1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  She was surprised Willis hadn't shown up to lend a hand, but things worked out fine. Matt had strolled in looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth to give her a huge apology and offer to carry a stack of history books out of the art room and deliver them to the correct classroom. While he was gone, Samantha stopped to see if she could do anything to help. It was great timing. She didn't want Matt to see her with the package she had prepared. He might suspect the paintings were inside. And he'd be right. But, I could send them with Samantha. She walked out to her pickup, retrieved the package of paintings and handed it to Samantha with enough money to ship the box to Boston.

  By the time Kate hopped in her old truck and started back to her apartment, she was exhausted and unsettled. Matt had tried again to talk to her. He'd agreed to let her handle the Moran paintings, looking so sincere. Her heart ached with the realization she wasn't sure if she could trust his sincerity.

  Pulling into the darkened driveway, she parked in her usual spot and got out. She got out and slowly climbed the stairs. With a twist of the key, she opened the door to her apartment and flipped on the light and let out a shriek. Her studio—her beautiful studio—was trashed.

  The furniture was topsy-turvy, cushions tossed, art paper ripped and thrown on the floor. Her canvasses were pulled out of the shelves and pitched into a pile. A wail escaped her lips when she saw her easel was tipped over, and her new painting was gone.

  She searched frantically for the small painting in the pile of blank canvasses. It was the best one she'd ever done. Then she noticed the empty hanger on the wall. The small painting of the deer, her precious gift from Thomas Moran, was missing, too.

  She raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Her eyes hardened as she ran down the steps, jumped into her truck, and roared out of the driveway.

  Wait until I get my hands on that greedy little so and so. If he isn't home, he'll be at the school. I'm gonna clobber him. I'm gonna clobber the bejeezus outta that Matt Anderson . . .

  Kate entered the corridor and headed for Matt's office. Nobody had answered her knock at his home. The ten-minute drive to the schoolhouse had given her time to cool down. It didn't make sense Matt would take her new painting. And she didn't think he would have recognized the small one as a Moran. She glanced down the hallway.

  That's strange—the light's on in the art room. She quietly opened the door, walked softly in and immediately heard hushed voices coming from the storage closet. Kate wrenched the door open.

  "What the . . . what on earth are you doing here?" Two figures turned to Kate. One of them picked up the large claw hammer.

  Chapter 43

  Sage Bluff reservoir, present day

  Russell punched number three on his speed dial and barked at Arvid when he answered. He filled him in, ending with, "Just get here. Fast." He handed Tommy his cellphone, instructing him to call his parents and then Lisa's home.

  "Tell them you're both with the police, not in trouble, but helping at the scene of an accident by the reservoir."

  "An accident? You're kidding, right? Can't you talk to them?"

  "Tommy, just say what I told you and tell them I'll call as soon as I can."

  For the umpteenth time, Russell wished Arvid hadn't been out fishing when the Sheriff suffered his heart attack. Then this would've landed in the big Norwegian's capable hands instead of his own. Arvid is worth two of Stendahl, anyhow. And three of me.

  He couldn't focus. He tilted his head, pressing his right hand over his eyes.

  What if it had been Jessie in the car? He'd only needed a quick glance into the vehicle to know it was a bloody mess. A feeling of panic tightened in his chest.

  Russell noticed Tommy eyeing him expectantly and Russell wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, catching beads of sweat.

  Well, I'm the only one here right now, this minute. Just buck the hell up, Bonham.

  He was surprised at Tommy's backbone now that the kid had pulled himself together. The kid was all right. The girl, though, had emptied her stomach and couldn't stop crying.

  Lisa Patterson was a petite brunette wearing blue shorts, a pink T-shirt and a vivid pink ball cap decorated with silver sequins in the shape of a skull. She sat on the grass with her head down, hugging her drawn up knees, shoulders shaking. The silver skull on the cap bobbed grotesquely up and down as she wept.

  Russell groaned, and motioned to Tommy. He gave the boy a meaningful look and pointed toward the girl.

  Then Russell squared his shoulders, went to his patrol car and opened the back door. He rummaged through a duffel bag. He found a light jacket and thin pair of gloves and donned both. With a handkerchief held over his mouth and nose, he once again approached the car Tommy and Lisa had discovered.

  Even with the cloth pressed over his nose, the pungent odor assaulted him. It was a smell he associated with his neighbor's farm a week or two after the old codger butchered the annual steer. The old man would dump the offal in the field for carrion birds and other wildlife, but since he hated Russell's dad, he'd dump it on the fence line as close to the Bonham place as he could.

  Just as Russell used to hear the swarms of bluebottles around the rotting mass, he heard the buzzing of flies from the blue Ford Taurus, the Taurus with Travis Simpson's license number.

  As he steeled himself and bent to peer in, a magpie fluttered out the driver's side window, startling Russell. He flung his arm up defensively. He gagged, covered his nose again with the clean cloth and opened the car door.

  The two bodies were strapped in as though going for a Sunday drive. Yellow-jackets had carved fist sized chunks from their faces, the voracious wasps crawling over one another to reach the feast. A blackness of flies flew random circles in the interior. He leaned in slowly, ever so slowly, to remove a brown purse from between the bodies. As he grabbed it, and began to cautiously ease it out, an irritated wasp bounced twice off the exposed wrist area between his glove and jacket cuff, stinging him both times.

  He winced and staggered backward several steps, before he straightened. God, he hated those things. He opened the purse, and searched for the owner's ID. Locating the driver's license, he read the name. Even without ID, the clothing and hair had been enough for him to realize the search for Cassy Adams and Travis Simpson was over.

  And he didn't like the ending one damn bit.

  The situation was getting worse and worse. First Kevin's death, then Amber Reynolds, and now this horrific killing of the EMT and undercover agent. Could they all be related somehow? Nobody kills over some stupid paintings, do they?

  He ticked items off a mental list: call Samuelson, the DEA agent. It seemed logical to ask for FBI help on this as soon as possible. Then, he'd call Doc Vickerson, who doubled as the county coroner. He shook his head, clamping his teeth over his bottom lip.

  Gruesome.

  Nothing an ambulance could do except remove the bodies. And a crime team should search the whole area before the ambulance can even do that. Arvid and Samuelson need to have a good look first, as well.

  Russell massaged his bitten wrist as he walked over to retrieve his cell phone from Tommy. The teen sat with his arm around the girl, murmuring calming words near her ear. Russell hit the speed dial button again and spoke the moment it was answered.

  "Arvid, make sure you have some crime scene gloves with you—something that fits those big Norwegian mitts of yours. And stop at Mickelsohn's Hardware as you head by. Pick up a couple cans of wasp spray."

  Chapter 44

  Sage Bluff Sheriff's Office, present day

  Russell and Arvid stood by in helpless sympathy in her living room as Violet Adams wailed.

  The door flew open and Blanche, dressed in exercise clothes and tennis shoes, barreled in, dropped her large tote bag on the floor and hurrying to her sister's side. "I just heard! I'm so sorry! You poor thing . . . and my poor niece. Cassy dead? I just can't believe it." She began murmuring to Violet, looking accusingly at Arvid and Russell.


  Arvid cleared his throat. Whatever was happening in Sage Bluff seemed to be escalating: Amber Reynolds, Cassy Adams, Travis Simpson. And Williston had phoned the station just this morning. Jake Ward had been stabbed to death at the jailhouse in North Dakota. He needed to call and find out if they had any new info on that knifing. Sure strange Ward was killed right after he told the authorities there that he'd be willing to give a list of stops and contacts from memory. Jake said he thought his route had something to do with Amber's death, and by God, he was going to get even. How soon after Williston called the Sage Bluff station with that news had Ward been knifed? Someone had passed that info on to the wrong person.

  Arvid, lost in his own thoughts, became dimly aware that Blanche was haranguing them. Rightly so, he figured. His stomach clenched.

  ". . . poor job of finding out what's going on." Blanche was saying. "And while you're at it, maybe you should take a good look at Jessie O'Bourne. And I don't mean just that pretty face of hers."

  "What are you getting at, Blanche?" Russell asked.

  "She doesn't have an alibi for Amber Reynolds' death, and there's no evidence of any break- in at her house. Not from either time she reported one. She told you herself nothing was missing. You two go running out there every time she calls. She could be scamming both of you. Probably scamming that pretty boy FBI agent, too."

  "That's just crazy talk," Russell folded his arms across his chest.

  "Maybe she found the paintings years ago. Maybe that's what Amber Reynolds found out. After all, Jessie went to a fancy art school, and look how she lives—like she's rich!"

  "Blanche," Arvid chimed in. "You're just upset."

  She gave Arvid a dirty look, and squatted down to open the large tote she'd dropped. Pulling out a packet of tissue, she shut the bag and set the tissues next to her sister.

  Violet put her face in her hands and continued to weep, rocking side to side.

  "And how would that have anything to do with Cassy or Travis Simpson getting shot, Blanche?" Arvid asked.

  "That's your job to figure out, Arvid." Blanche sat down on the sofa and put her arm around Violet, making soothing sounds. She glanced up and continued in a more subdued tone of voice, "I think you can both go."

  Russell nodded. "Are you sure, Blanche?"

  "Yes, I can take care of my sister." Blanche sighed. "Your time is better spent figuring out what's going on."

  Russell squatted by the sofa and awkwardly patted Violet's hand. "We're going to do the best we can to find the bastard who did this to your daughter. I promise." He stood and, after a quick glance at Blanche, nodded to Arvid.

  As he opened the door to leave, they heard Blanche say, "What you need is a good hot cup of coffee, dear. I'm going to fix you some right now."

  Russell stepped through and closed the door softly behind him. Then he looked at Arvid and they both shook their heads.

  Chapter 45

  Reuben White Gallery, Baxter, Montana, present day

  They had renovated the façade since Jessie's last visit to the gallery. Now it was clean and contemporary, a definite improvement from the crumbling brickwork of yesteryear. She pulled open the door and stepped into a tasteful interior that was not only welcoming, but spacious. A small bell jingled as the door closed, and she looked around expecting to see Reuben or his assistant.

  "Hello?" When nobody answered, Jessie found a rubber doorstep by the entrance, opened the door and pushed the stopper under it with the toe of her shoe. Then she returned to the pickup parked by the curb and lifted her first box of paintings from the truck bed. She carried it through the gallery entrance and set it down carefully by three panels she saw had been designated for her display. The freestanding, movable walls sported her name in a swirling font, the metallic lettering on black signage adhered at the top of the middle panel. A pedestal nearby held a stack of printed copies of Jessie's biography.

  Scattered around the large room, more freestanding walls painted in an assortment of deep oranges and reds added hanging space that would be needed when the plein air paintings started trickling in. The gallery would also frame many of the pieces.

  "Jessie!" The welcoming voice came from a petite brunette woman in a form fitting black sheath dress and impossibly tall heels.

  "Hi, Denise." She gave the woman a quick hug. "Where's Reuben?"

  "He had to handle an unexpected plumbing emergency at his father's home. He'll be here shortly." Denise smiled. "Would you like to look through the workshop applications while we wait, or go ahead and hang your work?"

  "Actually, I still need frames for three pieces. Let me bring them in first and maybe you can choose frames for them while I go through the applications. Eight of the pieces are relatively small this time, as you requested."

  "No problem about the frames," Denise said. "We love getting the business. And little paintings? Super! Sight unseen, I know those babies will be easy to find a buyer for." She smiled broadly at Jessie and gave her a thumbs up.

  "Two of the tiny ones are still wet. Sorry." Jessie grimaced. "It's been a hectic week." She went once more to the pickup, returning with a wooden carrier that held several wet canvasses. She put the case on the counter at the back of the gallery.

  "Let's take a look," Denise said. She slid the first painting from the container. It was the early morning painting Jessie had been working on the day she found Amber.

  "Oh, I love the light on this one. 11 x 14?"

  At Jessie's nod, the gallery owner turned to the display rack behind her and lifted down a simple gilded frame. "Something not too ornate, I think. We'll let the detail in the painting have the importance."

  "Hmm. Yes, I agree. It's perfect. I'm glad you ordered so many of the standard sizes to have available for the event. Otherwise, I would have been up the proverbial creek without a paddle."

  The back door of the gallery slammed, and a balding middle-aged man strode in, grabbing Jessie into a bear hug. "Good to see you, girl! What did you bring us?"

  "Oh, Reuben." Denise laughed. "You sound as bad as our grandkids when they come to visit us. But, you'll be tickled to know Jessie did bring some small ones this time!"

  "Superb," he bellowed. "I have a waiting list of potential buyers for her minis. Let me at 'em."

  Two hours later, Jessie's art was arranged and hung on the panels. She heaved a sigh of relief. Fourteen pieces of new work. The display looked good. Two pieces sported red dots on their labels, which meant they'd already sold. Reuben, bless his heart, had called several special clients. Two men had rushed to the gallery to meet the artist and choose a painting.

  One collector, Samuel Biermann, who asked to be notified of available small work, fell in love with Jessie's largest piece, Bell Rock Sunset. It was a painting of a red rock formation near Sedona, Arizona, with a background of a striking lavender and orange sunset.

  "I have to have this one," Biermann had insisted. "My wife and I used to live in that area. We'll be celebrating our fiftieth anniversary next week. It's a perfect gift—a reminder of happy times."

  Jessie told him it was a new piece, painted only several weeks before while visiting friends. After a short conversation, she'd made arrangements to contact him within the next year so the painting could be varnished. It was best to wait at least six months for the oil paint to fully cure. Before leaving the gallery, he proudly agreed to leave the painting on display until after the plein air event. A small red dot was affixed to the panel next to the painting, and a new tag made that read "SOLD - In the collection of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Biermann".

  Maybe Grant is right after all . . . about the vivid sunsets, Jessie mused after Biermann left, gazing at the welcome red dot. The thought of Grant filled her with an unexpected feeling of warmth. She smiled to herself, then went to thank Reuben for handling the lucrative sales.

  Later, Denise handed her the stack of workshop forms, and showed her to a comfortable chair and table in the gallery's back room where she could spread out the workshop ap
plications and sort through them. The three day intermediate oil painting workshop was full and registration was now closed.

  "Be sure to look through the children's contest entries when you're done. You can't imagine how much fun some of them are," Denise said.

  "I'd love to," Jessie sorted through the scholarship applications and chose two recipients. Then she picked up the rest of the workshop applications and began skimming through them, counting how many of her students were beginners, how many intermediate or advanced. She would plan her curriculum for the class to fit the expertise of the participants.

  Each completed form included several photographs of the person's work, as she had requested. The images helped her evaluate artistic strengths, as well as weak areas where she might help them improve. Her classes always covered a multitude of painting topics such as color harmony, composition, understanding light.

  An extra page added to the form gave a student the opportunity to tell her a little about themselves if they wished. She read through each person's registration sheets. It looked like it would be a great class.

  Finally, Jessie stood and stretched, stifling a yawn. She put her chair away, and, as she did, saw the children's drawings on the next table. Reuben would judge them next week.

  Denise had placed each work of art into a clear acrylic sheet, clipped all of the drawings by the same child together, and, if the child was too young to write, had stapled an envelope with the submission form filled out by the parent or teacher onto the last sheet. Then she placed them into bins according to the child's age.

  A sketch of a laughing blue llama atop the thickest stack of submissions made Jessie grin. The top corner was marked "ENTRY 22". She checked the bin's label. Age group 4-6.