1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Russell looked down at his shoes and heaved a sigh of relief. Then he put his palms up, covered his face again, and muffled a sob.

  "But somehow, this is tied together with what's been happening lately," Arvid was mumbling, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, giving Russell a chance to pull himself together. "I just can't get a handle on why I think that, but I do. Kevin, Amber, Cassy, Travis Simpson, the paintings and the drugs. It's all about money."

  Russell raised his head, eyes wet. "And Hannah, too. And Trish. They're also connected, I think. I've been more of a fool than you know, Arvid. Dan O'Bourne called me today."

  "So?"

  "Jess found out about K.D. and called Dan. Then Dan called me. He suspected K.D. was his grandson from the very first, and he just wanted me to know he's been sending K.D. a birthday present every year."

  "What's that mean? You trying to tell me something? If you are, spit it out."

  "I thought Trish was sending those packages. Now that I know different, I wonder if we need to add Trish to the list."

  "The list of deaths?"

  "I'm afraid so. She was so nervous after K.D. was born. I just figured it was normal for women to be emotional after having a baby. I mean, what the heck do I know about it? Trish planned to leave K.D. with me all along. We discussed it."

  "Hmph. A new baby, and she was planning on just leaving it?"

  "It wasn't exactly a motherly attitude was it? But, since that's what we'd planned, why sneak off? Why not just say goodbye and get on a bus? I couldn't find any inkling of how she left town, Arvid. Not a whisper."

  "She have any money?"

  "I think she only had a few bucks. I'd just given her some and she'd blown it on girl stuff. You know, a manicure, clothes. But don't get me wrong, it wasn't a lot. She was afraid of what she'd spend it on if I gave her much. After the rehab, she really did want to stay clean. She just didn't trust herself to do it if she had the money for drugs."

  "Huh," Arvid said.

  "She promised she'd check in once in a while and find out how K.D. was doing. Looking back, it was silly of me to assume those packages were from her. Every year I wondered why there was no note. Why didn't she include anything personal in the package? How come she didn't let me know she was okay? Or at least ask about K.D.?"

  Russell pushed his fingers through his brown hair in agitation. "Now that we suspect someone fixed Kevin's murder to look like suicide, I wonder if Trish ran off after all. Someone could have made it appear that way. Arvid, I don't want to even say it."

  "She might be dead."

  "Yeah," Russell said softly. "She's probably dead."

  They sat, regarding each other in silence. "You didn't have a real marriage, then, did you, Russ?"

  Russell threw his head up, startled at the question.

  "Hey, I'm not trying to pry, but where'd she sleep? Where'd she keep her things?"

  "Spare room," Russell said sheepishly. "Actually, we weren't even very good friends, let alone lovers. We had tolerated each other because of Kevin, but she knew how I felt about druggies."

  "If someone else cleared out her stuff, any chance there might still be some fingerprints? Fingerprints can last thirty years if they're on the right surface."

  Russell's expression brightened. "Arvid, you genius! I'm a lousy housekeeper. Trish had the small room that connected to K.D.'s. I've been using it as a storeroom for outgrown clothes and toys ever since she took off. I never saw anybody else at the house, but we could check her room for prints. You never know."

  "A genius, huh? Maybe I got me one of those Mensa IQs. Yeah, I'd better get a bigger cap to keep all these brains in."

  Russell looked at his watch. "We're supposed to meet Samuelson and another DEA man in half an hour to go over everything we've found about the reservoir murders. Actually, not found. Our results have been pretty much diddly. It will be more of a brainstorming session. I asked them to meet us in my office. You were planning to be there, weren't you?"

  "Yup."

  Russell nodded. "I'll get through the meeting, but after work I'm going to take time to treat that little room at the house as a fresh 'missing person' scene. Will you help me dust it for prints?"

  "Sure."

  "And Arvid," Russell said looking embarrassed. "Getting that hypothetical issue off my chest has given me a new lease on life. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry . . . and I . . . thank you for giving me a second chance to make this right. I know it isn't what I deserve."

  "Is this mess why you've never made an effort with Jessie, Russ? I'm Norwegian, not blind, you know. Any fool can see how you feel about her."

  "There are so many reasons. The main reason is that I haven't been able to get a proper divorce, because I can't find Trish. But that was only one of them," Russell said quietly. "I was afraid I'd somehow let something slip, and Jessie would find out that Kevin's death was a suicide. Or that her mother was addicted to Oxycodone. Besides, she wouldn't be satisfied to live in Sage Bluff."

  Arvid listened, but said nothing.

  "And now it's murder. How can I tell her Kevin was murdered? How can I admit that I screwed up so bad that the trail is not just cold, but so cold it's icy?" Russell's eyes were again moist with tears. "He was like a brother, and now I understand just how badly I failed him. Not just him. The whole family. And I promised Dan I wouldn't let Jessie know about Hannah's trouble."

  The air in the room was still, humid. Even after more than a week, the pungent aroma of varnish lingered to remind those who entered that there were still such things as real wood floors. The two men sat in silence.

  Then Arvid said, "That was dumb. That was almost as dumb as tampering with evidence. Do you and Dan O'Bourne really think so little of Jessie, Russ?"

  "So little? No, we both think the world of Jess."

  "Huh. You both sell her short, is what you do. That girl's made of good, strong stuff. And I'm thinking you love her. Or maybe you only think you do."

  "Yeah, I won't deny it. But she's too sensitive to everything around her. She'd break apart like high-tempered glass dropped on concrete trying to cope with something like that."

  Arvid snorted and looked at Russell with an expression bordering on disgust.

  "Seems to me that you're the one who broke apart, Russ. You gave up your ethics. Even if it was in a misguided attempt to protect people you care about. You give up your self-respect when your ethics go out the window."

  Russell looked down at his boots, a shamefaced expression on his face. "I know. You're right. I've despised myself for the past six years, wondered how to fix things, but I was afraid whatever I did would mean I'd lose K.D. And Jessie—"

  "Hogwash. I'm going to say it once, then I'm not going to bring it up again. That redheaded gal is stronger than most people and you're doing her a disservice by not being straight with her. And so is Dan O'Bourne."

  "You don't know her—"

  "I do," Arvid interrupted, "I do know her. Hmph. Strange how I only met her a week or so ago, and I'm thinkin' I know her better than either one of you."

  He levered his bulk out of the chair and stood, shaking his head at Russell's surprised look.

  "I'm going for coffee. Some decent stuff, not Blanche's hogwash. I'll bring back four go-cups and a bag of donuts and haul 'em to your office. Should be right on time to meet Samuelson."

  Russell was half out of his chair when the phone rang on Arvid's desk.

  Arvid snagged it, automatically answering with a gruff, "Sage Bluff Sheriff's Office. Abrahmsen speaking."

  His mouth dropped open as he listened.

  "Uh huh. Uh huh. Well, I'll be damned. Thank you. Yes, we'll be down." Stunned, he replaced the receiver. Then he did a little twisting dance and pumped his fist in the air. Then he grabbed the phone again and furiously began to punch in numbers.

  "What is it? What's happened?"

  "I've gotta call Esther. Won't know 'til next week if we won, but we're finalists in the mailbox contest!"

&n
bsp; Arvid set the tray of coffee and donuts on Russell's massive, oak desk as Samuelson made the introductions.

  "This is Mark Brookes. He'll be helping with the case."

  Brookes was a short man whose receding hairline gave his forehead the appearance of an empty stage with the curtain rising. He nodded to both lawmen, shaking each of their hands formally before sitting down.

  "Looks like we might need as much help as we can round up," Arvid began.

  Samuelson grimaced. "Not a lot to go on, is there? I'd hoped there'd be more progress by now."

  "Yes," Brookes agreed. "We hoped for more."

  Russell nodded. "All we know for certain is that the bullet was from a 22 pistol. We think Cassy and Travis knew the person who shot them. At least one of them knew the shooter. The crime scene showed no sign of a struggle. Ballistics and blood spatter both indicate that Cassy and Travis were just sitting there and someone in the back seat blew a hole in first Cassy's head, then swung the pistol and shot Travis in the forehead as he turned toward the backseat. We suspect it was pure surprise, but we have no way of knowing."

  "One shot for each person," Samuelson said thoughtfully. "Pretty efficient. Yes, perhaps someone they trusted." He looked at the file on his lap, reading through the notes on Arvid's interview with Jensen at the firehouse. "My guess is the shooter was probably known to Cassy Adams, since Travis hadn't been in the area long."

  "Has the reservoir been searched for the pistol?" Brookes chimed in.

  "Yeah," Russell said. "A recovery diver drove down from Billings. He had a nasty job to do, believe me, since the reservoir is full of old scrap metal. If it's in there, the diver didn't find it."

  "Your report states that the fingerprints found match those of Travis, Cassy and a couple of her relatives. Did any of the handles look wiped?"

  "Yep, both back door handles were clean of prints, if you check the next page," Russell said. "Wiped for sure."

  "Hmmm," Samuelson rubbed the back of his neck. "Both handles. Could have been two people involved in the shooting then."

  Brookes nodded.

  "Possible, yes." Arvid reached for a donut. "In fact, I'd bet on it.

  "What about those shoes found in the Fire Station locker? You say they were too large to be Cassy's? That's odd. I don't like odd." Samuelson's shrewd eyes looked up from the file. "But odd might give us a lead."

  Brookes, a bobble-head doll of a man, again nodded his agreement. Both he and Samuelson looked at Arvid.

  "I went down to the Fire Station after the bodies were found and removed them. Baker photographed the items, and she and Lenny are looking into it. Shoes are shoes. Nobody pays much attention. The labels were too worn to tell if they're men's or women's. We're guessing women's because of the silver charm found in one of them."

  "Charm? I didn't see the shoes, or the photos yet. Arvid," Russell said. "You have the pics there?"

  "In the file here," Samuelson said, turning pages while he listened to Arvid.

  "The charm was wrapped in tissue and stuffed into the toe of one of the shoes. It's in the evidence locker if you want to see it," Arvid said to Samuelson. "What our small town station calls an evidence locker, anyway. It's actually a spare closet. Best we can do. Anyway, it's a large, heart shaped charm. It's—"

  "You never mentioned that before," Russell interrupted. "Let me see those photos." He reached for the folder, practically snatching it from Samuelson's hands as the FBI agent and other two men looked at him in surprise.

  "A heart shaped charm—" Russell flipped through the folder until he came to the page that listed the photos. "Where're the other pictures?" he asked frantically.

  "Baker has them. She's making duplicates so she and Lenny can take them around to Cassy's acquaintances to see if anyone recognizes them."

  "I've been working from the Travis Simpson angle. What size are the shoes, Arvid? You say they're tennis shoes?"

  "Yep. Running shoes. Large. There's a stain on them we missed before. We sent them to the lab to see if the stain was blood. It was."

  "Were they in a duffel bag?" Russell's voice was strained, intense.

  "Yeah, like a gal might carry to a laundromat or pack for an overnight stay."

  "Color? What color is the bag?"

  "Pink, and—"

  Russell was on his feet and walking quickly out the door. Samuelson, Arvid and Brookes looked at each other, brows raised, then stood and followed him down the hall. Russell headed for the spare room with the evidence closet and yanked a key from the jangle on his keychain. He unlocked the door and stepped in, looking at the shelf where a pink duffle bag sat, encased in a large, clear sack. Next to the duffle was a pair of shoes, likewise bagged. Russell ignored the shoes and looked at the last sack containing the silver charm.

  "Oh, no," Russell groaned, putting a hand on his head and pushing his fingers through his hair. "Oh, no. Oh, no."

  Arvid gripped his shoulder. "You okay?"

  "These were Trish's. Not the shoes, but the duffel and charm.""

  "Aw, Russ," Arvid said doubtfully. "How can you be sure? It's been over six years since you even saw her, let alone any of her things."

  "No, I'm sure. It's Trish's charm. I was with Kevin when he bought it for her. She wore it all the time, not on a chain around her neck. She wore it slipped onto her tennis shoe laces."

  "A lot of women might've had the same charm."

  "The duffel looks like the one she had, too. I don't think she abandoned K.D., after all."

  "Who exactly is Trish? And what's going on?" Samuelson asked.

  "Well," Arvid said. "It's a long story. I sure can't see how it ties in but let's go back to the office, and we'll fill you in."

  "Some perps like to use the same locations," Brookes said. "If you think these items definitely belonged to your wife, perhaps it would be a good idea to have a cadaver dog search the reservoir area where the body of our agent was found."

  "Give me a break, Agent Brookes," Russell said. "It's been years since Trish disappeared. It's way too late for something like that."

  "No," Samuelson broke in, "Brookes has a point. Some well-trained dogs can find remains even thirty years later. That's a proven fact. If your hunch is right and the deaths of the EMT and Travis Simpson are linked to the past, it may be worth the expense of hiring a handler and cadaver dog. Why would Miss Adams have clothes—the clothing of someone who supposedly left the area years ago—locked up in her personal space at the firehouse?"

  "Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" Russell looked thoughtful.

  "Heck, we don't have any good leads on the current deaths, either, Russ," Arvid said. "Why not give it a shot?"

  "In fact, DEA will pick up the expense of the dog since we're working on the murder of one of our own," Samuelson offered. "You need Tony Fiske out of Ogden. He's got a dog that is outstanding. Big golden retriever." He pulled out his cell phone, punched in some numbers and handed the phone to Russell.

  "Piece of cake for a good cadaver dog, but I can't get there until the day after tomorrow," Fiske said. "Sorry." The groan of heavy machinery working in the background nearly drowned out the handler's voice.

  "We don't even know if it's worthwhile to search the reservoir area. She disappeared nearly six years ago," Russell said. "I guess the search can wait until Friday. Is it still possible to locate remains after that long?"

  "Man, didn't I just say that? This dog can find anyone—after thirty years—more than ten feet down. No sweat, man. If she's there, Kaz will find her."

  "Then we'll see you and your dog at Sage Bluff's Sheriff's Office on Friday," Russell said. "You're almost as far as Salt Lake City, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. A little less. I'll probably fly out of Salt Lake though."

  "Can you make it by early afternoon?"

  "Yeah, that's cool," Fiske said, "Damn. Gotta go. They found a kid."

  A shiver ran down Russell's spine as he handed the cell phone back to the DEA agent.


  "Thanks. I appreciate your help with this, Agent Samuelson. We don't have anyone local for such specialized tasks. We have a couple people we can call for search and rescue operations, but none trained in cadaver hunts."

  "Let's drop the 'agent this' and 'agent that'," Samuelson said. "Just plain Ron and Mark will do."

  "Fine by me," Russell said. "Russell, or Russ, is good."

  "Arvid," Arvid said.

  "Aaah, a good old-fashioned, Swedish name," Brookes said.

  "Hmph," Arvid said with disgust. "Nup. Not quite."

  Chapter 52

  Sage Bluff, Montana, present day

  "Follow the thread," Grant Kennedy said into the phone. "Find out if there are relatives in the area. Find out if there was a subsequent charge of any kind against her."

  "And? Or is that all?" The woman on the other end sighed. She was used to Grant's overconfidence in her abilities. She looked up at the clock. Nearly six, D.C. time. Makes it only four in the afternoon there in Montana. The hunk probably spaced the time difference—again. It would be sheer bliss to be able to go home on time for a change, maybe soak in a hot bath with a glass of moscato.

  "No, Kara. Try to find out whether any of the money ever surfaced."

  "Well, that might be asking the impossible. It's been so long."

  "Do your best. I know it isn't likely you can discover that after all these years, but it's worth a shot. Oh . . . and find out if Virginia Grayson had a son."

  So much for the hot bath and vino, she thought. At least it was a job for a sweet guy like Grant instead of the wrinkled old Mr. Fletcher. Fletcher, the lecher. Hmmm. Now, if their attitudes were only reversed . . . oh well.

  "And Kara?" Kennedy asked.

  "Yes?"

  "Thanks so much. I forgot about the time difference. I imagine you were ready to call it a night."

  "Oh, not at all, Mr. Kennedy," she lied. "Not at all." She rubbed her temples. Ah, but those bubbles and bubbly are so calling my name.