1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Chapter 32

  Rural Montana, present day

  Russell pulled out of O'Bourne's driveway and headed home. Halfway to his house, where his little boy was either in dreamland or waiting for Russell to tuck him in, he pulled into the driveway leading to a large highway maintenance building. He checked his watch. Then he tugged his wallet from his pocket and looked through it until he found the scrap of paper with the phone number he needed. Russell grabbed his cell phone and punched the number in.

  "Yeah, it's me," he said to the deep voice that answered his call. "I know I'm a few minutes late phoning, and I can only talk a minute." The deep voice rumbled.

  "Yes, I saw her," Russell said. "And no, I never told her."

  He listened to the reply, then said, "No, we haven't found the paintings. Of course, we might not."

  Russell dejectedly leaned back against the patrol car head rest as he listened, the phone pressed to his ear.

  "Now we have a DEA man and an FBI agent hanging around complicating matters." The voice at the other end rumbled on at length. "No, I don't think I can take care of her," Russell said in an emphatic tone. "I don't trust myself to get it done. I'm sorry. I know it would be inconvenient for you, but you might have to come and do it yourself. I'll call you."

  Russell rang off, put the phone on the passenger seat and started the engine.

  When he pulled into his own driveway twenty minutes later, he saw with relief that K. D.'s bedroom window was dark. Janice Dahlgren had been able to get him back to bed. She was sitting patiently on the sofa reading a magazine when Russell walked in, her thinning grey hair pulled back into a knot, and reading glasses perched on her nose.

  "Russell, that boy of yours is a wonder," she said, continuing with her usual non-stop stream of chatter. "When I put K. D. to bed I saw the new drawings up in his bedroom. The one of the llama he did with a marker makes me smile just to look at it. I taught school for thirty years when I lived in Wyoming, and never saw a child that could draw like that. Not as young as K.D. anyhow, that's for certain. I hope you have some of his drawings entered in the art competition at the Reuben White Gallery over in Baxter. In the youth categories, the prizes are big baskets of art supplies. Wouldn't he just love that?"

  "Yes, he would. And so would I. Let me tell you, he goes through tablets and colored pencils like a teenager through movie popcorn."

  "It has to be expensive, Russell."

  "Yeah, it sure is, I've been spending money like water for paper, paints, markers and children's books about art. If he won a few art supplies, it would give my worn-out wallet a break." He smiled at her. "I'll sure think about entering his work, Janice. It was nice of you to remind me."

  "Don't think long. My niece is entering. She mentioned that the deadline to register at the gallery and submit the child's work is this Saturday. Each child brings several drawings and then does a drawing or painting from a flower and fruit basket arranged on a table, and that result is judged right along with the ones the child brought in."

  "The kid has to draw something right there at the gallery?"

  "Yes. I'll bet they do it that way because too many parents 'help' their child. This way, if the child can do it on his own, it's evident. If the child can't, that is obvious, as well. All of the drawings are displayed, not just the winners. That's important to children, seeing their work appreciated enough to hang on a wall."

  "Is Jessie O'Bourne doing the judging, do you know?"

  "No. The gallery owner, Reuben White, chooses the awards in the children's art exhibition. Jessie O'Bourne is judging the adult work in the plein air category." She bent and picked up her purse from the sofa. "Russell, call the gallery and get the forms. Or, call me if you want me to get K.D. registered for you."

  "I will."

  "I'd be glad to do it. Now, I'd better get home."

  "Thanks. You've bailed me out a lot since K. D. was born. Let me know when you need some more work done on your house. I owe you some handyman time."

  "Seeing how that little boy is growing up is worth all the time I spend here. You make an old woman feel needed." She plucked at her frayed sweater cuff nervously. "But I do seem to have a leak in the garage roof, if you can get to it," she said in an apologetic tone. "I'm getting too old to climb that big ladder and I surely do hate to pay the high prices for repairmen when you do such a good job."

  He patted her on the shoulder. "You stay off that ladder, Janice. I can come over in the morning before I go to work. The weatherman says we're getting some drizzle tomorrow afternoon."

  She snorted. "You surely aren't taking old Koot's forecasts seriously? He hasn't been right all week. Just come in a couple days or so. No hurry."

  Chapter 33

  Sage Bluff, present day

  Grant whistled softly to himself as he hung his jacket in the hotel room closet. As he turned around, his cell phone chirped. He grabbed it from the night stand and looked at it in disgust before answering.

  "What is it now, Patricia?"

  "Oh Grant, don't be such a sourpuss. What happened to 'hello'? Can't you be a little friendlier?"

  "I think you've been friendly enough for both of us, Pat. And I don't have either the time or inclination to spend the rest of my evening on the phone. Whatever you need, I'm sure one of your many boyfriends can help you out."

  "But the sink disposal in the condo isn't working, and you're so good at fixing my, well, you know . . . my plumbing," she crooned. "I miss you."

  Grant rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  "Pat, the divorce is final. I'm not interested in your plumbing. The condo is all yours and is now all your responsibility. You've got to quit calling me."

  "But your tools are still here. Don't you want them? You can come and pick them up, and maybe while you're here, you can take a look at the disposal."

  "I'm not in Boston. I'm in Montana on business. Call a plumber. But yeah, I would like my tools. I'll come and pick them up when I get back." He disconnected.

  Five minutes later, his laptop was hooked to the hotel Wi-Fi and Grant was surfing the web. He was going to find several old masters' paintings with vivid morning skies before he worked through the stack of papers he'd checked out of the Sage Bluff police archives. His thoughts kept returning to a pair of laughing blue eyes.

  Chapter 34

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  Jessie sat back on her heels by the antique trunk in the basement and opened the journal. Kate's second journal had been buried under a layer of outdated clothing, hand-sewn quilts and fabric her mother hadn't had time to use before she passed away. The thick notebook had a cobalt blue leather cover, and a satin ribbon was stitched into the binding for use as a book mark. On the inside cover of was written 'Kate Morgan – 1939'. Nothing in between the old journal and 1939?

  Kate must have been too busy to keep writing when she was younger, or maybe her heart just wasn't in it. Kate had married, had a child, and then lost both her husband and little girl in the 1932 Long Beach earthquake in California, Jessie knew. Her eyes moistened at the thought.

  She stood up, dusted off her jeans, closed the trunk and carried the journal up to the den. She switched on the brass lamp by the sofa, grabbed paper and pen for jotting down notes and sat, curled up with the journal on her lap. Jack pranced in, stood on his hind legs and put a tentative paw on her knee. After Jessie patted her thigh in invitation, he jumped up to join her. Immediately his loud motor went into overdrive, emitting a rumbling purr Jessie found companionable. She stroked the tom's silky back as she opened the journal.

  On the first page a neat cursive hand had written simply 'Homecoming'. Jessie began reading the absorbing diary, a clear picture of her Aunt Kate filling her mind. She was a good writer, too, Jessie thought, as the life of Kate Morgan flowed from the pages and washed Jessie into the past.

  Chapter 35

  Kate's kitchen, Sage Bluff, Montana, 1939

  A colorful ceramic cookie jar shaped like a plump he
n sat in the center of the round oak table in the small rented apartment. The mute object was the only mediator between Kate and her brother, Nate. So far, it was doing a poor job. She'd hoped the cookies and the mug of coffee she'd poured would keep him too busy dunking his favorite snack to volunteer advice. Dressed in his work overalls and a green plaid flannel shirt with a missing button, Nate overflowed the kitchen chair and rested his work boot on the delicate, carved foot of the table leg.

  I keep expecting him to rumble like his John Deere sitting on idle, Kate thought. Hard to think of him as my 'little' brother. Course, he was a whole lot smaller when my folks brought him home. She smiled to herself. And maybe only half as opinionated.

  Perched on the dainty side chair, Kate glanced over at him. She sighed and slung her heavy braid of auburn hair over her shoulder. She lifted the cookie jar lid to fetch another square of shortbread, indicating with a gesture that "John Deere man" should help himself. Her brother reached a massive hand into the jar and withdrew several cookies.

  Kate bit into her shortbread and looked expectantly at Nate. He glared back at her. His mouth was set in a thin line.

  Yeah. He always gets that look when he wants to solve all my problems. Jeebers, I suppose I'm in for it, now.

  "Good to have you home, Sis," Nate said, crunching into the first cookie, "Like I told you, movin' back was the best thing to do. Ye-ep,' he said, drawing two syllables from the word. "Best thing to do."

  "It's done now." Kate grimaced, thinking of the two graves she left in San Francisco. "We'll see how things go."

  "California's an outhouse of a place. Just an outhouse. First we worried about you bein' all alone in San Francisco going to art school, then, marrying a Navy man. Seemed like every time you wrote, Andy was out to sea." Nate gave his sister a sad look.

  "He sure picked a bad day to drive down to Long Beach with your little one to see his parents—the wrong damn day."

  Kate changed the subject. "When are you bringing Gemma for lessons? Giving art lessons to that talented little niece of mine is one reason I moved back home."

  He looked toward the cookie jar and scowled. Then he scratched his head and went on. "Well, my Gemma is beyond the moon. Little monkey can't wait to learn to paint."

  "Good."

  "Saturday morning work for you? And what's this you said about working at the school?"

  "Saturdays are fine." Kate said, ignoring the question. "Now give me that shirt. Doesn't your wife ever sew on your buttons?"

  Nate looked chagrined, slipped out of the shirt and handed it to her, then reached again into the fat cookie jar, chewing the rich shortbread between muttered sentences. "You'd have to be working for that damn Matt. Not a good idea. Nope, not good."

  "Oh, hush."

  "Still a drinker. Don't look good for a school superintendent to always be in the suds. If so many men hadn't moved to the city looking for work, he'd of never got the job. Too many good men gone, that's why he got hired."

  Kate shook her head in mute agreement, but wouldn't meet her brother's eyes. Her own eyes had filled with unshed tears.

  Yes, too many good men gone . . . but why did one of them have to be mine?

  She grabbed a button, needle and thread from her sewing box on the counter and slid open a drawer to find her scissors. Then she bit the bullet and filled her brother in on her plans.

  "I'm going to work part-time at St. Benedict's after Christmas vacation," she said, running the needle through the fabric. "They need someone to finish the year for the math teacher—poor health, I guess. Just a few classes I feel confident I can teach."

  Nate peered at her and scowled. Crumbs littered his undershirt, which she noticed had seen better days. Why hadn't his wife mended that? Noticing her glance, he looked down, brushing shortbread bits onto the floor with his meaty fingers.

  Ignoring him, she whipped the thread through the button, attaching it firmly to Nate's shirt as she continued. "Since I'll be there at the school anyway, a few parents asked Matt to start a small art program. I need something to do. Teachers don't get paid much, but it'll pay for canvas and paint, if not much else."

  Her brother glowered.

  And now here we go. I'll have to hear all about Matt yet again, she thought. Blast Nate's hide. This looked to be a long session. Not looking at him, she pulled the last stitch through the green flannel, knotted the thread and snipped the end.

  She handed the shirt to her brother, and got up to put another pot of coffee on. She busied herself scooping dark fragrant grounds from a canister into the basket of her percolator, using the chore to avoid looking at the giant dwarfing her table.

  "So you've already seen Matt Ericson, huh? He left you bawling at the altar, looking like a gaffed fish. I don't want you working there." Nate drummed his fingers on the table. Then he chomped another cookie. "Don't need to be doin' nothin' for Matt, though. By god, he's a—"

  "Oh hush, Nate." Kate snapped, turning from the stove, "Just listen to yourself. Of course I saw Matt. I couldn't interview for the teaching position without seeing the superintendent, now could I?"

  He ignored her. "Think he was fired from that last job he had in Great Falls. Gambling and drink," he said pointedly. "Bet he was embarrassed when he saw you were applying for the job." Nate thought about that. "Haw," he bellowed. "Haw. Haw."

  She turned to the sink to fill the percolator with water, blocking Nate's view of her face. She grinned too, suppressing a chuckle.

  Yeah, Matt had looked dumbstruck, absolutely mortified, when I walked through his office door.

  That gratifying image quickly transformed into a memory of a young, charming Matt. He'd been so good looking. Tall, muscular, a lock of dark hair drooping over his forehead. But her brother had found him roaring drunk behind the church with another woman when he should have been saying wedding vows at the altar with Kate.

  I'm lucky he screwed up on our wedding day, she mused. Life with a drunk wouldn't have been pleasant.

  The next week, she'd left town. Funds from her Dad's investments in Burlington Northern and money inherited from her old mentor, Thomas Moran—money earmarked for art—paid for Kate's studies at the San Francisco Art Institute.

  Then she had met Andy Morgan. Kate's hand shook holding the percolator. Would she rather have had a drunk husband than a dead one? She put the pot on the stove, turned up the heat, and turned to face her brother.

  "Matt's good with the kids, though, for all his faults. Nate, don't worry, I'm not planning on getting involved with anyone. Especially not with some guy who left me waiting in the church. And looking sooo attractive, according to you. Not," she paused, then continued firmly, "that it's any of your business."

  However, she was seeing Matt this evening, she reminded herself, not for old times' sake, but just to talk about the job. And she'd been having frequent dinners with Phillip Grayson, the new lawyer in town. His attention was flattering, especially since he must be at least eight or ten years younger than her. But Phillip was just a friend.

  She glanced at the cookie jar. Kate swore it had a disbelieving expression in the black ceramic eyes. She gave the hen a dirty look and said with force, "Well, let's change the subject."

  "Yeah, you know I don't like to butt into your business. Just not my style, even if you are my sister."

  She gave an unladylike snort and looked at Nate in disbelief.

  "I just worry about you." He looked contrite. "Besides, I'm supposed to behave myself. Gemma says I'm too bossy with her Aunt Kate." He pushed a button through the last buttonhole, and tugged the shirt over his middle. "Thanks."

  "Gemma is very wise for her age."

  "Maybe. Now, what about your painting? You should be doing some artwork for your galleries, not teaching other people."

  Kate smacked his refilled coffee mug down on the table, sloshing golden liquid onto the table. "I'll find time to paint. I have a good place to do it, too. It'll do for both my living space and art studio. The best thing abou
t it is the light from the high north windows, painter's light. It'll be perfect," Kate said with enthusiasm. "Guess where it is! Dad's letting me use the apartment he made over the barn. Going to help me move in?"

  Nate made a choking sound. "I can't believe it. Do you know how many people asked to rent that apartment after he put heat and lights in? I think he hired men to work on it just to give them a bit of money since times have been so tough."

  "That sounds like Daddy."

  "But when it was finished, he wouldn't let anyone rent it. Man, someone's finally going to get some use out of that neat apartment."

  Kate laughed. "Yep, and that someone is me. I love the bejeezus out of the place. That's where I'll teach Gemma."

  "She'll love it."

  "I can't work on scrubbing the school classroom until St. Benedict's Christmas vacation starts. Until then, Gemma and I will set up my studio and paint up a storm—a real tornado."

  "But that school job . . ."

  "Now, don't worry, Nate." Kate said. "It'll all work out."

  She grabbed the hen by the neck and lifted the lid. "Want the last shortbread?"

  Chapter 36

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  Jessie laughed out loud over several small sketches Kate had added to the notebook. A couple were of her niece Gemma at the drawing table, one with her tongue protruding in concentration while she drew, and one of Nate in his flannel shirt, buttons popped, tummy bulging.

  Jessie had similar sketchbooks filled with drawings she'd made of the people in her own life. She wished she could go back in time to meet Kate, who she was certain would have been a kindred spirit. And she had a strange craving for shortbread. She took mental inventory of the butter in the fridge. Might be enough to whip up a batch of maple shortbread.