1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Tears filled her eyes. "I . . . I've been home off and on. I just never let you know when I came. I was so mad and upset about your marriage that Dad probably never mentioned I'd been in Sage Bluff." Then her eyes flashed. "But any fool can see K.D. looks exactly like Kevin. If Dad saw him, he wouldn't just suspect he had a grandson, he'd know." Her gaze narrowed. "Six years. You haven't been going to see my Dad at all the past two or three years, have you?"

  Russell's guilty expression was her answer.

  "Oh, for . . . He lost Kevin, then Mom, and he must feel like he lost you, too, you idiot, if that's the case." She rubbed at her temples in an agitated motion, then wiped moisture from her face. "I can't believe you've done this. I thought . . . I thought you were a better man than this." She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them, straightened her back and walked down the steps, hurrying toward her truck with tears streaming down her face.

  "Jessie?" Russell called after her. "Jessie! Come back and talk. Don't be so damn stubborn."

  She stopped and stood still, her back to him. The wetness glistened on her cheeks as she turned to face him. In the glint of the porch light he saw her eyes were as cold as an arctic sea.

  "Russell, I listened to you. And I can simply look at you and know there's more you aren't telling me. And you're right. I'm stubborn. I've got a regular monopoly on stubborn. And I'm going to start digging. I'm going to figure out what kind of dirt is missing from your story. And you know what, Bonham?"

  He stared at her as though he were seeing a stranger, but he said nothing.

  "If you think I won't puzzle it out, you're not only less of a man than I thought, you're a fool." She swiveled, walked stiffly to the pickup, got in and gunned the engine, the wheels spitting rocks from the gravel driveway, the sound like popping corn as she pulled away.

  Russell stood on the dimly lit porch watching the little pickup churn gravel until it disappeared.

  "Well," he said aloud, "That went well."

  * * *

  Jessie drove mechanically, trying to calm herself. The boy was wonderful. She thought of the tousle-headed little man, chowing down on pizza and peering shyly at Jessie from under long reddish lashes. So like her brother's.

  Then it hit her. The birthday presents K.D. received each year might mean more than an absent mother trying to assuage guilt. Birthdays—parties with cake, candles and presents—had been an important thing at O'Bourne's. She turned around and headed back to Russell's house.

  Minutes later, he answered the door, a downcast expression on his face.

  "About those packages you thought Trish sent—how were they wrapped?"

  "What the . . .? You drove all the way back here to ask me something stupid like that?"

  "What were they wrapped in? It's important."

  "Uh, let me think." A sick expression washed over his face as understanding hit. "They were wrapped in newspaper, Jess. The comic section."

  "Damn fool." Jessie turned around and stomped to the car, only turning as she opened the door to holler, "You're a damned fool, Russ."

  His mouth dropped open. Then she saw realization dawn on his face. Russell looked sick.

  "Trish didn't send any of those presents to K.D., did she?" he asked in a low voice.

  "Nope."

  At the O'Bourne house, any present from Dan was always wrapped in the Sunday funnies.

  Chapter 47

  Honolulu, Hawaii, present day

  Dan O'Bourne stepped out of the shower and walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a sunburn. Grabbing the phone from the walnut nightstand, he growled into the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "So. Dad," Jessie began. "I won't keep you. I just have a couple questions."

  "Hey, Jess girl! No, that's okay. Always glad to talk to my girl. 'Sides, my new bride must be out spending my moola on pineapples to ship back home to every godforsaken person she's ever met." He guffawed. "Better hope you're on her list, baby. They are gooood."

  "Yeah. Hope so. Listen, Dad, I'm going to be very blunt. Have you seen Russell much the past couple years?

  "Uh . . . not a lot, Jess. Some," he admitted. "What's this about?"

  "You see that little boy of his, you know, the little guy with the red hair? Looks like an O'Bourne family picture waiting to happen?"

  "Uh . . . just a second, honey, I'm going to grab a towel or something. Just got out of the shower." Ducking back into the bathroom, he thought frantically. Blast it. I got nothing. Nada. Zip. He wrapped a thirsty terry-cloth robe around himself, courtesy of the Mauna Loa hotel. Then he went back out to take his lumps.

  "Um . . ."

  "Have you seen his son, Dad?" Her voice had a hacksaw edge to it that cut to the bone.

  "Yeeah," he drawled. "I've seen him . . . just from a distance a few times. Saw him at the grocery store once. A few years back, I think. Cute little guy."

  "Have you been sending him a nice package every birthday since he was born?"

  Busted.

  "Jessie, I can explain," Dan O'Bourne said.

  "Oh, Dad," Jessie's voice caught on a sob. "You knew. You knew, but you didn't tell me. It would have been meant so much, knowing Kevin had a son. A little piece of him left behind."

  "Aw, don't cry, Jessie. Calm down, honey. Please calm down."

  "I don't want to calm down, Dad. I don't understand why neither you nor Russell let me know. And why aren't you over there being the grandpa that little boy needs?"

  There was a minute of silence on the line. Then Dan cleared his throat.

  "I kept waiting for Russell. Waiting for him to tell us. I had a hunch the boy was Kevin's, the red hair, you know. But it was only this past year that K.D. began to look like a mirror image of your brother at that age. O'Bournes always look sort of alike. Family resemblance—"

  "Blast it, you should have told me," she interrupted. "Both you and Russell should have told me."

  "Your art was going so good, though. I didn't want you to come home."

  "Strange, isn't it? How nobody wanted me to come home? Nobody wanted to tell me? Everyone seems to think they know what's best for me. But nobody asks what I want."

  "Aw, Jess girl . . ."

  "Aw, Dad," she sniffed, "stuff a pineapple in it."

  Chapter 48

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  Jessie's eyes were red-rimmed from the pity party she'd thrown the night before, but today—today she was determined to be cheerful when they read through Amber's notes. Look on the bright side, she told herself. You have a nephew. She took a bottle of maple syrup from the refrigerator, screwed off the metal cap and put the syrup in the microwave to warm.

  She hummed as she cracked three eggs into a deep bowl and whisked them with a cup of milk, a teaspoon of maple flavoring and a capful of vanilla. Then she poured the mixture into a shallow pan and dropped slices of thick white bread into it, turning them over to moisten the opposite side before placing them one after the other onto the hot griddle.

  The egg dish would have been plenty, but if she knew Arvid, he'd suck up French toast as well. Probably make comments about the French while he ate it. On the second burner, bacon sizzled. Watching it cook, inhaling the rich aroma filling the kitchen, Jessie took a satisfying swig of steaming coffee.

  The hands of the wall clock hit seven as she opened the cupboard to pull down cheerful hand-painted, yellow plates from the shelf. She stacked them on the counter, planning to serve buffet style. Arvid and Grant would arrive at any minute.

  And so would Jack, if the smell of browning bacon was any indicator. Jessie grabbed a mitt, opened the oven, and peeped in at her chili-baked eggs, one of her favorite Santa Fe breakfasts. The casserole was beginning to pull away from the edge of the pan, an indication it was almost done. She stepped back as she closed the oven door and her foot encountered something soft, squishy, and dependable as heat in summer.

  "Yeoooww. Rwow."

  Here's the bacon-loving Butter Tub, right on time.


  Jack rubbed back and forth against her legs, continuing to sing the 'ain't got no bacon yet' blues. She grabbed the kitchen shears and snipped the end from one of the browning strips, lifted it out with the point of the scissors and placed it on a paper towel.

  "It has to cool, Jack," She glanced down into reptilian yellow eyes. "And you're getting a whole piece, sweet baby, because you're the only male I like right now."

  The tom began turning circles around her ankles, uttering insistent mewls.

  She gently pushed him away with her foot, and reached for the control to turn down the heat on the burner. As she covered the pan, the doorbell rang and she hurried to open the door.

  A beaming Arvid stood on the doorstep, followed by Grant, who carried a bubble-wrapped parcel. Jessie looked from Arvid, to Grant, to the package, then again to the smug expression on Grant's face.

  She flung both arms in the air and pirouetted in joy.

  "Yeah, baby!"

  "Pretty spectacular start to the day." Arvid munched on a strip of bacon, glancing down at Jack, who had assessed the situation and decided the man was the most likely patsy. He lifted an orange paw and tapped Arvid on the leg. The end of the bacon strip slipped from beefy fingers to the waiting cat.

  "Isn't it, though?" Jessie's smile was as wide as the Missouri River. "Who would have thought Grant would get both little pieces back on the same day?"

  "Huh," Arvid grunted. "Well, that, too. But I was talking about this great breakfast." He patted his tummy. "The French are rightfully famous for their potatoes and toast, if you ask me. Yep, toast and spuds."

  She grinned, gazing at the counter, where the little Moran deer painting and the small Kate Morgan landscape stood propped against a large wooden bread box. Grant had filled them both in on the visit to the William K. Foster Gallery and the letter Christian Foster had found after his aborted call to the auction house.

  After his father's will was read, Christian had opened his dad's safe and found the small Moran. After calling the experts and receiving such a weird vibe from the woman on the phone, the poor guy had gone through records to check for a receipt, or letter of provenance. He'd discovered the damning information from his father. In a manila envelope were two letters marked to be read only after my death.

  The first letter was from Christian's grandfather, Will. In it, he admitted his wife, Gloria, had stolen both the tiny Moran painting and one of Kate Morgan's when she was young and foolish. She'd taken them from Kate's studio, after overhearing a conversation between the school principal and Kate. Believing both paintings to be the work of Thomas Moran, she'd hoped the money they brought would enable her and Will to begin a great life together. Money that would allow her new husband to paint instead of work some hopeless 'hand to mouth' job when he had such talent. She hadn't disclosed the theft until after they'd married.

  Will had refused to sell them, but was afraid to give them back, knowing that it would make his wife a suspect in Kate Morgan's murder. Instead, he'd kept them. He'd studied them. Learned from them.

  Times became so tough over the years that, battling his conscience, he had turned to forgery. Will Foster had made his living—an exceptionally good one—from painting pieces that copied not only Moran's style of work, but other old masters as well.

  The second letter was from Christian's father. It said only: Son, I leave it to you to do what you feel is best with the two paintings. I couldn’t face the embarrassment of doing what was right. Maybe you're stronger.

  "Who knows how many of Will's fakes grace the walls of collectors all over the world?" Grant said with irony. "And the funny thing is, Christian was afraid his gallery was so underinsured that once restitution was made to artists whose work was ruined, he might lose the gallery. Instead, he meets the reward criteria for the painting's return. Not the Moran—your aunt's."

  "You mean the reward originally offered jointly by Burlington Northern and one of the copper kings?" Jessie asked. "They had both done business with Kate's father, Jim, and matched his offer of a reward. But, I know even with their matching funds, it raised the reward to only around ten thousand dollars. That wouldn't cover the loss of much artwork."

  "Ah, but it was put into an interest bearing fund and never cancelled," Grant explained. "Christian is ecstatic. He has cooperated fully with the FBI and will come out smelling like a rose. The paintings will need to go back to D.C. for a complete professional appraisal so we can close the case, but you should get them back promptly after that."

  "I know they're the real thing. I'll be glad to have them back in the family," Jessie smiled wide. "Wait until Dad hears."

  Then her face clouded, her thoughts returning to her father and Russell's comments. Why hadn't her father asked her to stay home for a while after her mom's funeral? Or to come home later when he must have needed the company? She hated to think of him alone there, depressed, unable to pull himself out of the quagmire of grief.

  Jessie looked toward the dining room window. A mass of clouds covered the sun for just an instant, causing the stained glass to look dull and opaque.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Grant looking at her with an odd expression, and she yanked herself back to the moment. He had been speaking to her.

  "What'd you say, Grant?"

  "I said that I have the librarian's findings in my car, too. She was kind enough to do the drudge work of searching newspaper files from the digital archives. She printed everything out that contained information on major crimes in the local area, between 1915 and 1930. There are numerous cases, both solved and unsolved."

  "How kind of her."

  "Nah," Arvid chimed in. "Grant did Cathy a kindness by asking for them. She gets bored there at the library."

  "Well, anyway, I'll bring in the small box of files. We can spread them out on the table and maybe you two can help me search through them? Great minds, you know."

  "Sure," Jessie and Arvid said together. Arvid rose and carried his plate and silverware to the dishwasher as Jessie picked up the syrup bottle and butter dish and returned both to the refrigerator. Jack followed in her wake, batting at her shoes.

  "And breakfast was delicious. Thanks," Grant said with a grin as he disappeared through the kitchen door. He came back with a box of folders, and began spreading piles of paper over the glossy oak table. Jessie poured fresh mugs of coffee and they each scooped up a stack and began reading.

  An hour later, Arvid asked, "How about this one? A bank was robbed."

  "Yes! That's exactly what we need to be looking for. Amber said she'd found a tie in with a bank robbery." Grant beamed. "Let's hear it."

  Arvid crowed, scanning the paper, "By gum, you're both going to like this one, then, but especially you Jessie, 'cause you're gonna recognize a name. Wait 'til you hear."

  Mrs. Cal Potts, of Shelby, Montana, was arrested earlier this week and charged with complicity in the Helena bank robbery. Gordon Harris, who was grievously wounded when apprehended in May, recuperated enough to stand trial and stated that the woman agreed to meet him at an assignation point outside of town. She was to receive, then hide, the money from the Helena Bank and Trust. Harris alleged that the hand-off took place.

  Harris claims the two were to meet in Dillon three weeks later to split the money, but his partner never arrived. The money has not been located.

  At the time of the robbery, Mrs. Potts was not married. Gordon Harris knew her as Virginia Grayson.

  "Virginia Grayson!" Jessie exclaimed, "That's the name John Running Bear gave us for the fake nun in that old St. Benedict murder. Is there a photo?"

  "Nup. But this is the same name, all right," he said, beaming. "Cold case," he said to Grant. "So cold it's frozen, in fact."

  He passed the article to Jessie, and as she silently read it, Arvid gave Grant the high points of their interview with John Running Bear. When he finished speaking, Jessie handed the page to the FBI agent, who skimmed it with interest.

  "Wonderful," Grant said enthusiastic
ally, "This may actually have no bearing on the Moran paintings, but let's see if we can find any follow up articles about the trial."

  Thirty minutes later, Jessie announced, "Acquitted."

  "Really?" Arvid sounded surprised.

  "The woman was lucky. Harris died before the trial, so there went the main witness. She had the jury believing Gordon Harris fabricated the story because he was a disgruntled boyfriend. Claimed he was just angry because she'd married Cal Potts. Her story stinks."

  Jessie was looking at the two men with a twinkle in her eye. Waving the article in the air like a flag, she told them, "This is the woman who masqueraded as the nun. The write-up includes a photo, and I know where there's a match!"

  A few minutes later, Jack wound figure eights around their ankles as the three of them stood at the kitchen table, their eyes transfixed at the two photographs placed side by side. One showed Kate O'Bourne as a young girl in front of the St. Benedict School. In the doorway behind the little girl stood a scowling, wide-faced nun. The other picture was the black and white newspaper image of Virginia Grayson.

  "It's her," Arvid said with satisfaction. "The nun and the woman in the article are the same woman."

  "Yes," Grant agreed, looking up. "I agree. It's clearly Virginia Grayson Potts. All these years, and I finally see a clue—a small possible lead to the Morans."

  "Think we can find out if Grayson went back to her maiden name? And had a son named Philipp?" Jessie fingered the article about the robbery.

  "Of course," Grant said. "Why?"

  "Kate says in her journal that the man who she was going to dinner with, Phillip Grayson, was a lot younger. She was flattered that he showed her so much attention. Maybe he was just trying to get in her good graces, to see if he could find out anything about the missing paintings. Even when Moran gave them to the school, they were valuable. Because if that was Virginia Grayson's son, I'll bet he's the one who killed Aunt Kate."