1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Dan O'Bourne scratched his head, looking at the list. "Maybe."

  "Curiouser and curiouser." Arvid wrinkled his forehead. "There might be something in your theory, but I don't think this explains everything. Especially not since Cassy was killed. Why kill her?"

  "People kill friends and relatives, husbands and wives all the time."

  "I know, they do. But, nup. This doesn't figure in Jake Ward's drug route. I just can't see it. Say, do you mind if I make another sandwich?"

  "Go for it," Dan said. "Leave the fixings out. I'll make another one, too. Grant?"

  "No, thanks. I had that great prime rib dinner at the Wild Bull before I watched your daughter's fine performance. I'm still stuffed."

  Arvid looked up and gave him a look that could kill a chicken in its tracks. "Huh," He said. "Samuelson and I should've gone over there to eat before Esther dropped me off here."

  Jessie was disappointed. The men didn't appreciate her theory. They just wanted to eat, eat, and eat some more. Arvid was the first man she'd seen that could keep up with her Dad in that regard.

  She watched the men layering slices of meat and cheese, meat and cheese. Arvid was making his third double-layered Dagwood. Double layered. She thought about the receipt she'd found in Kate's old pochade box. The one that billed for 'double framing'.

  She stood and hurried to her father's bedroom, returning a few minutes later with one of the Kate Morgan landscapes that had graced Dan and Hannah's home for years. Grant and Arvid looked at her questioningly. Dan O'Bourne just shook his head.

  "I know what you're thinking, cupcake, but don't waste your time. Kate didn't hide any old masterpieces with her own work. Those pieces never even came back from the framer until a month or two after Kate died." He turned to Grant and Arvid to explain, "Granddad said Nate told him that when those paintings showed up in the mail, Kate's dad nearly cried they were such a welcome sight, something to remember his daughter by. Nate inherited them, then left them to me in his will. It was with the stipulation they stay in the family. They can't be sold, only passed on."

  "Humor me, Dad."

  Jessie lifted the first painting and put it face down on the table. She ripped old, brown, paper backing from the frame. A layer of wood had also been attached to the frame, using tiny screws.

  "Is there a flat-head screwdriver handy?"

  Dan stepped into the garage and came back with the tool. "You're wasting your time. And be careful with those, will you?"

  After Jessie laid the first screw on the table, Arvid reached into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife, swiveling the small screwdriver tool free. He went to work on another of the screw heads. Several minutes later, Jessie lifted the wood backing and gently took hold of Kate's painting. It was prepared as most oil paintings are today, linen canvas pulled tightly over a framework to keep the canvas taut. She carefully peeled back an edge of canvas to see if a second canvas was underneath.

  Nothing.

  "I told you so, little girl."

  Jessie ignored him, picking up the wooden backing. A framer didn't need to back a stretched canvas. Normally, with an oil painting stretched onto stretcher bars, the back of the frame was simply left open so the canvas could "breathe". She examined the edge of the wood, before looking up at her disappointed audience.

  "I think this is actually two thin pieces of wood sandwiched together. Aunt Kate had two pieces framed. And there were two missing Moran's the same week. You can't ignore the coincidence. All these years, I'll bet they were right under everyone's noses."

  The three men leaned over the table and stared. Jessie worked the flat head of the screwdriver gently into an area at the corner of the wooden backing, a spot where it appeared as though the old wood was separating.

  Gently. Gently. She pried.

  The upper layer finally began to lift. Jessie ran the edge of the screwdriver sideways along the rift, working to one corner, then the next, as though slitting open a large wooden envelope. When she reached the corner of the third side, she carefully levered the screwdriver upward. The thin wood buckled and lifted. She pushed her fingers into the crevice and pulled the pieces apart.

  A sheet of paper and a flat canvas fluttered to the table. The canvas was face down. On it was scrawled in sepia brush, Spring on the Yellowstone. Jessie reached out and turned the canvas over. Cottonwood trees. Deep red willow. The river winding through. It was exactly as described in Kate's journal.

  Moran's signature began with an almost crude large "M" with a "T" struck across, ending in an arrow. She looked at the paper that had fluttered out along with the masterpiece. It was yellowed and brittle. Instead of touching it, she let it lay on the table, peering closely to read the faint, flowing cursive:

  "Dear Kate, you are absolutely correct in your assertion that this is a genuine Thomas Moran. If you have opened this, I am assuming you have spoken to St. Benedict's and are ready to consign it to the auction house on their behalf—"

  Jessie read no further.

  "YES!" She threw her arms in the air and did a pirouette. As she swiveled around, Grant caught her in a hug and lifted her from the ground. Her dad took a turn, and then Arvid swung her into a bear hug and Grant grabbed her again.

  As he set her gently back on the ground, his phone began to sing a repeated chorus of Sweet Caroline. "That's Kara. She must be burning the midnight oil. It's around two in the morning in D.C. Maybe she's got something."

  He nodded his head while he listened, ended the call and his face lit with a huge smile. "Jessie, you nailed it, at least part of it. Virginia Grayson had a son named Phillip. A large ranch was purchased under the name Phillip Potts four years after the bank robbery. He could have changed his name back to Grayson later."

  "Did Kara get anything else?"

  "No, and she's heading home. It's just too late to do anymore tonight. If and when she finds anything else, a possible relative of Virginia or Phillip, she'll text or call. Maybe tomorrow." He looked at the old oak table.

  Dan was finishing the last few screws on the back of the second landscape.

  Several minutes later, a second canvas joined the first. They gathered around, peering at the vibrant painting in mute admiration.

  "They really are gorgeous, aren't they?" Grant touched a corner of the second painting reverently. "But I have to say, these two beautiful pieces have been nothing but death on canvas."

  Chapter 56

  O'Bourne's ranch, present day

  It was a dreary morning, with the sky threatening to dump buckets from a dense blanket of grey. Even the stained glass window couldn't pitch any brightness into O'Bourne's kitchen. Jessie hugged Jack to her chest, looking nervous. Arvid looked as guilty as a puppy who'd been caught peeing on the rug. Grant, Samuelson and Brookes looked stony. Dan's face, though bristled from lack of a razor, having had no time to shave before Russell knocked on the door, looked simply smug.

  "Y'all should've had more faith in the boy," he said, as he opened the door to admit Russell. "I told them," Dan said. "I told Arvid and Jessie both that you wouldn't have anything to do with any part of the mess."

  Russell swept his gaze around the room, the hurt on his face as raw as January wind. His gaze landed on Jessie and stayed. "You didn't trust me, Jess," he said with a bitter, self-effacing laugh. "First, you thought I could have hurt Kev, and now what I'm hearing is you thought I had it in me to bash some poor unsuspecting city girl over the head. You—"

  "Uh uh, we're not discussing this. Look at me, Russell," Jessie broke in angrily. "Look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing, nothing whatsoever, to do with Kevin's death."

  Russell looked away, glancing at Arvid. He started to open his mouth.

  The big detective raised his hand, palm out. "We're gonna put that on the back burner for now, you two. Right now we need to handle one thing at a time. And Russ, I'm sorry to admit that we didn't want to bring you in on this now, either. There could be more than one person involved. There's no proof
yet of who Cassy and Travis's killer might be.

  Russell glared openly at Jessie. "I suppose you think I murdered Cassy and Travis Simpson, too. Is that it?"

  Arvid broke in gruffly. "Can it! Amber's schedule showed that she planned to stop at the Sheriff's Department the day she was attacked, Russell," Arvid said. "We aren't sure if she went to the building. But if she did, nobody admits to having seen or spoken to her. We're just trying to be careful by keeping as few people in the loop as possible. Besides, those are Sheriff Stendahl's orders."

  Samuelson went on. "It could be someone who doesn't know or care the paintings exist, but we've got to see if Jessie's theory is valid. We talked to Sheriff Stendahl yesterday, and he asked us to bring you in on the trap we're setting."

  "Stendahl knew I had my day booked." Russell almost spit the words out. "And Arvid was apprised of those plans, too."

  Everyone's attention was riveted on Russell.

  "I'm meeting the dog handler at the station."

  Arvid slapped a palm to his forehead. "Plum forgot. I'm so sorry. Samuelson, we took your recommendation that we have a cadaver dog go over the reservoir grounds. They're coming all the way up from Salt Lake today. Still, it's really a long shot that they'll find Trish buried there."

  Samuelson thought a minute, then said calmly, "I'm sorry, Bonham. Like I said, Stendahl wants another local man involved in today's plan. We can't logically rule out anyone else on the force as the killer's accomplice, so you're the best fit. How about if we send Brookes to work with the dog handler? He is familiar with that process and will let us know immediately if something is found. Best I can do. Now, let's get organized. The plan is as basic as they come. We're going to ask Blanche to leak a false story. She'll say the Morans have been moved to Arvid's place and will be there for the afternoon, before they're transferred to D.C. for appraisal tomorrow. We'll spend the rest of the day at Arvid's."

  "See what fish rises to the bait," Arvid added, and pantomimed reeling in a catch.

  "Where will the paintings be?"

  Samuelson nodded. "We hadn't discussed it, but my idea is to leave the Morans here, in Dan's gun safe. Miss Weber will be stashed out at Minna Heron Woman's place. That will keep her out of the way and safe. Brookes can take her now, then go meet your cadaver dog team."

  From the hallway, Monette sauntered into the kitchen. "I heard my name mentioned," she drawled. "I hope y'all were saying something sweet about me."

  She wore a deep, rose-pink tank top and jeans that looked airbrushed on. She teetered on sandals with high cork heels, her hair styled in an intentional windblown style. When Monette caught sight of Russell, her eyes glittered like a fox spotting a quail, and she lifted her chin. She glided over to him and put her hand on his arm.

  Russell, who'd been staring at Jessie, felt Monette's touch and wrenched his gaze away to look down at the petite blonde.

  "Why, you must be Russell," she cooed. "You poor thing. It must have been awful for you, just awful, being shut out of an investigation in your own town." She wagged a finger at Jessie. "Now, you never told me he was so good looking. If I'd known, I'd have turned myself in to the Sage Bluff Sheriff's Department days earlier."

  She turned toward the kitchen counter and headed to the coffee pot, working the sparkling billboard on the back of her jeans, a heart design of fake gems, for all she was worth. She turned her head coquettishly over her shoulder and said sweetly to Russell, "I'm just sooo sorry for all the trouble."

  Russell was gaping open-mouthed.

  Pole-axed, Jessie thought. Damn the woman.

  Today, her own hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and she wore a plain, yellow tee, covered by a brown artist's apron sporting the Jerry's Art Store logo. Jessie swept her gaze downward, contrasting her own tennis shoes and serviceable jeans with Monette's fashion statement. She noticed a splotch of blue paint near the knee of her slacks and frowned.

  Monette glided past.

  "Just like a big, blinking, highway sign," Jessie grumbled under her breath. She saw Grant raise his eyebrows as though perplexed. She realized the FBI agent was the only man in the room not watching Monette pour her coffee. Even Dad is gawking, she thought in disgust. But Grant has been staring at me all morning, instead. What's with that?

  "So," Samuelson said, pulling his gaze back to the group as Monette disappeared through the kitchen door with her coffee mug. He cleared his throat. "Like I said, Miss Weber will be taken to Minna Heron Woman's home. Kennedy, Bonham, Arvid and I will be at the Abrahmsen's house, waiting to see if anyone attempts to—"

  "I could come, too." Dan interrupted. "I wouldn't mind getting in on the action, since the paintings were part of the family history for so long."

  "No go. You're a civilian, Dan. Stay here and catch up with Jessie," Grant said. "You haven't even had time to talk."

  Dan looked apprehensively at his daughter, remembering her threat to have a heartfelt talk. "She has her day pretty well planned, already."

  "I want to do some plein air studies of the old barn. Dad's thinking about painting it white, so I wanted to take some good photos, and do a couple small paintings, just in case. Something to work from in the studio."

  "Isn't it pretty gloomy today for that," Grant asked, peering out at the overcast sky.

  "Doesn't matter. Sometimes flat lighting makes an interesting painting."

  Dan watched Russell frown at the exchange between Grant and Jessie, then glanced again at the FBI agent and narrowed his eyes. Dan scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  Abruptly, Russell smacked his coffee cup down by the sink and said to Dan. "Like Grant says, you're not law enforcement. Besides, you came home to take care of Jess. You should stay here."

  "Yeah, I guess I ought." He smiled at Russell. "That's why Arvid brought you in to help, you know. When I told him you wanted me to come home and protect Jessie, it confirmed his gut feeling that you were clean."

  "It's settled, then," Grant interrupted. "I do have a problem. I have no gun with me. When I came out to Sage Bluff originally to meet with Amber Reynolds, it was to be simply an interview."

  "Can you shoot?" Dan O'Bourne asked skeptically.

  "Of course. FBI training is comprehensive. Just because I'm in the art theft division doesn't mean I don't need to use a gun periodically, either." He looked around the room. "Would someone be kind enough to loan me one?"

  "You can use the 9mm pistol I normally keep in my easel box," Jessie offered. "I'll go get it from the Greyhawk."

  "Let's head out then," Samuelson barked. "Grant, I'll ride with you. Bonham, you and Arvid take your truck. There's room in Abrahmsen's garage, so both vehicles will be out of sight. We'll put out a fake call later that makes it appear Arvid had to take the patrol car out to an accident on Highway 89. If there is a dirty cop at the Sage Bluff Office, he'll think you're away from home, leaving a clear field to grab the paintings."

  Brookes held the door open for Jessie, as she came back in carrying her pistol. He gave her a sweet smile, and she thanked him. Then she handed the gun and a loaded magazine to Grant.

  Dan and Jessie stood on the porch, watching the two vehicles as they drove away. "You know, cupcake. Something about this just doesn't feel right."

  "What Arvid would call 'fishy as trout for dinner', Dad," Jessie agreed. "I think he has an idea who's involved with the drug route and is playing it close to his chest. Or he's protecting someone, but I'm not sure why. I think all we can do is trust him to handle it." Bass stuck his big muzzle into her hand. She reached into the pocket of her painting apron, pulled out a dog treat and commanded, "Dekk!"

  Bass flopped down and looked hopeful. "Good boy," she said, flipping him the small dog biscuit. He took it, walked over to the lilac bush near the front door, and disappeared under the overhanging branches into the cavern he'd excavated.

  "What the—"

  "I know. He's a digger. He's got a hole there you could put a cow in. I'll fill it in after Arvid takes him home."
r />   "Hmph. Okay, then."

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I'm going to go paint, unless you want me to come in and make you something."

  "Nah, I'm not hungry. Think I'll go in and send Marty an email. Ask her how the golf game is going. Later, I'll go up to the studio and see if I can fix that broken light you were complaining about. I'll take the shotgun up with me. And by the way, Jessie—"

  "I know, I know. I saw your face when I said I'd loan Grant my pistol. You always said, 'Don't let anyone else use your gun.' But I'm not sure that loaning it to an FBI agent counts."

  Chapter 57

  Abrahmsen's home, present day

  "I think we've wasted our afternoon," Samuelson said resignedly. The men stood spaced around the Abrahmsen's picture window, arranged so that they couldn't be seen from the driveway. "Let's give it another hour, but I tend to think we've missed something—some key piece of evidence. I told Blanche that Grant would be picking up the Morans at five-thirty. That fake call for Arvid to meet Russell at the reservoir went out two hours ago. If anyone was coming, they'd have tried something by now. Then he looked out the window at the long lane from the house to the Abrahmsens' turn-in. "Wait, someone just turned into the lane."

  Just then, Russell's phone vibrated. "Hello?" His face paled. He looked over at Arvid.

  "Russell?" Arvid asked.

  "The cadaver dog has hit on an area near the copse of trees at the reservoir. They've started digging."

  The sound of tires crunched on the gravel driveway. Samuelson flattened against the wall and carefully peered out, hand on his holster. "Jeep", Samuelson said.

  Arvid had mimicked his action, but then relaxed. "Aw, it's just Sheriff Stendahl. He did say he thought he felt good enough to fly in. He hated missing the action and wanted to be here if it turned out he had a dirty cop in what he calls his 'family'."

  The jeep Cherokee's door opened and a tall, rangy man got out. He wore a blue polo shirt and khaki pants. His brown hair was a crew cut, buzzed nearly to the point of baldness, and he carried himself as though his body was near collapse. Stendahl lifted his hand in a wave of greeting.