"That hunch is as good as the shortbread you're missing. Guess we'll see if the FBI deserves its stellar reputation," Jessie answered. "Tomorrow morning you and Arvid are invited for a do-over breakfast. I'll make my famous baked Chili Eggs and all the bacon you can steal from Jack. Then I'll let you both look through Amber's research."
"You've got a deal."
"Now, go find us a painting," Jessie encouraged.
Grant laughed and hung up, but as Jessie set the phone on the side table, she shook her head. She walked back into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, doused it with double cream and grabbed a piece of shortbread from the barrel shaped cookie jar. Plunking herself down on one of the kitchen chairs, she admitted she'd have enjoyed going with the gorgeous man to the William K. Foster Gallery. And taking that long drive to Billings to get to know him better.
Why did she find Grant so appealing? She pondered the question as she chewed the rich cookie. Ego, she decided. Grant appreciated her life's work. He understood that her painting was a major part of who she was. And he wasn't threatened that she was successful at it. He saw her in a way that Russell never had and never would.
Grant was better looking than Russell. More successful. Better company. And as simple to grab as a free snack on a toothpick from the grocery store's Saturday samples, if she read the look in his eye correctly.
At that thought, Jessie's stomach rumbled. She reached for another shortbread cookie and chewed it thoughtfully. Picking up her mug, she swallowed coffee without tasting it.
Who does Russell think he is, anyway? By God, someone ought to pry those eyelids of his open, she thought. He doesn't even notice how gorgeous the world is. And what's with that ten years too late compliment about the piece of stained glass. He's sure never said one good thing about my paintings. She gave a harsh laugh.
Now her dander was up. Jack unwisely chose that moment to jump onto Jessie's lap and begin kneading her thigh with his wide paws.
"What do you want now?" she snarled. Jack scrunched himself up, rubbed his head against her hand, and she reached down, immediately contrite, to stroke his wide orange forehead. "Aaaw, I'm sorry."
Jessie sat, sipping her now lukewarm coffee, gazing out the window at cotton ball clouds blowing in from the southwest. The top of the mass was outlined in vivid white, the underbelly shaded in warm grey with pink and mauve swirled through. She watched the sky, stroking the cat until his rumbling purr and the warmth of his soft body calmed her thoughts. She looked down at him and rubbed her thumb around his ear. He looked up at her and she saw transparent flecks of amber mixed with the yellow of Jack's eyes and the feline pupils gleaming with a deep blue black.
The world really is beautiful, she thought. Russell misses so much.
"If you're half the cat you're supposed to be, Jack Dempsey, next time he stops by you'll sink those claws right into the back of his ankle. Deep. Wake him up a bit, dammit." Aloud, in a voice imitating Arvid's rumble she said, "Huh. Pardon my Swedish."
She began to stand, picking Jack up as rose, squeezing the cat to her and nuzzling the soft fur with her cheek. Then, she chuckled and murmured, "It's a beautiful, beautiful day. Let's go paint something, fat boy."
It wasn't until Jessie had her easel set up and had a painting half-finished that the billowing clouds registered.
"It's in the cloud," she said in a thoughtful voice. "Even if we do find the iPad, I'll bet Amber has all her research stored in the digital cloud. And password protected, no doubt. "
Chapter 41
Sage Bluff Sheriff's Office, present day
Russell held the phone slightly away from his ear. The Miller teenager was obviously in some sort of trouble. Again. Tommy was yelling into the phone, his words tumbling over one another like pebbles washing downstream, pouring out such fear that dread slammed into Russell's gut with the force of a football quarterback.
"Tommy, calm down so I can understand you." Russell said in a commanding voice. "Take a deep breath." He heard the boy snuffle, then draw in a ragged gulp of air.
"Okay. Oh, god."
"Slowly and clearly now, kid." Russell said, enunciating each word with drillmaster precision. "Where are you? Do you need an ambulance?"
"An ambulance. That isn't gonna do squat, Deputy Bonham. You gave me your number. You said if I needed help, call you." His voice trailed off and then, almost whimpering, Tommy said, "The reservoir south of town. Over near the old barn on Fisher's bull ranch. For god's sake, come now!" Over the urgency in Tommy's voice, Russell heard someone losing their lunch.
"Calm down, Tommy. I'll be there in a few minutes", Russell said, as he swung the patrol car in a wide U-turn and headed south, siren screaming. He continued, "Tommy, you said 'we'. Who's with you and what's the problem?"
Dammit, Russell thought, probably swimming in that dirty waterhole with friends and some dumbass kid might have drowned, as panicked as Tommy sounded.
The reservoir was one of the hangouts kids used for Saturday night beer parties and date night privacy. When the kids got some liquor under their belts, some hotshot invariably wanted to take a swim. Just thinking about the brown, nasty water gave him the whim whams, but a kid with a beer in his belly had no common sense.
The reservoir was like a huge, stagnant, stewpot—full of abandoned vehicles and sharp, rusty metal—ready to slice into any teenager macho enough, or drunk enough, to dive in. He knew. He'd been one of those kids. After an inexpert belly flop of a dive, he'd come up from the water sliced wide open, an old fender doing the job like a butcher cutting beef. Still sported a puckered scar on his chest. Russell's badge of stupidity, his old man had called it. Of course, it was a given that his dad—had his liver lasted long enough to see it—wouldn't care much for the badge he wore now. Ah, well. Russell cleared his thoughts.
"You still there, Tommy?"
"Dead . . . too late . . . for an ambulance. Lisa Patterson. . . with me. . . and we. . . my battery. . . This crap phone!. . . cheap piece of. . .Dead!. . . can you hear me?" Tommy's voice became bursts of swearing sandwiched between static, then was quiet.
Russell stomped on the accelerator.
Chapter 42
St. Benedict's School, 1939
Kate examined the room. It was coming together and might turn into a great art classroom yet. Her gaze fell on the cupboard. Memories of her stay at St. Benedict's drew her back to the day she pulled the Moran paintings from the trash barrel and hid them.
While Sister walloped poor John Running Bear, Kate mustered her courage and raced to the nun's cabin. She pushed the wrapped paintings between the mattress and box spring of Sister Campbell's own bed. Kate smiled to herself. She'd known that crazy nun would never look in her own cabin for the paintings, even if she'd had second thoughts about pitching them in the trash.
Funny, she hadn't thought of Thomas' paintings in years. She still had the little notebook he'd given her, though. It was a prized possession.
A day or two after the artist rode out, her dad had come to pick her up. Kate smiled to herself, remembering how her dad had grinned and swung her high into the air, around and around. He sure wasn't kidding when he said there was a huge surprise waiting at home. Huge didn't begin to describe it, she thought with a grin. Her folks had adopted five-year-old Nate, a big boy even at that age.
Kate checked her watch. She'd better quit dwelling on the past and go home. But first, maybe she'd yank the broken back off that old cupboard. Then she'd call it a day. She picked up a screwdriver and stepped around to the loose backing. She wedged the tool under the thin alder covering the cupboard back and realized it wasn't actually coming apart, there was just an extra panel of wood protruding from under the backing.
Kate pushed the screwdriver into the crack with one hand and tried to grab the loose piece with the other hand to tug the piece out. A few inches of layered wooden panels pulled free and Kate saw it was actually two rectangles of thin wood bound together with a tattered bit of twine.
/> What the heck? She tugged harder. An edge of canvas fabric peeped out from between the hardboard panels. Even with just a small sliver of canvas, the pink roses were recognizable to Kate.
Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh! She careened out of the classroom and down the school hallway. Kate stopped in front of Matt's office door and pounded.
"Matt, are you still here? I need some muscle!"
Kate and Matt looked down at the two paintings that had been sandwiched between the thin alder wood panels. They nearly glowed! When she was a child she hadn't realized how truly beautiful they were.
"I just can't understand it. These are worth serious money. What could the priest have been thinking? Dad talked to John Running Bear after Father Mike died, and I know he gave the priest the paintings." Kate frowned. "Father Michael told John he was going to put them in a safe spot, so John thought he was taking them to a bank in town. After he died, and there was no sign of the artwork, we all assumed someone had taken the paintings." Kate shook her head. "I don't know. It's so odd. Father Michael could easily have found a buyer for these. For some reason, the priest chose to hide them in the cupboard at the school. Either he didn't have a chance to sell them before he died, or he thought that bidding at national auctions would reach higher prices once the influenza epidemic ran its course,"
"Yeah. Could be. But it's anybody's guess," Matt said with a shrug.
"Some of my past relatives believed he actually did put the paintings in a safe deposit box at the bank, and someone at the bank got away with both of them. Father Michael could have been returning to the school when he was killed, instead of on his way to town." She looked from the paintings to Matt.
He was staring at the paintings as though mesmerized.
Kate said, "Well, do you know how the new school was paid for, since neither of the paintings was sold to cover the land or building costs?"
"Uh huh. Copper. One of the wealthy 'Copper Kings', mine owners from Butte, paid for nearly all of it."
"Well, finding these paintings is a godsend," Kate said dreamily. "When we sell them, St. Benedict's should get enough money to start a trust fund—build another classroom and start new programs. There'd be money for teachers and supplies—"
"Wait a minute," Matt interrupted in a sharp tone. "Why should we tell anyone? This is like finding buried treasure. Like gold! Nobody but you and I know they've been found. And the school isn't in bad shape. It doesn't need the money. We could sell these ourselves."
Kate looked at him in incredulity. Then in fury.
"You'd better be joking." She crossed her arms across her chest. "If you aren't, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you suggest such an awful thing. Surely you've grown up a little in the past twenty years. Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself? Or are you so far in debt from the gambling and booze you can't think straight? Is that it?"
Matt looked at her with a dumbfounded expression. She was standing by the window, her back stiff and small fists clenched. The early evening light gave her red hair a fiery shimmer. His expression softened.
"Aw, c'mon. Don't think of anyone but myself?" He tapped his index finger on the desk. "Listen, I haven't thought of anyone but you since you walked into the school and asked about the teaching job. In fact, I've hardly thought of anyone else since you left town. I lost you out of stupidity. I was stupid. Young and stupid." He stepped toward her.
Kate swung both palms up as though to push him back. The movement halted him in his tracks.
He scowled. "Everyone pushed us to get married, but we were so young! I was scared. I knew I needed more time, but instead of asking you to wait, I fooled around and blew it."
"That was a long time ago."
"I've changed since you came home." He held his hands out toward her in a placating manner. "No drinking, no gambling, not anymore. I love you. We could pick up where we left off. And if these paintings are half as valuable as you think they are, we could have a great new start. I'm thinking of us."
Kate glared at him, her face dark with disgust.
"Why, you scumbag. You forget I've known you all your life, Matthew Anderson. Good try, though."
Kate snatched up the paintings and her empty thermos. Giving him an angry look over her shoulder as she went through the door, she stomped out.
As soon as Kate walked into Nate's to show him the paintings, she realized something was drastically wrong at her brother's house. The roomy kitchen looked like nobody had cleaned it in weeks. Susan was usually meticulous. Then it hit her.
"Why in heaven's name didn't you tell me Susan left you, you big galoot? And poor Gemma. Girls that age need a woman around."
"Aw, Sis, we're working on it. Just like you always told me—Susan says I boss her around too much and she's not havin' it."
"It's bad enough you've been trying to do so much to take care of Dad. Here I was—off in California feeling sorry for myself, while you were trying to run the place and be both father and mother to Gemma. Honestly, did you really think I wouldn't come home to help out?"
"Like I said, Susan and me, we're talkin'. We're workin' on it. I'll get her back home, you'll see. And she's just in Baxter. Gemma stayed with me, so she wouldn't have to switch schools. The family wanted you to come home because you were ready, not because we were whinin' around. You were doing so well with your paintings."
Kate sighed with exasperation. "Lord, what am I going to do with this whole lot of you? Family always, always comes first. I would have come home."
He looked contrite.
"Well, we'll talk about it later." Her eyes filled even as she held up the wrapped masterpieces. "Right now, I have something to show you. Call Gemma, too."
Still upset when she pulled the truck into the yard at her studio, Kate bit her lip to stop the trembling. She was livid with her sister-in-law for leaving instead of fighting it out with Nate and making things work. A bit of arguing cleared the air. That always worked best with him, and Susan should know that. She was worried about their happiness.
And she was worried about the paintings. She didn't put it past Matt to come looking for the two Moran landscapes. She'd been able to read that greedy look of his since they were children. He wanted them, and he meant to have them. When they were young, he always wheedled her into giving up the infrequent treats or toys, often cheating at games.
I loved him anyway. And I always let him get away with it. But not this time.
She parked in the yard and hurried up to the apartment with her coffee thermos and the paintings. She stared at the two canvases. Perhaps she'd send the one of the Yellowstone River breaks to be appraised. The one with all those wild roses. It was definitely her favorite. She'd be careful who she told about them, but she could get some advice from Phillip tonight. A lawyer should have some good input.
On second thought, she knew exactly what to do. She had two unframed paintings of her own ready to send to a gallery in Boston. Kenneth Worth, who owned the Boston gallery, was one person she trusted implicitly. He also knew someone at Christie's auction house in London, and that contact would know where the pieces would bring the best price. She ran to her studio space and slit open the box she'd previously packed, addressed to the Worth Gallery, slipping both Moran paintings between her own canvases and the triple layer of protective cardboard.
Then she grabbed notepaper and pen and wrote a quick note asking Kenneth to send the Moran paintings to the best person possible to handle authentication and appraisals and have them send her the bill. As an afterthought, she added a note about a special framing idea she had and requested he should send them back to her in care of her father, Jim O'Bourne. Kate put her letter into an envelope, added it to the box and resealed the package.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Having them sent to her dad would keep the paintings safe if Matt comes looking for them. She glanced about her apartment. The small painting of deer that Thomas Moran had given her when she was a child caught her eye. It hung on the wall near her easel
. On the easel was a small, newly finished landscape she'd done during one of Gemma's lessons. Funny . . . she hadn't realized how much her own work looked like Thomas'.
Phillip would arrive in less than half an hour to pick her up, and Kate's thoughts went to the problem of what to wear to dinner. She opened her closet and chose a blue and black checked woolen skirt and black pullover sweater. She walked to the bathroom, undressed and showered quickly, trying not to get her hair wet. Then she untwisted the thick braid and slipped into the clothing. A touch of lip gloss, dash of perfume, a brush through her hair and she was ready to go. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders in a tumble of auburn.
Looking out the window, past the silhouettes of the cottonwood trees against the dusky sky, she saw headlights winding their way down the lane. She walked down the stairs with her package, opened her truck door, placed the box on the seat and locked the cab. Problem solved. Turning, she was just in time to greet Phillip.
Matt slumped miserably to a seated position on one of the school desks after Kate stormed out of the classroom, his head in his hands. A quick rap on the door made him sit up straight and call, "Yes?"
"Hi, Mr. Anderson. Have you seen Mrs. Morgan? We want to show her some more of Willis's drawings and see if she'd critique them before she left," Gloria said, looking around the room.
Willis looked down and shuffled his feet, appearing tremendously uncomfortable. Matt grimaced inwardly. He wondered how much of the argument between Kate and him they must have overheard. Sound carried so well in the empty school corridors. Damn, it was not only embarrassing, but he'd prefer the discovery of the Moran paintings to be just between Kate and him for now.
"She left, Gloria. Why not bring them in tomorrow, Willis? I'm sure she'll be glad to look at them. Right now, you'd better take off, so I can lock up."
The next day, Kate added two containers of turpentine to the art supplies in the old white cupboard and checked her list. Yes, she was sure she had everything she needed to start the art class the following week. She had enough books for twenty students: canvas, paints, brushes and paper. Every item was checked off.
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