1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  An irritated blur of orange darted out as Jessie opened the door. Jack scampered to the patch of hollyhocks near the barn, his favorite hunting ground, to check out the possibility of long-tailed grey snacks. Jessie put the key back and shut the door. As she walked past the kitchen window, she saw the tom disappear into the thicket of tall plants.

  Time to get some exercise, too, before I blimp up like Goodyear. The Wild Bull sure doesn't let you go home hungry.

  She went quickly upstairs to her bedroom and changed into jeans, a light pullover, and tennis shoes. She pulled a house key from the kitchen drawer, grabbed her iPod and headphones, then hurried down the stairs and out the door for her evening walk.

  Jessie locked up, circled around the house and followed the rutted gravel lane leading west past the alfalfa field, instead of heading toward the main road. She lengthened her stride, walking toward a line of tall steel grain bins—'Montana skyscrapers'—in the far distance. Small animals scurried into the brush beside the road as she passed. Several gophers, a mouse.

  Jessie saw them but, because of the headphones, her world was soundless except for the audio book she listened to. On the iPod clipped to her pullover, Randy Wayne White described the mangrove coast of Florida, while Jessie watched the Montana sky begin to lower and Canada geese fly overhead, searching for a wheat field or river backwater to settle into for the night.

  After thirty minutes of fast hiking, she stood to watch the edges of the silhouetted grain bins turn the color of glowing apricot, kindled by the setting sun. The sky roiled with purple grey clouds and ever changing swathes of crimson, orange and yellow. Across the dying light, the last flock of geese winged in a V formation. Jessie removed her headphones, turned off the book, and listened to their calls until she could no longer hear them. Then she turned around, settled her headphones over her thick hair, clicked The Mangrove Coast back on, and headed home.

  Returning to the house, Jessie paused the audio book, looped her headphones around her neck and shook her hair out. She walked through the garage, unlocked the back door to the house and stepped into the moonlit kitchen. As she reached toward the light switch, she wrinkled her nose, sensing an unexpected odor. Cigarette smoke? Standing motionless, she listened, and heard a light footstep. There was something wrong. The door to the cavernous pantry stood open. Jessie quietly stepped back, slipped into the space and pulled the door almost shut.

  Through the crack she could see the microwave oven on the counter, and the moonlight on its glassy surface reflected the kitchen and the arched entrance to the dining room. The view showed no movement, no hint of an intruder. She allowed her breath to escape in a soft, cautious sigh, but continued standing, tense and still, heart thumping—straining to hear anything beyond the usual creaks of the log house. There it was—a butterfly breath of sound.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom in the pantry, she scanned the pantry. The shelves were full of canned goods and the pegboard wall held kitchen and small tools for household repairs. Then she saw something useful. Stretching to reach the highest row of hooks she took down a small ax, one her granddad, and now her dad, used to chop wood into fireplace kindling. She held it close to her chest, listening intently.

  Five minutes later, she still stood behind the pantry door gripping the kitchen hatchet so tightly by the thick oak handle she wondered what would be first to snap, the old wood or the bones in her fingers. She stiffened her resolve and waited. She could sense rather than hear someone moving toward the hall.

  Looking at the small ax in her fist, she shivered, recalling her childhood fear of the razor thin edge. The thought of using it against flesh and bone made her stomach clench.

  "God, You know I hate sharp objects," she mouthed heavenward. "Couldn't you have given me something dull, but deadly? Something that made me less queasy?"

  Jessie remembered watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the wicked blue-black blade in Grandpa O'Bourne's gnarled hand. In her mind she heard again the thumping sound of kindling dropping to the side of the wide cottonwood stump he used as a chopping block. It was her job to gather the split wood and carry it to the house. Giving a mental sigh, she focused on the reflection in the microwave door.

  If there's someone in the house looking for trouble, I guess the Almighty wants him cut down a peg. All the same, if I could rub a lamp, I'd wish for my pistol.

  The small hatchet grew heavy in her grasp, and Jessie was beginning to lower it, thinking she was just being paranoid, when she heard the front door being carefully opened. It was closed with equal care, and she heard an odd scraping sound, then the loud crunch of running feet churning the gravel in the drive. She ran to the darkened living room and peered through the blinds in time to see a figure run behind the barn. Seconds later, a motor revved and a figure hunched tight on a motorcycle sped from the yard, the cycle and rider a blended silhouette against the moonlit sky.

  Her chest heaved, breath escaping in a loud, relieved sigh. Jessie returned to the pantry and hung the small hatchet on its customary peg before her legs began to tremble. She walked shakily back through the kitchen, grabbed the phone from the hall desk and froze.

  Who should she call? She thought again of Amber's panicked voice begging her "no police". She thought of the smell of smoky clothing. To her knowledge, Russell had never smoked, and Russell lived closer than Arvid. It was crazy to suspect Russell. Wasn't it? She tapped her finger on the kitchen counter, thinking. Then she grabbed the business card Russell gave her a few days before and punched in his number. She gave him a brief rundown of what had happened, and hung up. She tapped her heel on the floor nervously. Oh heck, she thought. She picked up the phone again and called Arvid, too, and told him about the intruder

  "I don't need you to come, Arvid. I guess I'm just covering all my bases. I don't really suspect Russell of being a killer, but it's hard for me to get past the fact he's the only one we could see had no alibi for Amber's attack." She gave a weak laugh. "It's ludicrous for me to be bothering you."

  "No, it isn't. It was the right thing to do. I'm a night owl, anyhow. Call me again after Russell leaves."

  "No, Russell. We've been over this twice already. Just like the break-in at the barn, I don't think anything is missing. I didn't recognize him. I couldn't judge how tall he was. He was bent over the motorcycle handlebars."

  "And you can't tell me what color the motorcycle was—not even a guess?"

  "I told you." Jessie's eyes flashed with indignation. "It was just too dark."

  "Hmph." Russell folded his arm across his chest and glared back at her, feet spread wide in a cop stance. "You should have gone back out and called me from the yard."

  "My phone was up on the bedroom dresser. I was afraid to walk through the kitchen to get Dad's portable."

  "So you hid in the pantry. Geez, Jess, if they'd come looking for you, you'd have been trapped in there."

  "Well, I grabbed the little ax we use for chopping kindling for the fireplace, that little hatchet Granddad used to call his baby. I waited and whoever it was simply went out the front and took off running. The motorcycle must have been parked behind the barn, hidden from view. When I was sure he was gone, I called you." She met his intense gaze with a calculating one of her own. "You got here faster than I expected."

  "Well, I thought you sounded terrified." Russell said. "I blistered the road getting here," he admitted. "But a hatchet, Jessie? You picked up a hatchet with your phobia about sharp things?"

  "I got over that a long time ago," she fibbed. "And it might have been someone violent."

  "Yikes, someone violent, huh?" Russell grinned with relief. He still stood with his feet slightly apart, and his arms crossed over his chest. His cop pose. "I worried all the way over here, and probably should have been worried for the intruder instead," he teased.

  Jack wound himself in and out between Russell's spread feet. Finally Russell relaxed, glanced down and bent over to rub the cat's head, scratching behind his ears, bu
t when he stood up, he was still grinning.

  "The poor burglar was probably some flighty teenager hunting for beer or DVDs, and here's you with an ax? An ax!" Russell shook his head. "Ha, ha, ha! Probably scared the pants off him. God, I can't even picture it. Remind me never to walk in here without knocking when you're home."

  "Oh, ha-ha right back at you, you moron." Jessie wrinkled her nose and tilted her head back belligerently. "Would you rather I hit him with a can of peas? Or maybe something more deadly, like . . . oh, I know . . . the hefty can of spicy, diced tomatoes?"

  "Yeah, Jessie, or bean him with a can of garbanzos! Hahahaha!"

  "Don't you make fun of me, Bonham. You and Kevin always told me the best defense was a good offense." She grimaced. "Of course, when I tagged along, mostly you told me to go home."

  "We were probably afraid of you," he said, roaring with laughter. Then he shook his head and reverted to using his best cop voice, "Ahem. Well, getting back to the business at hand. Do you have friends who know you walk every night? Would someone simply come in to wait for you?"

  "And then run away like that when they heard me come home? No, I've only been here for a week, and I've been painting outdoors for the better part of every day."

  "Well, you went to Denver. Maybe someone thought you were still gone."

  "Not many people know I'm even back." She thought a minute, then continued, "Maybe Dad and Marty have close friends who would just come in and make themselves at home, but any of them would have turned on the light and raided the fridge."

  "Got anybody in mind?"

  She tilted her head back to look up at him. "Oh, wait," she said pointing an accusing finger at him, "The most likely suspect for that fridge raid would be you."

  "I haven't seen your dad for a while." Russell said, averting his eyes. "And don't you know it's not good sense to trot around in the dark with your headphones on listening to a damn book? It's stupid. You can't even hear a car coming."

  "What cars? I use the field access roads, not the highway, and at least I exercise. You're getting flabby. The closest you probably get to exercising is reading Sports Illustrated. Oh, wait, you only have to look at the pictures in that one, right? No reading required."

  Russell stared at her. "I don't recall you being this mouthy when you were younger." He ignored Jessie's glare. "Well, if you walked in with your headphones on, you wouldn't have heard anything at first. How did you know someone was in the house?"

  "I'd already taken my headphones off when I came in, and whoever it was made no noise. But I caught a hint of cigarette smoke." Jessie thought for a moment, eyes serious and the tip of her fingers against her mouth. "No, maybe a pipe. Not strong enough that I thought someone was smoking, but like someone whose clothing smelled strongly of smoke had walked through the kitchen seconds before I came in. You really notice the odor if you aren't blessed with the nasty habit yourself."

  "Yeah, so I hear."

  Jessie sniffed. A pleasant odor of musky aftershave clung to Russell. To her knowledge, he'd never smoked, but she was relieved all the same that he smelled good—too good, even—because it meant it wasn't him in the house earlier.

  "I guess after the tire incident in Yellowstone and the broken window on the motorhome, I'm a little paranoid."

  "No, I'm sorry I laughed at you, Jessie. I was relieved the incident seemed to have been pretty harmless. No damage. No injuries. But you're not paranoid. It's smart to be careful, Jessie. I still say you should have someone come and stay out here with you for a while. Someone seems to know where you're going and whether anyone's home or not. They could be searching for clues about the Morans. Or maybe they just hope they could find them here."

  "Well, I hate it that some wacko is following me, ruining my tires, and breaking in when I'm gone. But I'm not having someone out here interfering with my work. End of subject." She looked at him. A shiver of awareness turned her legs quivery. She'd always felt drawn to Russell, and several times she was sure he felt a strong spark of interest, too, but he'd never acknowledged it. Then Jessie felt a flash of anger.

  What was she doing, forgetting that Russell married Kevin's fiancée almost before the body was buried—geez, was he so stupid he didn't realize what people would think? Or didn't he care?

  Jessie turned away so Russell couldn't see her expression, and opened the refrigerator door. Looking at the soda cans, she pulled out a root beer. She cleared her throat. "Want something to drink? There's iced tea or there's pop."

  When Jessie turned back to Russell, he was looking at her with a beat puppy expression, almost as though he'd known what she was thinking. She held out the can of root beer.

  "Russell . . . ?"

  "Oh. Um . . . no thanks. I have to be getting home. K. D. is probably asleep, but I had to call my neighbor, Janice Dahlberg, to come and stay with him until I got back. She just lives a minute or two down the road. The phone woke K. D., and he was hopping around in his room when I left, but Janice was going to try to get him to bed."

  "You worried your sitter can't handle him?"

  "Naw, she's a good egg, but I don't want to inconvenience her any more tonight." He strode toward the door. "Keep my number, keep your cell phone with you. If you have that 9mm pistol Dan gave you, keep it handy. Be sure to take it with you if you go out alone to paint. Go get a concealed carry permit for it."

  Crap, Jessie thought. She had forgotten all about his little boy. He'd not only married Trish, they had a child. She felt foolish for thinking of Russell as anything other than a cop—a married cop, damn it, even if the wife didn't seem to be in the picture right now. No way Jessie was going to ask about her, either. It would be embarrassing if Russell knew how curious she was. She'd never liked Trish much. The girl had seemed immature to Jessie, and volatile, but she'd had Kevin wrapped around her finger as tight as duct tape.

  "Idiot." Jessie winced. Oh damn, had she said that out loud?

  "What?"

  "Nothing. . . I just said, I'm not an idiot." She gave a small smile. "I already have the permit. And I like the gun much better than that hatchet. Now that scares me."

  Russell looked at her and smiled back. "No, I don't think much scares you, Jessie. But be careful anyhow, will you? You should stop by the station to put in a report about the break in, even if nothing is missing. Give the whole place a better look before you come in, will you?"

  He turned and was gone.

  The phone rang several times before Arvid picked up, and before he said hello she heard him simper 'There you go. You're just daddy's little sweetheart, yes you are'. Then into the phone his gruff voice said, "Sorry, I was letting Esther's dang useless little dog out," he said. "Otherwise, I have to get up in the middle of the night to open the door and then wait until the little mutt comes back in. Can't leave it out in the yard with Bass, an owl might haul it off by its sorry little tuckus."

  Remembering what Esther had told her about Minnow being Arvid's special baby, Jessie screwed up her face, trying not to laugh into the phone.

  "Arvid, Russell just left, but I wanted to fill you in." She covered all the points of the break in and then said. "After he left, I thought about what that odd scraping sound that I heard when the person first stepped out of the front door. Arvid, it was the front door key being returned under the plant pot. That's how he got in. He knew where the key was kept. I'll ask Dad who would know about it, but the only person I come up with is Russell."

  "Holy Ned," Arvid said. "Hmmm, just Russell, huh?"

  "I'm afraid so, Arvid."

  He paused, then said, "Aw, I'm not sure that's too important, Jessie. About everybody I know hides a key near the front door. Might be a fluke that the intruder found it. Odd though, for the burglar to put the key back. Don't touch the key, Jessie. I'll see if I can get a print off it."

  "Okay," Jessie agreed.

  "You said nothing was taken. They could have been looking for Amber's papers. Where do you keep them?"

  "In Dad's big gun s
afe, and it's still locked. Since somebody shattered the Greyhawk window, I've been stacking Amber's research in the safe and locking it in unless I'm using it."

  "That's a good idea, I'd keep on doing that. I'll see you in the morning if I'm still invited to help search through Amber's findings."

  "Sure. Donuts are on Mr. FBI's to-do list, and I'll feed you lunch."

  "Donuts, huh? I got a good feeling about this, Jessie. Hope he buys something other than just plain old cake ones."

  "Me, too. Gooey, chocolate-frosted would be high on my list."

  "Jelly filled," Arvid said. "If Amber found something all by her lonesome she thought was a good clue to the Morans, how can three enormous brains working on a sugar high miss it? See you tomorrow about nine."

  After she'd hung up, Jessie thought about how thoroughly she'd searched the Greyhawk after the first break in. She took the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, and walked out to the barn. There was one place she hadn't looked for missing items. She opened the door to the motorhome and climbed in. Then she walked back to the compact kitchen area, opened the door of the refrigerator, and sucked in a surprised breath. The fridge was as empty as the day Jessie drove the Greyhawk off the sales lot. Jessie took a better inventory of the cupboards than she'd done the day the window was broken and noticed a large jar of peanut butter was missing, a box of crackers, maybe some pasta and a can or two of tuna, too.

  Jessie thought. It was not cigarette or pipe smoke she smelled in the house this evening. It was the smell of a campfire, or maybe even a barbecue grill. Hmm. She thought about how much Arvid liked BBQ, then shook off the notion.

  She locked up the motorhome and the barn door, jogged back to the house and decided not to bother Arvid again. She'd tell him and Russell in the morning. But whoever had entered the house tonight hadn't taken any food. How did that person know where to find the extra key? Jessie had no clue. And now she was wide awake. She decided to go down to the basement and hunt through the trunk Dan O'Bourne suggested was a possible hiding spot for Kate's second journal.