1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "Oh, I know," Russell said, his eyes glinting. "Believe me, I know." He looked again at the large motorhome parked in the center of the barn.

  The Hawk, huh? Arvid wasn't exaggerating. It's huge. And likely luxurious inside. Jessie's making good money to afford something like that. A poor cop wouldn't have much to offer her, he thought with a sinking heart.

  He turned and strode to the open barn door, then started to turn around. But I do have something she's going to want, he thought. And she'll want it bad. I just have to decide whether to louse up her fancy life in order to give it to her. Am I that selfish?

  "Jessie . . ." he began. Then he noticed a pewter Toyota Camry pull into the driveway and park near the house. The car door opened and Grant Kennedy stepped out. Russell looked at Jessie, who had stepped up beside him at the sound of the car engine. She was looking with interest at the man getting out of the car.

  "Never mind," he said sourly, "It looks like you've got company. FBI."

  Chapter 26

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  As Jessie and Russell walked toward the house, the tall man strode toward them. He wore casual dress clothes, a soft blue polo shirt and grey slacks with an expensive look to them. And he wore them well. He also wore an air of self-confidence as though it were a tailored suit. A good looking man, Jessie realized. Blond hair. Athletic.

  When he reached them, he nodded to Russell, then he showed Jessie his badge and slipped it back into his pocket. "Grant Kennedy. Miss O'Bourne?" he said, introducing himself and holding out a large hand.

  "Yes, I'm Jessie O'Bourne," she said. She gestured to Russell. "This is Sergeant . . ."

  "We've met," Russell interrupted.

  Kennedy flashed a bright smile at Jessie, causing deep crow's feet to appear by his brown eyes, giving the appearance that a smile was his usual expression.

  "It's my lucky day, Miss O'Bourne, to meet with you instead of your father. I understand he's soaking up the sun in Hawaii while you're house sitting."

  "Yes, he is. He and his new wife are honeymooning through the Hawaiian Islands. Their next stop is Kauai."

  "I hope he warned you I might be stopping by. Or you heard my phone message. "

  "He did," Jessie said. "And I did hear the message. Sorry I didn't get back to you. I've been out of town." She cocked her head at him. "You've made Dad and me very curious, Agent Kennedy."

  "Grant, please. I not only have questions I hope you can answer, but I'm delighted to meet the artist who painted two of my favorite paintings. I collect your artwork."

  "How nice." Jessie gave him a wide smile, then glanced at Russell. He nodded back at her, one corner of his mouth turned up sardonically, then he snapped a half salute at Kennedy, got into the patrol car and roared off.

  "You seem to have annoyed Detective Bonham," Kennedy said.

  "Maybe a little," Jessie admitted sheepishly. "We're old friends. He seems to think that gives him carte blanche to tell me what to do." She shrugged. "And I don't. Won't you come in, Grant?"

  She poured iced tea, glancing surreptitiously at Kennedy, who had leaned down and was scratching Jack under the chin. The cat jutted his chin out and tipped his head back, accepting the attention as his due.

  "What's his name?"

  "That's Jack. Don't take his purring as a compliment," Jessie said. "It's three o'clock. He thinks the world stops spinning at three if he isn't fed. And be careful. When he figures out you aren't planning to feed him, he might bite." She added ice cubes to the glasses. "Do you take lemon or sugar in your iced tea?"

  "Neither, thanks." Kennedy straightened, smiled and stepped back from the cat, who immediately swiped at his foot, claws extended.

  Jessie picked Jack up and dumped him unceremoniously out the door with a small dish of food. She gave Kennedy an apologetic look. She picked up the two glasses from the counter and handed Kennedy his tea. They sat at the big oak table.

  "I'm sorry you went to all the trouble to drive out, Agent Kennedy. I can't imagine what you think I can tell you. In fact, I hate to broadcast my ignorance, but until Dad said you'd written, I didn't know the FBI even had an art theft division."

  "Most people don't. When I introduce myself while I'm hunting for a painting, people think I'm yanking their chain. But stolen art is a multi-billion dollar business. The FBI has always worked on major cases. We run a database of national and international art thefts. You probably know that I'm here because of the old missing Morans."

  "Yes. We knew it had to have something to do with either them or Aunt Kate's missing piece."

  "I'd like to find that one, too. But the two Moran paintings that went missing are high priority on my list because we had a recent lead."

  "Really? That's wonderful," Jessie said in an excited tone.

  He recounted the story he'd already told Dan O'Bourne about the call to the auction house in an attempt to sell Kate Morgan's small deer sketch.

  "So we know someone in Montana has at least that one drawing. If we can find out who it is, we may find the paintings. I think Amber may have suspected who tried to sell the small Moran, but if so, she never got a chance to tell me. Unfortunately, it seems when valuable pieces like these surface, they sometimes wreak havoc. The Moran paintings caused Kate Morgan's death, and now that there's the slightest hint they may surface again, Amber Reynolds has died. We think she told the wrong person that she had a clue to their whereabouts."

  "It could be. Isn't it sad that greed is such an inherent part of human nature?" Jessie said.

  "Our office suspects that Father Michael Connor, from the old St. Benedict's Mission school, was probably killed because of the Moran oil paintings, too. However, what was left of his body wasn't found for months, long after the coyotes and other scavengers had been at it, and it was impossible by that time to tell if his death was accidental or murder. In those days, forensics were almost nonexistent."

  "How awful," Jessie said.

  "Some people thought he was killed because he had the paintings with him. Until it was rumored your Aunt Kate discovered the paintings in Sage Bluff years later, our division figured that they'd been stolen in 1918 and were gone for good. Many paintings of that caliber wind up in European collections."

  Jessie nodded, then said. "But it isn't the paintings most people want, it's the money they think they'd bring."

  "Yes. Thomas Moran donated the two large paintings for such a worthy cause, but for everyone who came in close contact with them, they've been death on canvas."

  "Death on canvas. Aptly put," Jessie repeated. "Tell me, how does a thief market such an expensive painting once he steals it?"

  "They have less trouble turning them into cash than you might think. There's a black market for stolen art, so often they simply sell them at reduced rates. Another way is to use them as collateral on a loan."

  "On a loan?"

  "Yes. Some unscrupulous banks simply verify the value of a master work, issue a loan for much less, and the thief disappears. The loan is never repaid. But the bank has something worth much more, if they know what to do with it. And now, drug lords have discovered the marketability of old masters. They're easily transported to international markets as well."

  "How so?"

  "Think about it," Kennedy said. "A large amount of cash takes more space than a flat piece of canvas. A crook can get on any airplane with a painting in their suitcase, or rolled in a mailing tube."

  Kennedy looked around the inviting kitchen, admiring the stained glass windows Jessie had made when in her teens and two small paintings that hung on the side wall. The snow scene was painted by her grandmother, Gemma, and the floral of brilliant poppies was one Jessie had painted as a 'welcome to the family' gift for her new stepmother. Kennedy stood and walked to the poppy painting to take a closer look. He turned around to see Jessie's slim form framed against the window, much as Russell had several days earlier—sunlight blasting her curls with flaming color as brilliant as that of the red poppies in
the oil miniature.

  "A treasure," Grant said ambiguously. "Quite remarkable."

  "Thank you," Jessie said.

  "Jessie, I've spoken to Jack Reynolds. I have his permission to look through the research he sent to Sage Bluff with you. I gave them my word, however, not to remove any of it from your property. This afternoon I'm pulling newspaper archives to study, but I would like to start on Amber's research tomorrow. May I take over your kitchen table in the morning?"

  "Of course,"

  "If there's as much of it as Jack Reynolds mentioned, it may take me several days. A huge imposition, I know." He grinned broadly and said in a mock serious tone. "But it is, after all, FBI business. And," he said, "the FBI has been known to spring for donuts."

  "Oh," Jessie laughed. "I thought it was cops who did that." Jessie said, "Make mine chocolate covered, and you're welcome to use the table. But, you'll have to share, if that's something I can say to the FBI."

  "The table? With you?"

  "Yes, I plan on going through the boxes of research more thoroughly, but so does Detective Sergeant Abrahmsen, one of the local policemen." She looked at him inquiringly.

  Grant chuckled. "Ah yes, the big, ruddy-faced fisherman I met at the station. Ask him to meet us here and join forces, if you like. Three heads are better than one. Do you have a computer scanner I could use?"

  Jessie nodded. "Sure."

  "And may I burn files from Amber's laptop to a thumb drive?"

  "No problem. I was surprised at how little information Amber had on her laptop, though. I imagine you know her iPad, phone and camera haven't turned up."

  "Yes," Kennedy said, "That's something Russell Bonham and Jack Reynolds mentioned, too. They still hope Monette Weber will get in touch with them and that she has Amber's iPad. They're worried about Monette." His voice dropped to a low murmur as he noticed the doorknob twisting. "Someone is trying to open your door."

  "Yeah, someone fat and pumpkin colored," Jessie said. She walked over and opened the front door. Jack sauntered in with his tail and chin up, one sharp tooth protruding over his lower lip in a feline sneer. He made a beeline for his water bowl.

  "Ah," Grant said, "Clever cat."

  Jessie smiled. "Personally," she said, "I think Amber would have been carrying at least the phone on her way to our house. I think the attacker took it."

  Grant nodded. "I think you're right. No girl that age goes anywhere without a phone."

  Jessie and Grant Kennedy talked for an hour. The conversation covered the long search for the paintings, the discovered forgeries of Moran's work and those of other great painters' work, and the art market in general. Kennedy asked intelligent questions about Jessie's art.

  When the conversation drifted to trips Jessie and Grant had each taken to Europe, their individual experiences with airlines, food and books, Jessie realized it had been a long time since she'd visited with a good looking, well-read single man. She enjoyed his company. As if on cue, Grant Kennedy said. "How about taking pity on a lonesome stranger in town and joining me for dinner?" He inclined his head toward her. "We can resume our fascinating conversation."

  "I'd love to," Jessie said. "But it would have to be a late dinner. I have an appointment in Sage Bluff at six."

  "Late is fine." Then Kennedy looked uncomfortable. "As small as Sage Bluff is, is there anywhere decent to eat?"

  Jessie laughed. "Pick me up here at 7:30, I'll point out the hot dinner spots and you can pick one," she teased. "Mickey D's, Burger Barn." Then she relented and admitted, "Okay, I'll be honest. There's only one restaurant worth visiting, the steak house. Dress casual. I hope you aren't a vegetarian. You'll be run out of town."

  Kennedy's hazel eyes twinkled. "Not a chance."

  Chapter 27

  Sage Bluff, Montana, present day

  Russell pulled up to the Burger Barn drive-through speaker and barked his order. He followed the line of cars forward to the next window, handed money to the teen working the checkout, and accepted his bag of cheese-burgers and fries. He pulled around to the front of the building and steered the patrol car into an empty parking space.

  Russell reached into the bag for a French fry and popped it into his mouth. He sat, savoring its salty flavor and thinking. Then he picked up his cell phone and dialed Blanche. "Blanche, you get off work right after the swing shift arrives. Did you mention to any of the fellows that Jessie O'Bourne was driving to Denver?"

  "No. You know I never talk about police business. My job wouldn't last long if I did."

  "Anybody there by the desk when she called?"

  "Maybe, Russell." There was a pause. "I seem to remember Baker had just come in. I'm so sorry. Is it important?"

  "No, Blanche." Russell thanked her and clicked the phone shut.

  Chapter 28

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  As soon as Grant Kennedy's car headed down the driveway, Jessie jogged over to the barn and ran up the studio steps. Between the consternation of realizing someone had broken into the Greyhawk, and the distraction of talking with the FBI agent, she'd forgotten about looking for the other journal. Her dad probably knew where to find it, but she dreaded interrupting his honeymoon with another phone call. Her new stepmother was going to think she was intentionally trying to interrupt their honeymoon. She grimaced at the thought. She'd make a quick search before she drove to Abrahmsen's home to meet Arvid. It was unlikely she would find the notebook in the studio, though. In the early years growing up she had used the studio above the barn. She would surely have discovered it then. Although, she had been cautioned as a youngster to leave Kate's things pretty much alone. Why, she wondered? Had her parents thought Grandma Gemma, who was Kate's niece, may decide to take them after all?

  Jessie took inventory. A shelf of art books Jessie had already read, a few boxed art materials and a pochade box, a box that expanded into an easel with wooden legs, were the only things left of her aunt's belongings.

  Her eyes fell on the wooden pochade box and she went over to open the lid of its main compartment. Tubes of petrified paint, a few good sable brushes, and several with bristles stiff as toothpicks, were the only contents.

  Several tubes of oil paint were still pliable and Jessie was delighted when she read the labels. The cobalt and cadmium colors she'd found were no longer made with those toxic elements, since artist safety requirements had become stricter. The original colors were richer, more vibrant than the synthetics that had taken their place. She was as safety conscious as the next person, but she would use them.

  Setting the good tubes aside, she tossed the ruined supplies into the trash. She inspected the pochade box, pulling the shallow drawer all the way out. It contained several sheets of fine quality drawing paper, and underneath those were a few written notes about art supply companies and several old receipts. Ancient, Jessie thought. Jessie sifted through the small stack. Most of the receipts were from the same framer, Kenneth Worth, in Boston.

  Worth. Surely that isn't the famous Worth Gallery. Have they been in business for a hundred years?

  She glanced at one of the receipts, marveling over how cheaply artwork could be framed in her aunt Kate's era. The invoice was for two "double-framed" pieces, and Jessie recognized the titles as those of the fairly large paintings hanging in her Dad's bedroom.

  She grinned to herself when she realized why the receipts had not been tossed in the trash long ago. On the back of each invoice was a tiny little sketch signed by Jessie's grandma Gemma in a childish hand. Gemma had stopped drawing when Kate died, Jessie knew. Too bad, Jessie thought. The little sketches were adorable and showed remarkable ability. I should have these framed for Dad. There was no drawing on the back of the receipt listing "double framing", and Jessie frowned thoughtfully. This invoice was dated after Kate died. It had to be for framing paintings Kate shipped shortly before she was killed. She set the items carefully aside and turned the drawer upside down, examining the bottom. Nothing.

  The large studio
closet was designed to store both clothes and art. One wall was fitted with a rod for hanging items, but the other was floor to ceiling shelves with built in vertical slots to hold spare frames or paintings. Many of the slots contained Jessie's still wet paintings for the upcoming show, but most were empty.

  Jessie searched the shelves that contained blank canvases and paintings Gemma had started and then abandoned. One shelf held several partially finished sketches. Another contained unfinished paintings stored after Kate Morgan's death. The canvases could be lightly sanded, primed and reused, but she hated to paint over them. Maybe someday. She gave up the search and picked up the phone to call Dan O'Bourne.

  Her stepmother answered on the first ring. "Your father is fit to be tied," Marty shrilled into the phone. "He's worried about you, Jessie. Since you phoned, unless I keep him busy every minute, all he does is talk about coming home. He's spoiling our trip, the big lug."

  "I'm so sorry, Marty. Don't let him do that," Jessie said emphatically. "I can always call Arvid Abrahmsen, one of the policemen here, if I need to, and I'm perfectly fine. In fact," she said with satisfaction, "I have a date. I met the FBI agent from the Art Crime Team today, and he's taking me out to dinner."

  "Yowza . . . a date!"

  "Yep. It would be a shame for you to come home early. Tell Dad that surely an FBI hunk is a good enough body guard. Only don't use the word hunk."

  "Oh," Marty's snickered and her tone brightened. "Don't worry. He checked with the airline. When they told us they would charge us two hundred dollars—each—to change our tickets, I thought your dad would have a cardiac arrest right on the spot. You know how your dad is so… er …"

  "Frugal?" Jessie supplied.

  "Yes, how frugal your dad can be," she said. "He's downstairs checking our schedule for tomorrow's tour." Marty continued in a conspiratorial tone. "What's the FBI agent like? Young? Good dresser?"