1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

Grant stroked his chin, listening intently. "Yes, we can do a complete background check. See if she had a son. And if so, see if he lived in the area."

  "By the time Kate supposedly located them for the second time, they would have been priceless. Kate was killed right after she found them. She must have spoken to someone about them. My money says she decided to ask Phillip what to do about the paintings. He was a lawyer, if I remember right."

  "And with Virginia Grayson being a crook, taking the nun's place, I'll bet she was responsible for the old murder of Sister Mary Campbell," Arvid said. "You know, Jessie, I don't like this. I don't mean this." He gestured to the pile of photos. "I mean the situation."

  Jessie looked at him inquiringly. Arvid met her gaze, his eyes serious in the wide, sincere face.

  "I mean Amber dying after figuring this out. Then, Tommy Miller finding the two bodies at the reservoir—linked to either a drug ring or someone determined to find the two paintings—and both maybe linked to Amber Reynolds. I think you should borrow my dog."

  "Your dog?" Jessie laughed.

  Grant did not. Grant looked at Arvid with an appreciative expression. "It's a good idea. What kind of dog is it, Arvid? And is it trained?"

  "Big. And yup."

  "Big and nope. I don't want a dog here with Jack. That monster of yours would have my cat for a snack." She turned to the FBI agent. "That dog is huge, Grant. And when I say huge, I mean big as a tank."

  Grant grinned. "Sounds like a good plan, my man." He gave Arvid a high five.

  "Oh, give it up, you two." Jessie put her hands on her hips and scowled at them. "I'm making us a new pot of coffee, feeding you some shortbread and then I'm booting you both out. You can consider yourselves wined, dined, and evicted."

  Grant had driven off, after spouting what Arvid thought was utterly incomprehensible nonsense at Jessie. She laughed.

  "Inside joke," Jessie told Arvid. "Grant was listing the titles of paintings with morning skies."

  "Huh. And what are you going to be up to this afternoon? You got time to stop by for some target practice?" Arvid looked concerned. "If you won't take the dog, at least brush up on your shooting."

  "Yeah, maybe so. I'll follow you home now, and give it an hour. Then I have a canvas calling my name. I'm going to get a small painting done if it kills me."

  And then . . . then she thought she might hit the grocery store and pick up one of those Montana Homes for Sale brochures the realtors stacked near the carts. See if anything was listed near Russell's. Something with studio space.

  Chapter 49

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  Jessie answered the insistent ringing of the front doorbell to find Arvid on the front stoop, dressed in a plaid, short-sleeved shirt and khaki trousers, both liberally stained with Rorschak blots of caramel-colored paint. Jessie grinned at him by way of greeting and stepped out onto the porch.

  "Well," he said, "You shot pretty good this afternoon, but I'm glad you changed your mind about the dog. Let's get 'er done. I got to get back and put a second coat on the spare bedroom. Soon's you left, Esther got me painting it what she calls 'mocha'."

  "Sounds nice. It should be easy to live with."

  "Ah, looks like plain light brown to me. Kinda makes me want a cup of coffee, but what the heck. Gotta keep her happy. I'm slapping it on fast, since we're working on those reservoir murders."

  "I can imagine. Are you making any progress?"

  "Yeah, on the walls. But on the murders, we're all running around looking busy but nobody's coming up with nothing."

  He walked over, opened the door of his truck and an excited Bass tumbled out. Before Arvid could grab the beast's trailing leash, the dog bounded to greet Jessie where she stood near the front door of the O'Bourne home. He stood on hind legs, planted huge paws on her shoulders and slathered her cheek with one swipe of his huge tongue before leaping backward with a puppy-like wriggle.

  Grimacing, she wiped her hand across her face. "Ugh! Omigod, that's just nasty! Ick . . . liver breath. That's about changed my mind right there."

  "Sorry," Arvid's contrite words didn't match his amused expression. "Your new bodyguard is a mite enthusiastic. Next time remember the commands we covered, and don't let the big guy get the upper hand. Er, paw. If Bass knocks you tuckus over teakettle . . . boy howdy, it's gonna hurt."

  "Geez, I thought he was trained."

  Arvid looked hurt. "Well, he is. And trained well. But he's still young, and a bit rowdy."

  Jessie pulled a paper from her pocket and looked at it. "Don't worry. Next time I'll be ready. I just spaced the command for 'down' a second too long." She scanned the list of words Arvid had given her. "Hmm, yeah. Well, I'll keep the list handy until I have them down pat."

  She looked up to see Bass barreling through the yard, his wondrous journey from scent to scent ending abruptly at the hollyhocks along the barn where Jack liked to hunt. He snuffed, jowls flapping, spittle flying. Nose to the ground, he tracked the tomcat back to the house and stood expectantly on the doorstep. Arvid hurriedly grabbed his leash and wrapped it several times around his tree trunk-like wrist.

  "Don't we need to let him run off a bit more steam before we make the introductions?" Jessie asked.

  "No, I think we're good to go. He's socialized around other animals, including cats. No worries. I won't let him get out of line."

  Jessie humphed.

  "I'm tellin' ya, Bass is used to our barn cats. He won't hurt Jack."

  "He'd better not," Jessie said, her eyes darting to Bass's gargantuan, wrinkly head. He looked back at her, panting. A long string of drool dropped at his feet.

  "Oh, blech,"

  "Ja, I know. It's his one bad habit. Most Neapolitan mastiffs drool like leaky faucets. Sorry."

  "I'm still not sure I need a guard dog, anyway," Jessie reiterated, "Especially not one this big that looks like he needs ironing." She looked at his resolute expression and sighed. Walking over, she opened the door and stepped into the house, followed by cop and canine. Bass and his owner reached the door at the same time, jockeying for position, each trying to squeeze through before the other. Jessie looked nervously around, hoping to locate Jack before the cat panicked.

  Bass strained against the leash, toenails scrabbling on the hardwood floor, until Arvid snapped his fingers. The behemoth sat down with a solid thump, tail whipping back and forth excitedly on the oak floorboards. Then he abruptly stiffened and tilted his head, ears perked, a string of slobber hanging from the side of his mouth. He looked expectantly toward the dining room.

  Through the arched doorway marched one very indignant, hissing tomcat. Jack's tail was puffed, his fur spiked up like porcupine quills, and his radar focused 100% on the home invader. "Hissssssss."

  Bass scooted backward on his rump until he bumped into Arvid's leg.

  Growling, Jack came forward until he stood fearlessly in front of the dog, ears flattened against his head. He sniffed the air, mouth open, as though smelling something putrefied. Then he showed Bass his fangs and emitted a challenging, high-pitched shriek ending in several short huffs from his half-open mouth.

  Bass twitched, slanting his head to avert his eyes from the cat. He leaned his wide head against his master's thigh, rolled his eyes until the whites showed, and answered Jack's yowl with a low, half-hearted,"Bufff!"

  Jessie and Arvid spoke at the same instant.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Arvid said.

  "Jack! Behave yourself," Jessie ordered. "It's okay."

  "Ssssssssssss . . . phhhhhh . . . eh, eh. . . "

  "Jack, knock it off." Jessie's voice held warning.

  The cat minced backward a short distance, eyes shifting from the dog, then to the traitorous mistress who'd allowed the interloper into his household. Jessie squatted and spoke to the big tom in low soothing tones.

  "He'll be fine, I think."

  Bass stood. He tilted his head upward to look at Arvid and then down to peer curiously at the cat. Jack again sniffed
the air. His fur relaxed like a balloon releasing air. He purposefully walked a nonchalant, tail up semi-circle around the mastiff and his Norwegian master, then made a beeline for his food dish.

  He reached the bowl, gave Jessie a last reproachful look, then hurriedly wolfed down the remaining dab of kibble.

  Laughter burst from Jessie's throat.

  "I don't think we have to worry about that big boy hurting my baby. In fact, Bass would get a clawful if he made a try for the cat chow."

  "Huh." Arvid grunted. "You got that right. By god, that there's one intimidating ball of fur." Then he turned to Bass and patted his head, "What a wuss! Embarrassing! Totally embarrassing." Bass gave him a lolling doggy grin, plopped down on the floor with his head on his paws and peered across the kitchen at the cat.

  Jack glared back through eyes closed into mere slits.

  With relief, Arvid unwound some leash from his wrist, allowing Bass more slack and Bass stretched out to roll onto his back, exposing an expanse of snow-white belly flecked with pink. He rolled his head to look at Jack, and the cat sauntered over until he stood close enough to touch his small pink nose to the big black one. Then the orange tom turned his back and walked away with a haughty air, tail waving like a conquering general's flag.

  "Well, all that drama, and now he's friendly?" Arvid scratched his head.

  "His bowl's empty," Jessie said, grinning from ear to ear, "Nothing left to be too possessive about. And I'm starving, too, now that I think about it. How about a mid-afternoon sandwich? We sort of missed lunch." Still smiling, she turned away from Arvid. "If you'll bring in the dog food and Bass's bed, I'll make something to eat. Let's see . . . I have sweet potato chips and . . ."

  Her voice trailed off as she opened the refrigerator door and pulled out dill pickles, succulent ham, lettuce and mayo, and set them on the counter. Then she grabbed a knife from the silverware drawer and opened the bread box.

  "Hey, Arvid," she said with a chortle, "Do Norwegians eat Russian rye bread?

  "That was pretty good shooting this afternoon," Arvid said between bites.

  "It was fun. And I enjoyed watching you take Bass through his tricks."

  "He's a great dog. Say, do you always shoot what they call 'cross-eye dominant'? Just now I noticed that you pour coffee and make sandwiches with your right hand, but out there shooting, I figured you for a southpaw."

  "No, I'm right handed. But Dad taught me to shoot that way. My left eye wants to run the show and he said letting it would make me more accurate."

  "I guess it's pretty common, people with a dominant left eye, shooting left-handed but using their right hand for nearly everything else."

  "It must be. Our whole family is that way," Jessie handed him the plate of cut cheddar. "My brother Kevin had to close his right eye even to look through a spotting scope or pair of binoculars. He was right handed like me, but when it came to guns, he was such a lefty. Weird, huh?"

  Arvid stopped chewing. In his mind, a loud click sounded as a missing puzzle piece snapped firmly into place.

  Chapter 50

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  After a restless night, hearing Bass every time the dog turned over on the rug by the bed, Jessie woke groggily, with the morning stretching emptily ahead. Jessie mulled over painting possibilities near the ranch. There were picturesque areas, but the day was overcast. She wasn't in the mood for landscape painting today. What she had in mind was a portrait.

  She couldn't get Minna Heron Woman out of her mind—the intelligence that radiated from the woman, her striking bone structure, the wizened face.

  Jessie grabbed her camera bag, poured dog food into the massive bowl for Bass and locked him in the house. He was too big to haul in her little pickup. He'd have to stay and do guard duty.

  "Deres!" She told him, hoping she had the correct Norwegian command for 'stay'. "Deres, Bass!" Probably Arvid should have given her the command for 'please, don't eat the house'.

  She kidnapped Jack from the hollyhock patch, having decided it was cool enough to take him along. She carried him to her pickup, and hopped in.

  On the way out of town, she stopped at the Delite Bakery and Deli and bought two loaves of artisanal bread, an assortment of cookies and a small hickory smoked ham, tossing the bags behind the driver's seat of the truck.

  Forty-five minutes later, she had turned at the Bison Creek Buffalo Jerky sign, jounced over the rutted road to Minna's and congratulated herself for not getting lost as she finally pulled into the woman's driveway. Jessie waited politely in the pickup for several minutes until Minna appeared in the doorway. Then she stepped out of the truck holding a laden grocery sack and called out, "Minna, it's Jessie O'Bourne. May I come in?"

  "Of course, child." The old woman waved her hand toward the door. "Come in before it rains. It's going to be a gully washer. You'll need to leave fairly soon, or the roads will be slick as ice on your way home. Clay soil gets that way. I imagine you remember."

  Jessie stared at the sky in puzzlement, seeing no hint of imminent rain. She opened both windows a crack for Jack, ignoring his yowled pleas for liberation, and glanced again at the sky. There did seem to be a feeling of heaviness in the air. And no Muggs barking at her today, she noticed. She walked the short distance to the house, stepped onto the small porch and reached for the door knob.

  "Where's Muggs, Minna?"

  "My granddaughter took him for a short run. Thunder and lightning scare him, but if Trula runs his short little legs into exhaustion before a storm hits, then Muggs doesn't hide under the bed." She laughed.

  Jessie laughed too, and then told Minna what was in the grocery bag. "I can put one of the loaves of bread in your freezer," she offered. "I brought sugar cookies and a couple raisin-filled bars. You have to taste one of those. Mmmm, they're wonderful. Besides, they'll soften you up for the favor I want to ask," Jessie said with a smile in her voice.

  She looked around the room. The cabin had been thoroughly cleaned and organized since she visited with Arvid. Then her eyes narrowed. An iPad sat open on the side table, and next to the table on the floor was a leather bag, the kind she'd seen on Amber's motorcycle. A hoodie was draped over a chair—a hoodie with a recognizable logo. Jessie gave a small involuntary gasp, and Minna's rheumy eyes turned toward the sound.

  "Thank you for the bread, dear, and I would love a cookie. Would you please hand me one?" Her eyes were squinting intently toward the table. "Um . . . Trula will put things away when she gets home, and she'll be here soon."

  "Your granddaughter must be good help." Jessie said tightly, drawing a cookie from the sack and handing it to the old woman.

  "She is. Such an angel." Minna's glance again swept the room, almost as if searching for the girl. Abruptly, her cloudy eyes swung back to Jessie. "What did you want to ask me?"

  Jessie drew in a deep breath. "I wanted to ask if you'd mind if I took your photo, Minna. I would like to paint your portrait. Or perhaps do a study with you standing outside by your doorway and the red geranium pot." She paused, then added, "And I'd like to know if Monette Weber from Denver is the 'granddaughter' you have staying here."

  "Why on earth would you ask that, dear?"

  "There's a Denver Broncos sweatshirt draped over your chair."

  "Oh, crap," Minna said in disgust. "The girl does tend to scatter her things everywhere. I thought that was a jacket, but these old eyes just couldn't see whether it was Trula's or Monette's." In a resigned tone, she added, "Well . . . take your photos first, Jessie. When they get back, we'll visit. It's Monette's story to tell, and I think it's high time she should tell it."

  "All right." Jessie stood for a minute staring at the sedate old woman. She breathed slowly in and out, trying to calm herself. Then, red head temperament running true to form, she blew like Mt. St. Helens.

  "Listen . . . I found a dead body on Dad's farm. I had to give up my painting time to make police statements. The window shattered on my Greyhawk, which is, by the way, my prid
e and joy. Our family home has been broken into, and right now I am living with a drooling dog the size of a city bus. Arvid and I have wasted a lot of time hunting for that woman and she was here all the time. By god, someone is going to tell me something helpful for a change!"

  She looked at Minna. The woman's mouth was hanging open in surprise, but she said nothing. Then, she closed her mouth. Her lips began to twitch.

  "And on that note," Jessie went on, "I believe I'll eat the last raisin cookie. Specifically, I want you to know, so that Monette can't." She opened the sack and yanked it out, tapping her foot and stuffing large bites of filled cookie into her mouth. When the last crumb disappeared, she heaved a sigh and gave Minna a slight smile, the sudden tantrum over.

  Minna smiled widely back. "They're better with hot tea, dear. Savored in small bites."

  Jessie nodded sheepishly. "Hmph. Are you sure you're comfortable with my painting your picture?"

  "Ehh. It doesn't matter." She cocked her head and peered birdlike at Jessie. "In fact, I'm flattered. Send an 8 x 10 of one of the photos to that old goat, John Running Bear," she said, throwing her head back and cackling uproariously. "Tell him that's all of me he's ever going to get."

  Jessie began to laugh. Finally, she wiped moisture from her eyes with the tail of her T-shirt. She drew a deep breath, the tension broken. She gave Minna a tentative smile and picked up her camera.

  After numerous indoor photos, the two women went outside to pose Minna by the blossoming bucket of flowers. As they stepped up on the porch to go back inside, all hell broke loose.

  Muggs returned with a vengeance. He spotted Jack sitting high on the back of Jessie's driver seat and the big headed dog broadcast his discovery with Hound of the Baskerville wails.

  Jack returned fire with yowls and caterwauling, interspersed with a solo of hissing as loud as punctured tractor tires.

  A young Indian girl ran around and around the pickup, trying to grab Muggs the Magnificent - Protector of the Universe. A very slight, chocolate-box pretty, blond woman stood looking unhappily toward the house, staring at Jessie.