1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "Best guess is his mama was a yellow Lab, and his pop some kind of nighttime opportunist." Arvid chuckled. "Minna doesn't know the breed."

  "Well, my guess would be a Lab and a dachshund," Jessie grinned. "Not sure how they managed. I swear, Esther's right when she says everyone in Montana must own at least one dog."

  Jessie and Arvid opened the truck doors and stepped out. Arvid reached into the pickup bed and grabbed two large grocery bags. The front door opened and a withered Native American woman in a floral print housedress stood framed in the doorway. She hunched over a diamond-willow walking stick, her skin as dark and furrowed as tree bark. The two hands covering the knobby head of the cane reminded Jessie of inverted bird's nests, the gnarled brown fingers intertwined, the backs of her hands full of raised veins twisted like twigs. A rope of silvery-grey hair hung over her right shoulder to touch her thigh, and it swayed as she tilted her head to one side as though listening. The mutt continued to bellow.

  "Muggs! Pipe down." Arvid commanded. The dog grew less animated, studied Arvid as though to judge the seriousness of the request, and settled on snuffling first Jessie's shoe, then the loaded grocery sacks. Arvid raised his voice. "Ma'am, it's Arvid."

  "Ah, Arvid." The woman lifted a wrinkled hand from the supporting cane and held her arm out to Arvid, who stepped in closer to clasp her hand in both of his, before introducing her to Jessie. "Ma'am, I brought company. I have a friend, Jessie O'Bourne, with me. I told her you were the best historian in the county."

  Jessie held out her hand and felt it firmly gripped in a leathery palm.

  "Come in, come in. If you're going to flatter me, Arvid, let's go inside where I can sit down while I listen. You, too, young lady." The old woman turned to shamble through the doorway of her home, and waved her hand at her visitors in a beckoning gesture. "I see you didn't forget about my shopping list."

  "No, ma'am, and I added a couple packages of trout I outsmarted on my last fishing trip. They're frozen. Should I put them in the freezer for you?"

  "That'll be a treat. Better leave a package on the counter to thaw, I think. It will be your job, too, to pour cold drinks. Thank you, Arvid. And don't ma'am me."

  She looked at Jessie with rheumy eyes as Arvid went to put away groceries. "Stay here and keep me company while Arvid does those chores, dear. He knows where to put things. I don't see as well as I used to, and Arvid is always kind to this old woman."

  She sank heavily into an arm chair, leaning her walking stick against the chair. Her eyes seemed cloudy and unfocused. Jessie realized she had cataracts, a common curse of elderly Native Americans.

  Jessie looked around the small room. The walls were covered with photographs in cheap plastic frames, mostly of children at various ages. A smell of old dog, old person and fried fish permeated the air. Jessie looked around for somewhere to sit.

  "Move my garden catalogues out of your way, Jessie, and sit yourself down. I can't read well anymore, and I'm too old to have a garden, but I still enjoy the big flower pictures."

  "I get the garden catalogues, too. I'd love to have a small garden," Jessie said, "but I'm gone too much to keep one watered and I hate imposing on neighbors who'd be willing to take care of the garden when I'm away. Still, Mom always had one. Sometimes I get homesick just for the smell of tomatoes fresh from the yard."

  Jessie shoved the stack of catalogues to the side and sat carefully on the ripped vinyl sofa, patched in places with silver duct tape. No matter how she squirmed, a sharp edge of peeling plastic poked maddeningly into her bottom.

  Muggs, exhausted from the effort of sounding the alarm, collapsed onto the shabby carpet as though his weight had overcome his runty legs. He plopped his large head across Jessie's feet, still snuffling her ankles, until Minna reached for her cane and tapped the rubber tip on the floor with a sharp command.

  "Come!" The dog raised reluctantly and went to Minna, settling in next to her chair and flopping heavily onto his side.

  A wasp bounced against the window pane behind the old woman's chair, and the elderly woman turned her head listening, trying to identify the noise.

  "There's a hornet on your window, Mrs. Heron Woman. Shall I get a swatter?"

  "No, just open that side window, Jessie. There's no screen." She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the insect. "It'll go out eventually. Never kill anything if you don't need to, child."

  Jessie rose and tugged the window up a foot. Then she realized it wouldn't stay raised, and she looked around for something to prop it with.

  "There's a stick on the shelf—just there by your hand," the old woman said. Jessie was wedging the window open as Arvid came back in and sat.

  Thirty minutes later, while drinking cold root beer, they'd made the polite conversation one must make before 'getting down to business'. The conversation had covered the health of Arvid's relatives, Dan O'Bourne's recent wedding, problems with local teenagers, the weather and the inaccuracy of Koot, the weatherman and—Minna's obsession—how little the young Blackfoot learned of their heritage and language. Finally, Minna Heron Woman turned to Jessie.

  "Arvid told me you have questions about the old days, Jessie. About St. Benedict's Mission School when I was a girl. Stories that might have been told me by the elders when I was a child."

  "Yes, I'd love to hear some of the old stories, Minna. Especially about people who might have known my aunt Kate Morgan before she died in 1939."

  "Ah, more questions about the painter? There isn't much I can tell you." She looked at Arvid. "I told the young woman from Denver the same thing. Poor thing, I heard she was attacked near your father's farm, too. How upsetting for you."

  Jessie and Arvid looked at each other. "Amber Reynolds was here, ma'am?" Arvid said.

  "Yes. She'd stopped at the library to do some research and asked for the names of area historians. My name was the only one that came to mind, I'm afraid. It's unusual when young people are interested in history, don't you think?"

  "Yes it is," Jessie said. "But—"

  "And Arvid, you know you're supposed to call me Minna. You too, Jessie. All the 'ma'am this' and 'ma'am that' makes me feel old, and I'm only 103."

  "Minna," Arvid said, smiling. "Did she have anyone with her?"

  "Yes, she did. A friend she called Webby."

  Jessie and Arvid exchanged looks.

  "Such an odd name. Especially for a girl. Even with my poor eyesight, I could see her friend was tiny, just a slip of a thing. Skittish as a deer. I was sorry to hear about Amber." She frowned. "A lovely name, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is," Jessie said.

  Minna's face wrinkled into a frown. "It didn't suit her, even though I could see she was a pretty girl. Amber. The gemstone is supposed to balance the emotions and release negative energy."

  "You feel she had negative energy, Minna," Arvid asked.

  "Yes. She was troubled—conflicted—over her heritage, her worth. She asked questions about the Blackfoot. I told her she needed a talisman—perhaps a pendant of amber—as soon as possible. I offered to help her make one."

  "And did you," Arvid asked.

  "No. She said she could wear an amber pendant she already owned. I don't think she understood how important it was." Minna broke off and sat very still. "I used the past tense when I spoke of her. She died, didn't she, Arvid? I heard about the attack, but I never heard if she lived."

  "Yes, I'm afraid she did, Ma'am. And she wasn't wearing any amber jewelry when we found her. I'm sorry."

  "Young people seldom believe, Arvid. And she was such an independent young woman, riding that big motorcycle."

  "What questions did she ask, Minna? Were they by chance about some old paintings?" Jessie asked.

  "She had a lot of questions." Minna rubbed the side of her nose. "Hmm. Yes, she did ask about a painter from the old days. Thomas Moran. He painted many of the Blackfoot children from St. Benedict's school. The first school, not the modern building they have in Sage Bluff now. It was made of log a
nd some of the outbuildings were old railroad ties. Ugh, they had to be sweltering during the summer. And the flies . . . when I was a child, oh, the flies were awful. But I'm getting off track. Let's see."

  "What else can you remember?" Arvid asked. "We're trying to piece together some of her research."

  "Oh, she asked if I ever heard a story about the body of a white woman being found on the reservation round about 1918."

  "And had you?" Jessie asked.

  "Oh, sure," Minna said. "I heard about it. But I was away at the time it happened, so I had little to tell. Then, she wanted to know about John Running Bear's family, wondered if I knew where they lived."

  "John Running Bear? He was a student at the school when my aunt Kate was there. My aunt mentioned him in her journal." Jessie said. "Why did she ask about him, Minna?"

  "Amber had some old newspaper clippings about the discovery of the body. The dead woman was later identified as the nun, Sister Mary Campbell. Her skull had been crushed."

  Jessie said. "But Minna, why did Amber want to find John Running Bear's family?"

  "It was an odd story. While she was researching the time Thomas Moran spent at St. Benedict's Mission School, Amber came across a note to a Catholic Bishop in which John Running Bear claimed a strange woman impersonated the dead nun for several weeks. She didn't act much like a nun, according to John. Amber had some photographs that she thought might prove who the imposter was. Isn't that remarkable? After all this time."

  "Remarkable," Arvid agreed, "But where did she get the photos?"

  "She found several in a letter from Jim Morgan—your great grandfather on your mother's side, Jessie—written to Father Michael Connor, the priest who was head of St. Benedict's Mission School. The letter was part of the correspondence Amber was given by a relative of Father Michael's when she was working on her research. She compared one of the pictures with a photo from the school records of 1918. Amber said the photos proved John was right, someone masqueraded as the nun." Minna shrugged. "That imposter could have been the true Sister Mary's killer. Or perhaps knew who murdered the nun.

  "Wow," Jessie said. "What did you tell her?"

  "I said, 'of course'. That's the story John's family said the child told local police at the time, but nobody would listen to him."

  "Why not?" Arvid asked.

  "John was only ten. People thought he was making the story up to get attention."

  "Too bad," Arvid said. "But why would anyone pretend to be a nun? And why didn't the priest say anything?"

  "According to John, the woman took off before the priest returned. Left the kids there with no adult. The tribal members knew this had happened, but kept silent. All of them were afraid they'd get blamed for something, somehow."

  "Bigotry?"

  "Yes, Arvid. Whenever anything went wrong close to the reservation, the Blackfoot tribe got the blame. It was a problem then," Minna said, with a tone in her voice that made it plain she thought the issue had improved little.

  "That's sad," Jessie said, then asked. "Did you tell her how to find John's family?"

  "No. I told them to ask John. If he wanted to give that information, it was his to give," Minna said.

  "Minna," Arvid said in a surprised tone, "you mean John Running Bear is still alive?"

  "Oh, yes, he's over a hundred years old. The rascal. He loves telling stories about the old days. Of course, when he was a child he had many people tease him and accuse him of making things up about the murder. Now he's so old, they think he doesn't remember correctly, or dreams things." She gave a rueful smile.

  "Where does he live, Minna? Can you give us his address?"

  "He's easy to find, dear. John is at the High Butte Senior Living Center in Sage Bluff, in the nursing home half. The center is divided between elders who can do most things for themselves, and those who are unable to do much at all."

  "We'll go see him," Arvid said, glancing at Jessie. "I'd love to know his version of what happened."

  Minna waggled her index finger at Arvid.

  "Now, don't you believe any of the stories he tells if he mentions me," she said with a rasping chuckle. "He's a scoundrel, that one."

  Arvid and Jessie both smiled broadly. Arvid noticed how the smile transformed Jessie's features from striking prettiness to unexpected, startling beauty. Good thing she don't smile like that around Russell. It was plain that Russell was tense as a spring around Jessie already. Smitten. Trying to say she was like a sister. Huh.

  A smile like that might be the end of his willy-wallying around. And that, Arvid thought, might not be a good thing for Jessie. Not if Russell knew something about Kevin's death or—God forbid—Amber Reynolds' attack. Or drugs. And a crooked cop somewhere in Sage Bluff.

  Something was eating at Russell. It worried Arvid, Russell's attitude smacking as it did of a guilty conscience. Arvid swore to himself he would find out what was going on if he had to cancel every fishing weekend until winter. Dammit, and I broke down and ordered that new custom Pryor fly rod, too.

  Hmm. Jessie's smile. It reminded him of someone. Who was it? Then it struck him, and his eyes widened. Well, I'll be damned, he thought, filing the information away in his mind to be revisited later. He stood up abruptly, gave himself a mental shake, and thanked Minna for the visit.

  Minna Heron Woman's cloudy eyes stared at Jessie as the two visitors walked toward Arvid's truck. She stood as she had when they first arrived, framed in the open doorway, one gnarled hand resting over the other on the head of her cane, leaning heavily on its support. Arvid was opening the door to the truck for Jessie when he heard Minna yell after him.

  "Arvid! Arvid! I need to talk to you again for a minute!"

  "Be right back," he said, and trotted back to see what the old woman wanted. Probably some grocery item he'd forgotten.

  "What is it, Minna?" Her face was set in intense concentration and she reached toward him, clutching at his arm.

  "Arvid, I'm a silly old woman. I wanted to tell you . . . ," She looked sheepish, gesturing toward Arvid's truck. "I'm worried for your friend. Worried. Take extra care of Dan O'Bourne's daughter."

  "Of course I will," he assured her, giving her a gentle hug.

  "Arvid, it's important," she said.

  "Nobody better than a big, old Norsky for jobs like that, huh, ma'am?" He looked at her with a more serious expression. "Are you okay here, ma'am?"

  "Yes, Arvid. I'm fine. And I told you, quit ma'aming me," she said. "Now, don't keep that girl waiting in that stifling rust bucket you pretend is a truck."

  "Is she okay, Arvid?" Jessie asked as Arvid slid onto the driver's seat. "What did she need?"

  "Oh, she just wants me to take care of a little something."

  As the outer door closed behind Arvid, the bedroom door opened behind Minna. A round-faced girl of about twelve, still carrying ten pounds of baby fat on her road to womanhood, walked into the room. Her straight black hair hung to her shoulders and thick glasses perched on her pug nose. "Did you see something, Grandmother?"

  "Yes, but don't worry, child. Always have faith. Nah-doo-si, the creator, will protect her. And Arvid will, too, of course. But, I think I will make her a small medicine bundle. We will have to gather some things for it. You must be my good eyes and my hands. I will tell you what we need."

  "Why did you lie to them, Grandmother, when you teach me to tell only the truth? I heard you. You told them you are only 103."

  "White people," Minna scoffed. "Do you think they would believe me if I told them the truth?" She raised her hand, thumb and index finger almost touching, as though to measure half an inch. "It was a little fib—this small. But," her leathery face split into a grin showing several missing teeth, "many times I feel Arvid is no fool."

  "You like him, Grandmother? He's big."

  "Yes, child. He is big outside. And he is big inside." Then she said somberly, "The woman, Amber, is dead. Do you remember where you put the note with her tiny friend's number on it? Find it, and put
that on the refrigerator, child. Under a magnet."

  "Okay. But why didn't you tell them you had her number, Grandma?"

  "Did they ask me, dear? Tomorrow you will help me call. I know she's been camping over in a gully near Peter's house. They have seen her several times, plugging in what Peter calls a 'smart phone', into the outside outlet after they go to bed at night. How smart can it be if it must steal its electricity?" She laughed, the effort ending in a rasp.

  "And fish for dinner, Grandmother?"

  "Yes, dear. Fish. Now, let's continue your lesson." She patted the little girl on the shoulder. "You must learn to speak Aamsskáápipikani, our Blackfoot language. And then, you will learn to cook trout."

  "I guess you didn't see a photo in Amber's research labeled 'clue', Arvid said, looking both directions and then pulling out of Minna's lane onto the gravel road.

  "I don't think so. There is a photo of Kate in front of the old school. I can't see why it would be evidence of anything except Kate being there at the time, though," Jessie said in a perplexed tone. "I haven't read through all the correspondence. There were quite a few pictures in the letters I've already read. I'll go back and be more thorough."

  "Seems like she was real thorough with her research. She couldn't have used all of it in her thesis, I bet."

  "Gee, she'd use a lot, Arvid. It's going to be a job putting it into book form, and it will be a pretty thick book when I'm done. And the newest interviews and papers wouldn't be with the items I brought from Denver. She surely used the iPad Jack Reynolds said she hauled on all her trips. But her phone hasn't even shown up, has it? Or her iPad."

  "Nup," Arvid said. "I gotta say, somebody else has the rest of her research. Probably the attacker, or her friend Monette."

  "We need the phone and iPad, Arvid."

  Arvid nodded. "You know, it's weird, but I got a hunch Minna wasn't telling us everything she knows either, Jessie," he said. "She's a canny old woman. There's something she was holding back."

  "Minna? I don't know see what it could be, Arvid. But I'll take your word for it. You know her well, and I just met her."