"I hope not," Russell said. "How much money do you think we're talking about here, Agent Samuelson, with the drug route? A few hundred thousand? A million?"
"I can't give you a number, Detective Bonham. Multiple millions, I'd say."
Russell asked. "Did Travis know much about Amber Reynolds?"
Samuelson looked surprised. "No, I don't think he knew anything of Amber Reynolds except her old connection to our drug dealer. Why?"
"Well," Russell said, looking at Arvid resignedly, "According to our local expert and the FBI, Amber Reynolds was looking for twenty million dollars' worth of paintings. The head of a drug ring might be tempted to branch out for that much money. I wonder if the cases overlap. To finish your saying, Agent Samuelson, yeah, sometimes it just pours."
"Well, I'll have to dump a little more on you, Detective Bonham. Before Travis disappeared he said he was beginning to wonder if someone from the Fire Station or Sheriff's Office—actually here or in Baxter—could be connected with the drug distribution. Frankly, I brushed it off as unlikely."
"God, things just keep getting better and better," Russell said sarcastically. "What made him suspect that?"
"Don't know," Samuelson said. "He just said he was looking into it, and that he'd bet his pension the connection was here in Sage Bluff. It was a joke between us. He knew I was getting ready to retire, and his retirement fund was non-existent."
"Agent Samuelson, Amber Reynolds was afraid of the police," Arvid said. "Scared to death."
Samuelson's eyes opened wide. Russell nodded confirmation.
Arvid continued, "I wonder if Jake Ward let slip to one of his cronies that his girlfriend was hunting for those Thomas Moran paintings? Maybe bragged a bit about how much they were worth. Can you get someone to press him a little? See if he remembers mentioning it to anyone?"
"Yes, of course. I'll call Williston after we're done here. Now, regarding Travis Simpson, I'm afraid at the present time, with hopes that Travis's cover was not blown, that we have to pass the responsibility of looking into his disappearance to you two gentlemen. We don't want to give the drug runners a heads up that Travis was DEA, or that a DEA agent is in town. I wanted to meet and speak with you in person, not over the phone. Perhaps I wanted to get a look at the two cops that I was going to ask to find Travis."
Russell and Arvid stood, ready to show the man out. Samuelson looked at them with a serious expression.
"You realize no other officers can be told he was one of our agents, just in case he was right about the police connection. Please keep our meeting under your hat."
"Yeah," Russell said, "You have our word. Still hope he shows up, but we'll beat the bushes and see what we can find out."
Samuelson looked down at his half-full Styrofoam cup and pitched it into the wastebasket. "Thank the woman who brought me this . . . uh, coffee…tell her to button up her lip, too."
Russell nodded at Samuelson. "Hit the café down the street if you need a cup to cover up the taste of that one. Good place for dinner, too."
Samuelson stood, shook hands with Arvid and Russell and handed both men a business card. "I'll be checking in with you," he said. "And tonight I'm staying at the B&B a block over, the White Bison Inn." He turned at the door, grasping the handle. "I feel responsible for Travis. Please find him." He turned and left, pulling the door shut as he went.
Arvid and Russell looked at one another. "Not the normal case for Sage Bluff is it, Arvid?" Russell asked quietly.
"Nah. Probably not normal for any town our size. Say Russell," Arvid asked stroking his chin. "Got a hacksaw?" Russell looked at him questioningly. "There's a locker down at the Fire Station I think I want to take a look at."
Chapter 31
Wild Bull Restaurant, Sage Bluff, present day
Grant Kennedy walked around to the passenger side to open the car door for Jessie. Jessie caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she stepped out. Grant could see she was trying not to laugh, probably at the expression he imagined was plastered on his face.
"You're sure this is Sage Bluff's best restaurant, huh?" Grant said, looking up at the black fiberglass bull revolving on the pillar above the restaurant. Its eyes glowed eerily with red electric lights, and below the bull whirled a brilliantly lit sign that proclaimed 'The Wild Bull Steakhouse - Fine Dining'. Picnic tables full of rowdy diners as noisy as a flock of magpies cluttered the patio in front of the entrance. One of the black and white birds strutted hopefully between the benches of diners looking for handouts. The exterior of the building was sided with rough cedar shingles; here and there one hung precariously as though a stiff breeze would blow it into the next county. The aroma of spilled beer and smoky barbecued meat filled the air.
His stomach rumbled. He'd been looking for something a little nicer than a burger, though.
"You won't be sorry, I promise." Jessie looked amused. "The patio area has a different menu than the indoor restaurant. The outdoor area is meant for family barbecue get-togethers, teenagers and such: burgers, beer and barbecue pork. We'll eat inside. You might want to leave your jacket in the car, though. I told you casual dress. I can't help it if you FBI types won't take advice from a woman.""
Jessie's hair was curling around her shoulders and she wore black slacks, a peacock blue silk blouse and soft black high heeled leather boots and silver hoop earrings. Over her arm she carried a sweater. She looked great.
Grant glanced around at the people sitting at the outdoor tables, most dressed in shorts and t-shirts, and he slipped off his jacket, removed his tie and tossed them into the back seat.
"Oh, man up, Agent Kennedy," Jessie said in a teasing tone. She cocked her head at him and tucked her arm through his. "Shall we?" She gave him a brilliant smile.
He looked down at her radiant face. The peal of a warning bell echoed through his head, and he made a dismal attempt to heed it. The woman was altogether too appealing. When he answered, his voice was husky. "You talked me into it," he said.
Grant and Jessie strolled to the entrance and were greeted at the door by a twiggy teenaged girl dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a heavily embroidered western shirt. The teen swung the door wide and stepped in, holding the door to allow the couple to enter the dim interior. Then she stepped in front of Jessie and Grant and yelled 'Seating in the back!' giving Jessie a broad wink before she turned and went back outside. A waiter hustled over, ushered them to the back of the restaurant, and seated them at a booth covered with a canvas top made to look like an old covered wagon. Old sepia-toned photographs of the Wild West hung on the wall. The table was covered in a pristine white tablecloth and set with silverware wrapped in red paisley cloth napkins tied with rough twine. A pitcher of ice water and two glasses had been placed in the center of its surface.
"Our special tonight is rosemary-garlic rubbed elk medallions with your choice of potato—garlic mashed, baked or funeral." the server said, placing dinner and drink menus on the table.
"Funeral potatoes?" Grant asked.
"Yeah," the waiter said, "It's a version of scalloped potatoes from an old Mormon cookbook. Chef Perry isn't Mormon, but a friend of his gave him the recipe. He jazzed it up a little, but kept the name. Yowza, they're cholesterol city, but real good." He patted his stomach, and smiled.
"How about this note?" Grant pointed to the bottom of the menu where it stated Vegetables will be supplied on request at no extra charge.
"Yeah, we can add any veggie but the kitchen staff doesn't add them to the plate unless someone asks. Guess our dishwasher said they were always getting scraped off the plate, so now the veggies are on request. I'll leave you two to look at the menu. Nice to see you again, Jess."
Jessie nodded at him with a "You, too." After the waiter left, she told Grant, "Todd was a couple years behind me in school. Seems like a lifetime ago."
"I know what you mean. I just missed a fifteen year class reunion. Man, this menu is amazing." Grant skimmed the choices. "I've never had the opportunity to tas
te some of these meats. Actually, I've never even seen them offered in a restaurant."
"Try something new, then. If you're hungry enough for an appetizer, try the bison carpaccio with mushrooms on toast points. Ooh, they're yummy. I like the hickory roasted pheasant soup, too. And, I should warn you that the portions are "Montana sized". You know how they say everything is bigger in Texas? Well, those folks haven't been to the Wild Bull."
Grant looked at Jessie in amazement. "How can they offer meals like this for so little?"
She gave a delicate shrug. "Well, it's all local. It's illegal to serve wild game in restaurants, so the bison, elk and pheasant come from local game farms. I've heard that they give Chef Perry a break on price, too, since his restaurant gives them so much business. It's similar to the restaurants on the coast that offer inexpensive lobster or other fabulous seafood. Food that doesn't have to be shipped long distances is fresher and cheaper."
Grant looked at the wine list. "All the wines on this list claim to be Montana vineyard specialties," he said. "Wine? In Montana?"
"You'd better believe it, City Boy. The Ten Spoon Winery in Missoula has a roster of award winning wine. Several of their bottles won the silver at the 2012 Indy International Wine Competition." She looked again at the list. "You might try the Farm Dog Red. It would go well with the elk medallions."
Grant continued reading the wine list, then skimmed the short paragraph about the Missoula winery, pressing his knuckles to his lips to prevent a chuckle from escaping when he noticed the address for Ten Spoon Wineries was "4175 Rattlesnake Drive". He smiled at Jessie and signaled the waiter.
They placed their orders, both having decided on the special, with the addition of asparagus spears. Then Grant ordered a bottle of Farm Dog Red.
Chef Perry, a burly man with a blue kerchief tied biker-style over his thinning hair in lieu of a chef's hat, was adding the garlic mashed potatoes to a T-bone steak plate. He was decoratively piping the hot spuds through a pastry tube, when a pudgy waiter carrying a tray of dirty plates pushed through the swinging doors.
"Randy, guess who I saw with some city boy, ordering the elk medallions in booth number eleven."
"What, it isn't enough I'm short-handed in the kitchen tonight? I gotta play guessing games with my waiters, Todd? I don't care if it's the Pope. Hey, Craig," he yelled to a man working at the next counter, "Get them pheasant breasts ready."
"I'll give you a hint," the waiter said, "Think redhead."
"For cripes sake, gimme a break! I got four—"
"Another hint. Think songbird. Then think redhead . . . ."
The chef's head swiveled around.
"Reeeally?"
"Yeah. Jess O'Bourne's home. I know you've been trying to think of a good ploy to pack this place for the fundraiser this weekend. After she blew away the crowd at the open mike night a few years back you couldn't stop talking about it. She'd be just the ticket. Man, we'd rake in the bucks. People donate more when they're having a good time."
"Yeah, they do. We need her. I'll give them time to enjoy dinner and then 'bam!'," he said, giving his best Emeril Lagasse impression, "I'll ask her when she's full of our best elk medallions. She won't know what hit her."
"That ought to do it," Todd agreed.
"Besides, who can resist donating to this benefit? Everyone knows how much the High Butte Senior Apartments need repainting. Especially the nursing home section. Shoot, it'd sure be nice if we could make enough to add some comfy furniture or a little library." Chef Perry added a garnish to a plate of venison steak, then handed the plate to Todd and waved him out.
"Of course, maybe Jessie hasn't ever been there. Her dad is still healthy as a teenager," Craig reminded his boss.
Perry thought for a minute, absent mindedly piping whipped cream in a decorative swirl onto a dessert plate. The swirl rose higher and higher. "You know, I think I'll just give her a certificate for dinner for two, and beg Jessie to come and sing that night."
Later, the chef untied his dirty apron and reached into a drawer for a fresh one, slipping it on and securing it behind his back. Then he slid two pieces of cobbler onto dessert plates, put a dollop of fresh raspberries and whipped cream on each, and pushed through the swinging doors. He headed for booth number eleven to make a personal delivery, compliments of the chef.
Grant looked at Jessie and asked, "So you're house-sitting for your dad. Where's home?"
"New Mexico. I'm gone a lot, delivering artwork, traveling to shows and teaching at workshops. But I own a small house and studio in Santa Fe. It's a cute little place, stucco and terracotta roof tiles, with a small courtyard. I love it there." Jessie paused. "Of course, the area is a tourist haven, so it's also a great market for my work."
"I've been there. It's a great town. It was hot as blazes when I visited, though. I ski, so most of the tourist areas I visit are in snow country."
"Too bad. Actually Santa Fe gets enough snow for skiing. But I can paint outdoors nearly all year long. As much as I appreciate a good snow scene, I don't get excited about painting in zero degree weather for a third of the year, freezing my fingers like I used to do here in Montana."
"I imagine you're absolutely inundated with out-of-town company, friends escaping Montana's below zero winters?"
She chuckled, a rich throaty sound. "I wish. I'm not home enough to be overwhelmed by house guests. Art friends come to visit when they bring work to the galleries, and Dad and Marty plan to come to golf or gallery hop later this year." Jessie made a zipping gesture across her lips, then she smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Now, you've been letting me do all the talking, so it's your turn. I want to hear about some of your interesting art theft cases."
Just as Jessie spoke, their waiter returned with two steaming plates and Jessie and Grant looked appreciatively at the well-presented meals. While they enjoyed the chef's special, Grant regaled her with story after story of fascinating art recoveries—and a few tales where the thieves had never been caught.
As they finished their dinner, Chef Perry came bearing down on them with a dessert tray and an affable expression. Grant's eyes widened. He'd seldom ever seen anyone who would look more at home on a big Harley instead of in an apron. The white T-shirt Perry wore was stretched tight over thickly-muscled biceps. The kerchief and thick neck, along with one dangling earring shaped like a cross, made him resemble a Hell's Angel rather than an accomplished chef.
The big man presented the desserts with a flourish and then smiled wolfishly at Jessie. "So, Jessie, I have a proposition for you . . . ."
A few minutes later, a coupon for a free dinner was tucked in Jessie's purse. While they savored their chuck wagon raspberry cobbler and sipped Chef Perry's special gourmet cowboy coffee, an aromatic dark-roast, Grant was mentally thumbing through his schedule, hoping he was free the evening Jessie agreed to sing.
The conversation turned again to the missing Morans and Jessie mentioned the journals Kate Morgan had written.
"I'm sure they aren't mentioned in our data," Grant said with interest. "May I read them when we go through Amber's research tomorrow?"
"Sure. At least the one. I haven't found the second journal yet, but I plan to look for it this evening."
"Speaking of tomorrow, I'd better get back to the hotel and do some work," Grant said reluctantly. "I hate to end our evening, but if you're done with your coffee, I'll take you home."
"I'm ready. In fact, I take a walk almost every night about this time just to enjoy the sky," Jessie said. "The sun doesn't set until 9 o'clock or after this time of year, and sunset is quite a show—the most eye-popping mixtures of red, orange and violet. If I painted a landscape that vivid, people would think I was hallucinating. That would mean a 'no-sale'." Jessie stood, and Grant held her sweater as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.
"I'm not sure I agree with that," Grant said as they walked to the cashier's desk. "Claude Monet painted sunsets that were vivid and very popular."
"Oh, yes. I like the piece
from Venice called San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk," Jessie replied, "It's beautiful, but Monet was an impressionist whose style lent itself to such pieces. I'm not an impressionist."
"How about Turner's work?" Grant asked in a challenging tone. "Surely you aren't going to fault his sunsets? Or Van Gogh's Starry Night, or Edvard Munch's The Scream with its tumultuous orange sky? People love them." He handed the clerk his credit card and added a generous tip to the total. They left the restaurant and walked to Grant's vehicle, where he opened and held Jessie's door for her before they resumed their conversation.
"Listen, Starry Night is remarkable in its brilliance, and Munch's is full of intense emotion and color. In fact, Starry Night has such appeal it's been made into—get this—a T-shirt," Jessie laughed. "I have one. Every time I wear it I find myself singing Don McLean's song all day—the one called Vincent, about Van Gogh and his painting. But, I'm talking about realistic skies. Try again, mister."
They bantered back and forth about famous sunset paintings until Grant deposited Jessie at the front door of O'Bourne's rambling log home.
"I enjoyed myself, Jessie," Grant said as he opened her car door, helped her out, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Tomorrow I'll pick up the donuts on my way to the ranch, and during our breaks from reading Amber's research, I expect you to be prepared to argue sunrise scenes."
"Sunrise, huh? I'll be ready," Jessie promised with a laugh and a wicked gleam in her vivid blue eyes. "And don't think I'll go easy on you just because you're FBI, either."
Jessie walked to the front door. Instead of rummaging through her purse for the key, she retrieved one her father kept under the small planter near the front porch. Jessie turned the key in the lock, humming Vincent.
Dang, Here I am, already so busy and I let myself get sucked into singing in that benefit. As if that isn't bad enough, that song's going to stick in my head all night. Maybe a walk will shake it out.
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