"Oh, honey," Esther said, running her hand through her short hair, ruining her do, making it stand up in feather spikes like an angry hen's. "We discussed this before. I still hope you were imagining that. I like Russell. Besides, not only did his best friend die, but you remember Hannah O'Bourne went into such a state, that's when she had the heart attack."
"Yeah."
"Hannah was about the only mother Russell had ever known. When she died, he must have been as devastated as Jessie. Of course he acted odd."
Arvid glanced around the room, noticing the hand-penciled music scattered across the bench of the Steinway baby grand, Esther's pride and joy. She spent most of her time sitting at the piano. He loved the way her fingers danced over the keys when she played. She was probably in the middle of a new composition, and here he was, dumping his worries on her.
But something about Kevin's death still niggles at me worse than mosquitos down at the lake. I wonder if the two men had gotten into a fight over something important—the girl, Trish, maybe. He rubbed his hand across his wiry five o'clock shadow. And now, here's these damn Moran pieces clouding the issue. Why did his gut tell him Kevin lying dead in the barn six years ago was somehow involved with those bits of canvas? It don't make sense.
"I like him, too, Esther," he said finally. "In fact, Russell 'bout seems like part of our family, too. But, that don't mean I'd let him get away with murder. Being so close to the O'Bourne family, he's had plenty of opportunity to hear about the Thomas Moran paintings. Does it seem logical he wouldn't know how valuable they were? He acted like he didn't have a clue." Arvid scowled, wrinkling his forehead into a deep furrow.
"Well, if he's not interested in art, maybe he never paid any attention," Esther said.
"Maybe he was tellin' me the straight scoop, maybe not. Something's going on with Russell right now, too, just since that little Colorado gal died."
Esther rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
"And if he's a good enough actor to have pulled the wool over my eyes when Kevin died, he could be capable of anything." He gestured with his fork. "If that's the case, I'm going to get him."
"Oh, Arvid," Esther said, her usually cheerful face dropping into a frown, "Eat your meatloaf. And your carrots. I cooked them in apple juice with a spoon of brown sugar, just the way you like them. Now, let's change the subject. It isn't good to talk about unpleasant subjects at dinner." Esther watched Arvid reach for the catsup bottle and squirt another glob of red on both his potatoes and his meatloaf. Then she looked at her husband with crystalline blue eyes that gleamed with steely resolve.
"By the way, we need to beef up our mail box. Have you seen Gunderson's?"
Back at her dad's ranch, after Jessie unloaded the motorhome, she took a steaming hot shower and pulled on fleecy pajamas and her comfy red flannel bathrobe. She sat on the sofa in her father's den, Jack purring contentedly by her side and the box of research from Jack Reynolds on the square coffee table in front of her. The box of folders wasn't as interesting as the shoe box of correspondence, but Amber had not scanned the papers into the computer. Jessie would have to go through both boxes one piece of paper at a time.
The folders in the big box were loaded with notes on Thomas Moran's paintings of the Yellowstone region. Most of his larger works had been painted partially from memory, and partially from small watercolor studies he made while traveling with the 1871 Hayden Geological Survey. Jessie skimmed over long and boring phrases Amber had copied from textbooks—phrases like 'Entranced by the colors and natural wonders, Thomas Moran painted numerous large canvasses depicting the grandeur and scale of the scenery'.
"Huh," she said to Jack, "Same composition as I planned when I did the small studies at Inspiration Point. You know," she said, "while you sat on your pudgy tumpa and let some creep wreck our tire. Lou says it was vandalism sure as anything. Heck, I wish you could talk. You could probably tell me who did it."
Jack stretched a paw out and placed it on Jessie's leg, opening his mouth in a silent meow. Jessie tickled his chin and returned to the paperwork.
"Well, I love you anyway," she told Jack. "Get this. According to this paper, I can blame Thomas Moran for the tourists that bug me when I paint in the park."
Amber's notations verified that Moran's work helped influence President Grant and Congress to set aside the land as the first National Park. His name was so closely linked with Yellowstone that the artist incorporated a 'Y' for Yellowstone into his signature. Amber had included a close-up photo of Thomas Moran's signature. Jessie recognized it. She had seen Moran's actual signature on a few pages of Kate's journal and on the drawing of Aunt Kate her dad had inherited from Jessie's grandpa, Nate. It hung in Dan's office.
As she read through folder after folder of Amber's documents, Jessie grew excited. The grad student had been meticulous in citing references, and everything in the folders was in chronological order. Amber's work should be published, just as Jack and Shelly Reynolds said. It would make a noteworthy book—not just a dissertation—a book.
Once she had all Amber's research joined into an organized whole, she would either search for a publisher, or publish it with the Reynolds' financial help. It would mean time away from the easel, a lot of time, she thought. Jessie absent mindedly scratched Jack's head. I'll need some help.
Jessie pulled the next folder off the stack left in the box. It was intriguingly labeled 'Forgeries' and contained only a blue notebook. She opened the notebook and read through the long list of works that were at one time attributed to Thomas Moran, but later shown to be fakes. How odd, Jessie thought, for someone to have the technical ability to paint in the style of a master, but not want to make his or her own art. It was probably too lucrative to sell a copy of someone else's already famous work instead. She flipped a page. The photo showed a study of a mule deer, supposedly painted by a forger. Amber had made a notation: Original was inscribed to Kate Morgan.
Jessie gasped. Jack jumped down, whirled around and hissed. "Good gosh," she said to the alarmed cat, "Someone had my Aunt Kate's painting long enough to make a copy." She looked to see what Amber had written about the forgery. In small neat writing the girl had written: 'maybe one of the art students Kate taught in 1939? Any of them had the opportunity to steal the painting and Kate Morgan had taught them to paint in her own style, a style which was a lot like Moran's.'
Yes, Jessie thought. Amber might have something there. It was the first mention Jessie had seen that referred to the two small paintings that disappeared when Kate was killed, not the larger Moran works. If Amber had been actively looking for them, as the Reynolds said, where was the rest of the information she'd gathered on the hunt?
A copy of an old black and white photo was inserted into the notebook. It was Kate Morgan's class, the art students casually gathered for the portrait. The back of the photo had each student's name listed. Kate stood to the left, a tall woman with wide-set eyes, even features and a heavy braid of hair draped over her shoulder. She wore an artist's apron. Her expression was serious. Jessie stared at the photo in shock. It was like looking in a mirror.
Jessie quickly skimmed the rest of the blue notebook and saw nothing as startling as the note about the forged deer painting or the photograph of the class. Then she became curious about Kate's journal. She remembered it used to be on one of the highest shelves in her Dad's bookshelves. She brought a stepstool from the kitchen and searched the top shelf. Yes, there it is! She pulled it down. As soon as she opened it she realized it was priceless. The first page held a small Moran sketch, a tiny three inch by two inch pencil drawing of a waterfall. Good lord, this notebook could be worth a million dollars and Dad leaves it here in plain sight? It belongs in a museum.
Jessie reached down and scooped Jack onto her lap as she sat down again to read. He purred and she studied the pages until her eyes felt like sandpaper. The last half of the journal was written and illustrated by Kate Morgan.
There was a definite similarity to Moran's
drawings in Kate's self-confident sketches, a simplicity of line and strong composition. Jessie's eyelids drooped.
Bedtime, she thought. How many more pages are there? She flipped ahead to the last page and read Kate's last sentence out of curiosity. Surprised, she said a word Arvid would blame on the Swedes, then got up and carried the precious journal down to her father's gun safe. She unlocked the safe, added the book to the shelf with the extra ammo, pulled the shotgun from its slot, picked up half a box of shells for it, and relocked the safe.
She was now wide awake as she climbed back up the stairs to the main floor. She checked the doors and windows and went up to her bedroom, locked the door from the inside, and slipped the shotgun and shells under her bed. Jessie crawled between the covers, snuggled into their warmth and sighed.
On the last page in the journal Kate had written simply, 'next notebook'.
Chapter 23
Rural Montana, present day
The noon sun beat down, brutal in its assault, causing steam to rise eerily from the black asphalt. Had the road been filled with writhing souls instead of the occasional flattened road-kill, Dante could have mistaken it for the River Styx. Jessie fanned her face with her John Deere cap, doing little except to stir the dust in Arvid's old beater pickup.
"There's the sign for 'Bison Creek Buffalo Jerky'," Arvid said, pointing to a rusty metal sign peppered with bullet holes. "If you come out by yourself, remember you want to take the next right turn." He put on the blinker. He drove off the highway onto a poorly maintained secondary road, rumbling over the parallel metal bars of a cattle guard, a grid over a ditch designed to keep cattle from straying off the reservation into traffic.
"Keep your eyes peeled for livestock on the road, Jessie. You probably remember it's free range here on the reservation, but there's a lot more livestock than when you were a kid. It's always an obstacle course of new potholes, too," he said with a grimace as they bounced along, landing hard on the worn springs of the truck seat with Arvid offering a repeated chorus of "Sorry.". . . "Uffda!" . . . "Blast it!"
Jessie looked out the window, up at a ridge textured with blue grey sage and the acid yellow-green of blooming rabbit brush. A game trail meandered downhill, worn into the hillside by countless animals walking the same route to available water, winding through sparse cedar trees to end at Bison Creek. "Maybe better keep an eye out for antelope or deer. I see some antelope up on the bluff to the right."
Arvid looked from the road long enough to follow her gaze and spot five or six pronghorns bounding up the hillside, the lead animal gaining the top of the rocky ridge. He turned and, silhouetted against the bright sky, looked back at his harem as though to hurry them along.
"Ayup. Sharp eyes," He said. "You paint much wildlife?"
Jessie nodded. "It's my favorite subject. Most of the work I do in the studio is of animals in their native habitat, using my own photos. I get a better painting if I work on it as soon as possible after I take the pictures. Then I still have a sense of the animal's movement and I remember the lighting. It's all about the light, Arvid."
He grunted. "Got any antelope or buffalo paintings in that 'art thing' you got coming up?"
"I guess you mean the art competition over in Baxter at the end of the next week. No, my wildlife paintings had to be put on hold while I painted some on-location landscape pieces. Since I'm the awards judge for the contest portion, the gallery hosting the plein air competition—Reuben White Fine Art—wanted me to display work." She fanned her face again with the cap. "But if you'd like to see it, I do have a large bison painting nearly finished right now. The reference photos of the big bull were taken at Christmas time, early morning, when the brush and trees were still covered in frost. I'd gone down to ski at Grand Targhee near Jackson, Wyoming and drove out near the Tetons. I was sure glad I had the camera along."
She pointed out the window at another small herd of pronghorns before continuing. Arvid nodded his head.
"I see 'em. You got it here at the ranch?"
"Yeah. I brought the painting with me hoping there'd be time in the evening to work on it. This mess with the Reynolds girl is more important, though. Instead of painting, I'm reading an old journal of my Aunt Kate's and going through Amber's computer and research papers."
"I suppose you don't have anywhere to paint at your dad's anyway, huh?"
"Oh, believe me, there's a great place. I paint in a space over the barn that was originally built as an art studio."
"Your aunt Kate's?"
"It was. I use it when I come home, so I keep it completely outfitted. Paint, canvas . . . extra easel. But, a lot of Kate's things weren't ever removed. Even her old pochade box is still up there. Hoo boy, is it heavy."
"Bet it has a lot of sentimental value, though. You using it?"
"Oh, heck no. Art materials and supplies have come a long way since she was painting. My portable easel is handier—new light-weight materials, better design."
"Huh," Arvid grunted. "Same with fishing tackle and creels." He continued, "So, you found Kate Morgan's journal, huh?"
"Yeah. You'd think Dad would know how valuable that little book must be. It has sketches all through it by Thomas Moran and Kate." Jessie put her hand dramatically over her heart. "I'm almost afraid to turn the pages, for fear I ruin something. If a painting by Moran is worth well over a million dollars, think what the journal, with all the tiny sketches and notes must be worth. It should be appraised and stored some place with temperature and humidity control. Heck, Arvid, it really belongs in a museum."
"I have to agree with you there. Any clues in it, Jessie? Something you think might help locate the Moran paintings?"
"No, darnit. In fact, after you get past Moran's art tips, much of the journal is written in a childish scrawl. She told about being left at the school the year 'everyone got sick'. That was when Montana was hit hard by that global Spanish Flu epidemic."
"Yeah, everyone lost a relative to that nasty influenza."
"Kate's mom recovered, but she lost the baby. Kate's aunt and uncle both died, so Jim and Margaret O'Bourne adopted their son Nate."
"Terrible times for a lot of folks. Good thing the little boy had family to take him in."
"Kate wrote about learning to mix paint, and a few odd notes about a nun who sounded too mean to be very religious, but there I'm sort of reading between the lines. It sounded almost as though she'd written it while being very careful, for fear the nun might find it and read it."
"Interesting. Nothing about the two missing paintings?"
"Nope. Only about one Moran gave her to give Jim O'Bourne. A gift. The journal was abandoned for a few years after her father came to retrieve her—no more personal notes. When she began writing again, it was mostly notes on painting technique. Now that was fun. Aunt Kate must have been as obsessed with painting as I am. I have to try some of her tips. Oh, and the last page made it clear there was another journal."
"Huh," Arvid said, glancing over at Jessie. "Well? You have that one, too?"
"Nope. Guess there must be another notebook somewhere at the ranch, Arvid. If I can't find it, I'll ask Dad about it this evening. Slow down, Arvid. Cows!"
Arvid looked back at the road, took his foot from the gas pedal and stepped on the brakes, seasoning the air with a few choice phrases he again blamed on the unfortunate Swedes. A pregnant Hereford cow, sides bulging with unborn calf, stood in the center of the road, looking at the oncoming GMC truck with bovine disdain. She chewed, standing her ground. Arvid slowed to a stop. Another cow scrambled up from the roadside ditch, a white-faced calf bawling behind her. Jessie grinned.
"Poop, it was a mistake to stop," Arvid said. "Sure as shootin', now they'll think I'm dropping off a bale of hay." The accuracy of his statement was apparent as cows stopped grazing on the slim pickings along the road and headed with purposeful strides toward Arvid's truck, gaining momentum as they came.
Jessie lunged for her camera bag on the floor of the pickup, hurried
ly unzipped it, and grabbed her Nikon. As she hung out the window snapping photos of bellowing cows and calves, Arvid revved the engine, his foot still on the brake, then leaned on the horn, which emitted a deep 'woogah, woogah!'
At the sound, a bull in the distance raised his head, interpreting the noise as either a dinner bell or competition. He charged down the hill toward the pickup, massive bulk swaying side to side, hooves churning the dry hillside into billowing dust.
"Whoops! Better get a move on."
Arvid put his foot gently on the gas, inching the truck forward until the cattle crowding the center line decided to inch away. With tosses of disgruntled heads, rolling eyes showing whites, accompanied by loud bellows, the cows grudgingly gave ground. Arvid pulled forward and slowly picked up speed. In the side mirror, Jessie saw the bull reach the road and stand looking after the truck, his head jerking up and down and his tail swinging in agitation.
The heavy truck bounced over the lane to Minna Heron Woman's home, a house the faded blue of last year's robin's egg with a weathered wooden door. The surrounding yard was scoured of grass. A twiggy geranium blossomed in red profusion on the porch, the only living foliage in Minna's front yard.
The side-yard was littered with enough worn out appliances, used vehicles and broken down machinery to start a parts store. A yapping dog darted from behind a rusted station wagon to welcome their arrival. He scuttled on his short legs in excited circles near the interloper's vehicle like a beetle on hot tin.
"Don't mind Muggs," Arvid said. "He doesn't bite."
"What the heck kind of dog is that?" Jessie asked. "He's got the biggest head I've ever seen, especially for such a stubby-legged little guy."
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