1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "No. Eighteen million, I assure you. Miss O'Bourne is not exaggerating when she says they're valuable. I'd call that amount high enough for anyone with a vicious streak to kill for. But I'll wait until your partner gets back with the coffee and we'll have a talk. No sense trying to explain it twice."

  Russell leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head and gave Grant a hard look. "Art theft, huh? I didn't even know such an FBI division existed. Bet you have a lot of interesting stories to tell."

  "Actually, you'd be right, but when it comes to paintings lost or stolen in the past, history itself is what makes the stories so fascinating. The two missing Morans are a special project of mine, because I'm a western art history buff. They were paintings of the West, donated to benefit a poor Indian school in Montana."

  "Yeah. I've heard that old story."

  "So often we are trying to recover old masters of typical European scenes. It's all beautiful work of course, but not of American subject matter by an American painter, and rarely work donated to a good cause here in the States. Of course, Moran was a bit of a character. He once bought a gondola in Italy and had it shipped back to California so he could paint scenes from Venice."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Not at all. Pure truth." Grant grinned, and gave a brief laugh. "Artists," he said. "You have to love them. They see—actually see—the whole world in a different way, I think. It comes alive for them in some manner the rest of us miss. Or maybe it's only that they take time to look."

  "Yeah, I imagine you're right," Russell returned Grant's smile. He looked down at his desk blotter, covered with drawings by K.D. and Jessie, then back to Kennedy. "Guess I'm kind of a 'velvet Elvis' guy when it comes to taste in art, so I'll have to take your word for it."

  A few minutes later, while Grant was regaling Russell with a story of art recovered from an Illinois attic, Arvid and K. D. snuck in with coffee and a bulging sack of glazed donuts. They slipped through the door and shut it quickly. Arvid held the sack of donuts up like a trophy, looked at the two men and raised his eyebrows.

  "Gentlemen," he said. "Our clandestine mission has been successful." He put the coffee and donuts on the desk and, as Russell made the introductions, held out his hand to Grant Kennedy.

  Arvid looked at Agent Kennedy and whistled softly through his teeth. Over the past hour, they'd skimmed most of what the FBI had in their files about the missing Morans and the death of Kate Morgan, while finishing the coffee and donuts.

  "So, what you're telling us, Agent Kennedy, is that you believe people have been dying since 1920? Maybe earlier, over these two Thomas Moran paintings? Including our recent grad student." He scratched his bristled chin.

  "I assure you we do."

  "Then do you think Jessie O'Bourne, the gal who found Amber in the hayfield, is safe? She went to Denver to talk to the girl's parents."

  Grant and Russell erupted at the same time, staring at Arvid.

  "Jessie went to Denver?" Russell asked.

  "Miss O'Bourne talked to the girls' parents?" Kennedy asked.

  Arvid looked back at them, his expression closed. "I ran into her on her way out of town. She was filling her fancy motorhome with gas. Mr. Reynolds phoned and asked her to come and pick up their daughter's research. They didn't want to ship it. They wanted Jessie to look it over, see if she can continue organizing it into a paper or book form."

  "Motorhome? Jessie?" Russell said in a stunned tone. "What about her old pickup?"

  "She don't use that old beater except when she comes to visit. Takes less gas." Arvid looked straight at Russell. "When you went over to O'Bourne's the other day, I don't think she was planning to go to Denver. Guess she had her motorhome, a nice big Jayco Greyhawk, parked in the barn." Arvid got a far-away look in his eyes. "Man, it's a lollapalooza. I'd love to—"

  "Where would she get the kind of money to spend on something like that?" Russell interrupted. "She's just a painter. Jessie probably makes about enough to buy groceries and gum. Hell, she wears jeans hanging together by a thread, and she's still wearing one of the hats I left at her dad's when I was in high school, for Pete's sake."

  Grant threw his head back and his rich laughter started up again, filling the room.

  "I know a bit about Jessie O'Bourne. I have two of her paintings. One of her paintings hangs on my office wall in D.C., and I certainly paid a gold plated price for it," he said. "Perhaps I paid for her motorhome. At least for half of it." He continued to chuckle.

  Russell glared at him.

  Arvid smiled, and said, "You don't know much about our little Jessie, Russell. She's one of the best artists in the country."

  "I knew she was good." Russell shook his head. "But Dan never said she was that good."

  "Well, I'm thinking you maybe never asked. Why did you think Amber Reynold's folks already recognized her name before this terrible mess with their daughter? Now, shall we get back to business?" Arvid's mouth tightened like he tasted something nasty. "Someone didn't want Amber Reynolds to reach O'Bourne's, and it's possible they'll be going after Jessie next. Like I said, I don't think she's safe."

  "I agree," Grant said. "If she's the only one out at the O'Bourne ranch, Jessie is in the thick of it. We know that back in 1939 Kate found the two missing Moran paintings a couple days before she was killed. And there isn't any doubt that her death was a murder."

  "That's for sure, huh?" Russell asked.

  "Yes. The police at the time looked at all possible suspects, but never solved it. The paintings never showed up. It was only when someone called an auction house several months ago trying to sell a little Moran painting with a deer in it—a painting that sounded suspiciously like the one originally given to Kate Morgan—that we got any sort of lead."

  "Someone called? But how on earth do you know it was that specific painting they were trying to sell if it was just discussed over the phone?" Russell asked.

  Kennedy repeated the story he'd told Dan O'Bourne in a letter. "When that small Moran painting was stolen, word went out all over the United States—a detailed explanation of what it looked like—the color harmony, its size, the inscription. The same thoroughness of description was given for the painting of Kate Morgan's that was stolen at the same time, but that's another part of the story. Perhaps a case of mistaken theft—stealing a painting they thought to be more valuable than it was."

  "So finish the story about this phone call," Arvid said.

  "The caller not only described the Moran perfectly, he even read the inscription over the phone. He asked if the auction house would cover shipping from Montana. Then something made him edgy and he hung up before the auction house could get any contact information."

  "So this was the first time someone tried to unload it?" Russell asked.

  "As far as we know, yes. There was a painting we checked out ten years ago. We had high hopes it would be a lead—Moran rarely ever painted animals and this one was a deer painting just a little larger than the one reported stolen. But, it was missing the inscription, and the oil painting itself was evaluated and judged to be a forgery."

  "Really? A fake, huh," Arvid said.

  "And a damn good forgery, too. We wasted a lot of time on it, but got a handful of nada." Kennedy waved his hand in the air.

  "Interesting," Arvid said. "Where did the forgery show up?"

  "This one had been consigned to a gallery in New York by a man from Manchester, England as part of an estate sale. The heir, a grandson, didn't have a clue where his grandfather had purchased it. Since Moran so rarely painted animals the FBI believed the forger could have been working from the original but didn't realize he was making something so different from Moran's usual subject matter. He, or she, probably made it larger because a bigger painting would bring in more money, and because they were afraid to market Moran's stolen piece."

  "I see." Russell rubbed the back of his neck. "Still, that's got to be pretty unusual, isn't it? Art forgery?"

  "No, it
isn't, actually. We've discovered numerous forged Moran oils and watercolors. They're easily sold to collectors and devilishly hard to spot. Someone in the 1950s was busy turning out good quality fakes. Funny, isn't it? A good painting should be a good painting, but the monetary worth is so often set simply by the signature."

  "So let us in on the bit you aren't saying, Agent Kennedy." Arvid folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. "Why exactly did you come to Sage Bluff?"

  "I wondered when one of you'd get around to asking me that." He looked at the massive Norwegian. "Amber Reynolds called me on the way to a B&B here in town, the White Bison Inn."

  Arvid and Russell exchanged glances.

  "And why did Amber Reynolds call the FBI?" Arvid asked.

  "It wasn't the first time. She'd been in touch with me earlier as well. First, she wanted some background information to add to her thesis. I sent her copies of a few items unimportant to us, but pertinent to her thesis. Last week, she called again. And this is where it gets interesting."

  "Go on," Arvid said.

  "Amber was excited. She was convinced she'd uncovered new clues to finding the two Moran paintings left at St. Benedict's school in the early 1900s."

  "Did she say what she'd found?"

  "All she said was that she had found some unexpected results through her research, in fact, a possible tie-in with a bank robbery, and that she had discovered some photographs she felt were of paramount importance. I asked her to send what she'd found. Amber said she could send me copies—have the pictures scanned somewhere here in Sage Bluff. I was intrigued, but frankly, I didn't want her to scan them in a public place. We made arrangements to meet here, instead of having her send on copies. Actually, the original appointment would have been for the day after she died."

  "So were you in town when she was attacked, Agent Kennedy?"

  "Just call me Grant, please . . . enough of the Agent Kennedy. No, I was not in Sage Bluff. I had to postpone the trip because of another job. Unfortunately, once I arrived, the day after Amber was attacked, I heard about her death when I watched the news at my hotel."

  "Huh," Arvid grunted. "Mind if we ask your office to confirm that schedule?"

  Russell looked at Arvid in surprise.

  "Hey, I'm just sayin'. No offense. Nobody's immune when it comes to something worth that kind of money."

  Grant Kennedy nodded his head approvingly at Arvid. "No offense taken, Detective Sergeant. Yes, my office will confirm my flight arrival late last night in Billings. Sergeant Bonham here tells me you were on a fishing trip when Amber was attacked."

  "Trout fishing," Arvid said.

  "After reading Jessie's statement that says—emphatically—Amber was afraid of the police, can I confirm you landed a bunch of those trout the day of the murder? And I'd like to get the name of any fishing buddies you had on that trip."

  Arvid grunted, but nodded.

  Kennedy then turned his smile on Russell, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'd also like to verify Detective Bonham's whereabouts at the time of Amber's assault, and the whereabouts of any other officers as well—with your permission, of course. I have no authority over your murder investigation, just trying to tie up loose ends in my own. Perhaps we can work together?"

  "We only have two officers on night shift, Grant. Lenny Svensen and the newbie, Baker Donovan. There was a bad head-on collision on the state highway that kept them busy until the wee hours of the morning. After the initial accident a couple other cars piled into the wreckage."

  "Sounds hairy."

  "Our local paramedics were there in minutes, but they were pretty overextended. Too many cars involved. Baker left the scene for a few minutes to set up warning flashers and cones."

  "Was he gone long enough to have been the girl's attacker?"

  "I don't think so. And Baker's a gal—our newest officer."

  "I see. Can you account for your own whereabouts, Sergeant Bonham?"

  "Just Russell is fine. I'm afraid I was home in bed the night Amber was attacked. Nobody can confirm it, because I live with my little boy, no other adults." Russell said coolly, "You can speak to any of the staff here at the station. Can we have a contact number for you and for your office?"

  "Of course," agreed Kennedy, handing Russell a business card. "So gentlemen, how far back do your records go? I will be studying the records in Sage Bluff that relate to the murder of Kate Morgan, but I would appreciate being able to view any files relating to other crimes in your area during that year, and extending to a five year span before and after.

  "Why would you want those?" Russell asked.

  "Just in case some major thefts were solved since the disappearance of the artwork, thefts that could have been perpetrated by the same thief, but were never tied together. Surprisingly, we do recover some paintings by following such links. It isn't likely I'll find anything that other agents have missed over the years, but can you humor me? I plan to start from scratch as though it were the first time the disappearance of the paintings was reported. So . . . do you have records that go back that far?"

  "Yeah," Russell said slowly, "And I don't see why you shouldn't have access to the records. But it may take Blanche some time to locate them. We can call your cell phone when we have them pulled if you want. Geez, they're probably so old they'll crackle."

  Arvid said, "While you wait for us to find those, you might check with the Sage Bluff Courier newspaper office. Maybe they have records going back that far on microfilm or even archived in a digital format. Their articles might have more than just the local area crimes. Not much happens here, so they'd have reported any newsworthy crime that happened anywhere in Montana."

  "Thanks," Kennedy said, "I'll check that out. When is Miss O'Bourne due back?"

  "Sunday night, I believe. But she was going to stop here and there in Yellowstone to paint on location, so it's anybody's guess how early she'll get home."

  "I can guarantee it will be late. When Jessie starts painting, she loses track of time," Russell said. At Grant's puzzled look, he explained. "I was a close friend of her brother's, so Jessie and I kind of grew up together. The woman is obsessed. Totally obsessed. Been that way since she was in grade school. Zones out when she works. She's even worse when she sings. It's like she becomes a different person, and that person changes, too, depending on the music."

  "When she sings?" Arvid asked. Then he chuckled and said, "Ah hah!"

  "What's gotten into you, Arvid?" Russell asked.

  "I thought Jessie looked so familiar because I had seen her around with Dan O'Bourne once in a while, but she used to sing every year at the fairground competition, didn't she? Won them, too. No wonder I remembered her." Arvid smiled broadly, eyes twinkling. "Why, I remember one year she did this amazing Tina Turner version of Proud Mary. It was . . . hmmm, uh, she wore. . ."

  A red flush crawled up Arvid's shirt collar.

  "Yeah, yeah, I know," Russell said, glowering at him. "I remember. I imagine half the men in the county remember. The chef over at the Wild Bull restaurant has been trying to get her to come and sing for one of his charity benefit nights ever since. But it wasn't what she wore, Arvid."

  Grant looked questioningly at Russell.

  Russell said, "What she wore was just an old shirt of her brother's and a pair of cut-off jeans. Nothing sexy. It was the moves." He gestured toward K.D. on the floor and made a zipping motion across his lips.

  Grant looked down at the little boy humming loudly while merrily sketching his way through sheet after sheet of paper. "You're going to have an artist of your own, I see. Maybe a singer, too."

  Russell nodded.

  "Well, maybe one of you can give me directions to the O'Bourne ranch so I can call on Miss O'Bourne this coming Monday," Grant said with a grin. "My GPS system doesn't seem to think the O'Bourne address exists. And if I bounce across any more pot-holed gravel roads to nowhere, listening to its creative misdirection, I'm going to be hitting those high notes, myself."
/>   Chapter 18

  Yellowstone National Park, present day

  The morning dawned crisp and clear. Jessie had spent the night at the campground in the park, and now stood by the Fishing Bridge overlooking the Yellowstone River as it leaves Yellowstone Lake. A ring of a dozen white pelicans simultaneously dipped and bobbed, hitting the water with their wings in a fascinating display of cooperative group fishing. Periodically, one would lift his gigantic orange bill to gulp down a silvery flash of fish.

  Jessie raised her Nikon camera and snapped photo after photo of the circle, and then shot close-ups of several birds. The photos would be fantastic painting references. Humming to herself, she browsed through the pictures to make certain they were crisp, then sauntered back to the motorhome. As she approached she saw Jack sitting on the back of the sofa, watching for her out the window. When he saw her coming, he turned his head away with pretended disinterest. She thrummed her fingers on the glass as she went past and he turned toward the window and twitched his tail in impatience.

  She unlocked the Greyhawk, hurried up the steps and ruffled the fur on Jack's head. She put the lens cap on the camera and put the Nikon into its case. Then she slipped into the driver's seat. Jack jumped down into his accustomed seat and settled in to ride shotgun.

  "Off we go, Butter Tub," Jessie said. "Next stop, Inspiration Point." She chuckled. Then, in her best faux French accent, she said, "Prepare to be inspired, mon ami."

  Twenty miles later, Jessie pulled into the parking area at Inspiration Point. She could already see a breathtaking view of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. She slung her camera and small backpack over her shoulder, hurried from the motorhome and locked the door.

  Jack would have to guard the Greyhawk while she made a whirlwind sightseeing trip. She didn't dare take time to hike the three miles of the North Rim Trail, instead opting for the shorter walk to the Inspiration Point overlook. Following an enthusiast group of German tourists, Jessie reached the overlook and peered out, shading her eyes with the side of her hand.