1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  "Both," Jessie replied with a chuckle. "Listen, will you have Dad call me? I need to. . . "

  "Oh, he just walked in, Jessie. Here he is."

  A few seconds later, her father's voice boomed. "How's my girl, Jessie? Guess what we're doing tomorrow. We're taking a bike tour of Kilauea Volcano! Real lava."

  "Great, Dad," Jessie said. "Have a hot time. Listen, I only have a minute because I have an appointment." She filled him in on the high spots of Amber's research, then said, "Did Aunt Kate have a second journal? If she did, I assume grandma kept it, didn't she?"

  "Yes, she did." Dan O'Bourne said. "Check the old trunk in the basement. It's been years since I saw that journal. My mother said that when Kate died, the police read every word. It didn't get them any closer to finding out who killed her. However, your great grandfather, Nate, seemed sure it was someone at the school."

  "Oh, really? Did he have any specific person in mind?"

  "I think Grandpa Nate changed suspects every week, Jess. He was very bitter about her death. He felt the paintings had somehow caused Kate's murder."

  "Well, I'd like to read the second journal, even if it isn't any help. Kate Morgan was an interesting woman, and I like the art tips and tricks she mentions in her writing, too," Jessie said. Then she told Dan O'Bourne about the visit with Minna Heron Woman.

  She avoided telling him someone had broken into the motorhome after she got back from Denver, and ended the call on a cheerful note. Jessie checked the clock. If she grabbed a quick shower, she could still meet Arvid at six. The trunk would have to wait.

  Jessie turned into Abrahmsen's lane, a huge smile on her face after passing the mailbox. The big box, painted with ocean waves, was topped by a well-carved Viking longship with a red and white striped sail, a longship that was now being threatened by a green sea serpent. The front half of the scaly serpent was attached to the left side of the mail box, its dragon-like head lunging up toward the ship. The forked tail of the sea monster had replaced the mailbox flag, and was in the 'up' position. Leif Ericson would be so proud.

  Steering the red pickup into the driveway, Jessie admired the neat two-story farmhouse, painted a bold blue with white Scandinavian style shutters. She stepped out of the truck and walked to the house on a cedar walkway flanked by blooming red rose bushes as high as her waist. Someone puts so much loving care into this place. Jessie bent to smell a rose just as the door opened and Esther Abrahmsen smiled down at her.

  Esther wore a long denim skirt with a soft pink tank top and sandals. Her short white hair was glossy and spiked almost punk, but it suited her delicate features. Her eyes were spaced wide, and were the blue of the summer sky. A dazzling woman, Jessie thought, remembering how Arvid had described his wife as a 'good catch' the first time they met.

  "You must be Jessie. Come in. I'm supposed to give you the ten minute tour. Arvid is running a few minutes late."

  "I'd love it," Jessie said, "And I have to know who carved the mailbox."

  Esther laughed. "Aren't we silly? Arvid made the Viking ship, but my sister carved the sea monster. Arvid is determined to win the mailbox contest, or at least place. Oh," she laughed again, "I guess I'm just as bad. Norwegians are terribly competitive. The funny thing is, if a Norwegian wins something, it's part of their nature to belittle themselves and claim they don't deserve the honor."

  Jessie smiled. "Self-deprecating, huh?"

  "Yes, but cut-throat. Especially the women."

  They walked through the house, Esther pointing out various pieces of furniture Arvid had made, all solid oak pieces of clean design. Then Jessie looked out the large picture window to the back and noticed a chicken coop, about fifteen feet long. Half of it was sided with cedar and had a small window, and the other part was an enclosed run of chicken wire with a half dozen chickens scratching in the dirt. Esther saw where Jessie was looking.

  "Arvid made that, too," she said proudly. "It's even heated for winter, and it isn't just a chicken yard. The back third of it is doghouse."

  "Neat," Jessie said.

  She grinned when Jessie looked at her expectantly. "I put the dogs away when I saw you turn into the lane. I hate it when they bark at company. Don't let Arvid tell you they're mine. He likes to tell people he bought the cockapoo for me, but that little dog is his sweetheart."

  "That big house is for a cockapoo?"

  "No. For the other one . . . well, watch," she said. Esther opened the back door, put her fingers between her teeth and gave a shrill whistle. A massive brindle head draped in wrinkles appeared in the window of the doghouse. "That," Esther said, "is Bass. He's a Neapolitan mastiff. I could feed three teenagers on what it costs to keep that big boy in kibble. Have Arvid show you his tricks some time."

  "My god, he's enormous," Jessie said. "But he's gorgeous, isn't he? And by the way, you're my hero, Esther."

  Esther looked quizzically at the smaller woman.

  "I always wanted to be able to whistle like that." Jessie and Esther both laughed.

  A second later, a small white puffball appeared to be standing on the big dog's back. "The cockapoo," Esther explained. "That's Minnow," she said, shaking her head. "I'm afraid the only trick he knows is how to hoodwink my husband out of dog treats. But, he's a master at that." Esther turned to walk back through the living room. "I think I heard Arvid's car door slam, so he's home. I'm glad he was late. It gave us some time to visit."

  "Me too," Jessie said. "Come to the studio one day, and we'll get better acquainted. I'd also like to come back to hear you play."

  "While we're talking about music, did you have a music teacher in high school named Karen Montgomery?"

  Jessie looked startled. "Well yes, I did. She was one of my favorite teachers. Do you know her?"

  "She's my sister. I met Arvid when I came down to visit her. And I just remembered why your name was so familiar when Arvid mentioned it. Karen said she had a student named Jessie who sang the birds right out of the trees. She had been talking about a talent night when you sang songs from several jazz and rock singers. Karen is a great judge of music, so now, I would like to hear your music, too, Jessie, as well as see some of your artwork."

  Jessie's cheeks turned pink. "Oh go on, it's just something that comes natural, like breathing. I know it sounds silly, but I have a weakness for the Karaoke nights some places hold. It's more fun to sing when there's some accompaniment. Everyone in our family sings and plays a musical instrument. Everyone except me. That is, my art took so much time that I never had time to learn an instrument." Jessie's thoughts turned inward. She said, "My brother Kevin could hear something once on the radio and play it by ear on his guitar. We used to have a good time. He'd play his old Gibson guitar, and we'd sing duets. Sometimes, mom or dad would join in, but usually it wasn't their kind of music."

  At that moment, Arvid opened the door, greeted Jessie quickly, gave Esther a peck on her cheek, and hustled Jessie out the door and into his patrol car.

  "Sorry to rush you out," Arvid said. "After we're done visiting with John Running Bear, I want to go back to the office and talk to the night shift."

  "That's fine," Jessie said. "I'd like to be home by 7:15 anyhow."

  Arvid continued, "I also want to see if Jack Reynolds has heard from the Weber woman. We've called so often with no response, that we turned the job of phoning her number over to Blanche. 'Course, caller ID would show Sage Bluff Police Office, and she may not want to pick up."

  "You think she's left town?"

  "Probably. When Amber never showed up at the White Bison Inn, the normal thing for Monette to do would have been to call Amber's parents, then come and report it at the station."

  "Wait a minute, Arvid." Jessie said. "You don't know she never showed. You only know the B&B owner never saw her. Amber might have gone to the inn, dropped luggage and then left again on her motorcycle. When she never returned, Monette might have heard about her death on the evening news. Knowing her friend wasn't coming back, she could have taken Am
ber's things when she left."

  "Yeah, you're right. In fact, since she was stuck in a hotel room, Monette probably watched some T.V." Arvid lifted a hand from the wheel and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He said. "There are a couple of possibilities. One, Monette heard Amber had been killed and hightailed it out of town, worried someone might be coming after her next. Two, she killed Amber herself. Maybe after traveling with Amber and helping with her research, she thought she could find the paintings. Turn them into cash."

  "Those aren't the only choices, Arvid. Maybe she just didn't come to the station because she's as frightened of the police as Amber was." She paused. "Or . . . maybe she's dead."

  Arvid looked grim. "Yeah, I didn't want to mention that last one."

  The patrol car jounced over the poorly maintained steel bridge that spanned the swollen waters of the Yellowstone River. Below the structure, whirlpools spun enormous chunks of driftwood like riders on demonic carousels. Arvid looked down at the swirling flow as he drove across. "Water's too high and full of snags to be good fishing. There's always some idiot losing his line trying to fish off the bridge, though."

  "I hear you. And those lines tangle up any other wildlife unfortunate to run across them."

  Her comment was answered by a grunt and a bit of "Swedish" as the vehicle hit a pothole.

  "You know, Monette might be camping somewhere, Arvid. Even if she didn't have camping gear with her when she first came to Sage Bluff, she could have picked some up."

  "Yeah, I can check the stores that sell sporting goods . . . see if anyone remembers her."

  "Might check the thrift shop, too. You think there could be any connection with Amber's death and Blanche's missing niece?"

  "Nothing we're smart enough to put together yet, if there is." Arvid thought a minute. "Course, we're not batting a thousand so far."

  The two rode in companionable silence until they pulled into the parking lot of the High Butte Senior Living Center in Sage Bluff. Jessie pulled a small notebook from her purse. "Thought I'd take a leaf out of my Aunt Kate's book and start a journal," she said. "Might write down anything interesting John Running Bear says."

  Arvid stopped at the desk and asked the receptionist for John Running Bear's apartment number, then hurried down the hall, Jessie matching his long stride. As soon as they passed the reception desk, the flavor of the facility changed. "Ugh, Arvid. You'd think they would spruce it up for the elderly residents." Bare walls of white were unbroken by anything resembling décor, the effect making the senior living center seem industrial instead of homey. They passed several large alcoves where a homey chair could be placed by a window, but they stood empty and unwelcoming. "It's like a prison. I wonder if they'd welcome a suggestion of a mural competition." Jessie made a face as the rounded a corner and turned into another hall of white walls. "My Gosh, they could at least paint the doors bright colors. I'll bet plenty of artists would help spruce it up."

  "Needs something," Arvid agreed grumpily. Then he muttered, "I always hope I don't end up in a place like this."

  "Each hallway could have a themed mural. It would be free decorating for the senior living facility if enough businesses would donate paint and prizes. In fact, High Butte Senior Living could charge each artist a small entry fee and use the money for a special dinner or something for the residents."

  Arvid looked at her. "Talk to Esther," he said. "She'll fuss at the manager for you. The residents need some cheering up, Jessie. Every time I come here I wonder how such an attractive exterior can have such gut-wrenchingly, gawd awful depressing halls. I used to hope the apartments were nicer inside. But I've been in a couple and let me tell you, they aren't."

  "That's too bad."

  "Let me tell you another thing, if I ever get put in the nursing home half of this place, and those people put that scratchy terrycloth over the arm of my chair I'm gonna take my dentures out and use 'em to bite somebody."

  Jessie laughed, the melodic sound echoing down the cavernous hallway.

  "This one's John Running Bear's." He knocked loudly at apartment number twenty-seven.

  A tobacco-etched voice yelled, "Who is it?"

  "Arvid Abrahmsen. I'm a Sage Bluff Deputy, and I would like to visit with you," Arvid yelled back.

  "Go away!" the voice cackled. "I ain't robbed any stores! I'm sick of visiting with old men! And I hate cops. And what kind of name is Arvid? You sound like some kind of foreigner to me."

  Arvid looked at Jessie. He thought a minute, then yelled. "I have a good looking young woman with me, Mr. Running Bear."

  "Well, don't stand out there, then. Get your butt in here. And shut the door after yerself. Don't let that cow pie faced widow from next door waddle in with you, neither."

  Arvid opened the door and gave a gallant hand gesture. "Ladies first, Jessie."

  Inside, the walls of the apartment were an assault of empty white, but a multi-colored bedspread softened the room. A wizened man sat in a blazing blue recliner, his feet up, and several striped wool blankets over his legs. He wore a sweat shirt emblazoned with a buffalo skull, the horns filling the sunken span of John Running Bear's chest. The effect was macabre, the skull on the shirt topped by the skull-like, shrunken head of the old man.

  "By god, if you'd told me it was a redhead, I'd have let you in the first time. Got a real likin' for red-heads."

  Jessie smiled at him and stepped in to take the withered hand resting on top of the mound of blankets. John Running Bear peered at Jessie and his body jerked. He drew back from her and shut his eyes.

  "Am I dead?" he whispered.

  "Of course not, Mr. Running Bear," Jessie said, startled. "You're sitting here in your own apartment visiting with me."

  He opened his eyes and looked closely at her. "Kate?" he asked.

  "Oh, no. So that's what startled you, Mr. Running Bear. I've been told that I look like my great aunt, Kate Morgan. I'm Jessie. Jessie O'Bourne. Arvid and I wanted to ask you some questions about the old days—St. Benedict's school, my Aunt Kate—any stories you can share."

  "Ah," he rasped, "and the paintings. Everyone wants Thomas Moran's paintings." His eyes shuttered. "Don't bother asking. I don't know where they went. They were supposed to help pay for a new school."

  "Those too, Mr. Running Bear," Arvid said. "Minna Heron Woman told us to come to you. She said you know all the old stories. And she said you told the truth."

  He curled and uncurled his bony fingers, clutching at the wool blanket while he looked again at Jessie. "Minna? Minna sent you?" He seemed to consider that. "Yes. I did. Nobody would believe me when it was important, but I told the truth. I was at St. Benedict's Mission School when I was eleven or twelve. Forget which. I should start at the beginning of the story." He coughed. "Besides, I like to draw my visits out. I don't get many."

  "Take your time, Mr. Running Bear, "Arvid encouraged.

  The old man sucked in a deep breath. "That year, school had been going on for about a month when a big woman came to St. Benedict's. She told the nun who was teaching there that Father Michael sent her to help out. Said in return the nun was s'posed to give her a place to stay. She'd been there for three or four days, and then one night there was a terrific argument. The next day—poof— our teacher was gone. The big woman told us someone rode in during the night to tell Sister Mary Campbell she had a family emergency and she'd been asked to take the nun's place. Said we should call her Sister Mary Campbell, just like the teacher who left. A day or so later, the woman began wearing the nun's robes."

  Jessie and Arvid looked at one another.

  "Go on," Jessie said.

  "About a week or so before that, Jim O'Bourne had brought Kate to the school. Kate's mother had Spanish flu and couldn't take care of her. That's the flu that killed millions of people in 1918." He shook his head. "It was a terrible killer that bug, even worse on young, strong adults than it was children and old people. It started to die back, but when the war ended, people held parties to celebrate,
and it broke out again. Killed ten times more people than World War I," he said. Running Bear was thoughtful for a moment.

  "Yes, I heard about that from my grandpa," Arvid said somberly. "Now, about Kate?"

  "Sorry, I get sidetracked," the old man said. "Anyway, the new teacher hated Kate. Maybe because Kate was a pretty little thing and she stood up for herself. That little girl was like a spirited horse, something wild about her. Ever chance she got, the woman hassled that little girl. Damn woman pinched her. Things like that. Kate took it, set her jaw, and refused to cry."

  "What about when Moran came, sir?" Arvid asked.

  "When Thomas Moran came, I think he knew things weren't right for the little girl, but didn't know how bad it was. He stayed for weeks, camped out nearby. Gave Kate art lessons, and he handed two paintings—big ones—to the so-called nun when he left. We knew the woman had been leaving Kate alone while Moran was there, and as soon as he was gone, Kate would catch hell for somethin'. So a couple of us bigger boys got together and decided to cause a ruckus—chased a couple of the chickens around. That was guaranteed to get a rise out of her. Haw, haw. It was great. You should've seen that woman flappin' after us kids. I'll never forget it.

  Arvid's deep laugh and Jessie's chortle joined Running Bear's hoarse laugh.

  "She came running after us. Tossed those paintings in the barrel where we burnt our trash on her way past. In the trash! Kate took 'em out while we kept her busy. She couldn't find any place in the school to hide 'em so she ran right into the woman's own cabin and slipped 'em between the woman's bed mattress and box spring. She was a brave one!" he cackled. "Then, a day or so after Jim O'Bourne picked up his daughter, the woman skedaddled. Took off the same way she came."

  "Are you sure she left, Mr. Running Bear, or did she disappear like the other nun?" Jessie asked.

  "Nah." John Running bear avoided Jessie's eyes. "She left. Rode out. Took everything not nailed down with her. Didn't leave us kids much food, so I took that mean old rooster and we put him in a pot. Tasty, too. You know, things taste better when your belly's got such a hankerin' to eat." He grimaced and looked at the cold meal sitting on his bedside table. "Yeah, well. I don't have much appetite anymore."