beginning to fade. "You clean up now; then we'll discuss a few things."

  Kate hummed to herself, while cleaning her brushes in a bit of turpentine and blotting the bristles on a soft cloth. Then, in the way Moran had instructed, she dipped the brushes in a container of walnut oil and reshaped the bristles so they would dry with a good point.

  He went to the tent and withdrew his packet of sketches and dry paintings done on sturdy linen canvas. He could roll the dry paintings, but instead he always packed them flat. He placed them between two sheets of thin wood and wrapped the final package in a blanket. Then he stored them in a specially constructed pannier so no weight rested on them.

  "Hate to head out tomorrow, Kate, but I have to. People are counting on me to deliver some work." He frowned. "I'm not good at sugary goodbyes, but I have something for you."

  Thomas opened the packet of artwork. He shuffled through the sketches and took out a small drawing of several mule deer.

  "This is for you. It'll fit in your suitcase. Keep it there until your dad picks you up." He withdrew a pencil from behind his ear and at the bottom right of the drawing he scrawled, "To Kate, my student and friend, Affectionately, T.Y. Moran". He captured her gaze. "I'll pack it for you." He put a finger to his lips. "Remember, 'til your daddy comes, this gift is a secret—like the notebook. Keep it mum, sprout."

  Thomas sat down heavily on a fallen log and searched through the rest of his work, Kate peering over his shoulder like a horse expecting oats. His sketches of Kate and the Blackfoot children filled a leather folder. He withdrew the drawings and had his protégé identify each child by name. He wrote the name lightly in pencil before signing each sketch and adding it to the pile of drawings.

  Another packet of work contained oil paintings that had completely dried. He chose three and set them aside. Then he rose, tucked the sketches back into their leather folder, wrapped the remainder of the small oil studies and with utmost care packed everything into his saddlebags.

  He looked at the three pieces he'd left out. One was a miniscule sketch of Kate looking over her shoulder at the far off hills across the Yellowstone. Jim Morgan would like this one. He inscribed it, "Kate, St. Benedict's, May 1918, T. Y. Moran". He slipped it, along with the mule deer study, between two pieces of thin alder wood, wrapped a piece of twine around it as if readying the package for travel and handed her the packet.

  "Give the sketch of you to your poppa."

  He couldn't meet her eyes.

  "Do some drawing every day. And remember, when your daddy moves, send me a letter—maybe send a drawing now and then, too, okay? When I get the address, I'll mail you a painting kit. Now, sprout, I need you to promise you'll do something for me. You big enough to keep a promise?"

  She nodded solemnly, her eyes wide.

  "When Father Michael comes back, tell him straight away that I left two paintings with Sister Mary Campbell, as a gift for him to sell if and when he needs money for the new school. I'll write him a letter telling him how to go about the sale. Wouldn't want that ornery Sister to forget to give 'em to him or anything, right?"

  He cleared his throat. It seemed very tight for some reason.

  "They're too big to leave with you, or I would. I'll give 'em to the nun before I go. Now, you'd better hightail it back to your bunkhouse." He glanced over at the schoolyard. "Good time to go, because I see Sister Campbell is busy with some company. It seems that sorrel mare's been tied at the hitching post quite nearly every day lately."

  Kate nodded again and gulped. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye and drizzled a trail down her freckled face. She ran to him and hugged him hard. Then she picked up the two sketches and her notebook, pulled them tight against her chest, turned without a word and trudged toward the bunkhouse. Halfway there she began to run. She ran in a jerky motion, her red head glowing like a lit match bobbing along the path.

  The next morning, Thomas walked his loaded horses to the school. From one of the packs he withdrew a thin parcel tied with twine. The package contained one sunlit canvas depicting the Missouri River Breaks and a larger painting of the banks of the Yellowstone River near Billings, a scene blushing with pink wild roses blooming against a backdrop of sandstone cliff.

  Someone will need to put them back on stretcher bars and frame them. But, I reckon they'll bring around twenty, maybe thirty thousand—enough to do some good. Don't think I'll mention that sum to the nun.

  He carried the package to the school and beckoned Sister Campbell to the open doorway. "I'd like to leave you a couple paintings for the priest, Sister. When Father Michael returns, tell him they're a little gift from his old friend, Thomas. Got them all wrapped up here. I'm afraid they aren't worth much except in sentimental value," he lied.

  "Well, bless you, Mr. Moran, how kind. Yes, how kind," she repeated, accepting the package. "Of course I'll tell him. I'm sure he'll be pleased to have them." Her tone was dry, her green-eyed expression skeptical.

  Thomas grimaced. Hope Father Michael comes back soon. He turned to peer over his shoulder, throwing a wave to a small figure in a faded calico dress.

  "See you, sprout." He urged his horse forward.

  Be safe, little one.

  As the sound of Moran's walking horses faded, Sister Mary Campbell stopped at the trash barrel and tossed the two paintings by the master artist inside. Kate watched in horror.

  Behind the nun stood her friend, John Running Bear. He looked at Kate, inclined his head toward the barrel and closed one eye in a slow wink.

  Two minutes later, the schoolyard filled with the grunts and yells of two scuffling young boys, mingled with raucous squawks as chickens scattered across the grounds. A varicolored rooster flew out of the melee. Landing, he strutted away without haste. Kate got a glimpse of John Running Bear ducking swiftly behind the school.

  "I saw you, you little heathen!" Sister Mary Campbell yelled after the retreating form, then barreled past Kate on her way to gleefully administer a bit of prairie discipline,

  As the nun rounded the corner of the cabin, Kate rushed to the barrel, snatched the packet and ran toward the dormitories.

  "Hiding spot, hiding spot, hiding spot," she repeated, her breath coming in distressed gasps. In a panic, she burst into the first sparse room and looked around.

  Chapter 12

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  The barn door slid open with a swish. Jessie backed her Greyhawk motorhome out through the double doors, and drove over to park near the front door of the log
house. She went back to closed the barn and grab Jack from where he sat mesmerized near a mouse hole in the hollyhock patch. He hung limp and heavy as a sack of wet laundry, rumbling and complaining, until she got into the motorhome and put the big tom on the floor of the diminutive bedroom. He leaped to the middle of the bed and settled in, sniffing a catnip filled cloth mouse he'd left in a bedraggled state on the bedspread the week before.

  "You like to travel and you know it, you old grump." Jessie told him.

  She pulled the door closed. The Greyhawk was usually packed, loaded with enough art supplies, clothes and non-perishables to take off on a whim, even for a week-long jaunt. However, the last trip she'd taken had been a long looping drive from Santa Fe to California to deliver paintings to galleries, then to Sage Bluff to house sit. Peering into the refrigerator, she took inventory. Need a few things from the house and a gas stop on the way out of town.

  She hurried to the house and raided the fridge, grabbing milk, lunch meat and a dozen eggs. Then she transferred them to the motorhome's tiny refrigerator. Remembering the shotgun upstairs, she ran up to the bedroom, grabbed the shotgun and shells, and locked both in the Browning gun vault. It was a family rule–never leave a gun out if you were going on a trip.

  Looking into the open safe, she thought about the long stretches of empty road through Wyoming. She reached in and took the 9mm ammo and an extra magazine for the pistol she kept in the Hawk. Painting on location sometimes meant 'middle of nowhere'. The pistol was a constant companion when she traveled.

  The phone rang, but by the time she reached the top step, she'd decided to let the answering machine pick up the call.

  A husky voice came from the machine.

  "Mr. O'Bourne, this is Grant Kennedy from the FBI art theft division again. I'll be in town Monday and would like to visit with you. Please call me back at this number to set up an appointment."

  Jessie jotted down the number, then picked up the phone, but instead of taking time to call Kennedy back, she dialed the Sheriff's Department. A syrupy female voice answered.

  "Sage Bluff Sheriff's Office. Blanche speaking."

  "Hi, Blanche. This is Jessie O'Bourne. Is Russell in?"

  "You just missed him."

  "Darn. Please tell him I'm going to Denver. I'm anxious to get on the road and don't want to wait around until I can get hold of him. I hope to be home Sunday evening at the latest."

  "Are you flying?"

  Jessie laughed. "No, I'm driving, but you still might call it a flying trip, all right."

  As the gas poured into the cavernous motorhome tank, Jessie unfolded her map. She always planned her trip routes to give her the best opportunities for interesting painting. It made sense to drive to Denver using the quickest possible route, but on the leg home, she wanted a few hours to paint on location. Her finger traced the interstate on the map. Billings, then south through Casper and Cheyenne—an almost straight shot to Denver—looked like a given for the trip down. Coming back, she'd angle over through Yellowstone Park. Just the thought of the photo and painting opportunities made her smile. She replaced the gas cap and grimaced at the total she read on the pump. Her next credit card bill was going to read like the national debt.

  Back inside the big Greyhawk, she stowed the map and looked in the cabinet to make sure she'd packed her digital camera. She checked the Nikon battery and then the spare. Good to go and ready for the open road, except for picking up some extra snacks. She pulled away from the pump, drove the motorhome to the side of the convenience store and parked.

  In the "Get and Go Gas", she bought a cup of coffee and a couple croissants. As she backed out of the door, pushing it open with her hip, she bumped into Arvid Abrahmsen going in.

  "Just the Norwegian I wanted to see, Arvid. How would you like to get treated to lunch in a couple of days?"

  "Hmm. Sounds like a bribe to me." He propped open the door open for her. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And if you watch TV, you must know small town cops are easily bribed. That lunch include pie?"

  With a smile, she nodded. "In fact, do you have a few minutes now?"

  "Sure, I was just going to grab a coffee."

  "Go get your caffeine fix and come on over." She pointed to the Greyhawk. "That's my motorhome there. I'm about ready to hit the road, but I want to tell you about it before I go."

  "Whooo-ee." Arvid's eyes gleamed when he saw the Jayco Greyhawk. "Mama, I want one of those."

  She laughed. "I'd be glad to give you the ten-second tour."

  When Arvid pushed open the Greyhawk door a few minutes later, Jack was in his carrier. He reminded them of that fact every few minutes with a plaintive yargle ending in a squinty-eyed high soprano. Jessie knew from experience that once she let him out and they got under way he'd be a fine traveler, but she didn't want to chance his getting loose in traffic while she showed off her home away from home.

  Arvid set three chocolate covered donuts and a mega go cup of Colombian coffee on her small kitchen counter and grinned. He looked around at the rich cherry cupboards, the comfortable driver and passenger seats. A small overstuffed sofa and swivel chair covered in a subtle, autumn leaf pattern and a tiny table was the extent of the living room furniture, but it had a flat screen television, microwave, stove and all the storage cubby holes to make life easy for someone who wanted to get away from town, yet drag a little civilization along.

  "Wow. This is just what I need for my fishing trips. Then that elegant wife of mine wouldn't have any excuse to stay home. Her idea of camping is a night at the Super 8."

  He opened the bathroom door and peered in.

  "I'm a little concerned she might have to use a pry bar to get me out of that tiny shower, but maybe I could just take a dip in the lake. Besides, Esther's always telling me to go jump in. Har, har," he chortled again.

  "She'd love it. I take it all over the country. I've been in about eleven states the past two years, going to art shows and giving workshops. If Esther doesn't like roughing it, this is just the ticket."

  "She doesn't. About the only thing my wife thinks is good about camping is the grilled fish. They're great done over an open fire. I brush 'em with butter, wrap 'em in tin foil and . . . hey, does this thing have a barbecue grill?"

  "Come outside and see." She stepped out of the motorhome with him close behind. Jessie showed him the push-button extendable awning, the pull-out grill, and the outdoor shower.

  "Oh, baby! I'll have to be extra good this year . . . have Santa stuff one of these in my Christmas stocking."

  Jessie giggled, then said, "Let's go back in and have our coffee before it gets cold. It's story time. And it starts way back in the 1900s."

  "So you see," Jessie said, as she finished telling him the story of the vanishing Morans, "for whatever reason, Amber was afraid of the police. I guess it might not be the police from Sage Bluff, though. Maybe before she got here, she came across a policeman whose ethics deserted him when the possibility of finding a couple multi-million dollar paintings walked in the door."

  Arvid nodded thoughtfully. "Lot of temptation."

  "I'm going to trust you, because you're the only cop in Sage Bluff who wasn't even in town when Amber was killed." She smiled wide. "When I was visiting with Blanche the day Amber was found, she said you'd been back such a short time you still smelled like fish. She commiserated with me for having you in my truck still in your fishing clothes."

  "Huh. Better scent than the perfume Blanche wears, if you ask me. I don't have much sense of smell, but she drenches herself in that stuff." Arvid frowned, his tanned moon face wrinkling in thought. "You know. I heard that story about the paintings way back. When I was just a kid. I always wondered what happened to the woman—the painter, Kate. A lot of people here said their elderly relatives told them that when the school burned down, the fire had actually been set to cover up a murder. Murders didn't happen much around Sage Bluff, but several people died in strange circumstances that year, according to my grandma
."

  "Yeah, my aunt Gemma said the same thing."

  "Unusual enough for people to remember, I guess. You know how people get excited when something scandalous happens? Just human nature, so take it with a grain of salt. But, Grandma said there was a rumor Kate Morgan found the paintings Moran had promised the school just a day or two before she died. Maybe when the school burned down they burned too, but people didn't think so. There was a girl in the art class who said she'd mailed a large flat package for Kate Morgan, a package big enough to be paintings. Of course, they could have been your aunt's artwork. Let's see—she'd be what we call your 'double great'—your great grandmother's sister, right?"

  Jessie nodded. "To keep it simple, let's just call her my aunt Kate. Or maybe just Kate?"

  "Kate it is."

  "According to my family stories, the package contained her own work she was shipping to a framer in Boston. But, I suppose if other people heard about the package, they might've imagined it held two Moran masterpieces worth more than most people make in a lifetime."

  He nodded.

  "Where I need your help," Jessie said, "is in locating folks who would remember the old stories. You seem to know a lot about the area history and the people. I'd love to find those old paintings. What say we join forces and see what we can find out? I have a second motive for asking."

  "And what would that be?"

  "I'm a little nervous." She shrugged. "Okay, maybe even scared. I think this girl from Denver might've been onto something. What if she let the wrong person know she had a lead? She was on her way to our place, and with what she said about not wanting to call the police here, the sooner her killer is found, the better I'll sleep."

  "You really think Amber's death had something to do with the Moran paintings?"

  "I do."

  "Well, if you're right, finding the artwork would help," He said, scratching his chin. "If there's no treasure left to find, the killer wouldn't be looking around your Dad's place for it—or maybe thinking you know something he wants to find out."